The Celestial Sea

by Marina de Nadous

  Since our eldest son was eighteen months old we have been involved in an alternative, artistic educational philosophy. All three have had this blissful start to their lives and it underpins my Kindergarten initiative. We wanted our children to benefit from the artistic education into their primary years, but these schools are private, so, due to the expense we have reluctantly let go of the dream for our little family. You can imagine our excitement when we discover the philosophy is integrated into New Zealand’s state educational system——and affordable. Well, the final question is of course: “Does the town in question have one of these schools? We will seriously consider uplifting our lives, disrupting the family, unwinding three small businesses, ruffling relations’ feathers, shocking friends and rattling our financial situation if it does.”

  We make some enquiries——a small, alternative school certainly exists in the coastal town. We take a deep breath——and decide to take the first step into the unknown, aware that we can always come home if things don’t work out and that in joining the school community we should find like-minded, kindred spirits and make new friends. Little do we realize quite what special friends are to materialize out of this bold decision.

  * * * * * * *

  Winter grips the countryside as the days around Christmas achieve their spanking pace. Dripping trees and soggy leaf piles, occasional frost and chilly mornings take us through days of big lunches, present exchange and dog walking. It is a busy time of year. A beloved Aunt from the west country always visits, laden with goodies while adults and children alike sink into the cocoon that is my parents’ home; a recently extended, modern house in a Hampshire village. I love the views from the front windows——this has been our family H.Q since I was 17. A farm track continues past our driveway and rolling fields climb to meet an ancient, Iron Age Hill Fort in the near distance. The smell of Yuletide cheer fills the house. My mother is an abundant cook and mince pies are waiting on familiar plates for our collapse after long walks to the top of the hill. I love the way they are sprinkled with icing sugar——an edible, winter snowstorm. The dog always takes the best place by the fire, the children play card games with an adored uncle, my Father sits deeply engrossed in the television news and we await the arrival of my other siblings and their families. Thus it ever was; the rock of home; always there to offer support and encouragement. How lucky we are.

  Washing-up after Christmas lunch is a time for friendly chatter——“we are considering a move to New Zealand,” we casually announce. There are a few raised eyebrows but nobody takes our quiet bombshell with any serious appreciation. “There, the plates are done, what about the glasses?” A little robin perches on the bird feeder hanging from the old apple tree outside the kitchen window. He cocks his attentive head; interested. A phone message left for the Kiwi Principal has been unanswered in the melee of seasonal celebration. It may come to nothing but we head back to school tomorrow, so we shall see. My husband is laid up, relaxing on the sofa with a bad back. He suffers from the occasional lower spine twinge and can hardly walk at the moment.

  Our bags are stacked in the narrow hall a couple of days later. They spill across the floor as we wrestle with wellie boots, dog bowl and generous Christmas gifts. My mother calls from the kitchen: “don’t go without taking some turkey and ham——and some mince pies.” She hands us the neatly wrapped goodies in a suitable cold bag. There, we are set, ready for the fifty-minute drive back to school. Time for goodbyes; the familiar scene of antique family furniture and framed photographs upon the mahogany chest of drawers will be here when we return. Hugs all around and merry waves from the children and we are off.

  * * * * * * *

  This is the part we all dislike——heaving endless piles of ‘clobber’ up the steep stairs to our spacious maisonette within the school building. The cold, stale air provides little welcome. “Quick, turn on some lights——and the heating; it’s freezing!” I enjoy living here but the flights of stairs are exhausting with tired children, loads of kit and an over-excited dog. Our three children always want to play when they arrive back home after a holiday. A meal is usually demanded, even if the hour is late and we have already eaten. The Laird listens to answer phone messages and looks through the mail while I re-establish ‘home’. He comes to find me in the kitchen; there is a call from a man with a Kiwi accent, leaving a telephone number. We look at each other; “better ring now in case we have missed him.”

