(1/20) Village School (17 page)

Linda held it up for the children to admire and they looked at it with reverence.

'Us've done it real nice!'

'Don't it look good!'

'Miss Clare'M like that all right!'

'Ah! Even if she's got a little old kettle-holder, she can always do with another one!'

They nodded wisely to each other, exchanging sagacious remarks like old women at a market stall.

John Burton, who was the neatest-fingered child, had the enviable task of wrapping it in tissue paper and tying it with a piece of red raffia. The children, handwork neglected, clustered round his desk to watch the delicate operation and to give advice.

'You pulls it too tight, mate!'

'He's right, you know … you'll have it all twizzled up inside!'

'If you leaves it to me,' said John soberly and without any rancour, 'I'll do it all right. It ain't no good getting excited-like when you does parcels.' He tied a neat bow with unhurrying fingers, and I put it in a prominent position on top of the piano, so that they could gloat over it until it was time to go home.

There were four of us sitting at Miss Clare's round table that afternoon.

A cloth of incredible whiteness, bordered with a deep edging of Miss Clare's mother's crocheting, covered the table, and in the middle stood a bowl of primroses. The best tea-service, patterned with pansies, was in use, and cut-glass dishes held damson cheese and lemon curd of Miss Clare's own making. The bread and butter was cut so thin as to be almost transparent.

'I've a special old carving-knife,' explained Miss Clare earnestly, 'and I always sharpen it on the bottom step up to the lawn. It's really quite simple.'

The kettle-holder had been much admired and hung on a hook by the fire-place. Miss Clare glanced at it fondly from time to time.

'I shan't dirty it, you know. I've an old one I shall use … no, I really don't feel I could soil that one!'

Miss Gray and Mrs Finch-Edwards were with us and the conversation turned to Miss Gray's new home.

'No complaints anywhere!' announced Miss Gray. 'Except perhaps over-feeding. She's a wonderful cook.'

'And dressmaker,' added Miss Clare, peering into the depths of the teapot.

'She's making me some silk frocks,' began Mrs Finch-Edwards, then stopped suddenly. Her face became a warm red and she crumbled her cake.

'For any special occasion?' asked Miss Gray, who seemed unaware of her neighbour's sudden shyness.

Mrs Finch-Edwards looked up from her crumbling.

'I want them in September. I … that is, my hubby and I … are looking forward to a son then.'

We were all delighted and a hubbub of questioning broke out about knitting needs, the desirability of real wool for first-size vests, no matter what time of the year the baby was born … the advantages of high prams over low prams, and draped cots over plain ones … until it dawned on us three spinsters how fervent we were being with our advice to the only member of the party, who, presumably, knew more about the business than the rest of us put together.

The tea-party gained immensely in hilarity and animation after this disclosure, Miss Clare even going so far as to scold her guest for cycling over 'in her present state … very naughty indeed! And she was inclined to get her brother to take her back in his car!'

While we were thus cosily gossiping Mr Annett came up the path with a basket of eggs.

His older boys produced a weekly supply of eggs, vegetables, herbs and flowers which were sold on a stall in the market, belonging to a local market gardener. With the proceeds they bought seeds, plants, netting, tools and so on to carry on this good work. Mrs Partridge and Miss Clare always helped at the Women's Institute stall for two hours each market day, and I used to see the vicar's ancient car nosing its way round the bend by the school just before ten each Thursday morning. In the back would be piled Fairacre Women's Institute's contributions, and the vicar's wife would stop at Miss Clare's to pick her up with her offerings.

Beech Green School was the next stop on their way, and by the time the boys had loaded up their products Miss Clare and Mrs Partridge would be seated in a bower of greenery, peering above bunches of scrubbed carrots and turnips, and feeling for the gears among the cabbages at their feet.

At this time of year the school garden was not producing enough to be sent in, so that Mr Annett brought the eggs to Miss Clare to pack with hers overnight to save the car stopping again.

