(1/20) Village School Page 2

  My desk had that bare tidy look that it only wears for an hour or so on this particular morning of term; and the inkstand, an imposing affair of mahogany and brass, shone in splendour. I wondered as I walked through to Miss Clare's room just how quickly its shelf would remain unencumbered by the chalk, beads, raincoat buttons, paper clips, raffia needles and drawing pins that were its normal burden.

  Miss Clare was taking a coat-hanger out of her big canvas hold-all. She is very careful of her clothes, and is grieved to see the casual way in which the children sling their coats, haphazard, on to the pegs in the lobby. Her own coat is always smoothed methodically over its hanger and hung on the back of the classroom door. The children watch, fascinated, when she removes her gloves, for she blows into them several times before folding them neatly together. Her sensible felt hat has a shelf to itself inside the needlework cupboard.

  Miss Clare has taught here for nearly forty years, with only one break, when she nursed her mother through her last illness twelve years ago. She started here as a monitress at the age of thirteen, and was known officially, until recently, as 'A Supplementary Uncertificated Teacher.' Her knowledge of local family history is far-reaching and of inestimable value to the teaching of our present pupils. I like to hear the older people talk of her. 'Always a stickler for tidiness,' the butcher told me, 'the only time I was smacked in the babies' class was when Miss Clare found me kicking another boy's cap round the floor.'

  Miss Clare is of commanding appearance, tall and thin, with beautiful white hair, which is kept in place with an invisible hair-net. Even on the wildest day, when the wind shrieks across the downs, Miss Clare walks round the playground looking immaculate. She is now over sixty, and her teaching methods have of late been looked upon by some visiting inspectors with a slightly pitying eye. They are, they say, too formal; the children should have more activity, and the classroom is unnaturally quiet for children of that age. This may be, but for all that, or perhaps because of that, Miss Clare is a very valuable teacher, for in the first place the children are happy, they are fond of Miss Clare, and she creates for them an atmosphere of serenity and quiet which means that they can work well and cheerfully, really laying the foundations of elementary knowledge on which I can build so much more quickly when they come up into my class.

  Her home is two miles away, on the outskirts of the next village of Beech Green. She has lived there ever since she was six, a solemn little girl in high-buttoned boots and ringlets, in the cottage which her father thatched himself. He was a thatcher by trade, and many of the cottages in the surrounding villages are decorated with the ornate criss-crossing and plaiting which he loved to do. He was much in demand at harvest time for thatching ricks, and Miss Clare often makes 'rick-dollies' of straw for the children like the ones her father used to put on top of the newly-thatched stacks.

  In the corner of the room John Burton was pulling lustily at the bell-rope. He stopped as I came in.

  'Five minutes' rest,' I said, 'then another pull or two to tell the others that it's time to get into lines in the playground.'

  Miss Clare and I exchanged holiday news while she unlocked her desk and took out her new register, carefully shrouded in fresh brown paper. She had covered mine for me too, at the end of last term, and written in the names of our new classes in her sloping copper-plate hand.

  We should have forty children altogether this term; eighteen in the infants' room and twenty-two in mine; and though our numbers might seem small, compared with the monstrous regiments of forty and fifty to a class in town schools, the age range, of course, would be a considerable handicap.

  I should have five children in my lowest group who would be nearly eight years old and these would still have difficulty in reading fluently and with complete understanding. At the other end of the classroom would be my top group, consisting of three children, including Cathy Wakes, who would be taking the examination which would decide their future schooling at eleven. These children would need particular care in being shown how to tackle arithmetical problems, how to understand written questions and, more important still, how to set out their answers and express themselves generally, in clear and straightforward language.

  Miss Clare's youngest group would consist of the two new little boys, Jimmy Waites and Joseph Coggs, as well as the twins, Diana and Helen, who had entered late last term owing to measles and had learnt very little. Miss Clare was of the opinion, knowing something of their family history, that they might well be in her bottom group for years.

