(1/20) Village School (18 page)

And yet, as I have said, under these methods which are a direct violation of the rules of a well-regulated nursery, these children thrive. Furthermore, when they enter school at the age of five, one might reasonably expect some trouble in maintaining discipline; but this is not so.

They prove to be docile and charming, obedient and happy in their more restricted mode of life. The truth of the matter is, I think, that they feel the need for direction and authority, and if this is offered them with interest and kindness they are more than ready to co-operate.

They love to have an outlet for their creative ability. To be shown how to make a paper windmill, or a top that really works, to learn to sing a song with actions, to make a bead necklace for themselves, or a rattle for a baby at home, or best of all, something for their mothers—a paper mat with their own bright patterns adorning it—all these things give them infinite pleasure because they have had an aim and they can see something for their labours. Their prc-school play has on the whole been aimless. Their parents buy for them expensive toys, dolls' prams, tricycles, model cars and the like which have restricted scope in a child's hands. Sand, water, clay and other creative media are not encouraged. 'Too messy … don't you go mucking up that clean frock now with that old mud,' you hear the parents call. 'Leave them old stones be and come and nurse your dolly! What's the good of me giving a pound for it if you never plays with it, eh?' What indeed?

In the infants' room Miss Gray was unpinning the Easter frieze of yellow chicks which had been the apple of the children's eyes for the past fortnight. Her cupboards were packed full of the objects which normally were stored in individual boxes under each child's desk. Counters, plasticine, chalk, felt dusters, first readers, boxes of letters and all the paraphernalia of infants' work had been sorted, checked and repacked.

The dregs of powder paint had been poured away and gleaming jam jars awaited next term's mixture-as-before. Vases were stacked on one shelf, and below them the great black clay tin, weighing half a hundredweight, had been packed with moist flannel to keep the balls in good condition for a fortnight.

The babies were busy polishing their desks, on top and underneath, with pieces of rag brought from home and a dab from Miss Gray's furniture polish tin.

'Waste of time and good polish!' was Mrs Pringle's sour comment as she carried in the clean crockery to put away in the tall cupboard. On top of this stood a mysterious cardboard box, out of reach of prying hands. The label said 'Milk Chocolate Easter Eggs' and was carefully turned to face away from the class. Each one had a small label tied on, either blue or pink, and each child had to find the one with his own name on it. Miss Gray was going to hide them about the classroom while the children were out at afternoon play.

'Which reminds me,' she said to me, grovelling painfully under a low desk for a stray drawing-pin, 'I must see that they bring the eggs to me to check up on the names. It will never do to eat the wrong egg!'

In my room there was an equally interesting container, but mine was a round moss-lined basket, like an enormous nest, filled with eggs wrapped in bright tinfoil. The arrival of Lucy in our midst would mean a trip across to the school-house to fetch one more for the basket.

We too were in a fine bustle of clearing-up when the vicar came in at the door. His cloak and leopard-skin gloves had been put away with his other winter garments, and he presented a summery appearance in his pale grey flannel suit and panama hat.

'I wanted to remind you all of one or two things,' began the vicar, when the children had settled back into their desks, and he went on to explain to them the significance of the next Sunday, Palm Sunday, and invited offerings of pussy-willow and spring flowers for the church.

He followed this by a brief homily on Easter, the significance of the eggs which they would receive, and the hope that they would be at church with their parents on both these days.

He then spent a few minutes looking at the Easter cards which the children bad crayoned ready to take home to their parents, and deciding that this was as good a time as any to present the eggs, I fetched two extra from the house and then passed the basket round.

The children's faces were alight with joy as they chose their eggs, little Lucy having to be restrained from scooping all that were left into her pinafore.

When it was found that there was one left and I asked them if they could think who might like it, the children rose to their cue, and, as one man, chorused: 'The vicar, miss! The vicar!'

And so, with great cheerfulness we broke up, and the children of Fairacre School, clutching their treasures to them, clattered out into the spring sunshine—free for a fortnight!

PART THREE

Summer Term

17. Ancient History, Doctor and the Films

I
N
the bottom drawer of my desk are three massive books, with leather covers and mottled edges. Embossed on their fronts are the words 'Log Book' and they cover, between them, the history of this school.

The third one, which is nearly filled, has been in use for the past twenty years. If anything of note happens, such as a visit from an inspector, the outbreak of an epidemic, or the early closing of school through bad weather, illness or any other reason, then I make a note to that effect in the book, following in the tradition of the former heads of Fairacre School.

The log books thus form a most interesting account of a school's adventures; the early ones are particularly fascinating and should, I sometimes feel, be handed over to the local archivist who would find them a valuable contribution to the affairs of the district.

Our first entry at Fairacre School is at the latter end of 1880 when the first headmistress set down the details of her appointment and that of her sister as 'An assistant in the Babies' Class.' It has thus been a two-teacher school since its inception.

These two ladies would appear to have been kindly, conscientious and religious. Their discipline seems to have been maintained with some difficulty, and the rule, laid down by the local authority and still in force, that canings must be entered in the log book, leads to several poignant entries. The ink has faded to fawn in this first battered book, but there, in rather agitated handwriting, we can read:

'February 2nd, 1881. Had occasion to cane John Pratt (3) for Disobedience.'