He sat himself down by Miss Gray and ate birthday cake. He looked very much more relaxed and happy, and could be called almost good-looking, I decided, when he smiled at his neighbour. If only he were fed properly and did not drive himself so hard at everything … if only he could find a thoroughly nice wife … I found myself looking at Miss Gray speculatively and pulled myself up sharply. Really, I was quite as bad as Nurse!

But for all that I was glad to see how very much at ease they were in each other's company, and although I didn't go so far as to name their children for them, I must admit that I was favouring a draped creamy wedding-dress for Miss Gray, rather than a white, when Miss Clare brought me back to earth by inquiring kindly if I had found the cake perhaps a trifle too rich.

The children were busy copying a notice from the blackboard. It said:

'Spring term ends on April 9th.
School will reopen on Tuesday, April 28th.'

Pens were being wielded with especial care for their parents would receive these joyous communications and the children were aware that criticism, kindly or adverse, would greet their handwriting.

My class had to do two copies apiece; the best writers might even have the honour of writing a third, for Miss Gray's children could not yet be relied upon for a fair copy and the older children would supply theirs.

As they rattled their nibs in the inkwells and thumped their blotting-paper with fat fists, I marked the compositions which had been written that morning. The subject was 'A Hot Day.' John Burton who has a maddening habit of transposing letters had written:

A H
OT
D
AY

I feels tried when it is hot. I likes it best to be just rihgt not to hot not to clod. I wears my thin clothes when it is hot and my shaddy linen hat we bouhgt at a jumble sale it is a treat.

I called him to my desk and corrected this piece of work while he watched.

'You must make an effort with these 'ght' words,' I told him, writing 'bought' and 'right' for him to copy three times. I explained, yet again, the intricacies of 'to, too and two' and wrote 'too hot and too cold' to be copied thrice.

There has been much discussion recently on the methods of marking compositions. Some hold that the child should be allowed to pour out its thoughts without bothering overmuch about spelling and punctuation. Others are as vehement in their assurances that each word misspelt and incorrectly used should be put right immediately. I think a middle course is best. On most occasions I correct and mark the work with the child by me, explaining things as I did to John, but sometimes I tell the children before they begin that I want to see how much they can write, and although I should appreciate correct spelling, I would rather they got on with the narrative and spelled phonetically than hold up their good work by inquiring how to spell a particular word. In this way I can assess any literary ability more easily and encourage that fluency, both written and spoken, which is so sorely lacking in this country school.

As a rule, the girls find it easier to express themselves than the boys. Their pens cover the page more quickly, they use a wider choice of adjective, and make use too of imagery, which the boys seldom do. The boys' essays are usually short, painstakingly dull and state facts. John Burton's account of a hot day is a fair example of the boys' attempts.

Cathy's contribution on the same subject made much more interesting reading:

A H
OT
D
AY

There are no clouds today and we shall have P.T. in the playground which I like. I like to run and jump and feel the wind through my hair. But I hope Miss Read does not make us sit with our legs crossed up for our exsersises because my knees get all sticky at the back on a hot day.

On the way home we all walk in the shade by the hedge. The cows stand under the trees and swish their tails to keep the flies off.

My mother likes hot days because her washing bleeches white as snow, much whiter than the flowers on the elder bush where she always spreads out our hankys.

Everyone is happy when the sun shines on a hot day.

The glorious weather continued unbroken and here in the schoolroom were all the tokens of an early spring. The nature table against the wall bore primroses, cowslips and bluebells. The tadpoles were growing their legs with alarming rapidity and were due to depart, any day now, for the pond.

The weather chart pinned on the wall above the table showed a succession of yellow suns, bright as daisies, and out in the lobby a few cotton hats and light cardigans were an indication of the heat. To Mrs Pringle's well-disguised gratification the stoves had been unlit for two or three weeks and the most that she could find to grumble at was the wallflower petals that fluttered from the jug on the window-sill to the floor.

After the hard winter it seemed an enchanted time, and the reading of 'The Wind in the Willows' on those blissful afternoons matched both the freshness and youth of the listeners and the spring world outside.

