Some weeks later I was asked to speak at a very prestigious educational conference in London. Following my lecture, I was approached by the Minister of Education who enquired, ‘And how are things in education in the North of England, Mr Phinn?’
‘Well,’ I replied, smiling mischievously, ‘the teachers are feeling somewhat “riggwelted”.’
29
IMOGEN
HAS TROUBLE WITH HER Rs
In the nursery, I met Imogen. She looked like a china doll: golden curls, huge blue eyes and a flawless complexion. The child was casually turning the pages of an early reader. Each page displayed an object: house, bus, church, man, woman, dog, car and so on, beneath which was the word in large black letters.
‘Will you read it to me, please?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ I replied, amused by such a confident little thing.
‘I know some words,’ she told me, ‘but I can’t read all of them.’
When I had finished reading the book, I wrote the word ‘car’ on a piece of paper. ‘Now,’ I said, ‘can you read this word for me?’
‘No, I can’t,’ she replied.
‘It begins with a curly “c”. We’ve just read it in the book. Would you like to have a guess?’
‘No, I can’t read it.’
‘Let me give you a clue,’ I said. ‘Your daddy or mummy might drive you to school in it in the morning.’
‘Oh yes!’ she cried. ‘You mean Wolls-Woyce.’
30
SPELLING
The inspector asked the little ones,
‘Can anyone tell me
A word that begins with the letter Q?’
And a child said, ‘Quistmas twee.’
QUESTION
‘What is the point,’ asked Dad,
‘Of having a stud through your tongue?’
‘If you mutht know,’ replied his daughter, ‘I’m
exthprething my perthonality.’
31
SHANE & WAYNE
PREPARE FOR MOTHER’S DAY
In the Junior classroom, tucked away in a corner, were two boys busy sewing. One looked as if he had been dragged through a hedge backwards. He had spiky hair, a round red face and large ears. His nose was running and a front tooth was missing. His shirt was hanging out, his socks were con-certinaed around his ankles, his legs were covered in cuts and bruises, and his shoes were so scuffed I couldn’t tell whether they were originally black or brown. His hands and face were both entirely innocent of soap and water. His companion looked as healthy as a prize-winning bull. He was a very large, amiable-looking boy with a round moon of a face, great dimpled elbows and knees, and fingers as fat as sausages. Both boys were surrounded by threads, cottons, fabrics, an assortment of needles, boxes of pins and scissors and both were sewing furiously, their arms rising and falling like pistons.
‘Hello,’ I said brightly.
‘Hello,’ replied the larger boy. His companion continued to sew with a vengeance, his eyes narrowed in concentration.
And how are you?’
‘Middlin’ well,’ replied the large boy. ‘I’m Shane and he’s Wayne.’
‘And what are you two up to?’ I asked.
‘Samplers!’ said the boy, not taking his eyes off the sewing for a second.
‘Samplers?’
‘Victorian embroidery,’ the toothless one informed me, still vigorously sewing, ‘for flipping Mother’s Day on Sunday.’ He did not look all that happy.
‘I see,’ I said, bending over them to get a closer look at their work. ‘May I see?’
‘Can’t be stopping,’ said the toothless one, continuing to sew with great determination, forcing the needle savagely through the canvas. ‘Got to get it finished.’ He turned to his friend. ‘Pass us t’pink will tha, Shane?’
His companion searched through the assortment of coloured threads. ‘All gone,’ he replied bluntly.
‘All gone!’ exclaimed the toothless boy. ‘All gone! Tha’s gone and used up all t’pink?’
‘I needed it for mi roses.’
‘And tha’s used all t’purple, an all?’
‘That were for mi lilac.’
‘And t’yella?’
‘That were for mi daffs,’ said the large boy apologetically.
‘And tha’s left me wi’ all t’blacks and t’browns and t’greys. Thanks very much, Shane!’
The boys, entirely oblivious of my presence, resumed pushing the large needles through the fabric as if their lives depended upon it.
‘Just stop a moment, will you, please,’ I told them.
The toothless one paused, looked up, wiped the dewdrop from his nose with the back of his hand and then returned to his sewing as if he had not heard me.
‘I can’t stop,’ he told me. ‘I’ve got to gerrit done.’
His companion, clearly very pleased with his effort, held up a pale square of cream fabric. In large, uneven letters were the words: A MOTHER’S LOVE IS A BLESSING. The border was ablaze with a whole host of large, unrecognizable but extremely vivid flowers.
‘I’ve just got mi name to put at t’bottom and I’m all done,’ he announced proudly.
‘And tha’s used up all t’pink,’ grumbled his companion, who was still stitching away madly, ‘and purples and yellas.’
The large boy straightened his sampler with a fat, pink hand and admired his handiwork before asking, ‘Are you one of these school inspectors our teacher was on about?’
‘I am,’ I replied.
‘What do you reckon to mi sampler, then?’
‘Well, it’s very bright and original but, you know, if I had come into your school a hundred years ago, you’d have been in real trouble.’
‘How old are you, then?’ asked the toothless boy.
