Vale Alan Wilders.
A friend of mine, Alan Wilders, passed away recently after a long battle with cancer. I did not get the chance to say goodbye to him. If I had the chance, this is what I would have liked to say.
Alan, it’s been more than a week since you died, and I haven’t posted anything yet on Facebook, nor have I sent a card. Unfortunately, the inescapable reality of living half a world away means that I won’t be at your funeral, as much as I would value the chance to be there. So I’m left with the written word to communicate some of the feelings and memories that came back to me with a rush when I read about your passing. They say that funerals are more about the living than the dead, that it’s a chance to say goodbye, to bring about some kind of closure, whatever that means.
Let me start off by saying that no words can capture the sadness that I feel when I consider the fact that you are no longer in this world with us. It’s a sad cliche, but equally, it’s true that everyone who knows you – and everyone who never got the opportunity to know you, is poorer now that you are gone. I worked with you closely for a number of years. I remember spending long nights – and even some weekends – trying to sort out the diabolical multi-layered timetable problem. I remember having meetings in your tiny little office dealing with financial problems. I remember working on plans for the integrated curriculum with you. I remember seeing you dealing with upset parents, upset staff, upset students.
And you know what I remember about every single one of those conversations? You were never angry. You were never short with anyone. Any leader can say that, ‘their door is always open’, but you were the one who actually made it a reality. You never turned away anyone who needed your help or your advice. You were a voice of reason, of calm, of good sense in an environment that often sorely needed it. You brought experience and intelligence. Every time I make a phone call to a parent, or speak to a student, I remember how you used to behave, and I use that as my guide. I’m lucky if I live up to your high moral standards, but I try.
Something else that people don’t often realise you had was a wicked sense of humour. It was deadpan – usually a throw away comment that would reduce everyone to laughter as it punctuated the overblown self-importance of whoever you’d targeted. Sometimes, when the pressure mounted, I think that was about the only thing that kept us all sane.
You had vast depths of knowledge about the most surprising things. I remember when I was trying to start my car – do you remember it? It was that bottle green Vauxhall Cavalier that we used to call ‘the Chavalier’. It was an absolute bomb. Anyway, it had been raining, and as we tried to start it, the engine warning light came on. You were leaving at the same time, and, as you always did, you wandered over to see if you could help. Straight away, you told us not to worry – it was only caused by the fan belt slipping, and the light would go out as soon as it dried. Sure enough, it did.
I remember telling me how you worked your way up in Kent Council – you never had a university degree, but people recognized your talent and you were able to work your way to the top – based on nothing more than your own fierce intelligence and willingness to throw yourself into the work.
Alan, although we only talked a couple of times a year, I still counted you as the best of friends. The world of education is a little bit poorer without you, and my heart goes out to all your family and friends in this terrible time. I’m glad that you’ve finally found some peace, and I want you to know that I will carry the memory of your smile with me wherever I go.