(1/20) Village School (24 page)

His gaze swept the lofty pitch-pine ceiling, the ecclesiastical high windows, and at last came to rest on the skylight.

'Do you find it dark in here?' he asked. I said 'that I realized it was dark compared with the steel and glass schools of the present day, but that I didn't think the children's sight was impaired at all.

'Despite its architectural drawbacks,' I told him, 'there is something in this atmosphere conducive to quiet and to work. I know it is only right that children should have big, low windows that they can sec through, but they can be very distracting.'

The inspector sighed, and I could see that he thought me prejudiced and a diehard, as he ambled round the room studying the wall-pictures. The children watched him furtively, their library books open but unread.

Outside, the wind had started to roar, and the black clouds which had gathered during the afternoon made the room murky enough to horrify any inspector. There was a flash of lightning, a few muffled squeals from the children, and then a long menacing rumble of distant thunder.

The rain suddenly burst upon us in torrents, lashing the windows and streaming down the skylight. In a few minutes the usual steady drip began into the classroom below. Without waiting to be told, Cathy went into the lobby, returned with the bucket, and folding a dishcloth neatly, she tucked it methodically in the base of the bucket to stop the clanging of the drops. Mr Arnold, the inspector, watched these smooth proceedings amusedly.

'How long has this been going on?' he nodded at the skylight.

'Seventy years,' I answered, and his laugh was drowned in another clap of thunder.

'Can I go through to the infants' room, before they go home?' he asked, and I took him in to meet Miss Gray, who was already buttoning children into coats and peering hopefully across the playground to see if any mothers had braved the rain with their children's mackintoshes. I left them discussing reading methods and returned to get mV own class ready to face the weather.

There was a flurry in the lobby and the vicar burst in, his cloak pouring with silver streams from his dash across the playground.

'What a storm! What a storm!' he gasped, shaking his hat energetically. The children in the front row flinched as the cold rain splashed them, but otherwise endured this treatment with stoicism.

'I had to bring the hymn list and I thought I might stow some of the children who had no coats into my car and run them home.'

The children brightened up, sitting very straight with shining eyes. Here was adventure indeed! The prudent few, with mackintoshes waiting on the lobby pegs, cursed their own forethought which had deprived them of this treat.

'Some of their mothers may be coming,' I said, 'but, let's see…! Who knows that their mothers won't be able to come? And who has no coat?'

John Burton and his little sister were in this category, and five more children. As they all lived roughly in the same direction along the Beech Green Road, they were called together, and under the vicar's outspread cloak it was decided to make a dash for his waiting car, when I remembered the inspector.

'Just a moment, children,' said the vicar, 'while I greet our visitor, and then we'll set off.' Cloak swirling, he sailed into the infants' room, and found Mr Arnold engrossed in a word-making game which he had found in the cupboard.

'Fat, mat, sat, cat, rat, hat…' he was muttering absorbedly to himself, turning a neat little cardboard wheel to make each new word. It seemed a pity to break in on his enjoyment, but I introduced the two men and left them while I interviewed a little knot of wet mothers who had just arrived.

The lobby floor ran with little rivulets from their mackintoshes and umbrellas. Outside, the playground streamed with water, and in the dip of the stone doorstep, worn with generations of sturdy country boots, a dark pool gleamed. The children who had been claimed were bright-eyed and garrulous, faces upturned and cheerful, as they suffered their heads to be shrouded and their collars buttoned. Those who still awaited rescue were anxious and forlorn, and their eyes, turned towards the school gate, were dark and mournful.

Mr Roberts' sheepdog, its coat plastered against its ribs, edged into the gateway and was implored by its urgent friends to come into the lobby for shelter.

'Bess, come on in!'

'Bess, Bess!'

'Poor ol' Bess. Soaking, ain't she?'

Hearing sympathetic voices, Bess joined the crowd in the lobby, her tail flicking drops as it wagged furiously, and confusion reigned supreme. Gradually the numbers thinned and the vicar, having made his farewells to Mr Arnold and Miss Gray, collected his charges on the doorstep, and with the black cloak outspread above them, they all set off across the playground. From the rear, the vicar looked like some monstrous black hen sheltering her chicks, as underneath each side of the outspread cloak a forest of little legs twinkled through the puddles to the car. With a parting toot they were off, heads and hands sticking out of all the windows, despite the downpour.