  “Well hello——yes, I am interested in the job that has been advertised——you are in England for one more day? Yes, I can certainly come up to London tomorrow. Shall we meet at Waterloo Station?” The Laird replaces the telephone receiver; “he sounds nice——the Principal of the College, visiting family in London and hoping to find someone to fill the teaching position. I’ll hobble up to town if you put me on a train in the morning, okay? Not sure what he will think of a man with a dodgy back but it’s worth a go.”

  So, the start of our antipodean adventure with all its excitement and risk; a jump off our safe rock into the unknown, as far away as is humanly possible from the structures we rely upon. Help! But——if we turn down this offer we might regret the chance of a real adventure for the rest of our lives. So——here goes.

  * * * * * * *

  The station interview is a success; both men warming to each other and the invitation extended to The Laird to visit New Zealand and the College in question. It is a co-ed, Christian institution, only three years old. The position of ‘Dean of Special Character; Head of Religious Instruction’, offers the perfect role for my gifted husband after four years in a non-denominational establishment. His specialist subject would be given the light of day and the promotion to Head of Department would look good on his C.V. The Principal has jumped at his monastic experience. Will he accept the invitation? The Easter Half-Term break offers the only possible window for travel. If the job were acceptable there would just be time to hand in his notice and prepare the family for a massive move in July. The decision to fly across the world for the formal interview is made at the home of local, blacksmith friends. The Laird paces up and down the garden while the rest of us enjoy the original garden swings made by the talented artists whose children attend my Kindergarten.

  By the time we reach home the decision is made. Yes, my husband will book a return ticket tonight. We pass a group of impressive beach trees at an intersection in the narrow village lane as we say ‘yes’. I shall always think of these trees with our destiny leap. The time fast approaches and my generous parents help with the expensive airfare. Korean Airways offers the only possible flight at short notice, including a 7 hour stopover in Soule. The Laird packs a single suitcase and as soon as our Half-Term break begins he is away, my Father driving him to Heathrow. This is a huge step for us to be taking but we feel up to the challenge.

  * * * * * * *

  How strange to be alone for our short holiday. We divide the time between staying at school and visiting my parents. We wait with baited breath for the phone calls——“Yes, five hundred Koreans and a heap of pot noodles later and I am here! I stayed with Chris’ Father in Auckland and hired a car. I got down to the town yesterday and am staying with the Principal and his wife. They are generosity itself. Everything is great; you’ll never guess where I’m standing at the moment? I’m at the Small School; in the grounds——yes, it’s wonderful. I am taking lots of photos. I climbed the volcanic hill in the harbour this morning. Oh, you should see the beaches and the shells. Tomorrow I take a trip to the Coromandel. The College seems nice; very modern and more like a state school than the private establishments we are used to, but the staff is very friendly and the potential to take on some interesting work is definitely here. They aren’t narrow Christians either which I did have some concerns about initially. I feel positive about it all. We certainly qualify on every level. Let’s wait and talk when I am home; only three more days. See you then. Love to you all.”

  Chapter 2 Qualify

  My stoic hus
band has a constitution of steel. He is rarely affected by such trifles as jet lag and returns to a full teaching timetable without a problem. I admire his endless energy; I would struggle. He opens the laptop as soon as he is home and proudly displays his spectacular photographs——The Laird returning from a fruitful hunt. We are thrilled. From the stunning coastline to the exotic shells on the beaches; from the dense, Bush-clad Coromandel to the Small School classrooms we are taken on a trip full of potential adventure.

  One photograph stands out particularly——the picture of a male teacher directing pupils from a classroom chalkboard. A series of beautiful drawings graces his teaching platform; a close-up shot reveals a sailing boat with a set of billowing, white sails. I study the picture for longer than the other photos, wondering vaguely if either of my wee folk might join his class.

