Part 15 (2/2)

”It's probably his hormones,” I repeated.

”Excuse me,” she replied curtly. ”There's no history of hormones in our family.”

I quickly changed the subject. ”And how's that little grandson of yours?”

The tight lips relaxed, her eyes began to sparkle with pleasure and a great smile suffused her face. ”Oh, he's a little charmer, he really is. In his second year at school now and on the top table. Bright as a b.u.t.ton is our Damien. Wraps his granddad round his little finger he does. Last week he says to Ted: ”Granddad, your face needs ironing.” The things he says. He's staying with me and Ted at the moment because his sister is poorly. She's off school with sickness and diarrhoea. It's all down her street.”

When I directed my first course at the Staff Development Centre, Connie had watched my every move like some great, hungry vulture. I would glance up from my notes during the lecture to see her peering through the door. At coffee she hovered in the background, tea-cloth in hand, making sure we returned our cups and saucers to the hatch in the kitchen. At the end of the course she watched, arms folded, to make certain I left the room as I had found it. Later, in the cloakroom, I heard the door pushed open and a great booming voice echoed around the tiled walls. ”Have you finished in there yet because I want to do them urinals in a minute!”

”And talking about times changing and taking a turn for the worse,” said Connie, vigorously wiping around the sink, 'what about that nun?”

”Nun?”

”That little nun who was on your course.”

”Oh, Sister Brendan.”

”I had no idea she was a nun. I was talking to her as if she was a normal person. I could have said anything. In the olden days nuns wore big, black outfits right down to the ground and black headgear and wimples that covered up half their faces. I mean, you couldn't tell that she was a nun. She had this blue suit on.” Connie's voice took on an almost affronted tone. ”I mean, her skirt was nearly up to her knees. In my day you never saw so much as a glimpse of ankle. She looked like an air hostess. And she had nothing on her head save for that bit of a scarf. I thought nuns had cropped hair. Well, Julie Andrews did in ”The Sound of Music” and Audrey Hepburn certainly had her head shaved in ”The Nun's Story”. That Sister Brendan had a perm by the looks of it. She'll be having highlights put in and wearing high heels and make-up next. And another thing,” she prattled, and I leant against the kitchen door to listen to her, 'she had three cups of tea and most of my Garibaldis. They take vows, don't they? They're supposed to give up all them luxuries. You don't know where you are these days, you really don't. It's just the same with the vicar. He only looks about sixteen and when he came into the Centre to rehea.r.s.e his pantomime when his pipes had frozen up, he was wearing denim jeans and a leather jacket, and arrived on a thundering great motor bike. He says to me, ”Call me Des”. I mean, it's not right, is it? No sign of a dog-collar or a ha.s.sock. In my day, vicars were vicars and nuns were nuns. You knew where you were. ”Call me Des”, I ask you! Soon, they'll be letting nuns drive cars and get married.”

”Have you ever thought of taking the veil then, Connie?” I asked mischievously.

”What?”

”Becoming a nun?”

”Me, a nun? Course, I haven't,” she snorted. ”I'm not that religiously inclined and you know full well I can't suffer fools gladly. You must have the patience of Jove to be a nun. I'd find it very difficult to turn the other cheek when I see the mess some people make in the Centre. That Mr. Clamp leaves behind a trail of destruction and debris every time he runs a course here, and Mr. Pritchard is forever getting his equipment out and forgetting about it. And another thing, don't nuns have this vow of silence? I couldn't keep quiet for more than two minutes. Mind you, that seems to have gone out of the window as well. That Sister Brendan could talk for Britain.”

So could Connie, I thought to myself as I took myself off home, and she would captain the team.

Sister Brendan was Headteacher of St. Bartholomew's Roman Catholic Infant School in Crompton, a darkly depressing northern industrial town. She was a slight, fine-featured woman with small, dark eyes and a sharp beak of a nose. When I first met her she reminded me of a hungry blackbird out for the early worm. Her small school was surrounded by tall, blackened chimneys, derelict building sites, dilapidated warehouses and row upon row of redbrick, terraced housing.

