Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Stars

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘That’s a very colourful snake,’ I commented.

  ‘It’s not a snake,’ the child told me, putting down her brush and folding her little arms across her chest. ‘It’s a road.’

  ‘It looks like a snake to me.’

  ‘Well, it’s not. It’s a road. I know cos I painted it.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I can see now,’ I said tactfully. ‘Is it a magic road?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It looks like a magic road to me.’

  ‘Well, it isn’t,’ said the child. She placed her small hands on her hips. ‘It’s an ordinary road.’

  ‘But it’s full of greens and reds and blues. It looks like a magic road. Perhaps it leads beyond the ragged clouds to where the Snow Queen lives in her great white palace.’

  The child observed me for a moment. ‘It’s an ordinary road and doesn’t lead to any white palace.’

  ‘Why all the colours?’ I asked, intrigued.

  Her finger traced the curve of the road. ‘Those are the diamonds and those are the emeralds and those are the rubies,’ she explained.

  ‘It is a magic road!’ I teased.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ the child replied, ‘it’s a “jewel” carriageway.’

  23

  JOSEPH

  AND THE SPECIAL PRESENT

  The children were giving the teacher Easter presents at the end of term: chocolates and flowers, handkerchiefs and little bottles of perfume, small pottery figures and colourful scarves. One angelic-looking little girl presented the teacher with a small bag of sugar-coated chocolate eggs.

  ‘These are for you, miss,’ the child whispered sweetly, ‘because you are my very favourite teacher.’

  The teacher blushed with embarrassment and obvious pleasure. ‘Oh, what a kind thought,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much, Amy.’ She gave the child a peck on the cheek. ‘Do you think I might have one now?’

  The little girl nodded and watched as her teacher popped one of the chocolate eggs in her mouth.

  A small boy then approached the teacher’s desk with a little egg in the palm of his hand. ‘This is for you, miss,’ he said shyly.

  ‘My goodness,’ the teacher said, ‘another present! Thank you so much, Joseph.’ She then popped that egg in her mouth and crunched, just as the small boy announced proudly, ‘Our budgie laid it this morning.’

  24

  PORTIA

  THERE’S ALWAYS ONE

  ‘This morning, we have a very special visitor with us,’ said the teach er. She sm iled and turn ed in my direction. ‘Mr Phinn is a school inspector and he is very interested in what we are doing, aren’t you, Mr Phinn?’

  ‘I am,’ I replied, smiling.

  ‘He likes to sit in lessons and watch what children are doing, don’t you, Mr Phinn?’

  ‘I do,’ I replied, keeping the smile fixed on my face.

  ‘Now,’ continued the teacher, ‘because it is a Monday, we start the day as we normally do with “Newstime”.’ The teacher turned in my direction. ‘It’s an opportunity, Mr Phinn, for the children to tell us what they have been doing over the weekend. I don’t know whether it’s considered good practice or not these days. Things in education seem to shift like the sands of time.’

  ‘It is good practice,’ I reassured her, smiling still. ‘It encourages the children to speak clearly, confidently and with enthusiasm.’

  ‘Just what I think.’ She nodded and proceeded. ‘Well, this week, let me see whom I shall ask.’ She scanned the classroom. ‘Portia, would you like to come out to the front and tell us what interesting things you and your family have been doing over the weekend?’

  A large, moon-faced, rather morose-looking girl with hair in enormous bunches and tied by large crimson ribbons, rose slowly from her seat and headed sluggishly for the front. She stared motionless at the class as if caught in amber, a grim expression on her round pale face.

  ‘Come along, then, Portia,’ urged the teacher.

  ‘Nowt ’appened, miss,’ the girl answered sullenly.

  ‘Something must have happened, Portia. Did you go anywhere?’

  ‘No, miss.’

  ‘’Well, what did you do all weekend?’

  ‘Watch telly, miss.’

  The teacher sighed and turned in my direction. ‘It’s like extracting teeth, getting some of the children to speak, Mr Phinn,’ she confided in a sotto voce voice. ‘Some of them are very economical in their use of words.’ She turned her attention back to the large girl at the front of the classroom, who was staring vacantly out of the window. ‘Now, come along, Portia, there must be something you can tell us?’

