Jonny McCambridge column: After months of work, tears, stress and maths headaches…the transfer test is finally over

There is a sense of muted nervousness among the adults. The pale winter son is trying to break through the early morning cloud cover but not quite managing it. There is some conversation and shared jokes, but a lack of enthusiasm runs through the exchanges. We are here to pick up our children following the final paper in this year’s transfer test. The end of a long journey is finally in sight.

The transfer test has been a constant feature in our family life for the past year. It has not dominated our existence, we have not allowed it to, but it has always been there, like a persistent, hacking cough which just cannot be shaken. Like all long-awaited dates, there is a mixture of excitement and uncertainty now that it has arrived.

It all began shortly after last year’s exams, the commencement of the long period of progression for the next cohort of children to be readied. Since then there has been the gradual but relentless process of preparation. A seemingly unending series of practice papers. Week after week, the white papers just kept coming. Like my son, I have become intimately familiar with the schedule, the format, the work that needs to be done.

It has been a learning experience for all of us. Many of my long-forgotten school maths techniques have been dusted off, reacquainting myself with the learning so that I can usefully assist. Much more of it I have no recollection of ever studying.

Carroll diagrams, algebra rules, function machines, tessellation of shapes, quadrilateral angles – there have been multiple occasions where I have felt helpless and useless. Google has been a constant companion as I have tried to work out the methods which have stumped my son. Can a quadrilateral shape possess more than one acute angle? The truth is, I haven’t got a bloody clue. That’s not the sort of information which rattles around in my brain.

The English comprehension journey has been smoother but not without bumps. Several times I have read the passage, then the multiple-choice question, then the passage again. I’ve looked at my son, gazing expectantly at me and conceded “Well, it’s not entirely clear to me.”

The whole process has been centred around the score, the percentage mark which the teacher scrawls on the front of the white practice papers. From modest beginnings, we’ve seen the score rise steadily over the months, been through the plateau, commiserated when there has been the occasional dip and offered congratulations when a new high mark is achieved. It troubles me somewhat that often in recent months when I’ve picked my son up from school the first question has been “Well, what score did you get today?’

Throughout it all, we have kept a close eye on him, mindful of the strains and tension of the process, trying to spot emergent signs of trauma. There have been plenty of tears, moments of exasperation and regular reflections on the wisdom of why we are bothering with the test at all. It has been one of the trickiest balancing acts I’ve ever encountered as a parent – wanting your son to do well but not building this into more than it should be, not shaping it as a monster which can terrify and leave damage behind.

I cannot remember the last time I had a conversation with another parent which did not involve talk of the transfer test. I spoke to one mother last week who told me her son had been having nightmares and waking up crying at night. A day later another woman told me her niece had reached such a state of panic that she was taken to a local hospital.

My son has mostly remained composed, with little outward sign of pressure. He is a dreamer like his daddy and perhaps that helps him now. His focus is often away in another place, in a different world of his own making. It was only when arrived at the school to do the first exam two weeks ago that his courage finally failed and he admitted to ‘uncontrollable butterflies’ in his tummy.

He usually doesn’t give much away but I sense the weariness in him. I know that he just wants the thing to be over. I am in the same position.

And now I see my boy through the window in the large school building. He spots me waving as he descends the stairs and presents a smile and a thumbs up. Seconds later he is outside, giving us the update on how it all went. The maths was easier than last time but the English harder. Hugs are exchanged.

Through it all I am careful not to ask too many questions, to probe too deeply and undermine his confidence. The main thing is it is all over. That’s enough for now.

There is excited chatter as we walk back towards the car. We have organised a day of treats for our boy, a reward and recognition now that he has come through the sternest, most difficult learning process of his short life. He straps himself into the seat and exhales deeply. “It’s over daddy. It’s finally over. Now we can enjoy Christmas.’

There will be plenty more to think about in the future. Results will come in January, schools will have to be visited and chosen, the nervous wait to see where he has got a place will begin. There will be a tricky transition towards a different stage of his life.

But now is the moment to be together and have some fun. We’ll worry about the other stuff another day.

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