And a little later on:

'April 4th, 1881. After repeated warnings, which have in nowise been heeded, had occasion to punish Tom East (2), William Carter (2) and John Pratt (3) the Ringleader, for Insolence and Damage to School Property.'

The figures in brackets refer to the number of strokes of the cane, usually (2) or (3) seemed to be the rule, but gentle Miss Richards was evidently driven to distraction by John Pratt, for before long we read, in a badly-shaken hand:

'July, 1882. Found John Pratt standing on a Stool, putting on the Hands of the Clock with the greatest Audacity, he imagining himself unobserved. For this Impudence received six (6).'

During the following two years there are several entries about the sisters' ill-health and in 1885 a widow and daughter took over the school. Their first entry reads:

'April, 1885. Found conditions here in sore confusion. Children very backward and lacking, in some cases, the first Rudiments of Knowledge. Behaviour, too, much to be deplored.'

This is interesting because it is echoed, at every change of head, throughout the seventy-odd years of Fairacre School's history. The new head confesses himself appalled and shocked at his predecessor's slackness, sets down his intention of improving standards of work and conduct, runs his allotted time and goes, only to be replaced by just such another head, and just such another entry in the log book.

After a number of changes the headmistresses were replaced by a series of headmasters. One, Mr Hope, had his wife as assistant and their only child, Harriet, figures in the log book as the star pupil for several years.

'16th June, 1911. The Vicar presented the Bishop's prize to the best pupil, Harriet Hope. The Bishop was pleased to say that this child's ability and endeavour were outstanding.'

I like to think of Harriet accepting her prize Bible in this old schoolroom, her hair smoothed down and her pinafore dazzling white over a clean zephyr frock, while her classmates, resplendent in Norfolk or sailor suits for the occasion, clapped heartily.

But in 1913 come two tragic entries.

'January 20th, 1913. Have to record sad death of pupil (and only daughter) Harriet Hope,' and

'January 25th, 1913. School closed today on the occasion of the funeral of late pupil, Harriet Hope, aged twelve years and four months.'

Mr Hope's entries go on until 1919. He records his wife's long illness, his work throughout the Great War in the village, the school's War Savings accounts, the return of old pupils in uniform, the deaths of some in battle, and finally:

'May 18th, 1919. Have now to enter this last. My resignation having been accepted I leave Fairacre School for an appointment in Leicestershire.'

Mrs Willet filled in some of the gaps for me when I went down there to buy some rhubarb for bottling.

'I remember him well, of course, though I was only a child at the time; Flarriet was a year or two older than I was. He went all to pieces after the child died. They both took it very hard. Mrs Hope was never well after it, and the headmaster—well, he just took to the bottle. I can remember him now bending down to mark something on my desk, his hand shaking like a leaf and his breath heavy with liquor. As soon as the school clock said ten, he'd put up another few sums on the blackboard, dare us to make a racket and then saunter down to 'The Beetle' for a drink. Us kids used to stand up on the desk seats and watch him go. The boys used to pretend to be upending the bottle and hiccup and that-all very naughty, I suppose, but you couldn't hardly blame them with that example set them, could you, miss?'

She wrapped the rhubarb securely in two of its own great leaves and tied the bundle with bass. From the dresser the owls gazed unblinkingly from under their glass case and I remembered the affair of Arthur Coggs. As if she knew what was in my mind, Mrs Willet spoke:

'And I believe that's partly why my husband's so set against the drink. He saw what it done to poor Mr Hope—he was asked to leave the school you know, becoming too much of a byword—and took up some job up north as an ordinary teacher. They say he was never a headmaster again; which was a pity really, he being so clever. He wrote some lovely poetry and used to read it to us. Of course some of the boys laughed about it, but us girls liked it.'

'Was Mr Willet at school when you were?'

'Oh, yes, miss. He was always sweet on me. Pushed a little stone heart through the partition to me when I was still in the babies' room. There's a biggish gap in one part, you know.'

I did know. The children still poke odd things through to the adjoining room. The last object confiscated had been a stinging-nettle leaf cunningly gummed on to a long strip of cardboard.

Mrs Willet crossed to the dresser and brought back an oval china box. The lid bore a picture of Sandown and inside it was fined with red plush. She turned out the contents on to the serge tablecloth—jet brooches, military buttons, clasps, a gold locket and chain, and, among these trinkets, a small pebble, shaped like a heart, which had been picked up in the playground by the ardent young Willet so many years ago.

After admiring the treasures I made my farewells and set off up the lane with the heavy cold bundle on my bare arm.

'I suppose you're thinking of a full store-cupboard,' shouted Mr Roberts across the hedge. But my thoughts were of the man who had lived once in my house, whose daughter had died, whose wife had ailed, whose poems had been laughed at by the only people he had found to listen to them. The log books, with their sparse entries, tell truly of 'old, unhappy, far-off things, and battles long ago.'