Through the partition I could hear the hum of Miss Gray's class at work. She seemed happy and in better health than when she arrived. Mrs Moffat had turned out to be the perfect landlady, and was herself much happier now that she had an appreciative lodger to admire her cooking, needlework and the other domestic virtues which her husband was apt to take for granted.

I hoped very much that Miss Gray would stay with me at Fairacre School. The children adored her and responded well to her quiet but cheerful manner. I could see that she was providing for them, as Miss Clare had done, an atmosphere of security and peaceful happiness in which even the most nervous child could put forth its best. With her top group's reading, particularly, she had worked well, and I was looking forward to having them in September in my class, confident that they would be able to hold their own with the older children. It was a fortunate day indeed, I told myself, when Miss Gray was appointed to Fairacre School and I hoped that she would stay with us for many years. A small doubt arose in my mind—wordless, but shaped like a question mark.

'Well, naturally … if that happened—' I answered aloud, and had to change the mutter to a cough, as the children's eyes met mine in some bewilderment.

April 9th came at last, and the excitement of the last day of term kept the children chattering like starlings.

As I was giving out the hymn books for morning prayers, Eric appeared at the door, with his father behind him. Mr Turner was carrying in his arms a small girl, who could not have been more than three years old. He looked dishevelled and agitated, and motioning Eric to his desk, I went into the lobby with his father.

'I've come to ask a favour, miss,' he began anxiously, dumping the child by his knees. She put one arm round his legs and looked up at me wonderingly.

'If you want me to have your daughter for the day,' I answered—this sort of emergency crops up occasionally and I always enjoy these diversions—'I shall be very pleased indeed.'

Mr Turner looked relieved and grinned down at the upturned face.

'Hear that, duck? You can stop at school along of Eric, like a big girl, and I'll fetch you as soon as I gets back from Caxley.'

'What's happened?' I asked.

'It's my wife. I had to get Mrs Roberts to ring up doctor at five this morning, and she's been took to hospital. Appendix, they thinks it is, and I'm to go in early this afternoon. Mrs Roberts would have had the little 'un but for it being market day. Ah! She's a good sort—been real kind, give us breakfast in her kitchen and all. And you too, miss,' he added hastily, fearful lest I should take umbrage at his praise of Mrs Roberts and his neglect of me, 'I'm truly thankful, miss … you knows that!' He fumbled in his pocket and brought out some coppers. 'For Lucy's dinner, if that's all right.' He counted out the money carefully, promised to fetch his daughter before the end of afternoon school, if he could get away from the hospital in time, and, with a final knuckle-grinding shake of my hand, made his farewell.

All through the morning Lucy sat perched up on the seat by her brother. Eric had been sent through to Miss Gray's room for a box of bricks, a doll and a picture book and these she played with very happily, keeping up a soft running commentary on her activities.

The children were enchanted to have a baby in the classroom and made a great fuss of her, offering her their sweets at playtime and picking up the stray bricks that crashed to the floor.

They reflected the attitude of the grown-up village people in their relationship to young children. I am always amazed at the servitude of the parents in these parts to their children, particularly the little rascals between two and five years old. These engaging young scoundrels can twist their doting parents round their fingers by coaxing, whining or throwing a first-class tantrum. The parents thoroughly spoil them, and the older children are also encouraged to pander to their lightest whim. Sweets, ice-cream, apples, bananas, cakes and anything else edible that attracts the child's fancy flow in an uninterrupted stream down the child's throat, as well as normal meals and the quota of orange juice and cod liver oil which is collected from the monthly clinic at the village hall, and, I must say in all honesty, that a more healthy set of children it would be hard to find. They seem to stay up until the parents themselves go to bed, and I see them playing in their gardens, or more frequently in the lane outside their cottages, until dusk falls. Then, sometimes as late as ten o'clock on a summer's evening, they finally obey the calls to 'Come on in!' which have been issuing from the cottage unheeded for an hour or more and dragging reluctant feet they resign themselves, still protesting, to bed.