The Mentor Every Student Deserves: In Memory of Dr. Martin Richardson

Outside of the Victorian chapel at Darlington’s West Cemetery, in the dampness of the morning of 3^rd October, I stood shoulder to shoulder with Sarah Spikesley – another of Martin’s former pupils – watching the funeral procession of Dr. Martin Richardson. Suppressing tears, I squeezed her arm and said, “I’m so glad we’ve made the time to come. Martin is the reason I became a teacher.” “Me too,” she replied, squeezing me back. 

Martin was the Director of Education at Durham University and, for three years, was my dissertation supervisor and favourite lecturer.  

Sitting down in the pews, I looked at Martin’s smiling face from the photograph on the Order of Service, and I thought about all the people who felt similarly about Martin, how deeply he was etched into the hearts of his former students, and how instrumental he had been in shaping the trajectory of their futures. 

When Sharon – Martin’s wife – shared the news that Martin had been diagnosed with Progressive Supranuclear Palsy, she asked for former students and colleagues to share messages with Martin. I scrolled through the messages and found myself resonating with every comment.  

One word kept appearing: “inspirational”. The word is bandied around so often it risks losing its meaning. But in Martin’s case, it was true in the deepest sense: he inspired not through grand gestures, but through steady joy, unwavering care, and belief in us. 

Martin was also one of the reasons I co-founded Park Street Education. I wanted children from underserved backgrounds to have a “Martin” in their lives too - someone who would believe in them, champion them, and remind them that they mattered. His example wasn’t just a personal gift; it became a blueprint for the work I felt called to do. 

If I close my eyes, I can still transport myself back to the lecture hall in the School of Education, to the moment I first met Martin. He really was one of those characters who feels as though he has stepped from the pages of a novel or only exists in a film. A man with the steadfast devotion of Mr. Chips, the passion of Mr. Keating, and the wisdom of Dumbledore - but always, always unashamedly himself. He would sweep into the lecture hall in his gown and slippers, radiating warmth, and the air would change; there was something utterly cinematic about him. 

I can hear the boom and quiet of his voice, I can feel myself leaning forward on the edge of my seat, hanging onto his every word. 

In some lectures, you could have heard a pin drop. 

But beyond academics, Martin had a deep sense of humanity. He cared about who his students were as people. He shared his life with us, about his beloved wife Sharon and son Thomas, and this, in turn, made us feel safe to share and be ourselves. 

At the end of my degree, having written my dissertation on Harry Potter and The Lord of the Rings, I gave Martin a small token of thanks: a Time Turner. I remember placing it in his hand with a laugh, never imagining how precious that symbol would become. Oh, how I wish Rowling’s creation truly existed, so I could turn back the clock and sit once more in the lecture hall, listening to Martin’s voice. 

Martin passed away on 9th September - my husband’s birthday – which means that each year, as we celebrate life, I will also pause to remember Martin and reflect on the time I was lucky enough to have with him. 

Martin’s passing has forced me to reflect on the impact that teachers can have. A profession painfully undervalued, teaching is of the utmost importance.  

Martin is the benchmark for all my interactions with students, and I hope to be half the teacher he was. And when my time comes, I hope that whilst students may remember the grades I helped them to achieve, more importantly, I hope they remember how I made them feel. That they felt I cared about them as people, that I would go to bat for them with both protectiveness and ferocity, and that I believed in their endless possibilities. 

Thank you, Martin, for being that person for me. 

For more information about Progressive Supranuclear Palsy, please see http://www.pspassociation.org.uk