Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Stars

by Gervase Phinn

  In the break that followed, his teacher, Mrs Brown, told me that John lived on a farm way out at the other side of the dale. It was a hard but happy life he led. He was expected, like most children from farming families, to help around the farm before he went to school and when he got home. He was a shrewd, good-natured, blunt-speaking little boy with a host of stories to tell about farm life. The following story, however, had been told to Mrs Brown by John’s father.

  When he was little, Mrs Brown told me, John was woken by his father in the middle of the night. The child was wrapped up warmly and carried across the yard to the byre. The vet had suggested to John’s father that it was about time the boy saw the miracle of nature: the birth of a calf.

  In the cattle shed, one solitary bulb threw a subdued light and cast dancing shadows on the wooden walls, and the place smelt of silage and animal warmth. His father placed the child on a bale of hay.

  ‘Now, young man,’ the vet said, ‘when I was your age and saw what you will see tonight, it changed my life and made me want to become a vet. I want you to be very quiet and soon you will see something wonderful.’

  The child peered into the half-light as the great black Angus cow strained to deliver her calf. In due course, the small, wet, furry bundle arrived and the vet, glowing with perspiration but with a triumphant look on his face, gently wiped the calf ’s mouth and then held up the newborn creature under the flickering light for the little boy to see. The calf glistened in the brightness. John stared wide-eyed.

  ‘What do you think of that?’ the vet asked him. ‘Isn’t that a wonderful sight?’

  The boy thought for a moment before replying. ‘So how did it swallow the dog in the first place?’

  6

  FARMBOY

  When he’s collected the eggs

  And milked the cows,

  Groomed the mare

  And fed the sows,

  Filled the troughs

  And stacked the logs,

  Cooped the hens

  And penned the dogs…

  He then begins his homework.

  7

  TREVOR

  MEETS ROYALTY

  The royal visitor, accompanied by the Mayor, the High Sheriff, the Lord Lieutenant and other assorted dignitaries, walked along the line of children waving flags and holding out bunches of flowers. She looked every inch the princess, beautifully dressed, slim and elegant and with a stunning smile. It was clear she had a rapport with the children for she would stop and talk to them, bending low so she was at eye level, shaking little hands and receiving bunch after bunch of flowers which she passed back to her lady-in-waiting.

  At the very end of the line stood a small boy. He had a mop of dusty brown hair and a little green candle was emerging from his crusty nostril. Wide-eyed, the child held out two wilting blooms.

  The royal visitor smiled warmly and took the flowers from him.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning close to him and patting him on the head. ‘And what’s your name?’

  ‘Trevor,’ the child replied.

  ‘And have you had the day off school, Trevor,’ she asked, ‘especially to come and see me?’

  ‘No,’ he replied, scratching his scalp, ‘I’ve been sent home because I’ve got nits.’

  8

  MAXINE

  AND THE BIG STICK

  The school was a relatively modern building in honey-coloured brick with an orange pantile roof and large picture windows. It was surrounded by fields and rocky outcrops and backed by a friendly belt of larch and spruce trees which climbed towards the high moors. Everything about it looked clean and well tended. I, the school inspector, arrived just before morning playtime and heard the squealing and laughing of small children as they ran and played in the schoolyard.

  I was just about to enter the main door when a very distressed-looking little girl of about five or six, her face wet with weeping and her cheeks smeared where little hands had tried to wipe away the tears, tugged at my jacket.

  ‘They’ve all got big sticks!’ she wailed piteously.

  ‘Who’s got big sticks?’ I asked, surprised.

  ‘All on ’em. They’ve all got big sticks!’

  ‘Well, they shouldn’t have big sticks,’ I replied.

  ‘I want a big stick!’ she cried, sniffing and sobbing, her little body shaking in anguish.

  ‘No, you can’t have a big stick. It’s very dangerous.’

  ‘I want a big stick!’ she cried. ‘I want a big stick!’

  ‘You could hurt somebody with a big stick,’ I said.

  ‘But they’ve all got big sticks!’ she howled again. ‘They’ve all got ’em.’

  At this point the headteacher appeared from the direction of the playground.

  ‘Whatever is it, Maxine?’ she asked, gently pulling the little body towards her like a hen might comfort a chick.

  The small child clutching her began to moan and groan again pitifully. ‘I want a big stick, Miss Bentley,’ she moaned. ‘They’ve all got big sticks.’

  ‘Of course you can have one,’ the headteacher replied, wiping away the little girl’s tears. ‘You weren’t there when I gave everybody one. You don’t think I’d leave you out, Maxine, do you? You come with me and I’ll get you one, a nice big one. How about that? I won’t be a moment, Mr Phinn.’

  ‘A big stick?’ I murmured. ‘You’re giving this little girl a big stick?’

  The headteacher gave a great grin before replying, ‘She means a biscuit.’