  ‘Miss, we found an ’edge’og on our lawn on Saturday and it were dead,’ the child announced bluntly.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the teacher, pulling a dramatically sympathetic face. ‘I wonder why that was. Do you think something could have killed it?’ She then looked in my direction, an expectant expression playing about her eyes. ‘Possibly a cat, Mr Phinn, do you think?’

  ‘Very possibly,’ I replied.

  ‘My dad said it were probably next door’s dog,’ said Portia. ‘It’s allus killing things, that dog. My dad says it wants purrin down. It’s a reight vicious thing. It bit ’im when ’e was fixing t’fence and last week it chased this old woman who were collecting for the RSPCA right down t’path. We could hear t’screaming from our back room.’

  ‘Dear me, it does sound a rather fierce creature, Portia,’ said the teacher.

  ‘It bit ’er on t’bum by t’gate. All her little flags were ovver our garden and all down t’path. My dad said she wouldn’t be coming back in an ’urry!’

  ‘Well, well, how fascinating,’ said the teacher, pulling a face and arching an eyebrow. ‘Let’s see if anyone else has any interesting news, shall we?’

  Towards the end of the morning I took the opportunity, whilst the children were writing up their news, to look at the exercise books. Portia was writing carefully in large clear rounded letters as I approached her, but on catching sight of me she froze, dropped her pencil and stared up like a terrified rabbit in a trap.

  ‘May I look at your work?’ I asked gently. She slid the book across the desk, all the while staring. She had written the date at the top of the page in bold writing and then underneath in four large capital letters the word ‘EGOG’.

  ‘What does this say?’ I asked.

  ‘Can’t you read?’ she said bluntly.

  ‘I’m not so sure about that word,’ I told her, pointing to the title.

  ‘’Edge’og!’ she replied, looking at me as if I was incredibly stupid.

  Try as I might, I just couldn’t get her to speak to me above the single word so I tried another tack, to reassure her that I was really quite friendly.

  ‘It’s a lovely name, Portia,’ I said. She eyed me suspiciously. ‘You were named after one of the most famous characters in a wonderful play by William Shakespeare. Portia was a very clever and beautiful woman.’

  I was about to launch into a rendering of ‘The quality of mercy is not strained’ when the teacher approached, bent low so her lips were nearly in my ear and informed me in slow and deliberate tones that ‘The name is spelled “P-O-R-S-C-H-E” not “P-O-R-T-I-A”, Mr Phinn. Her father told me, when I asked him about the unusual spelling one Parents’ Evening, that he always wanted a Porsche car but couldn’t afford one. She’s the next best thing.’ Mrs Peterson shook her head, shrugged and mouthed: ‘There’s always one!’

  25

  DREAMING

  In the corner of the classroom, A small child stared at the stuffed hedgehog In the glass case.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ asked the school inspector.

  ‘I was just wondering,’ the child replied wistfully, ‘What it was doing… before it was stuffed!’

  26

  BENEDICT

  A PRECOCIOUS CHILD

  As I entered the Infant classroom I was approached by a small serious-faced boy with bright blue eyes magnified be
hind large, framed glasses. His curly blond hair stuck out at the sides like earmuffs.

  ‘You must be the school inspector?’ he said with all the precocious confidence of a six-year-old.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ I replied.

  ‘Mr Phinn.’

  Yes, indeed.’

  ‘We’ve been expecting you. Have you travelled far?’

  ‘Not too far,’ I told him, marvelling at his self-assurance. It is rare that one so young approaches the strange visitor in the black suit and with a clipboard. The children, as indeed the teachers, are usually in awe of the school inspector.

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,’ the small boy told me.

  ‘Really?’

  Yes, we’ve been reading some of your poems in class and I have to say that I find them quite delightful.’

  I have come across many a bright little button on my travels around schools but this one sparkled.

  ‘That’s very kind of you. Every writer likes to hear such praise. I am pleased you enjoyed them. And what is your name?’

  ‘I’m Benedict,’ he told me, holding out a small hand which I shook formally.

