The Heart of the Dales (16 page)

‘And what is your poem called?'

‘It's called, “Excuses, Excuses!”' she told me. ‘We have to think of lots of reasons for coming late to school.'

‘Like, the dog ate my homework,' I said.

‘I don't have a dog,' she said pertly, ‘and we don't have homework. We will when we go in the juniors but we don't have homework in the infants.'

‘I see. And what excuses have you thought of so far?' I asked.

‘The alarm clock didn't go off,' the child told me, ‘the car wouldn't start, I forgot my PE kit and had to go back home to get it, and Mummy thought it was a Saturday so didn't bring me to school.'

‘Those are very good excuses,' I told her.

‘I've got another one, too,' she said. ‘A really good one because it really happened when I came to school late once,' the child informed me, nodding her little head.

‘And what's that?' I asked.

‘Our electric gates wouldn't open,' she told me.

With that, she took off, sat at her table, took out her book and pencil from her bag and got on with her poem.

I have had so many conversations like this with young children and have so often been brought out of a black mood by their innocent and intriguing chatter. Small children are a
delight. Everything in the world to them is new and exciting. They are fascinated by people, and are wonderfully self-assured and forthcoming in their talk. It's not like that with older children and adults. With age, one tends to become far more self-conscious and reticent, perhaps more suspicious of others. One only has to travel in a lift with a group of adults: they stare at the ceiling, examine their shoes, lookfixedly over your shoulder, anywhere as long as their eyes don't meet yours. If a child is in the lift, it is a different matter. He or she will stare intently at you, taking everything in, and then very often make a comment such as: ‘I have my Mickey Mouse knickers on', or ‘
I'm
going to the pet department, where're
you
going?'

Rhiannon, like all young children, had no problem confronting adults, asking uncompromisingly forthright questions whilst staring them straight in the eye. What is also endearing about small children is that they have no conception of race, background, status, religion and class; smile at a little one and the smile is always returned. They are confident and not afraid of asking questions of adults, or of making blunt observations that sometimes cause their parents to redden with embarrassment: ‘Is that fat lady going to have a baby?' ‘Grandma, who will fetch the fish and chips when you're dead?' ‘My daddy says Granny is well past her sell-by date.' Such things are said without any malice; they are just the innocent observations of the very young.

I recalled a Dales sheep farmer once telling me about his four-year-old son who went with him to the hospital in Skip-ton to see his new baby sister. In the maternity ward, the child was far more interested in the smiling blackwoman in the next bed than he was in his baby sibling. He had obviously never seen a black person before and was fascinated. The little boy couldn't take his eyes off her.

‘Stop staring, John,' his father said in a hushed voice, ‘it's very rude to stare.'

The child continued to stare, his eyes, as we say in Yorkshire, ‘as wide as chapel hat pegs'.

The woman smiled and wiggled her fingers at him but he
continued to stare. Eventually she got out of bed, put on an attractive white dressing gown and snow-white fluffy slippers and left the ward to feed her own baby, who was in the adjoining room. As she headed for the door, the child pointed after her and announced loudly to his father, ‘Suffolk!' at which his father could not contain his laughter. The Sufflksheep, as he explained to me later, are a very distinctive breed: long white woolly bodies and black wool-free face and legs.

I was brought out of my reverie by Miss Drayton. ‘Mr Phinn?' she said.

‘Yes?'

‘I was wondering if you might like to tell the children a story. We always have storytime at this point in the day and I thought, since you are here, it would be nice to make use of you. Some of the children rarely hear a man telling a story.'

‘Of course,' I said. I hadn't expected to take part in the lesson but was happy to acquiesce.

‘I was about to start the traditional tale of
The Three Billy Goats Gruff
,' she said, handing me a book open at the start of the story. ‘While you are telling them the story, I'll take the opportunity of making a phone call.' She lowered her voice. ‘I think it might be prudent for me to have a word with someone in my professional association and seek some advice on the situation. It may appear to be a storm in a teacup to you, Mr Phinn, but in my experience, these things tend to have a habit of developing into hot potatoes. If accusations are being made, Mr Hornchurch might need to have his union representative present.'

‘I really don't think, Miss Drayton –' I began.