  9

  ELIZABETH

  AT THE OPTICIAN’S

  My visit to the infant school was to test the children’s reading. I met Elizabeth in that part of the classroom called the Home Corner, where children can dress up, get into role, practise talking, reading, writing and acting out parts. The teacher confided in me later that she had chuckled when a rather pompous inspector had once referred to this area as the Social Interaction Centre. The Home Corner in this classroom was set out like an optician’s shop. There were posters and signs, price lists and eye charts, a small desk with plastic till, appointment book and a large red telephone. Elizabeth was dressed in one of her daddy’s white shirts. She had a piece of string around her neck attached to a pair of empty frames and was busy arranging some spectacles on a small stand. She was the first child due to be tested for reading so I approached.

  ‘Hello,’ I greeted her amiably.

  ‘Oh hello,’ she replied cheerily and popped the frames on the end of her nose. ‘Is it a pair of glasses you want?’

  I hadn’t the heart to say, ‘No, I’m here to give you the Cathcart-Smitt Reading Test,’ so I replied, ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘What sort have you in mind?’

  ‘I think I’d like a pair which makes me look considerably younger.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see what we can do.’ Then she added, ‘I shall have to test your eyes, you know.’

  ‘I thought you might,’ I replied.

  ‘Can you read?’

  Here was the school inspector come to test the child’s reading and he was being tested himself. I nodded and was presented with a list of letters which I read as she pointed to each in turn.

  ‘You have very good eyes,’ she said as she rummaged in a box of frames. ‘And you want some to make you look young?’ She finally decided on a pair as pink as elastoplast, pointed at the ends, with diamanté studs. I tried them on and looked in the mirror. Elizabeth watched fascinated for a moment and then began giggling. She slapped her hand over her mouth to stop herself but her little body shook with mirth.

  ‘Are you laughing at me?’ I asked sadly, peering through the ridiculous pair of glasses.

  She nodded slowly and stopped giggling.

  ‘And are you the manageress of this optician’s shop?’

  She nodded again, her face taking on a slightly quizzical expression. She really did not know what to make of me.

  ‘I don’t think it’s very nice of you to laugh at your custome
rs.’ I pulled a strained face. ‘I’m very upset.’

  She stared for a moment before approaching me and then, patting me lightly on the arm, whispered gently, ‘It’s only pretend, you know.’

  10

  HOME

  In the Home Corner,

  In an infant school classroom,

  A boy and girl,

  Rising five,

  Were arguing.

  Stabbing the air with small fingers,

  Jutting out their chins,

  And stamping little feet.

  ‘Oh, do shut up!’

  ‘No, you shut up!’

  ‘I’m sick of you!’

  And I’m sick of you!’

  ‘Oh, just be quiet!’

  ‘No, you be quiet!’

  ‘Oh, do shut up!’

  ‘No, you shut up!’

  ‘What’s all this?’ the teacher cried.

  ‘We’re playing mums and dads,’

  The infants both replied.

  11

  ANDREW

  THE SHEEP EXPERT

  It was at the end of the day when I joined a sturdy-looking little boy with a healthy complexion who was standing at the classroom window, hands deep in his pockets, surveying the vast panorama which stretched out before him. He was about six or seven years old.

  ‘Just waiting for mi mam to come,’ he told me. ‘She’s offen a bit late. She ’as a lot to do on t’farm.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure she’ll not be long,’ I said.

  ‘Aye, well, I’m not goin’ anyweer.’

  ‘Beautiful view,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not bad, int it?’ He dug his hands deeper into his pockets. ‘Autumn’s comin’ on,’ observed the child like a little old man. ‘Not be long afoor t’bracken turns gowld and t’leaves start to fall. Looks like it’s gunna be a bad winter an’ all. We ’ad a lot of snow last year. Mi dad can’t be doin’ wi’ snow.’

  ‘I’m not over keen,’ I said. And what’s your name?’

  Andrew.’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly a beautiful view, Andrew,’ I said. ‘You’re a lucky boy to live up here.’

  ‘Aye, as I said, it’s all reight. Better in t’summer than winter though, when tha can get out and about. Starts about this time o’ year, does winter, when it gets cowld and wet and windy.’

  ‘And what do you like best at school?’ I asked.

  ‘I likes to read and I likes number work. I’m good at sums.’

  ‘Are you?’ I thought I’d test him on his arithmetic. ‘How many sheep can you see in that field?’ I asked him.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Can you tell me how many sheep you can see in the field?’

  ‘Aye, I can.’

  ‘Well, how many can you see?’

  ‘I can see all on ’em,’ he replied.

  I chuckled. ‘No, I meant how many altogether. Could you count them for me?’

  ‘Aye, I suppose I could. I’m good at countin’.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to show me,’ I persisted.

  ‘Well, there’s five Swaledales and six Texels, three hybrids and four hoggits.’ He paused for a moment. ‘That makes eighteen in total, dunt it? And don’t ask me to count t’rabbits because they waint stay still long enough for me to tot ’em up.’ A large and rusty old Land Rover pulled up outside the school gate. ‘Hey up, mi mam’s ’ere.’ With a wave he scurried off. ‘Ta-ra!’

  12

  BILLY

  MAKING BABIES

  ‘And what is your name, young man ?’ I asked the small, rosy-cheeked boy who stood by the classr oom window.

  ‘Mi mam calls me William an’ mi dad calls me Billy,’ he told me.