  ‘Well, Benedict, shouldn’t you be getting on with your work?’

  ‘I’ve done it. When we’ve finished our writing, we’re allowed to select a book from the Reading Corner. I was on my way there when I thought I’d stop and say hello.’

  His manner and speech were amusingly old-fashioned for one so young.

  ‘Well, that’s very nice of you, Benedict,’ I said.

  The small boy studied me carefully for a moment with those penetrating blue eyes. ‘Mrs McGuire – she’s our teacher, but you probably know that already – well, Mrs McGuire says there are much better words to use than “nice”.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s right,’ I said, chuckling. ‘I’ll try to remember in future.’

  ‘And that there are much more interesting words to use in our stories than “said”. Do you like stories, Mr Phinn?’

  ‘I do,’ I replied.

  ‘Would you like to see some of mine?’

  ‘Perhaps later, Benedict,’ I told him. ‘I’m a little busy at the moment.’

  ‘Righto, I’ll get along then and choose a book. I like poetry, you know. I love the rhymes.’ He thought for a moment and then said, ‘Do you know, Mr Phinn, we’ve had a very interesting conversation, haven’t we?’

  ‘We have, Benedict,’ I replied, ‘indeed we have.’

  He then patted me gently on the arm and said, before departing for the Reading Corner, ‘We must do lunch sometime.’

  27

  MARY

  IN TEARS

  When I arrived at school that cold December morning to watch the rehearsal for the Nativity play, I came across a small girl of about seven or eight, surrounded by a group of much bigger girls. The child was wailing in the most pitiful way and rubbing her little eyes to stem the tears. My first thought was that she was being bullied.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ I asked.

  ‘We’re not supposed to talk to strangers,’ a large frizzy-haired girl told me sharply. ‘If you don’t clear off, we’ll tell Mrs Holbrook.’

  ‘Stranger danger!’ shouted another child.

  ‘I’m the school inspector,’ I told the group quickly. ‘I’m here to see Mrs Holbrook and to see the Nativity play.’

  At the mention of the Nativity play the distressed child gave a great howl.

  ‘Have you any means of identification?’ the frizzy-haired girl demanded.

  I produced my official details which she scrutinized.

  ‘My gran says you can’t be too careful,’ she told me before thrusting them back to me.

  ‘Why is this little girl crying?’ I asked.

  ‘Cos she’s dead upset.’

  ‘I can see that,’ I told her, ‘but why?’

  ‘Because her name’s Mary,’ I was told by another child.

  ‘And why should that make her cry?’ I asked. ‘Mary is a lovely name.’

  ‘She was all right until we started doing the flipping Nativity play,’ explained the frizzy-haired girl. ‘Then the lads started to call her names.’

  The centre of all the attention suddenly stopped crying. She snivelled and whimpered and took a deep breath. Then she told me, ‘They keep calling me virgin, and I’m not.’

  28

  CHARLIE

  THE REMEDIAL CHILD

  Charlie, a small boy of about ten or eleven, was sitting at his desk by the window poring over his book, his brow furrowed in concentration. As I approached, he closed the book and placed a hand firmly on top.

  ‘May I look at your work?’ I asked, smiling.

  ‘No,’ came the blunt reply.

  ‘Why not?’ I asked.

  ‘Because tha not lookin’, that’s why. It’s no good. When t’teacher says, “Today, we’re doin’ writing”, I don’t feel all that well. Me stomach gets all churned up like. I have problems with me writing, you see. Me spelling’s not up to much and me handwriting’s all ovver t’place.’

  ‘I’d still like to see,’ I said.

  ‘Well, tha not.’ He kept a firm hand over his book so I could not verify his comments. ‘Can’t read reight well, either,’ he added. ‘I have trouble wi’ words.’

  ‘I see,’ I replied gently.

  He looked me full in the face. ‘I’m remedial, tha knows.’

  And what does that mean?’ I asked, knowing full well the meaning of the label sometimes attached to children with special educational needs.

  ‘Thick,’ he replied bluntly. Then he added sadly, ‘I’m not much good at owt really.’

  ‘Everyone’s good at something,’ I said.