‘What I meant is that if a school inspector had visited your school at the time it was built, you would have been in trouble.’
‘Why’s that then?’
‘Because your stitches are too big. If you look at the Victorian samplers, you will notice that the lettering and designs are very delicate and very carefully stitched.’
The toothless boy stopped sewing abruptly, examined his sampler and carefully put down his needle and thread, before turning to look me straight in the face. ‘Aye, well, if I did ’em all small and delicate like what you say, mi mum’d nivver gerrit, would she? I’ve been on this for four week and I’ll be lucky to get it done for next year’s Mother’s Day, way things stand.’
‘I’ll get mine done,’ Shane chimed in smugly.
‘Aye!’ snapped the toothless one. ‘And we know why, don’t we?’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Because, when Miss give out all these different Victorian sayings and proverbs, I was off poorly and when I got back I was stuck wi’ t’one nob’dy wanted. Shane got t’shortest – A MOTHER’S LOVE IS A BLESSING – and I got t’longest!’ He displayed his piece of fabric with a grubby finger. It read:
THERE IS NOTHING SO PURE,
THERE IS NOTHING SO HIGH,
AS THE LOVE YOU WILL SEE
IN YOUR MOTHER’S EYE.
‘I’ve only just started mi border,’ he moaned. ‘And Shane’s used all t’pinks and t’yellas and t’purples and I’m stuck wi’ t’blacks, t’browns and t’greys!’
‘You could do animals instead of flowers,’ suggested his companion with a self-satisfied smirk on his moon-shaped face. ‘You don’t need colours for sheep and cows and goats…’
‘I’d need summat for t’pigs, though, wouldn’t I?’ cried the toothless one. ‘And tha’s used all t’pink!’
‘I’m sure that, however it turns out, your mother will love your sampler,’ I reassured him.
‘If she gets it!’ he barked.
‘Well, I may see you boys later,’ I said, moving away.
‘Later?’ they exclaimed in unison.
‘I thought I’d pop into the Singing class during the lunch-hour,’ I told them.
‘Singing!’
the toothless one exclaimed. ‘Singing! We don’t gu to no Singing class! That’s for t’cissies!’
The other boy, putting the finishing touches to his large pink rose, nodded in agreement before echoing his companion’s sentiments: ‘Aye, choir’s for t’cissies and t’lasses. You wunt catch us theer.’
As I headed to another desk, I heard a plaintive cry from the corner table, ‘Miss, miss, can I have some pink thread, please? We’re clean out over ’ere!’
32
HYACINTH
THE CHILD WITH SPECIAL NEEDS
I found Hyacinth poring over a large picture book at her desk.
‘Hello,’ I said.
The girl wiped her nose with the back of a finger and eyed me apprehensively.
‘Let’s see what you are doing, shall we?’ She didn’t object as I slid her reading book across the desk and started to examine it.
‘Is it a good book?’ I asked.
She looked at me suspiciously but didn’t answer.
‘Would you like to read a little of your book to me?’ I asked.
She shook her head, gazing at me now with unabashed intensity. She wiped her nose on her finger again and then told me in a loud voice, ‘I’m special needs.’ Perhaps she thought that this revelation might convince me to leave her in peace. When I didn’t move, she added, ‘Don’t you know? I’m special needs.’
‘I do, but what do you think it means, special needs?’
‘If you know what it means, why are you askin’?’
It was a fair question. ‘So, will you read to me?’
‘Are you the infector?’ she asked.
‘Inspector,’ I replied.
‘Can’t see t’difference,’ she mumbled.
Hyacinth reluctantly read to me, slowly and with fierce concentration on her face, her finger following each word on the page. There was no expression in her voice and not once did she pause for breath but read on, determined to get the ordeal over and done with.
‘Hyacinth,’ I said, when she closed the book with a bang, ‘that was very good, but what do you do when you come to a full stop?’
‘What?’
‘When you get to a full stop, what do you do?’
She eyed me like an expert in the presence of an ignora-mus. ‘You gerroff t’bus,’ she replied.
33
THOMAS
A BOY OF FEW WORDS
Thomas was a child of the dales. He was a small boy with a crown of close-cropped fair hair and large pale eyes between almost colourless lashes. I have met many a good little reader on my visits to schools and he was one of the best. He read from his book with grim determination in a loud and confident voice.
‘You’re a very good reader,’ I commented when he snapped the book shut.
‘Aye,’ he replied, nodding sagely.
‘Do you like reading?’
‘I do.’
‘And I see from your reading card you’ve read a lot of books this year.’
‘I have.’
‘Do you read at home?’
‘Sometimes.’
It was like extracting blood from a stone but I persevered. ‘And what do you like reading about?’ I asked cheerfully.
‘Animals mostly.’
‘Farm animals? Wild animals?’
‘All animals.’
‘And do you have any animals at home?’
‘A few.’
‘What sort?’ I asked.
‘Mostly black and white on green.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Cows,’ he said quietly. ‘I live on a farm.’ Then a slight smile came to his lips and his expression took on a sort of patient, sympathetic, tolerant look.