The school itself, adjacent to the little church, was a complete contrast. Like the Headteacher, it was bright, cheerful and welcoming and on my first visit I had been immensely impressed by the high quality of the education. The walls were ablaze with children's paintings and poems; posters, pictures and book jackets were on various display tables, while in cabinets were sh.e.l.ls, fossils, oddly shaped pebbles, clay figures and other small artefacts. The standard of reading was high and those children I heard, and who came to me in the Reading Corner, one after the other, were obviously keen to demonstrate their skill. All read fluently and with great expression. The number work was also very good, as were the singing and the art work, the history and the geography.

When I was compiling my report, I had had difficulty in finding any issues for the Headteacher and her staff to address. One area I did mention, however, was a greater encouragement of clear speaking and attentive listening. The children spoke with enthusiasm and interest but some had strong accents. I suggested that the staff, whilst not denigrating the children's natural way of talking, might teach the pupils to speak with greater clarity. One means of doing this, I suggested, was through drama. And that was why Sister Brendan had attended my course.

A couple of days after my conversation with Connie, I received a telephone call from the very subject of our discussions. Sister Brendan thanked me for 'a most enjoyable, interesting and useful course' and made a request.

”We would like some more advice on drama, Mr. Phinn. Could you come in for an afternoon, do you think?”

”Yes, of course, Sister,” I replied. ”I could drop off some helpful books with ideas for various drama activities and I'll happily talk things through with you and your staff.”

”I was thinking more of a practical demonstration,” she said.

”Pardon?”

”Of you taking the children for a drama lesson and showing us.”

”Well.. .”

”I'm sure, Mr. Phinn, that you would be the first to agree that it's one thing telling teachers what to do and it's quite another showing them. I really think we would benefit from seeing you working with the children and putting those ideas you are so keen on into practice.”

What could I say? ”Of course, Sister,” I replied, trying to sound enthusiastic, ”I'd be delighted.” It was like a re-run of Highcopse School when Mrs. Peterson had inveigled me into teaching a poetry lesson. Well, that had gone well enough, I thought to myself, and I had no reason to think that a drama lesson at St. Bartholomew's would be any less successful.

I soon found out, however, that things were not as I had imagined.

I arrived at St. Bartholomew's a couple of weeks later on a cold but bright Friday morning. Sister Brendan saw my car pull up outside the school and was at the entrance to greet me in seconds.

”My goodness, Mr. Phinn, you're the early bird,” she said beaming widely. ”Come along in.” I followed her down the bright corridor and into the Headteacher's room. ”It must be over a year since you were last here.”

”That's right,” I agreed. ”I remember it well.” On my last visit, Sister Brendan had guided or rather 'manhandled' me in the direction of the school entrance towards the end of the afternoon, pleased, no doubt, to see me on my way. She had been, therefore, somewhat surprised when I had informed her that I intended remaining for the school a.s.sembly. I should have left when I had the chance. The a.s.sembly had been an ordeal I would not wish to undergo again. I had been used as a sort of visual aid with Sister Brendan constantly referring to me. I had not known the prayers or the hymns and had tried unsuccessfully to mouth my way through, much to everyone's amus.e.m.e.nt. Yes, it had been a memorable visit.

I was brought out of my reverie by Sister Brendan's voice. ”Now, the plan this morning, Mr. Phinn, if it is acceptable to you, is that we will have our a.s.sembly and then you can have the two top infant cla.s.ses for the morning for drama.”

”Two whole cla.s.ses!” I exclaimed. ”And for the whole morning?”

”Well, I thought we ought to take full advantage of your kind offer to work with the children. Is there a problem with that?”

”No, no problem, Sister,” I replied, feeling a nervous churning in my stomach at the thought of controlling sixty or so lively six- and seven-year-olds for the morning.

