Part 6 (1/2)
”A good few months, I should say, Mrs. Beighton,” remarked her companion.
”And the children are so looking forward to meeting you again.”
”They are indeed,” added Mrs. Brown.
After morning break, the sixteen junior and twenty infant children gathered around me in the large cla.s.sroom for the a.s.sembly. They listened attentively to the story of The Lyke Wake with no interruptions and everyone was completely still and hushed when I arrived at the dramatic conclusion. Mrs. Beighton and Mrs. Brown, mouths open, hands resting on their laps, sat transfixed at either end of the cla.s.sroom like bookends and made no effort to move.
”Well, I hope you all enjoyed that,” I said cheerfully when I finished. The children and their teachers nodded. ”Are there any questions?” I looked across a sea of silent children. ”There might be something someone wishes to ask?” There was still no response. ”Anything at all?”
”Come along now, children,” came Mrs. Beighton's voice from the back. ”I'm sure there are lots of things you would like to ask Mr. Phinn.”
A young frizzy-haired boy with a pale, earnest face raised a hand.
”Ah, there's someone,” I cried, relieved that at least one child had found the story sufficiently interesting to ask a question. ”Yes, and what would you like to ask?”
”What's a condom?”
”Pardon?” I jumped up in my chair as if I had been poked with a cattle prod.
”A condom? What's a condom?” repeated the child. I was completely lost for words.
Mrs. Beighton and Mrs. Brown leapt to their feet like synchronised puppets with their strings being yanked.
”Well, it's.. .” I began, looking appealingly towards the teachers.
”It's a snake,” snapped Mrs. Beighton quickly.
”No, that's an anaconda, miss,” volunteered a young, helpful, red-headed boy.
”It's a bird,” announced Mrs. Brown with great a.s.surance.
”Condor,” exclaimed the child at the back. ”You're thinking of a condor, miss.”
”Well, what is a condom?” persisted the frizzy-haired child, looking straight into my eyes.
”Well, it's .. .” I began a second time.
”Vikings didn't have big horns on their helmets, John,” said Mrs. Beighton, moving to the front of the cla.s.s and taking centre stage, 'and they definitely did not have condoms either.”
The little boy, entirely undeterred, continued with the grilling. ”But what is a condom?”
”It's something you will learn about when you are older,” replied Mrs. Brown firmly, as she joined her companion. She had the pious face of a Mother Superior.
”Is it a rude word, miss?” asked the innocent.
”No, it's not a rude word, John.”
”Can I call somebody a condom then, miss?”
”No! You certainly cannot!” snapped Mrs. Beighton.
”Certainly not!” echoed her companion.
”Somebody called me a condom, miss,” the infant told the teacher.
”Well, they shouldn't have,” said Mrs. Beighton.
”Ignore them,” added Mrs. Brown sharply.
”Does it begin with a curly ”C” or a kicking ”K”?” asked a fresh-faced little girl at the front.
”A curly ”C”, Sarah, but' replied Mrs. Brown.
”And is it spelt C-O-N-D-O-M?” she asked, articulating every letter slowly and deliberately.
”It is but-'
”Oh, just look at the time!” cried the Headteacher, coming to her colleague's aid. ”We haven't started writing yet.” The frizzy-haired child continued to persevere and still had his hand in the air.
”Right, children. Put down your hand now, John. Everyone sit up straight, look this way, arms folded and when we are ready we can go to our desks and start our writing.”
Mrs. Beighton explained that the older children were going to recount the story I had told in a.s.sembly in their own words and the younger ones were to draw a picture and add some captions which she would write on the blackboard. Soon books were out and the children were scribbling away industriously and peace descended on the cla.s.sroom. I spent the remainder of the morning working with groups of children and looking through the reading scores.
”Thank you, Mrs. Beighton,” I said over a cup of coffee at lunch-time, 'you really saved my bacon.”
”I'm sorry, Mr. Phinn?” she said with a quizzical expression on her face.
”The condom,” I reminded her.
”Oh that. Well, children do tend to get straight to the point in this part of the world. Do you remember what you were saying on your last visit about bluff Yorks.h.i.+re folk, Mr. Phinn?” she asked.
”Yes, I do,” I replied.
”I believe in being honest and open with children, don't get me wrong, but sometimes it is necessary to evade the difficult question. As my sainted mother used to say, there is a time and a place for everything.” ”And everything in its proper place,” added Mrs. Brown.
”Children grow up too early these days, in my opinion, Mr. Phinn,” continued the Headteacher. ”The time when they were innocent until they reached the big school has sadly pa.s.sed.”
”Like wild horses in the wind,” I murmured, remembering David's words.
”I blame the television,” added her companion and then, almost as an afterthought, sighed noisily, ”I was thirty-three before I knew what a condom was.”
When the time came for me to leave, I paused at the gate of the small school to marvel at the panoramic view which stretched out before me: soft green pastures dotted with grazing sheep and heavy, square-bodied cattle; a vast, hazy-blue sky streaked with creamy clouds; nestling, sunlit farmsteads; the country lane which twisted and turned over the hill. It had, no doubt, remained the same for centuries. There was a great sense of tranquillity and timelessness around me, as if the noises and concerns of the modern world had been swallowed up by those rolling fields, thick bracken slopes, dark, mysterious forests and misty fells.
I was brought out of my reverie by the sound of voices. Out of sight, behind the craggy stone wall which enclosed the school, I observed three or four young boys gathered around the red-haired pupil who had tried to put his teachers right about what a condom was. He was explaining to his fascinated companions that ”You can get them in different sizes, different colours, different flavours .. .”
My next appointment was at the Staff Development Centre to plan the in-service course for secondary school librarians with Mike Spiller, Princ.i.p.al Librarian for the county, and the children's writer, Irene Madley, who lived locally. I arrived at the unattractive, red-brick building, which had once been a secondary modern school, with only a few minutes to spare. At the entrance was a large notice with the words welcome to the staff development centre, underneath which was written, these premises are protected by guard dogs. The car park, formerly the school playground, was littered with great red and yellow cones and resembled the test course for advanced motorists.
Connie, the caretaker, was awaiting my arrival. She was standing, as was her wont, in the entrance hall, with arms folded tightly over her chest and with the pained expression of one who is wearing uncomfortably tight shoes. She was an ample woman with a bright copper-coloured perm, round florid face and the small sharp eyes of a hungry bird. She was dressed in her usual brilliant pink nylon overall and clutched a feather duster magisterially like a field-marshal's baton.
”You can always tell when the Caretaker from h.e.l.l is approaching,” Sidney had once said after a particularly acrimonious exchange with Connie. ”She fair crackles in that nylon overall. Touch her and you'd electrocute yourself.”