  He just shook his head in a resigned sort of way and stared out of the window to the distant hills.

  ‘Tha not from round ’ere then?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I live at the other side of the dale.’

  ‘Aye, I thowt by way yer were speakin’ you were an off-comed-un.’

  Since starting work in rural Yorkshire, I had been called this more times than I can remember – someone from out of the dale, a foreigner. ‘I am indeed an “off-comed-un”,’ I admitted.

  I hoped, by changing the subject, I might eventually prevail upon the boy to show me his work and answer a few questions so I asked, ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Reight up theer.’ He pointed through the window to the far-off hills. ‘I live on a farm up theer – at t’top of t’dale.’

  ‘What a lucky boy you are,’ I murmured. ‘You must have one of the finest views in the world.’

  ‘It’s all reight,’ he said in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘What time were you up this mornin’ then, mester?’

  ‘Early,’ I replied. ‘Half past six.’

  ‘I was up at six helpin’ me dad deliver a calf.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘And it were dead. It would’ve been a good milker an’ all, just like its mother, wide solid rear and good udder texture. We got ratchet on –’

  ‘Ratchet?’ I interrupted.

  ‘Aye, you put yer ratchet up against t’cow, it’s a sort of metal gadget like. Yer tie yer ropes round yer calf ’s back legs and yer turn yer ratchet every time there’s a contraction. Helping cow along a bit.’ He paused. ‘Does tha know what a contraction is?’

  ‘I do,’ I replied.

  ‘Aye, it were dead all reight. So we’ve ’ad a month of it, I can tell thee,’ continued Charlie, fixing his eyes on a flock of sheep meandering between the grey limestone walls. He sighed and was quiet for a moment. ‘Them’s ours,’ he then remarked casually, ‘them sheep. We’ve got an ’undred yows and two jocks.’

  ‘Jocks?’ I asked. ‘Are they Scottish sheep?’

  He shook his head and dusty mop of hair. ‘No, no, jocks are rams, moor sheep. Does tha know why we ’as all them yows and only the two jocks?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, smiling, ‘I think so.’

  ‘Bought another
from t’market last week. It’d only been wi’ us three days and it dropped down dead – even before it had done any tuppin’,’ he continued. ‘Me dad were none too pleased.’ He paused fractionally and gave a low whistle between his teeth. ‘Does tha know what tuppin’ means?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied.

  ‘We’d trouble week afore wi’ ’oggits.’

  ‘Hoggits? Little pigs?’ I ventured.

  He shook his head again. ‘No, no, your ’oggits are sheep of an age between your lamb and your ewe. Sort of teenage sheep.’ He observed me for a moment. ‘Does tha know what a drape is?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ I replied.

  ‘A stirk?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ I told him.

  ‘Tha dunt know much, does tha?’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘No,’ I agreed. ‘I’m remedial, you know.’

  He looked at me thoughtfully and a smile formed on his lips for the first time that morning. ‘I don’t know owt abaat that but tha’re an off-comed-un and no mistake.’

  ‘I am,’ I admitted. Then, like a sensitive and patient teacher, the child who was ‘nowt much good at owt’, who ‘had trouble wi’ words’, invited the off-comed-un, the school inspector who had his own ‘special educational needs’, into his world of hoggits and shearlings, stots and stirks, wethers and tups, tegs and hogs, becoming animated as he realized the extent of his companion’s ignorance, surprised that there were people who couldn’t tell a Blue-faced Leicester from a Texel or a Masham from a Swaledale.

  ‘We’ve a sheepdog what’s going blind and t’last straw were this calf. It would’ve been a reight good milker an’ all.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about all your troubles.’ My reply sounded feeble.

  ‘Me dad’s got a word for it.’ At that point I felt it wise to move on but he reassured me. ‘Oh, it’s not rude. It’s a word which describes a yow when she’s heavy pregnant, so heavy, you see, she falls over on her back and just can’t move, she’s helpless. Sticks her legs in t’air and just can’t shift. It’s called “rigged”, proper word is “riggwelted”. Me dad comes in from t’fields and flops on t’settee and says, “I’m fair riggwelted.” ’