  'What can you expect,' she said, looking at the hieroglyphics that passed for writing on their blackboards, 'their grandfather never stuck at one job for more than a week and the boy took after him. Added to that he married a girl with as much sense as himself, and these two are the result.'

  'I'll get the doctor to look at them specially, when she comes,' I comforted her, 'I think if they had their adenoids removed they might be much brighter.'

  Miss Clare's snort showed what good she thought this would do two of the biggest duffers who had ever come into her hands.

  Her aim with the top group in her class will be, first, to see that they can read, and also write legibly, know their multiplication tables up to six times at least, and be able to do the four rules of addition, subtraction, multiplication and division, working with tens and units and shillings and pence. They should also have a working knowledge of the simple forms of money, weight and length, and be able to tell the time.

  John, who had had his gaze fixed on the ancient wall-clock, now gave six gigantic tugs on the rope, for it said five minutes to nine, and then, leaping up on to the corner desk, looped it up, out of temptation's way, on to a hook high on the wall.

  Outside, we could hear the scuffle of feet and cries of excited children. Together Miss Clare and I walked out into the sunshine to meet our classes.

  3. The Pattern of the Morning

  MY desk was being besieged by children, all eager to tell me of their holiday adventures.

  'Miss, us went to Southsea with the Mothers' Union last week, and I've brought you back a stick of rock,' announced Anne.

  Eric flapped a long rubbery piece of seaweed like a flail.

  'It's for us to tell the weather by,' he explained earnestly. 'You hangs it up—out the lobby'll do—and if it's wet it's going to rain—or is it if it's been wet it feels wet? I forgets just which, miss, but anyhow if it's dry it ain't going to rain.'

  'Isn't,' I corrected automatically, rummaging in the top drawer of the desk for the dinner book.

  'I know where there's mushrooms, miss. I'll bring you some for your tea s' aftemoon.'

  'They's not mushrooms, miss,' warned Eric. 'They's toadstools—honest, miss! Don't you eat 'em, miss! They's poison!'

  I waved them away to their desks. Only the new children stood self-consciously in the front, looking at their shoes or at me for support. Linda Moffat's immaculate pink frock and glossy curls were getting a close scrutiny from the other children, but, unperturbed, she returned their round-eyed stares.

  The children sit two in a desk and Anne, a cheerful nine-year-old, seemed Linda's best desk-mate.

  'Look after Linda, Anne,' I said, 'she doesn't know anyone yet.'

  Holding her diminutive red handbag, Linda settled down beside Anne. They gave each other covert looks under their lashes, and when their glances met exchanged smiles.

  The four young ones, just up from Miss Clare's class, settled in two desks at the front. Once sitting in safety their shyness vanished, and they looked cheerfully about, grinning at their friends. They were at that engaging stage of losing their front milk teeth, and their gappy smiles emphasized their tender years. I went over to the piano.

  'As we haven't given out the hymn books yet, we'll sing one we know by heart.'

  They scrambled to their feet, desk seats clanging up behind them, and piped 'The King of Love my Shepherd is,' rather sharp with excitement.

  Our piano is made of walnut, and is f
ull of years. The front has an intricate fretwork design and through the openings pleated red silk can be seen. The children look upon its venerable beauties with awed admiration. It has a melancholy, plangent tone, and two yellow keys which are obstinately dumb. These keys give a curiously syncopated air to the morning hymns.

  Usually the whole school comes into this one classroom for prayers, but on the first morning of term it always seems best to stay in our own rooms and settle in quickly.

  After the hymn we had a short prayer. With eyes screwed up tightly and hands solemnly folded beneath their chins the children looked misleadingly angelic. Patrick, the smallest, with head bowed low, was busily sucking his thumb, and I made a mental note that here was a habit to be corrected or otherwise his new second teeth would soon be in need of a brace. As I watched, a shilling fell from his clasped hands and rolled noisily towards me. Patrick opened one eye. It swivelled round like a solitaire marble, following the shilling's journey, then, catching my own eye upon it, it shut again with a snap.