‘I am sure you'll be all right with the class by yourself, won't you?' enquired the headteacher, giving me little chance of arguing with her. She clapped her hands loudly to gain the children's attention. ‘We are very lucky, children,' she announced, ‘to have Mr Phinn, a very special visitor, with us this afternoon and he has asked if he might tell today's story. He's really good at telling stories and I know' – at this point she stared intently at a small boy with a shock of ginger hair and
his two front teeth missing – ‘that we will all be on our very best behaviour, won't we?'

‘Yes, Miss Drayton,' chanted the class obediently.

‘And you will be very good, won't you, Jack?' warned the headteacher, continuing to give the boy with the ginger hair and the missing teeth a long and knowing look.

‘Yes, Miss Drayton,' the boy shouted.

Without any bidding, the children gathered around me on the carpet in the reading area, and sat with crossed legs and folded arms, their faces staring up at me expectantly. Miss Drayton quietly left the room.

Anyone who thinks that handling a group of twenty infant children, all of whom have their own little personalities, is an easy job, should have a go. It demands a great deal of skill, expertise and patience, as I was soon to discover.

‘Good afternoon, children,' I said cheerfully.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Thin,' they all chorused. ‘Good afternoon, everybody.'

‘Is that your real name?' asked ginger-haired Jack. He had a small green candle of mucus appearing from his nose. He sniffed it away noisily but it re-emerged immediately. ‘Because you're not very thin, are you?'

‘It's Mr Phinn,' I said. ‘Like on the back of a shark.'

‘I like sharks,' said the boy.

‘I don't,' said a tiny, elfin-faced child with long black plaits and impressive pink-framed glasses. ‘I'm frightened of sharks.'

‘I'm frightened of spiders,' said another.

‘I'm frightened of snakes,' added a third.

‘Well, this story isn't about sharks, spiders or snakes,' I told the class, smiling. ‘It's about three goats.'

‘I don't like goats,' said the girl.

‘These are very nice goats,' I reassured her. ‘They're called the Billy Goats Gruff.'

‘They don't sound like nice goats,' said the girl.

‘Goats have horns,' volunteered Rhiannon.

‘Yes, that's correct,' I said.

‘And they butt,' she added.

Jack immediately began to butt the girl next to him.

‘Don't do that,' I said. ‘It's not very nice to butt other people, is it?' The boy pulled a face but stopped. ‘So, children,' I said, continuing, ‘this is a famous story called
The Three Billy Goats Gruff
.'

‘I've heard it before,' announced Jack, sniffing loudly.

I knew from experience that I would have to keep a close eye on this little character. ‘And what's your name?' I asked.

‘James Oliver Jonathan Ormerod,' he replied. ‘My granddad calls me Jo-Jo but my dad calls me Jack.'

‘Well, Jack,' I said pleasantly, ‘you're going to hear the story again.'

‘But I know what happens,' he replied.

‘So do I,' said another.

‘And I do,' added a third.

‘Well, it's always good to hear a story again,' I told them.

‘Why?' asked Rhiannon.

‘Well, because it is,' I replied feebly. ‘And you haven't heard
me
tell it, have you?'

‘My grandpa's read it to me,' said Rhiannon. ‘He's got the book with pictures in it and he's really good at reading stories.'

‘Have you got the book with pictures in it?' asked the child who was afraid of sharks.

‘No, I haven't,' I replied, wondering just what I had let myself in for.

‘And he pulls faces and makes noises as well,' added Rhiannon.

‘Does he?'

‘Are you going to pull faces and make noises?' asked Jack.

‘No, I'm not,' I said sharply. ‘Now, let us all sit up nice and straight, children, ready to listen, otherwise we won't hear the story.'

‘I know what happens,' said Jack, turning to face the rest of the class.

Undeterred, I began. ‘Once upon a time there were three Billy Goats Gruff. There was the father, Big Billy Goat Gruff; the mother, Medium-Sized Billy Goat Gruff; and –'

‘Little Billy Goat Gruff,' cut in Jack.

‘Little goats are called kids,' added Rhiannon.

