Dear Mr Childs

Dear Mr Childs,

Writing a letter to a teacher is a cliché. But it's not until you are one that you realise the influence that you wield can be long lasting.

I never wanted to be a teacher. The thought of standing in front of all of those kids frightened me. I liked the idea of writing on a blackboard and the noise of the chalk connecting with its dark hardness clicks still in my memory, staccato style. I liked pretending, acting out scenarios that I'd imagined. In the days that I knew you, I was just playing at teaching, dolls and Panda as pupils, inert and highly attentive. No discipline problems in my classroom!

I never contemplated actually following in your footsteps then. I wanted to be a hairdresser.

But something changed. I thought I could do it and make a difference; that the path that I'd chosen was not really using my knowledge for good. And so, I taught for a bit. But then life took me in a different direction, a global one, filled with new experience and extreme heat and cold, and a different role: mother. But in those days that I was in the classroom, you were never far away. As a role model, you were a good one.

Shall I tell you the way that you will always live in my memory? There are two ways. Firstly, I must have been about 6 or 7 and it was winter because we were writing Christmas stories. Carte blanche was given. I decided on elves and some sort of timing disappointment but that there'd be a happy ending. I liked writing stories but didn't have the staying power I've developed since. I remember wanting to get it finished and there being a lot of "and thens", the desperate links of a rushed ending.

But I remember you reading over my shoulder and commenting on my work and this is my first memory of being appreciated as a writer. I suppose you can't overly critique a 6 year old. The misty pleasure of this encounter is recalled often by me. I wish that I'd given it more credence when I was a younger woman but I've never been that good at taking hints. So I didn't write for a long time. The odd story here and there when required for assessment but for no other reason.

You also introduced me to the recorder and I haven't done a lot with that since either, although I still have a hankering for its Tudoresque pipings. And I'll never forget you telling my mum, with humour, about when I pointed out a spelling mistake you'd made on the board. You were proud of me rather than chagrined by my precociousness and I carried that forward into my teaching life: don't take yourself too seriously and be prepared to laugh at yourself.

Those formative years are a lifetime away now. The school we shared is closed and overgrown, the climbing frames no longer strung with cheeky monkeys but instead, the grasping tendrils of ivy and the tickling seedheads of weeds. The tarmac yard is bleak, deserted and so small to my adult eyes. Sad but inevitable.

And I've moved on. I haven't lived in my childhood village for decades so why would everything be the same? It would be foolish to think so.

When I started writing on Vocal, it was following a whim really. I have always had stories in my head, always. Having read the words of others and seeing the ease with which my words could be committed to written form and shared, I took the plunge. I've not written about elves yet but I'd never say never. It was good enough for Tolkien after all.

But with those first stories, I recalled your encouragement and your eyes on my exercise book page and I was overwhelmed by a desire at 50 to share my new stories with you. You were part of my origin story.

When I saw you were on Facebook, I was delighted. I was still that little girl. I wanted your approval but I also wanted you to see what I've become, what I have achieved. I wanted you to know what your influence had caused.

I reached out and you reached back. What a surprise! How great! Your warmth was radiating. You read my stories. You liked them! You humbly dismissed your influence. And this:

You've certainly lived a very interesting life and are someone with many talents. To return to your stories, I think your next step should be a full blown novel. Your descriptive passages and carefully thought out plots are brilliant, a novel full of these attributes would be a treat. Keep in touch.

I was thrilled. I do not exaggerate. It was like returning to that classroom moment, that first recognition all over again. I read your words over and over. Even after all these years, your approval was sought and I bathed in it. More than any other. And you suggested a novel! This could have been kindness, a platitude but who cares? I believed you at 6 and I believed you now. But I can't call you Lynn. Nope. That's not right. Mr Childs. That's who you are.

And so, this letter is a thank you, sincere and deeply felt. Teachers don't just instruct: they guide and nurture and swell. You were the sun that made me grow when I was just a little seed.

But the sun inevitably goes down, and the world is dark when it does. And 2024 marks your sunset. Sunsets are not usually met with tears but I wept when I realised that I'd never be able to share more words with you. I feel the rise now, emotions' well.

Thank you. For someone with words in abundance, no more are needed. Belief is a powerful individual thing when contained but when it's shared, it's a marvel.

Rest now and thanks,

Rachel