  After prayers we usually have a scripture lesson, or learn a new hymn or a psalm, until half-past nine, when arithmetic lesson begins; but on this morning we settled to more practical matters and the children came out in turn with their dinner money for the week. This was ninepence a day. Some children had also brought National Savings money, and this was entered in a separate book and stamps handed over to the child, if it possessed a safe place to put them, or put in a special Oxo tin until home time.

  All but four children, who went home for their dinners, brought out their dinner money, and as they put it on my desk I looked at their hands. Sometimes they arrive at school so filthy, either through playing with mud on the way, or through sheer neglect in washing, that they are not fit to handle their books, and then out they are sent to the stone sink in the lobby, to wash in rainwater and carbolic soap. In this way too I can keep a watch on the nail-biters, and those culprits who, after a week's self-control, can show a proud sixteenth of an inch, are rewarded with sweets and flattery. Scabies, too, which first shows itself between the fingers, is a thing to watch for, though, happily, it is rare here; but it spreads quickly and is very aggravating to the sufferer.

  While I was busy with all this, Miss Clare came through the partition door.

  'May I speak to Cathy?' she asked. 'It's about Joseph's dinner money. Does his mother want him to stay?'

  'Yes, miss,' said Cathy, looking rather startled, 'but she never gave me no money for him.'

  'Didn't give me any money,' said Miss Clare automatically.

  '"Didn't-give-me-any-money," I mean,' repeated Cathy, parrot-wise.

  'I'll write a note for you to take to Mrs Coggs when you go home,' said Miss Clare, and lowering her voice to a discreet whisper, turned to me.

  'May be difficult to get the money regularly from that family—a feckless woman!' And shaking her white head she returned to the infants.

  The children were now beginning to get restless, for, normally, when I was busy they would take out a library book, or a notebook of their own making, which we called a 'busy book,' in which they could employ themselves in writing lists of birds, flowers, makes of cars, or any other things which interested them. They could, if they liked, copy down the multiplication tables, or the weekly poem or spelling list which hung upon the wall; but,' at the moment, their desks were empty.

  'Let me see who would like to come out and play "Left and Right,"' I said.

  Peace reigned at once. Chests were flung out and faces assumed a fierce air of responsibility and trustworthiness.

  'Patrick!' I called, choosing the smallest new boy, and he flushed a deep pink with pleasure.

  'Left and Right' is the simplest and most absorbing game for occasions when a teacher is busy with something else. All that is needed is a small object to hide in one hand, a morsel of chalk, a bead or a halfpenny, any one, in fact, of the small things that Utter the inkstand. The child in front, hands behind him, changes the treasure from one to the other; then, fists extended before him, he challenges someone to guess which hand it is in. Here the teacher, with half an eye on the game, one and a half on the business in hand, and her main object peace in which to carry it out, can say, 'Choose someone really quiet, dear. No fussy people; and, of course, no one who asks!' This deals a severe blow to the naughty little boys who are whispering 'Me! Choose me! Or else——!'

  'Richard!' called Patrick to his desk-mate.

  'Left!'

  'No, right!' said Patrick, opening a sticky palm.

  'That's left! Miss, that was left!' went up the protesting cry.

  Patrick turned round to me indignantly.

  'But you're facing the other way now!' I point out, and the age-long problem, which puzzles all children, had to be explained yet again.

  At last the game continued its even tenor. Dinner money and savings money were both collected, checked and put in their separate tins. The register was called for the first time, and a neat red stroke in every square showed that we were all present.

  The clock on the wall said twenty-past ten when we had finished handing out a pink exercise book each for English, a blue for arithmetic and a green for history and geography. Readers, pens, pencils, rulers and all the other paraphernalia of daily school life were now stored safely, and at the moment tidily, in their owner's possession.

  The children collected milk and straws and settled down to refreshment. Luckily this term there were no milk-haters and all twenty-two bottles were soon emptied. When they had finished they went joyfully out to play.

