Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Stars

by Gervase Phinn

  CAFÉ OWNER

  In the Home Corner, set out as Fred’s Café, I met a stocky six-year-old boy wearing a large blue apron over his school clothes. He was playing the part of Fred, the café proprietor. All around him were notices and signs: NO DOGS ALLOWED, SPECIAL OF THE WEEK, COD ’N’ CHIPS, NO SMOKING!, WAITER SERVICE. I seated myself at the small table and looked at a blank piece of paper at the top of which was written in bold lettering: MENU.

  The little boy sidled up and stared at me intently. I looked up.

  ‘What’s it to be?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, taking on the role of a customer, ‘I think I’ll just have something to drink.’

  ‘Anything to eat?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘So you just want a drink?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘What about some fish an’ chips?’

  ‘No, I’m really not that hungry.’

  ‘Just a drink?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The boy disappeared and returned a moment later with a small, empty plastic beaker which he placed before me. Then he watched intently as I drank the imaginary liquid, licked my lips and exclaimed, ‘That was the nicest cup of tea I have had in a long while.’

  ‘It was an ’arf o’ bitter,’ he told me bluntly and walked off.

  15

  SOPHIA

  A NEW GIRL

  I was surrounded by a group of ten-year-old children in the Junior School classroom. They sat quietly at their desks as I told them the story of David and Goliath, of how the young shepherd boy with only a sling and a pebble defeated the champion of the Philistines. All the children, with the exception of just one, listened in rapt attention, their eyes widening at the part where Goliath, in his bronze armour and with his great spear, roared at David: ‘I will give your body to the birds and animals to eat!’ Their facial expressions changed with the story and there was an audible sigh at the end when the Israelites cheered their champion who had killed the giant and saved his people.

  The exception was a small, serious-faced girl whose big eyes bulged unblinkingly She sat right under my nose, her hands resting gently on the desk, her face expressionless. I was intrigued. When I finished the story, I asked her, And what is your name?’

  ‘Sophia,’ she replied quietly, without a trace of a smile.

  ‘Did you like the story?’ She nodded. ‘Did Goliath frighten you a little bit at the beginning?’ She nodded. And did you feel happy at the end?’ She nodded.

  Then I caught sight of the teacher at the back of the room, smiling widely. Her expression said: ‘Let the inspector get out of this one.’

  It was obvious to me that this girl did not find it easy to communicate. English was, no doubt, her second or third language. I had been told by the headteacher that several of the children in the school had only recently arrived from Eastern Europe and had a very limited command of English, but that they were keen, well behaved and were learning fast. I was also told that some of the children in this class had special educational needs and had problems with reading and writing.

  I tried again. ‘Did you think Goliath would win?’ She nodded. ‘Have you heard any other Bible stories?’ She nodded. ‘Can you think of a word to describe Goliath?’ She nodded. I mouthed the words slowly and deliberately. ‘WHAT – WORD – COMES – INTO – YOUR – HEAD – WHEN – YOU – THINK – OF – GOLIATH?’ She stared up at me without blinking. I tried again. ‘AT – THE – BEGINNING – WHAT – WORD,’ I tapped my forehead, ‘WHAT – WORD – COMES – INTO – YOUR – HEAD?’ She continued to stare. My voice rose an octave. ‘WHAT – WORD – COMES – INTO – YOUR – HEAD – WHEN – YOU – THINK – OF – THE – GIANT – AT – THE – BEGINNING – OF – THE – STORY?’

  After a thoughtful pause, the girl said in a clear and confident voice and with a slight smile on her face: ‘Well, I should say aggressive.’

  16

  CLASS DISCUSSION

  ‘In the class discussion, dear, you hardly said a word.

  We all aired our opinions but from you we rarely

  heard.

  You sat and stared in silence, surrounded by the chatter,

  Now tell me, dear, and please be plain,

  Is there anything the matter?’