”a.s.sembly this morning will be taken by Monsignor Leonard. He comes in- every Friday to spend a little time with us. I believe you know Monsignor Leonard, Mr. Phinn?” Sister Brendan's small, dark eyes twinkled.

”Yes, we've met a few times, Sister,” I replied.

I had come across Monsignor Leonard on a number of occasions on my travels around the county's schools. He was a gentle and una.s.suming man who loved the company of children and took a deep and active interest in education. I had not seen him for some time. In fact, the last occasion had been just before the Christmas holidays the previous year and he had watched me struggling to tell the story of the nativity to a group of very lively infants in the small Roman Catholic school at Netherfoot. One child in particular, a ma.s.sively freckled little boy with spiky ginger hair, had constantly interrupted my account with the most searching questions. On my way out that morning, Monsignor Leonard had smiled benignly, placed his hand gently on my arm and reminded me of an old proverb: ”Here's to the child and all he has to teach us.”

”He's particularly looking forward to meeting you again,” continued Sister Brendan. ”When I told him you would be in school he got quite animated and wondered if he might stay to watch the drama session?”

”Yes, of course,” I replied.

”He'll be bringing with him Miss Fenoughty who is his housekeeper and the church organist. She has stepped into the breach to accompany the children's singing during Mrs. Webb's absence. Of course, she just comes in with Monsignor Leonard for his weekly a.s.sembly and we make do with a tape the remaining days. I know it sounds a little uncharitable but I don't think I could cope with Miss Fenoughty every day of the week.”

”Is Mrs. Webb not well?” I asked.

”She's off school at the moment after her unfortunate accident in the Holy Land.”

”Oh dear. What happened?”

Sister Brendan sighed audibly. ”Just before Christmas she went with the U C M the Union of Catholic Mothers -on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. It was called ”Walking in the Footsteps of Jesus”. Anyhow, she set off walking in the footsteps of Jesus and fell down a pothole and broke a leg.” Sister Brendan studied my expression for a moment before continuing. ”You are one of the few people, Mr. Phinn, who has not found that amusing. Why, even Monsignor Leonard, Mrs. Webb's parish priest, remarked that had she worn more appropriate footwear, such as the kind of sandals worn by Our Lord, instead of high-heeled shoes, she might not have ended up in a Jerusalem hospital with her leg in plaster.”

”Well, give her my very best. I do hope she is back at school soon.”

”I am on my knees every night praying for that, Mr. Phinn,” sighed the nun. ”The sooner Mrs. Webb is back at the piano and Miss Fenoughty back to her housekeeping the better will be my state of mind. She hammers on the keys as if there is no tomorrow. The piano fairly shudders when she starts banging away. She's rather deaf, you see, and, despite my efforts to get her to play more quietly, she will insist on cras.h.i.+ng along the keyboard as if she's cracking nuts with a hammer. It's the same in church on Sunday. People have taken to wearing ear m.u.f.fs, it's that bad. Last week the Ave Maria sounded like the ”1812 Overture”. And, of course,” Sister Brendan continued, 'her memory is not all that good either and she gets the hymns mixed up. Last year at the Easter Ma.s.s I asked for ”All in an April Evening” and we were treated to a slow, ear-splitting rendering of ”Through this Night of Dread and Darkness”. At one wedding she played at, the couple wanted ”Hills of the North Rejoice” but came down the aisle to a thunderous rendition of ”Climb Every Mountain”.”

”It could have been worse,” I said. ”She could have played ”Fight the Good Fight”.” By now, I just could not stop myself from smiling.

”I can see you find it funny, Mr. Phinn, but let me a.s.sure you Miss Fenoughty would try the patience of a saint.” Sister Brendan peered through the window. ”And speaking of saints, here comes Monsignor Leonard, who has to put up with Miss Fenoughty, morning, noon and night.”

<script>