  And what shall I call you?’ I asked.

  ‘Tha can suit thissen, mester, I’ll answer to owther,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, Billy, you certainly live in one of the most beautiful parts of Yorkshire,’ I told him.

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Of course.’ I gestured out of the classroom window. ‘Just take a look at that spectacular view.’

  ‘What’s so special abaat t’view then?’ he asked bluntly.

  I described for him the magnificent panorama which lay before us. ‘Just look for a moment, Billy,’ I said, ‘really look. See the distant purple fells shrouded in a fleecy mist, the pine-scented woodland stretching around in a dark green belt, the undulating green of the dale flecked with cold winter sunshine and dotted with lazy-looking sheep.’ The little boy stared up at me as if I were from another planet and then back at the view. ‘Pause a moment, Billy,’ I continued, ‘and see the little rusty-red beck which trickles between the silvered limestone walls creviced with tiny pink gillyflowers. Don’t you think it’s a wonderful sight?’

  ‘’Appen,’ he said.

  I smiled. Yorkshire people are plain speaking and often not ones to use an excess of words.

  ‘I wish I lived here,’ I said.

  ‘I know ’ow to mek babies,’ he suddenly announced.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Babies. I know ’ow to mek ’em. I learnt yesterday.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Aye. I know ’ow to do it now.’

  ‘Good,’ I said simply. I really did not wish to pursue this line of conversation.

  I have met many a young person on my travels as a school inspector and been delighted by their humour, intrigued by their responses to my questions and amused by their sharp observations on life. But on a few rare occasions, like this one, I have been completely lost for words. A colleague had warned me early on in my career about such potentially hazardous situations. He had told me, that when faced with an inquisitive child who asks a tricky question or raises an embarrassing topic, to smile widely, nod sagely and be as evasive as possible. So that is what I did with little Billy. But the child persisted.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘do you know how to mek babies, mester?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I told him.

  ‘Well, how do you mek babies, then?’ he asked, looking up at me.

  ‘You go first,’ I said.

  ‘Well,’ said the boy, sucking in his bottom lip, ‘I knock off the “y” and put “ies”. That’s ’ow I mek babies.’

  13

  JANICE

  AND THE LITTLE LAMBS

  Janice was a large healthy-looking girl sporting straw-coloured hair gathered up in enormous bushy bunches. She deposited her reading book and folder of written work in front of me, plopped onto the chair and stared up with a wearisome expression on her round face. It was clear that this pupil was not overly enthusiastic about showing me her work but she was by no means daunted by the presence of the stranger in the dark suit.

  I smiled. And what is your name?’

  ‘Janice.’

  ‘Well, Janice, I’m Mr Phinn and I am here to see how well you are getting on in school.’ She nodded. And how do you think you are getting on?’

  All reight,’ she replied somewhat sullenly.

  ‘Working hard?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  And keeping up with the work?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  And what do you enjoy best about school?’

  ‘Goin’ ’ome,’ she told me bluntly.

  ‘Well, would you like to read to me?’

  ‘I’m not dead keen, but I will if I ’ave to.’ She picked up the reading book in front of her. I saw it was called An Anthology of Animal Verse.

  ‘Ah, a poetry book. Do you like poetry then, Janice?’

  ‘Not really,’ replied the girl, then added: ‘It’s just that poems are shorter than stories and easier to read.’

  She chose to read a poem called Nature’s Treasure. It was delivered slowly and loudly, the reader stabbing the words with a large finger like someone tapping out an urgent Morse code message.

  Oh, what lovely little lambs

  Prancing in the spring.

  Hear their happy bleating,

  Oh, what joy they bring!

  I groaned inwardly and had t
o sit through six more verses, all as trite as the first.

  ‘Is that it, then?’ asked Janice, snapping the book shut and looking up at me. She was clearly keen to get away. I suggested that she might like to tell me a little about what she had just read.

  She considered the prospect for a moment before replying. ‘I ’ave enough trouble wi’ readin’ it, ne’er mind havin’ to tell you abaat it as well.’

  ‘Do you like reading then, Janice?’ I asked cheerfully.

  ‘No.’

  I gave it up as a bad job. ‘Well, shall we look at your written work?’

  ‘Can if tha wants.’

  Janice’s written work consisted largely of spelling exercises, short pedestrian passages of prose, a few poor-quality rhyming poems and numerous accounts, rather more lively and descriptive, of calving, lambing, sheep-shearing and other farming matters.

  ‘You keep cows on your farm then, do you, Janice?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And pigs?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And what about sheep?’

  ‘What about ’em?’

  ‘Do you have any?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  This was hard work but I persevered. ‘And do you help with the lambing?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It must be wonderful each year to see those little woolly creatures, like the ones in the poem, all wet and steaming in the morning air, with their soft fleeces, black eyes like shiny beads and their tails flicking and twitching.’

  ‘It’s all reight,’ she said, stifling a yawn.

  ‘And what do you like best about lambing?’

  She considered me again with the doleful eyes before telling me without batting an eyelid, ‘Best part’s when me and mi brother slide on t’afterbirth in t’yard.’

  14

  FRED