Mr Arnold engaged Miss Gray in conversation again, and I saw off those children who were well-equipped for the weather. Only Cathy, Jimmy and Joseph Coggs remained and I retrieved the old golf umbrella which shares a home with maps, modulators and other awkward objects in one of the cupboards, and opened it against the lashing rain on the doorstep.

'There you are, Cathy,' I said, handing over the red and green giant, 'hold it as low as you can over the three of you, and get to Tyler's Row in record time!'

I watched the umbrella bob along the lane at a smart trot, and then hurried back to my empty classroom.

Mr Arnold came through from the infants' room to make his farewells.

'I'm afraid I picked an unfortunate day for my first visit,' he said, 'but I should like to come again, quite soon, to see you all in action.'

He waved, and sprinted across to his car through the puddles and drove away through the downpour.

Mr Annett, with a solicitude for his future wife that was quite pretty to see, had deserted his schoolchildren promptly at four and dashed over in his car to collect Miss Gray. I prevailed upon them to share my tea and together we sat gossiping and eating home-made gingerbread in the school-house.

'As long as schools are dependent on local rates,' said Mr Annett decidedly, dusting far too many crumbs, for my peace of mind, from his lap to the carpet, 'there are bound to be serious disparities in buildings and equipment. My three little nieces started their schooling in Middlesex. Their first school was a model one, individual towels, combs, beds, and so on. There was a paddling pool, two chutes, stacks of first-class toys, mounds of paper, chalks and everything else a teacher or child could wish for. Now they've moved into this area, and their local village school is not only as antiquated in design and as primitive in its sanitation and water supply as this one, but is also looked upon, as far as I can see, by the families with whom they play, as only "good enough for other people's children."'

'Don't I know!' I agreed feelingly.

'My sister is looked upon as an oddity because her daughters are going to the village school,' he continued, 'but, as she and her husband point out, they have faith in our state education and believe they are doing a wise thing. They live within a stone's throw of the school and the girls are taught in small classes by teachers who are all qualified and certificated, and any complaints made by their parents as ratepayers, about conditions, have every chance of being considered and put right.'

'It's very difficult to argue about,' I answered, 'for in the end it boils down to the liberty of the individual. If parents prefer to pay for schooling, well, why shouldn't they? I, too, deplore this "the-village-school-is-good-enough-for-them" attitude, but short of state education for all, with no choice at all, what can be done?'

'I don't quite know,' said Mr Annett thoughtfully, accepting his fourth cup of tea in a preoccupied way, 'but there are one or two things that will have to come before very long. The discrepancies between different areas will have to be overcome to begin with. Just as the teachers' salaries have been made equal in different areas, so should the school conditions be evened up. And if only more intelligent parents would make use of their local school and take an interest in it, instead of complaining about the rates they have to pay, plus school fees that they need not, it might be a step in the right direction.'

'Owners of private schools won't think so,' I pointed out, as he rose to help Miss Gray with her coat. We made our way to the car. The storm had spent itself and the sides of the lane were running with little rivers, bearing twigs, leaves and other flotsam on their swirling surfaces.

The air was soft and fresh and a blackbird was singing its heart out in the cherry tree.

'We're very lucky,' I observed, breathing in the damp earthy smell, but Mr Annett was gazing at Miss Gray. It was some time before he spoke.

'Very, very lucky,' he echoed soberly.

22. The Outing

T
HE
first Saturday in July is always kept free in Fairacre for the combined Sunday School and Choir Outing.

'At one time,' said the vicar, 'the schools here closed for a fortnight at the end of June for a fruit-picking holiday, and as they were paid at the end of that time the outing was held then. And now, somehow, we just stick to the first Saturday in July. It seems to suit us all.'

He beamed happily round the coach, which was filled with thirty-three of his parishioners, of all shapes and sizes, each one dressed in his best.