‘Do you know owt about cows, then?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said feebly. I should have left it there but I persisted. ‘Would you like to tell me about the cows on your farm?’
‘There’s not that much to tell really, cows is cows.’
‘You’re not a very talkative little boy, are you?’ I said, peering into the pale eyes.
‘If I’ve got owt to say I says it, and if I’ve got owt to ask I asks it,’ he replied casually.
34
DARREN
CHALLENGES THE VICAR
The vicar started his assembly by asking the children to try and guess what was in his head. He told them that as he had walked through the churchyard on his way to the school that morning, he had seen something in a tree.
‘You know, children,’ he said, ‘I had such a surprise. There it was, poking its little grey head between the branches of the great oak tree, its great bushy tail twitching and its little darting, black, shiny eyes like beads staring at me.’ He paused for effect. Then his gaze settled on Darren, a large boy with very fair hair, who was sitting at the front of the hall. ‘Now, young man,’ said the cleric smiling, ‘what do you think I’m talking about?’
‘Well, I know it’s Jesus,’ replied the boy, ‘but it sounds very like a squirrel to me.’
35
BIBLE CLASS
Reverend Bright, our vicar,
Came to our class today.
He started with a little talk,
Then we closed our eyes to pray.
He talked about the Bible,
And the prophet Abraham,
How God created everything
And how the world began.
Then he asked us all some questions
About the prophets and the kings,
David and Goliath,
And lots of other things.
‘In a very famous garden
Grew an apple on a tree,
And who ate the forbidden fruit?’
And a voice said:
‘Wasn’t me!’
36
PAIGE
AND THE NUMERACY WORKSHEET
I approached a small girl busily writing away with a large pencil.
And what’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Paige,’ she replied, continuing to write.
‘That’s a nice name,’ I said.
‘My granny doesn’t like it.’
‘Well, I do,’ I said. ‘It’s unusual, like mine.’ Glancing at the top of the child’s work, where she had printed her name, I could see why her grandmother was not too keen. The girl was called Paige Turner. Poor child, I thought. ‘May I ask you what you’re doing, Paige?’ I asked.
‘I’m doing a numeracy worksheet,’ she told me. The girl glanced behind her to see where the teacher was before adding, ‘It’s really sums but we have to call it numeracy now.’
‘I see.’
And we have to call English literacy.’
‘Really?’
‘I’ve done this worksheet twice before. All my answers are right.’
‘Why have you done this worksheet twice before?’ I asked, intrigued.
‘Because we’ve got to get it all right. We’ve got school inspectors in this week, didn’t you know?’
I smiled. She was clearly unaware of who I was. ‘I see,’ I said.
‘We’ve been practising all our work for the last two weeks so that we get everything right. Miss says that if we get one of these school inspectors in the room we’ve got to be on our best behaviour or they could send us to another school. Oh, and if we know the answer to a question we put our right hand up and if we don’t know the answer then we put our left hand up, then she’ll know who to ask. And she said if we’re really really good then we’ll all get some chocolate at the end of the week.’
‘Do you know to whom you are speaking?’ I asked the child.
‘Course I do. You’re Debbie’s granddad, come in to help with the slow readers.’
I examined the worksheet. The children had been set the exercise of identifying different geometrical shapes – squares, rectangles, circles, triangles and so on – which had been drawn on a piece of paper.
Paige had completed the first two questions correctly: ‘Is this a triangle or a circle?’ and ‘Is this a square or
a rectangle?’ but in answer to the third question she had written what looked like ‘Melanie’.
‘What is this word?’ I queried.
‘Melanie,’ replied the child.
‘Melanie,’ I repeated, puzzled. ‘Why have you written “Melanie”?’
‘Well, it says, “Name this shape”,’ she replied sweetly, ‘so I thought I’d call it Melanie.’
37
STEVIE
IN TROUBLE AGAIN
Mrs Gardiner, the headteacher, was a stout woman in her late fifties with a large bust and remarkably narrow waist. She wore a long blue skirt, a pale pink blouse and around her neck hung a pair of gold half-moon spectacles on a thin gold chain.
She stood before the little boy in queenly fashion, straight-backed and dramatically tight-lipped, her hands clasped in front of her.
‘Not you again, Stevie,’ she sighed, shaking her head.
‘Yes, miss,’ replied the boy sheepishly. He looked up at her with large round eyes.
He was a cheeky-looking little lad with a face full of freckles, a runny nose and short ginger hair. His tie was skew-whiff, his grubb white shirt was hanging out of his trousers and his jumper had large holes at the elbows.
‘Don’t look at me as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, young man,’ the headteacher told him sternly.
The boy looked down at his old, scuffed shoes.
‘Whatever are we going to do with you?’ asked the headteacher. She did not really expect an answer for she continued without a pause. ‘Every week, every week,’ she repeated, ‘you are sent to my room for one thing or another.’ ‘Yes, miss,’ murmured the boy, looking up with a sad expression on his face.
Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Stars Page 5