  We take all the photos to my parents’ house the following weekend. The Laird sticks them to the kitchen pillar; the artistic, Kiwi teacher watches over us as we eat lunch. This adventure is proving to be a whole family affair——excited discussions all around. Only my Father voices concern over the enormous expense and difficulty of returning home eventually. We are undeterred.

  Our best friends in Sussex welcome us with hugs and questions. We join them for a weekend party a week later, sharing our near decision. One of our special chums is a Kiwi. She longs to return home but her family situation makes any move impossible. She is tearful when we tell her our news. She hugs us both; “you really should go for it; do say you are going?” By the time the party is over we are decided. We will embrace the opportunity and move to the other side of the world in July; only two weeks after the end of our English summer term. We will be joining the four-term, Kiwi school timetable halfway through their year——giving ourselves two weeks to settle before Term 3 begins. The enormous job of packing away our lives in four months fills me with alarm.

  * * * * * * *

  Goodness me; where to begin? A boot-full of boxes and loose items is transported with every car trip between school and my parents’ house——paintings and decorative items first. I stack the larger boxes on the spacious landing. For weeks we organize ourselves in this way. Remind me never to live in a large house again! We possess a staggering amount of stuff, enabling us to cater for a houseful of guests at any time, but unappreciated by my husband who glowers at any dealings with ‘clobber’. I sometimes feel this is unfair as he is the one who invites all those who partake in the merry life we lead! Intense dislike of domestic paraphernalia hit him squarely and permanently as a young boy when a tricky mother prone to breakdowns overwhelmed him with her non-stop embarrassing talk, her compulsive shopping habit and a house full of knick-knacks. He decided to sever his links with home when he was at boarding school; his parents’ violent arguing causing a permanent dislike of emotional outburst and family involvement. I can see why he is intolerant of the female impulse and can understand how all this packing makes his blood boil. Ho hum——I tackle it myself with quiet industry. The Laird is busy enough deciphering the complicated paperwork necessary for flight and cargo bookings, not to mention immigration.

  We make an efficient team and by the time the summer term is a couple of weeks old we are well underway.

  * * * * * * *

  It is Tuesday evening and I am busy transforming my kitchen and sitting room into a heavenly kindergarten environment. Eleven little darlings, including my nephew, will arrive tomorrow morning for a three-and-a half-hour session. We are celebrating Whitsun at the end of the week when we decorate the rooms in white muslin and paper doves. I will tell a story to celebrate the descent of the Holy Spirit and then we will take a spring walk through the bluebell woods with our pretty doves flying from little sticks. The parents will be invited and our good friend, the local vicar, will lead our procession. I need to find the pattern for the dove; where did I put it last year?

  At last I head for bed. My kindergarten preparation begins at five in the morning. Tomorrow will be here soon enough.

  One of the most important morning jobs is embellishing the Seasonal Table. Every story reflects the current season and festival impetus and the display provides the backdrop. This week we are collecting petals for our St. John’s Festival at the end of term, and weeding the vegetable garden. The sprouting broccoli is a wonder world of its own. Tom and Casper hunt for caterpillars every morning while Emily and Violet make a camp behind the garden shed. Yesterday they were busy running a camp café. I wonder if the same game will continue this morning. I glance through ‘The Discovery Folder’ that records the children’s daily journeying; remembering yesterday morning I add a couple of extra gems:

  ‘Today Emily discovered that café clients get impatient for their grass sandwiches and that placating them with herb tea is sensible.’ ‘Today Tom discovered that your friends get upset if you bounce off the sofa into the middle of their zoo.’