  The child looked up and then she spoke,

  Her voice was clear and low:

  ‘There are many people in this world

  Who are rather quiet, you know!’

  17

  NAOMI

  AND THE WOBBLING GRANNY

  ‘Would you like me to read to you?’ asked a small girl, with wide, co rnflower-blue ey es and a mass of blonde hair which was gathered in two large candyfloss bunches.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘I would like that very much.’

  ‘I’m a very good reader, you know,’ she confided in me, while she searched in her bag for her book.

  Are you?’

  ‘I read with expression.’

  ‘Do you?’

  And I can do different voices.’

  ‘Really? I expect you use dramatic pauses as well,’ I said mischievously.

  She looked up for a moment and then added seriously, ‘I don’t know what they are, but I probably can.’

  She was indeed a very accomplished little reader and sailed through her book confidently and fluently. ‘I am good, aren’t I?’ she announced when she had completed three pages.

  ‘Very good,’ I said.

  ‘I’m good at writing as well.’

  ‘I imagined you would be.’

  ‘Would you like to see my writing?’

  ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘Poetry or prose?’

  ‘Poetry, please.’

  ‘I keep my poems in a portfolio.’

  ‘I guessed you would,’ I said, smiling.

  Her writing was neat, imaginative and accurate. ‘I am good at writing, aren’t I?’

  ‘Very good,’ I agreed.

  ‘I’m good at talking as well.’

  ‘I can tell that. I think your mummy’s got a little chatterbox at home.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed the child. ‘My granny has asthma and I’m not allowed to keep pets.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, chuckling. I couldn’t imagine what sort of animal she thought a ‘little chatterbox’ was.

  ‘My granny calls me her “bright little button”.’

  ‘That’s a lovely name,’ I told her. ‘They’re very special, are grannies, and we must really look after them.’

  ‘My granny wobbles, you know,’ the little chatterbox continued.

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘She has a special disease which makes her wobble and forget things.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the little girl, nodding sagely. ‘It’s called “Old Timers’ Disease”.’

  I chuckled.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’ she said, her little brow furrowing. ‘It’s not funny, you know, having “Old Timers’ Disease”.’

  ‘Indeed, it’s not,’ I told the child and thinking to myself that when I’m feeble, old and grey, I would like my children to say that their father has got ‘Old Timers’ Disease’. It sounds much more friendly and humane than Alzheimer’s Disease.

  18

  RICHARD

  AND THE COOKERY CLASS

  The school kitchen was a hive of activity. Two boys, smart in white aprons, were helping a large woman with floury hands take their culinary efforts out of the oven. One boy had such a dusting of flour on his face that he looked like Marley’s ghost.

  ‘Do you like tarts?’ he asked as I approached.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Tarts. Do you like tarts?’

  ‘Jam tarts,’ added the teacher with the floury hands, winking at me.

  ‘Oh, I’m very partial to tarts.’

  ‘Do you want one of mine?’

  ‘I think our visitor might enjoy one of your tarts at afternoon b
reak, Richard, with his cup of tea.’ There was a look on the teacher’s face which recommended me not to eat one of the tarts on offer.

  ‘But I want to know what he thinks,’ the boy told her.

  ‘You have to wait until they are cool, Richard.’

  ‘Tarts are better when they’re hot, miss,’ persisted the boy. He then looked at me with a shining, innocent face. ‘Don’t you think hot tarts are much better than cold ones?’

  ‘I do,’ I agreed, ‘and I will have one of your tarts now.’ The teacher’s face took on an expression which told me that I had been warned.

  The boy selected the biggest on the baking tray – a large, crusty-looking, misshapen lump of pastry. In the centre was a blob of dark red which I supposed was jam. It looked the most unappetizing piece of pastry I had ever seen, but I could not go back now. The boy watched keenly as I took a massive bite.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked the boy eagerly.

  It was extremely difficult to speak as the dried-up confection coated the inside of my mouth. I coughed and sprayed the air with bits of pastry and dried jam. ‘I have never tasted a tart like this in my life,’ I assured him honestly, between splutters.