  I went across to my own quiet house and switched on the kettle. Two cups and saucers were already set on the tray in the kitchen, and the biscuit tin stood on the dresser. Miss Clare would be over in a minute. We took it in turns to do playground duty, guarding the coke pile from marauders, watching out for any sly teasing, and routing out the indoor-lovers who would prefer to sit in their desks even on the loveliest day. I went back to the playground while the kettle boiled.

  Linda was undoing her packet of chocolate and Anne was trying to look unconcerned. Anne was always rather hungry, the child of a mother who went by early morning bus to the atomic research works some miles away, and who had little time to leave such niceties as elevenses for her daughter. There was no shortage of money in this home, but definitely a shortage of supervision. Anne's shoes were good, but dirty; her dinner money was often forgotten, and her socks frequently sported a hole. Her suspense now was shortlived, for Linda broke offa generous piece of her slab, handed it over, and cemented the friendship which had already begun.

  'D'you mind being new?' asked Anne squelchily.

  'Not now,' answered Linda, 'once all that staring's stopped, I don't mind; and if anyone tries hitting me my mum said I was to tell her.' She eyed the noisy children around her complacently. 'Not that they will, probably— and anyway,' she added, dropping her voice to a sinister whisper, 'I bites horrible!' Anne looked properly impressed.

  Cathy, between bites of apple, was encouraging Joseph Coggs and her young brother to visit the boys' lavatory behind its green corrugated iron screen. At the other end of the playground, similarly screened, were two more bucket-type lavatories with well-scrubbed wooden seats, for the girls' use.

  Mr Willet, is our caretaker, and has the unenviable job of emptying the buckets three times a week; and this he does into deep holes which are dug on a piece of waste ground, some hundred yards away, behind his own cottage. Mrs Pringle, the school cleaner, scrubs seats and floors, and everything is kept as spotless as is possible with this deplorable and primitive type of sanitation.

  Above the shouting of the children came the sound of the school gate clanging shut, and across the playground, his black suit glossy in the sunlight, came the vicar. Miss Clare hurried in to fetch another cup and saucer from the dresser and I went to meet him.

  The Reverend Gerald Partridge has been vicar of Fairacre, and its adjoining parish of Beech Green, for only four years, and so is looked
upon as a foreigner by most of his parishioners. His energetic wife is as brisk and practical as he is gentle and vague. He is chairman of the managers of Fairacre school and comes in every Friday morning to take a scripture lesson with the older children.

  On this morning, he carried a list of hymns, which he asked me to teach the children during the term, and I said I would look through them. He sighed at my guarded answer, for he knew as well as I did that not all the hymns would be considered suitable by me for teaching to children. His weakness for the metaphysical poets led him into choosing quite inexplicable hymns about showers and brides, with lines like:

  'Rend each man's temple-veil and bid it fell,'

  or, worse still, Milton's poems set as hymns, containing such lines as:

  'And speckled vanity

  Will sicken soon and die,

  And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould,'

  all of which may be very fine in its way but is quite beyond the comprehension of the pupils here. The vicar smiles and nods his mild old head when I protest.

  'Very well, my dear, very well. Just as you think best. Let us leave that hymn until they are older.' And then he meanders away to talk to the children, leaving me feeling a bully and browbeater.

  He drank his tea and then started up his car, setting off, very slowly and carefully, down the road to his vicarage.

  4. The Pattern of the Afternoon

  ONE of the most difficult things to teach young children is to express themselves in sentences. When you listen to them talking you realize why. There is hardly a complete sentence in the whole conversation.

  'Coming up shop?' says one.

  'Can't! Mum's bad.'

  'What's up with her?'

  'Dunno.'

  'Doctor come?'

  'Us rung up. May come s' pose,' and so on. There is a sure exchange of thought and some progress in this staccato method, but it does not make for any literary style when it comes to writing a composition.