Behind us chugged another coach equally full, for mothers were encouraged to accompany their children on this expedition. 'For really,' as the vicar remarked, 'it would be far too great a responsibility for my wife and the two Sunday school teachers to undertake; and it does give some of these poor house-bound women a breath of fresh air.'

Mrs Pratt, as organist, was there with her two children and behind her sat Mr Annett, as choir-master, and Miss Gray. They were both making heroic efforts to be civil and attentive to their fellow-travellers, for they were at that stage of mutual infatuation when the mere presence of other people is a burden. I wondered how quickly they would abandon us when we reached the seashore. They would certainly need a breathing-space on their own for an hour or two, after behaving with such admirable self-control under the gaze of thirty-one pairs of eyes.

Miss Clare sat beside me. There had been a few seats to spare and she had agreed to come 'just to smell the sea and collect a fresh seaweed ribbon to hang in the back porch, so that she could tell the weather.'

'Years ago,' she said, 'we used to have our outing in a brake with four horses to pull it. Of course, we never went far, to the sea, or any great distance like that. But we had wonderful times. For several years we went to Sir Edmund Hurley's park, beyond Springbourne, and we all loved that journey, because we had to splash through the ford at the bottom of the steep hill there. It was before they altered the road and built the new bridge.'

'Was that Sir Edmund who gave Fairacre School its piano?' I asked, a vision of that fretwork-fronted jangler rushing at me from forty miles behind us.

'That's the one,' cried Miss Clare, delighted at my knowledge. 'He was a great friend of the vicar's at that time—the late vicar—Canon Emslie, such a dear, and so musical! He was shocked to find the school without an instrument and mentioned it to Sir Edmund one day when he was visiting at Hurley Hall. The upshot was that the present piano was sent over from the Hall. Most generous, but then all the Hurleys have been renowned for their generosity.'

'My grandfather,' boomed Mrs Pringle, swivelling round on the seat in front, 'the one as made the choir-stalls that come in for some uncalled-for criticism by them as is ignorant of such things—my grandfather did a tidy bit of carpentering for Sir Edmund.' She cast a triumphant look at Mr Annett from under the brim of her brown straw hat, as one who says, 'And if Sir Edmund was satisfied with my grandfather's handiwork, then who are you to point the finger of scorn at his choir-stalls?'

But Mr Annett was too busy adjusting the window so that no harmful gale should blow upon his life's love, and the shaft went by him and left him unscathed.

'And what's more,' continued Mrs Pringle's penetrating bellow, 'Sir Edmund asked his advice for some jobs actually in The House!' She nodded her head belligerently, the bunch of cherries on her hat-brim just a split second behind in time. This bunch of cherries is an old and valued friend, nodding from straw in summer and felt in winter, and now so far gone in years as to show, here and there, a little split, through which the white stuffing oozes gently, like some exotic mildew.

'In the house?' echoed Miss Clare. 'Where did your grandfather do the carpentering then?'

'Kitchen cupboards!' said Mrs Pringle shortly and bounced round again to face the front, the cherries quivering, but whether with indignation or family pride no one could say.

Barrisford, as everyone knows, is a genteel watering-place with wonderful, firm, broad sands, which would cause a less refined borough to advertise itself as 'A Paradise for Kiddies.'

The children were ready to rush to the sea's edge the minute that the coaches shuddered to a standstill, but were restrained by the vicar, who, using his bell-like pulpit voice, made an announcement.

'We shall disperse, dear people, until four-thirty when we shall meet at our old friend Bunce's, on the Esplanade. I gather that an excellent tea is to be prepared for us there, with cold ham and other meats, salad, cakes, ices and so on. We shall leave here at half-past five sharp.' He looked severely at his flock, knowing that punctuality is not one of our Fairacre virtues.

'At five-thirty,' he repeated, 'and even so we shall not be home, I fear, until nearly nine, which is rather late for our very young members.'

'Never mind, vicar,' called a cheerful mother at the rear of the coach, 'it's only Sunday, tomorrow … nothing to get up for!'