  A great smile spread across the boy’s face. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Would you like another?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ I replied quickly. ‘Delicious though it was, one is quite enough.’

  At the end of the afternoon, as I was heading for the door, the little chef appeared with a brown paper bag in his hand.

  ‘I’ve put another of my tarts in here for you,’ he said, ‘to have with your tea tonight.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ I said. ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘Funny thing is baking, isn’t it?’ the boy pondered, holding out his hands in front of him the better to examine them. ‘You know, my hands were dead mucky before I started making my tarts and just look how clean they are now.’

  19

  CRESSIDA

  FACES THE MUSIC

  Miss Bronson, headmistress of the Lady Cavendish High School for Girls, walked ahead of me down the corridor. She was a thin, slightly stooped woman with a pale indrawn face, narrow dark eyes and thick iron-grey hair cut in a bob. A voluminous black gown was draped around her shoulders.

  ‘Do come along, Mr Phinn,’ she said in a very upper-class accent. ‘I would like you to see how I deal with a recalcitrant student.’

  I was intrigued.

  We soon arrived at the girls’ cloakroom. Standing outside, looking extremely ill at ease, was a tall fair-haired girl in a smart dark green pinafore dress and pristine white blouse. She certainly did not look at all like a recalcitrant student.

  ‘Now, Cressida,’ said the headmistress, pulling an appropriately shocked face, ‘so you are the culprit?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Bronson,’ replied the girl quietly.

  ‘This gentleman with me,’ she told her, ‘is Mr Phinn. He is a school inspector.’

  The girl stared at me with a terrified expression.

  ‘Don’t worry, he is not here to take you away,’ the headmistress told her, with a small smile playing on her lips. ‘He is here to see how I deal with poorly behaved students.’

  ‘Miss Bronson –’ began the girl.

  The headmistress held up a hand as if stopping traffic. ‘Silence!’

  At this moment, the caretaker – a sullen-looking individual in a shapeless grey overall and sporting bright yellow rubber gloves – appeared. He carried a large sponge.

  ‘Thank you for joining us, Mr Merryman,’ said the headmistress. ‘This will not take long.’ She turned to the student. ‘Now, Cressida, perhaps you would like to acquaint Mr Phinn with what you have been doing?’

  ‘Kissing the mirror,’ mumbled the girl.

  ‘Speak up, Cressida,’ said the headmistress.

  ‘I’ve been kissing the mirror in the cloakroom,’ she told me, shamefaced.

  ‘She’s been kissing the mirror,’ repeated the headmistress. ‘Do you know, Mr Phinn, at the end of the day, this young lady has been putting on her make-up in the cloakroom and leaving behind large red marks where she has kissed the mirror. I can’t for the life of me understand why anyone would want to kiss a mirror.’

  ‘I was practising, miss,’ the girl informed her.

  ‘Practising?’ repeated the headmistress, looking like a startled cat. ‘Practising for what?’

  The girl remained silent.

  ‘Practising for what, Cressida?’ Miss Bronson asked again.

  ‘For when I kiss boys, miss,’ the girl whispered.

  The headmistress arched an eyebrow. ‘There is plenty of time to kiss boys when you are older, Cressida, when you have finished your examinations.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  I suppressed a smile.

  ‘And Mr Merryman,’ continued Miss Bronson, turning to me, ‘who has quite enough to do around the school without adding the cleaning of the mirrors to his duties, has to wipe the mirror clean every time this silly girl kisses it.’

  ‘It’s a blasted nuisance, that’s what it is,’ growled the caretaker, brandishing his sponge before the girl.

  ‘So, Mr Phinn,’ continued Miss Bronson, ‘I have invited Cressida to see what Mr Merryman has to do every time she kisses the mirror. If you will all accompany me.’

