Part 5 (2/2)
”Well, I don't think you look a prat, Gavin,” said the witch.
”I do, miss, I do,” whimpered Superman. ”Everyone says I look a prat.”
Christine caught sight of me peering through the bookcases. ”Well, look who is here!” she cried, beckoning me over. ”It's Mr. Phinn.” Superman looked up and stifled his sobbing for a moment. He wiped away his tears with a grubby little fist, leaving long streaks across his cheeks, and stared sorrowfully in my direction. ”Now, Mr. Phinn is a very important visitor, Gavin, and knows everything about everything because he's an inspector.” The child sniffed loudly and wiped his nose on his hand. ”Do you know what an inspector does?”
The child nodded pathetically before answering. ”He collects bus tickets.”
Christine stifled a laugh before telling the child that I was a school inspector and something of an expert on costumes. ”Shall we ask Mr. Phinn what he thinks about your outfit, Gavin?” The child sniffed, wiped his nose again and nodded. ”Well, Mr. Phinn,” said Christine, 'do you think Gavin looks a prat?”
”I certainly do not think he looks a prat!” I exclaimed dramatically.
The little boy started to weep and wail again. ”I do! I do! I know I do. Everybody says I do!”
”And I have in my pocket a special piece of paper which says you do not look a prat.” I reached in my jacket, produced a visiting card and wrote on it: ”Superman does not look a prat.”
The little boy took it from me, scrutinized it for a moment and asked: ”Is that what it says?”
”It does,” I replied.
He tucked the card down the back of his electric-blue underpants, sniffed, smiled and scurried off.
Christine came over and put her hand on my arm. ”That was sweet,” she said. ”Now let's see how you fare taking the school a.s.sembly.”
The infants by this time had gathered in the hall and were sitting cross-legged in their resplendent costumes, facing the front.
”Good morning, children,” said Christine brightly.
”Good morning Miss Bentley, good morning everyone,” they chanted.
”Don't you all look wonderful this morning,” she said, scanning the rows of children who gazed back with expectant, happy faces. ”Everyone looks really, really super. My goodness, what a lot of different characters we have in the hall today. It's going to be really hard to judge which of you are the best, so I have asked two of my friends to help me. I think you all know Mrs. Wainwright' she indicated the Chairman of Governors sitting at the side 'and some of you may remember Mr. Phinn who visited our school last year. Well, Mr. Phinn is going to take our a.s.sembly this morning and then help us decide which of you are the most imaginatively dressed characters. Over to you, Mr. Phinn.”
I had decided that I would read the children the parable of the lost sheep. It's a short account and I thought it would be very appropriate for an a.s.sembly and would relate to the children, many of whom came from farming backgrounds.
”Good morning, children,” I said, striding to the front of the hall. ”Today, as you know, is Children's Reading Day and Miss Bentley has asked me to talk to you about some of my favourite books.” I held up a large crimson-coloured volume, on the front of which the t.i.tle, Stories from the Bible, was picked out in large golden lettering. ”This book was given to me by my mother many years ago when I was a little boy. It is a very special book, full of wonderful stories which were told by a very special man. Does anyone know who I mean?”
”Jesus,” chorused the children.
”Yes, it's Jesus, and although Jesus never wrote down any of his stories, his friends did, and millions of people have read what he said nearly two thousand years ago. Jesus wanted everyone to be kind and love each other and was often surrounded by people who did not have much money, people who had done wrong, people who had got into trouble, people who were sick and lonely, people who were looked down upon by the rich and powerful. In this story, which is called ”The Story of the Lost Sheep”, Jesus tries to help us understand how we should feel about the poor and weak.”
Every eye was on me as I read the story. ”Imagine that a shepherd had a hundred sheep. One day, when he counted them, he found that there was one missing. He could have said, ”Well, it's only one, I've got ninety-nine more. I won't bother looking for it.” But he didn't say that. He left all the other sheep untended and went in search of the one lost sheep until he found it. Now why do you think he did that?” I hoped that the children would appreciate the meaning of the parable, that every single one of us is valuable in the eyes of G.o.d and that 'there is more joy in heaven when one sinner turns back to G.o.d than ninety-nine who see no need to repent'. But the point was missed.
”Why do you think the shepherd risked losing all the other sheep just for the one which was lost?” I asked again.
A thoughtful-looking little boy on the front row raised a hand, ”appen it were t'tup!” he said.
I pressed on, explaining what parables were and how they taught us all how to lead better lives. I could see by the fidgeting and turning of heads that I was not having a ma.s.sive impact on the children who were obviously keen to get on with the judging of the costumes, so I decided to finish. But not before posing one final question.
”And what would you say to Jesus,” I asked, holding high the red book like some preacher of old, 'if he were to walk into the hall this morning?”
The boy on the front row thought for a moment, then raised his hand a second time and said loudly, ”I'd give 'im that book, Mester Phinn, and I'd say, ”Jesus Christ this is your life!”
The judging of the compet.i.tion went a great deal better. Before us paraded a whole host of book characters: Long John Silver and Peter Rabbit, Paddington Bear and Peter Pan, Robin Hood and Cinderella, Toad of Toad Hall and Little Red Riding Hood. Last of all came a pathetic-looking little boy in wrinkled yellow tights, electric-blue underpants and a T-s.h.i.+rt with sup am an written incorrectly across the front. I heard a few suppressed giggles and whispers from the other children and saw their smirks and smiles.
Mrs. Wainwright and I awarded the first prize to the Little Mermaid, the second prize to Aladdin and the third prize to a very pleased little boy in yellow tights, electric-blue underpants and a T-s.h.i.+rt with sup aman written incorrectly across the front. As he scampered out to the front of the hall, his weeping and whimpering ceased and the frowns were replaced by a great beaming smile.