  I enjoy this way of walking with the children in their voyages of discovery. The carefully collected pages make for amusing and insightful sharing with individual parents at the end of each term. I glance up at the kitchen clock; fifteen minutes before the family needs to be woken——time to speed up. I pile a few of the rose petals on the seasonal table and place a tissue butterfly in the blossoming branch. Today I add the Spring Fairy; she will appear in amongst the flowers and the story will lead to her arrival in the garden. I love the moment when, after a busy and fulfilled time outside, my colleague leads the children into the kitchen. The table will be set, the jug of warmed, herb tea steaming and ready, the pile of fruit cut and the brown bread sliced. They will wait to hear the sound of my kinder lyre playing at which point the door is opened and they tiptoe inside. A wooden table provides the perfect seat opposite the seasonal display and I imagine them taking their places carefully. Little feet will dangle; some resting on the bench below as they listen to the story with gentle musical accompaniment. The wonder in their faces when the fairy is spotted——the silent appreciation——the magical world that is their natural habitat——how fortunate I am to provide the trappings.

  After washing our hands in a bowl of soapy water we will gather around the table in the kitchen’s bay window. Its circular shape draws us together and the children will sit in silence while I light the central candle. This is our reverent time——a rival in sacredness to any church service. The presence of Spirit is tangible——holy eyes locked on holy flame——fragile newcomers to the earth returning home for a while. As the seasons change, so does our morning verse and as the children become one with the flame we will quietly sing:

  Shush, shush silver silence

  Comes to us as silence sings,

  Listen, listen, feathers falling,

  Falling from our silver wings.

  Spring gives way to summer. The large, grassed area in front of our home is full of carefree students. I watch a group in the foreground playing guitar, while in the centre a mixed age-group play Frisbee. I look out over the green expanse from the kitchen window. I like watching school life from this vantage point. I often spy our fourteen-year-old son strolling past with a bunch of friends. His year group have almost completed their third term in the senior school. In many ways he was reluctant to leave the junior school that lies through the apple orchard behind the playing fields. For three years he jumped on his bike and pedalled to a private world on the far side of the school grounds. Arriving at the senior school last September, literally outside his home front door, has taken some adjustments in his life. The biggest, noticeable difference is that he steers clear of home when his friends are around. He never invites them in and hardly acknowledges his parents and siblings if we say hello. Oh well——a normal teenager I suppose.

  After working for ten years in single-sex schooling we appreciate the healthy relationships between boys and girls. By the time the students reach our senior boarding house they have moved beyond being ‘all over each other’ and have developed life-long, mature friendships that are strong and s
upportive. This institution isn’t really like a school at all——more of a big, artistic family in a giant farmhouse. Yes, we are certainly going to miss it all.

  * * * * * * *

  It is Friday afternoon——time for my dash to the village to collect our nine-year-old son. He loves his primary school and is a central figure in his year group. His best mates are the Vicar’s two boys and the school Bursar’s son who live just outside the boarding-school gates. During our time in this pleasant village I have been lent a three-wheeler bike with a child seat on the back. Our six-year-old daughter, a busy, kindergarten member, climbs expertly onto the back seat and with roped dog in tow we peddle along the school drive.

  There is a small tree on our route that I notice every day; it overhangs a grassy shortcut onto the village lane. Today its pale leaves dance in the breeze; their silvery undersides wink at me as I pass. I must find out the tree’s name; it is a friend of mine. I love its autumn display when the colder weather grips the village. Two or three stubborn leaves always remain on the bare branches when winter arrives. The village school stands opposite the 16th century church. I usually acquire extra ‘hangers on’ for the return trip home. The dog makes us hoot with laughter when we return to the school grounds——she accelerates at enormous speed and pulls us all the way home as if the cavalry are after us! I’m not sure what motivates her——the love of a wild dash or the thought of her imminent, canine tea.

  * * * * * * *

  Today was difficult. Having to break the news of our departure and the demise of the Kindergarten was one of the saddest things I have ever had to do. A handful of tearful parents with babes in arms, hoping to continue in this magical learning environment for several years to come, congregated in our lobby earlier this morning. There were hugs all around and kind words too——consternation and disbelief alongside well-wishing and appreciation of the magical three years we have shared. My colleague may continue in a fashion, but that remains a question mark.