‘And Little Billy Goat Gruff,' I repeated, fixing Jack with an eagle eye. ‘They lived in a valley in the cold cold winter to keep warm, but when spring came they climbed up to the rich green meadow on the hillside –'

‘And crossed a bridge,' interrupted Jack, before wiping his nose on the sleeve of his jersey. ‘They have to cross a bridge.'

‘We've not got to the bridge yet,' I told him, and continued. ‘They climbed up to the meadow on the hillside to eat the fresh green grass that grew there. Each morning, when the sun shone high in the sky, they would run across the fields and, as Jack has already told us all, they would cross the rickety-rackety old wooden bridge that spanned the river.'

‘I wouldn't like to go over a rickety-rackety old wooden bridge,' said the child who was afraid of sharks. ‘It sounds dangerous.'

‘Well, the Billy Goats Gruff were very careful when they went over the bridge,' I told her.

‘And there's this troll under it,' said Jack, pulling a gruesome face and growling. ‘Grrr! Grrr!'

‘Yes, I know there is,' I said, ‘and we haven't got to the troll yet. Now, be a good boy, Jack, and listen to the story. You're spoiling it for everyone else.' I proceeded. ‘Every day, the billy goats liked to cross the rickety-rackety old wooden bridge which went over the river, to get to the fresh green grass on the other side.'

‘You've told us that,' said Rhiannon.

‘Now, in the darkness under the bridge there lived a mean and ugly troll, with eyes as big as saucers, ears as sharp as knives and a nose as long as a poker.'

‘He can't help being like that,' announced Rhiannon.

‘No, I don't suppose he could,' I said.

‘My grandpa says that people can't help the way they look.'

‘Oh dear,' I sighed. ‘Now this troll –'

‘I told you there was the troll,' mumbled Jack.

‘This troll,' I continued quickly, ‘was very bad-tempered and unfriendly.'

‘Like my granny,' said the child frightened of spiders. ‘She's very bad-tempered and unfriendly.'

I moved on hurriedly. ‘The troll was always hungry and slept for most of the time.'

‘Like my granny,' said the child. ‘She's always hungry and sleeps for most of the time.'

I sighed, and continued: ‘And the ugly troll waited under the bridge for creatures to cross, and then he gobbled them up.'

‘With great sharp teeth and claws,' added Jack.

‘That's right,' I said, ‘and –'

‘I know what I'd do if an ugly troll with sharp teeth and claws jumped out on me,' said Jack.

‘And what would you do, Jack?' I asked wearily.

‘I'd shit myself !'

‘Perhaps we ought to have another story,' I suggested, reaching over to the bookcase.

Mr Hornchurch greeted me enthusiastically when I entered his classroom later that afternoon, shaking my hand vigorously and telling the children what a pleasure it was to have such a distinguished visitor in their midst. I feared that this warm welcome was going to make my meeting with him later in the afternoon all the more difficult.

At first glance, the teacher seemed to have followed the recommendations in my last report since his classroom was now a whole lot tidier. On my first visit, the mass of clutter and colour that I had walked into would have been the perfect set for a film version of
The Old Curiosity Shop
. Huge posters, bookjackets and long lists of difficult and awkward words had covered every wall, revolving mobiles had hung from the ceiling, boxes of every conceivable shape and size had been stacked in a corner along with piles of books and a basket of footballs and cricket equipment. On two large trestle tables there had been old tins and strangely-shaped bottles, bleached skulls and old bird feathers, shards of pottery and clay models. Now it looked more like the conventional classroom, far better organised and neater but, I guessed for the children, a great deal less interesting.

Mr Hornchurch's appearance had undergone a change, too. He was now dressed more conservatively in a pair of baggy blue corduroy trousers, shapeless tweed jacket, white shirt, and a loud kipper tie. However, he still had the wild and woolly head of mousy hair surrounding his long pale face.

Having wished me good afternoon, the junior class resumed their activities. One group of children was gathered round the teacher as he conducted an experiment involving a tankof water and various objects. They were predicting whether various
objects would sink or float, and I listened for a while to a fascinating and impressive discussion. It was explained to me by one of the pupils that the class was to visit the Science Museum in London the following weekend, and they were undertaking some preparatory work. Another group was busy writing a play the class would perform at the end of term, while a third group was writing stories. The classroom was a hive of creative activity and not once did the teacher have to tell any child to get on with his or her work.