  Miss Bronson led the way into the cloakroom. Facing us was a large mirror embellished with vivid red lip-shaped decorations.

  ‘Perhaps you might demonstrate to Cressida what you have to do, Mr Merryman,’ said the headmistress, ‘every time she decides to kiss the mirror.’

  The caretaker gripped the sponge, thrust it down a nearby lavatory bowl until it was wet, and then proceeded to wipe the mirror vigorously until is was clean.

  ‘And he has to do that every time you kiss the mirror,’ the headmistress told the girl in a rather sweet little voice. ‘So you won’t be doing it again, will you?’

  It would be difficult to describe the look of utter revulsion on the face of poor Cressida.

  20

  ANGEL IN THE CLOAKROOM

  Last week, when I was looking for my

  PE kit in the cloakroom,

  I saw an angel.

  She was hovering above the coat

  hooks, smiling at me

  And waving a long white hand.

  Her silver wings were trembling

  And her golden halo shimmered in the sun.

  This morning she was there again,

  Smiling and shimmering,

  Flapping and fluttering,

  Waving and trembling.

  She looked beautiful.

  I told my teacher.

  ‘Miss, there’s an angel in the cloakroom.’

  My teacher gave a little snort. ‘An angel?’

  She looked around the cloakroom but the

  angel had gone.

  ‘Too much television,’ she sighed.

  ‘Too lively an imagination.

  A daydreamer, that’s what you are.

  Angels, indeed! Whatever next?’

  She smiled and shook her head,

  And then picked up a shining feather

  from the floor

  And put it in the bin.

  21

  ROGER

  WRITES A POEM

  The large red-brick primary school stood in the middle of a dreadfully depressing inner-city area. The work of the children consisted largely of arid exercises on the noun, the verb and the adjective but, when questioned, the children had not the first idea what the parts of speech were. Page after page was filled with dreary exercise after dreary exercise. There was the occasional story, the odd comprehension, but not a sign of a poem.

  Roger sat in the corner, away from the other children, looking nervous and confused. I sat down next to him.

  ‘May I look at your book?’ I asked gently.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he whispered, pushing a dog-eared exercise book in my direction. He watched
me with a frightened, wide-eyed look. From the first page, I read an account entitled ‘Myself ’.

  ‘Sir, we had to write that when we came to this school,’ he explained quietly. ‘Sir, so our teacher could get to know a bit about us. It’s not very good. I’m not much good at writing.’

  I’m not much good at anything realy. I like art but am not much good. I make lots of mistaks with my writting and I’m in the bottam set for everything. I’ve not realy got any friends. I dont realy like school. I cant do the work.

  ‘It’s not bad at all this, Roger,’ I said, staring into his large, wide eyes. ‘You just need to write a bit more and check your spellings and your punctuation.’

  He nodded slowly.

  Then, at the very back of the book, I came upon a piece of writing in small crabbed print. The content was very different from the rest of his work. I asked him if he had written it. He nodded. I asked him if he had received any help with it. He shook his head.

  ‘This is very good,’ I told him, much impressed.

  The child looked surprised. ‘Is it, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘It is,’ I said, ‘and I would like to make a copy. Sometimes, when I come across a very good piece of work in a school, I write it in my notebook.’ I copied the spidery writing, reading it aloud as I did so:

  Yesterday yesterday yesterday

  Sorrow sorrow sorrow

  Today today today

  Hope hope hope

  Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow

  Love love love

  ‘What a wonderful little poem,’ I told him.

  He thought for a moment, stared up at me with those large, sad eyes and announced: ‘They’re mi spelling corrections, sir.’

  22

  MOLLY

  AND THE MAGIC ROAD

  Iencountered Molly in the Infant classroom. She was a serious-faced girl with more paint on herself than on the large piece of paper in front of her. She had drawn what I thought was a snake: a long, multi-coloured creature that curled and twisted across the page like a writhing serpent from a fairy story. It was a small masterpiece with intricate patterning and delightful detail.