I said my farewells to the children and Mrs. Wainwright and headed for the door. Christine followed me and when she had made sure we were out of sight of everyone slipped her hand through my arm.
”That was really nice of you,” she said, giving me a quick peck on the cheek and then rubbing out the greenish smear which had been left behind. ”Gavin won't stop talking about that for weeks. You're an old softie really, aren't you?”
”I think the a.s.sembly was a bit over their heads,” I said.
”Just a bit. I've got to go. Don't forget to ring me.”
A large, round-faced boy appeared from the hall. He wore a bright red blouse, baggy blue pants, large red floppy hat with a small silver bell on the end and huge black shoes. His lips were crimson, his eyes lined in thick black mascara and two scarlet circles adorned each cheek. It was a grotesque parody of Noddy.
”Mr. Phinn!” he gasped. ”Mr. Phinn! I need one of those pieces of paper which you gave to Gavin which says I don't look a prat.”
Driving on to my next appointment, I recalled when I had been in exactly the same situation as little Gavin. I was seven at the time and my sister at home from teacher training college, had made me the most magnificent red and yellow outfit from crepe paper for a fancy dress event. I was to go as the Pied Piper of Hamelin and had set off for school with her in my colourful doublet and little red and yellow hat. People on the top deck of the bus had craned their necks to get a view of the little figure who had strutted along, pa.s.sers-by had stared and then smiled, and old ladies had peered through the curtains. I had felt the centre of attention and so proud. Halfway there, the sky had opened and the rain had fallen as thick as umbrella spokes. In seconds the crisp crepe paper had turned into one soggy, orange mess and I had arrived at school soaked to the skin and sobbing uncontrollably. Miss Franklin, the Headteacher, had taken charge immediately and I had been dried and given a clean pair of shorts and yellow T-s.h.i.+rt to wear. By this time, my great heaving sobs had become a pathetic sniffle and snuffle but when I had seen myself in the mirror I had returned to the howling. The dye from the red and yellow crepe paper had run and looking back at me in the mirror had been a small boy with brilliant orange streaks down his face, arms, hands and legs. Miss Franklin had calmed me down, given me a cuddle and had ushered me into the hall where all the other children were waiting in their colourful costumes. I remembered their smirks and grins and the whispering and giggling and, like the child in the electric-blue underpants and yellow tights, I had felt a complete prat.
”Who's he come as, miss?” one of the older children had sn.i.g.g.e.red.
”Well, can't you tell, Jimmy Everett?” Miss Franklin had said with exaggerated surprise in her voice while putting her arm protectively around my shoulder. ”He's come as the Gingerbread Man. Fancy you not knowing that.”
Like little Gavin, I had won third prize, had talked about it for weeks and had fallen in love with my very first infant Headteacher, the beautiful Miss Franklin.
My next appointment on Children's Reading Day was at Hawksrill Primary, a school deep in the heart of the Dales, where I had agreed to take another school a.s.sembly on the theme of reading. As I drove up the twisting snake of a road, I determined that this a.s.sembly would be without incident and decided that I would abandon my plans to read again the parable of' The Lost Sheep' and I would talk about something completely different.
One day during the summer holidays, Christine and I had walked from deep within the North York Moors to the coast at Ravenscar. The journey followed the old Viking route known as The Lyke Wake. Legend has it that the Vikings carried the 'lyke' or corpse across the bleak moors to the sea, where the body was given up to the waves. With the coming of Christianity, the practice was continued but it took on a deeper meaning and the walk came to symbolise the journey of the soul towards Heaven.
When we had arrived at Ravenscar Christine had bought me a very readable little book about The Lyke Wake. The central character was a brave and n.o.ble Viking called Thor who helped carry his dead father across the lonely, desolate land to his final resting place. The story starts in modern times, when a school party stumbles across a silver bracelet or torque glistening in the bracken. This short, lively tale, I thought, would be ideal for reading in the a.s.sembly.
Hawksrill was a small stone building enclosed by a low, craggy limestone wall. It was surrounded by a vast expanse of pale and dark green fields which rose to the thick, now dead bracken slopes, long belts of woodland and the faraway, cold grey fells. The Headteacher, Mrs. Beighton, was a stout, squarely built, ruddy-complexioned woman with a wide, friendly face and short cropped white hair. Her a.s.sistant, Mrs. Brown, was uncannily like her. They both wore rather old-fas.h.i.+oned, floral-patterned dresses and cardigans and carried capacious handbags. Both were widows and shared a small cottage within walking distance of the school.
Mrs. Beighton and Mrs. Brown were inseparable. They came on courses together, could be seen each Sat.u.r.day, shopping in Fettlesham, and on Sundays they attended the primitive Methodist chapel and sat side by side in the front pew in their Sunday hats. Mrs. Beighton and Mrs. Brown were typical of many Yorks.h.i.+re folk: industrious, good-humoured and plain speaking, with strong views and an ironic sense of humour. On my last visit to the school towards the end of the previous term, I had remarked that they were so typical of the forthright and friendly people I had met on my travels about the county.
”Well, you know, Mr. Phinn,” Mrs. Beighton had explained, ”I think you can always tell someone from Yorks.h.i.+re.”
”But you can't tell them much,” Mrs. Brown had added, chuckling.
Both teachers now greeted me with warm smiles when I entered the one large, bright cla.s.sroom during morning playtime.
”h.e.l.lo, Mr. Phinn,” said the Headteacher cheerily. ”How kind of you to come to see us.”
”Most kind,” echoed Mrs. Brown. ”Do come in.”
”It seems an age since you visited us, out here at Hawksrill,” said Mrs. Beighton.
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