Part 16 (1/2)

Down the path to the school came the priest, a tall stick of a man in a shabby-looking, ill-fitting ca.s.sock, and a small, rotund bundle of a woman of indeterminate age. She could have been sixty, she could have been eighty. I followed Sister Brendan to the school entrance to meet them.

”Good morning, Sister. Good morning, Mr. Phinn,”

boomed the priest before stooping and shouting in his companion's ear: ”This is Mr. Phinn, Miss Fenoughty. Do you remember, I mentioned him this morning at breakfast?”

”I knew a Bernadette Flynn who used to go to Notre Dame High School,” remarked the old lady, scrutinizing me. ”Very talented girl.”

”It's Phinn, Miss Fenoughty, Mr. Phinn,” corrected the priest.

”I also knew a Father Flynn, parish priest at St. Hilda's. He was a lovely man. I spent hours in the confessional box with him. A wonderful listener was Father Flynn.” She looked up at me with small bright eyes. ”Are you any relation?”

Monsignor Leonard shook his head and smiled and Sister Brendan gave me a look of n.o.ble resignation.

”It's Phinn, not Flynn, Miss Fenoughty!” roared the priest.

”Monsignor Leonard,” said his companion quietly, 'there's no need to shout in my ear. It's enough to deafen me.”

”I do apologise,” said the priest in a much more restrained voice. ”This is Mr. Phinn, he's an inspector of schools. His name is Phinn, Miss Fenoughty, not Flynn.”

”Pardon?” asked Miss Fenoughty.

Sister Brendan, like the statue of the Virgin Mary which dominated the entrance hall, raised her eyes saint-like to heaven.

Sister Brendan had not exaggerated. Miss Fenoughty's rendition of' All Things Bright and Beautiful' made the ground shake and the windows tremble. I thought of another set of lyrics for the hymn, beginning ”All Things Loud and Voluble' as she banged away on the keys. Quite a number of the children covered their ears. Monsignor Leonard gave a small homily about kindness to others, loving your neighbour and showing charity to those less fortunate. I noticed Sister Brendan giving Miss Fenoughty a sideways glance. A prayer was said and the a.s.sembly was over. While Sister Brendan explained to the children what was to happen that morning and organised them for my drama session, I approached Miss Fenoughty and thought I'd show a little kindness to the less fortunate.

”You certainly play with gusto, Miss Fenoughty,” I said cheerfully.

”Who must go?” she snapped. ”I thought I was going to stay and watch the drama. Monsignor Leonard said he was staying to watch the drama. I have no transport so I shall have to wait until he goes.”

”No, I meant your playing,” I said. ”It was very rousing.” I had raised my voice an octave.

”Oh, well, I can't be doing with these whispery little modern hymns, Mr. Flynn. I like a good old stirring, robust tune. You should hear me when I play ”When the Saints Go Marching In”. Sister says I'm a bit heavy-handed on the piano, you know, and the children think I'm a bit loud.”

”Really?”

”I overheard one little boy last week refer to ”that old plonker on the piano”.”

”Really?”

”I do tend to plonk, I have to admit.” She chuckled to herself.

At this point Sister Brendan approached and rescued me. ”Miss Fenoughty,” she said slowly and loudly, 'would you like to sit in the staff room while you wait for Monsignor Leonard? He's going to watch the drama.”

”I know he is, Sister Brendan,” she replied. ”Mr. Flynn said it would be all right if I watched too.”

”Wouldn't you rather wait in the staff room?”

”No thank you, Sister,” she said firmly.

The nun pulled a face. ”Well, will you take a seat at the back of the hall? Mr. Phinn is about ready to start.”

”I was just telling Mr. Flynn, Sister, that the children think I'm a bit of a plonker.”

Sister Brendan's face remained impa.s.sive and she did not say a word, but as I turned to make my way to the front of the hall, I swear I heard a little chuckle.

The two top infant groups remained seated while the rest of the children returned to their cla.s.srooms. Monsignor Leonard and the supply teacher joined Miss Fenoughty who had ensconced herself at the rear of the hall on the only chair with arms. The three of them sat in a row like the judges in a talent contest.

”Now, children,” said Sister Brendan, facing the sea of smiling faces, 'we have with us this morning Mr. Phinn. We are very fortunate, because Mr. Phinn has taken time out of his very busy life as an inspector to teach a drama lesson.”

”Sister Brendan,” asked a small fair-haired boy, 'what does Mr. Phinn collect?”

”Mr. Phinn doesn't collect anything, Sean,” replied the nun smiling. ”He's not a collector, he's an inspector. He inspects things.”

”Sister Brendan,” persisted the child, 'what does Mr. Phinn inspect?”

”Oh, lots of things to do with school, but he's not here this morning to inspect. Mr. Phinn's here to take you for drama.”

”Could he inspect the gerbil, Sister?”

”Of course not, Sean. Now be a good boy, sit up straight and leave the questions until later.” The nun swivelled round and gave me a disarming smile. ”We have a poorly gerbil, Mr. Phinn. We think he's eaten a piece of orange peel somebody put in his cage.” She moved closer and whispered, ”Keep an eye on Sean.” She then joined the audience at the back of the hall.

”Good morning, children,” I said.

”Good morning, Mr. Phinn,” they chorused. Before me was a sea of bright-eyed, eager infants ready for action.

”People who perform drama are actors and they take on acting parts,” I explained. ”They pretend to be other people and use their bodies, faces and voices to make up a story for other people to watch, just like in a theatre or in the cinema or on the television. Later this morning we shall be acting out a story but first we are going to do a few warm-up activities to get us in the right frame of mind. In a moment, I want everyone to find a s.p.a.ce in the hall and then look this way. All right, everyone find a s.p.a.ce.” The children did as I asked quietly and without any fuss.

”Good,” I said. ”Now, for a start, let's see if you can all listen really, really well. Some of you might have played ”Simon Says” at your birthday party.” A number of the children nodded excitedly. ”Well, this exercise is a bit like that. You just have to do exactly as I say. So, let me see. Everyone ready? Hands on heads.” All the children placed their hands on their heads. ”Good. Hands on shoulders.” Two children hugged each other. ”No,” I said, 'your own shoulders. Don't put your hands on anyone else's. Hands on elbows. Hands on knees.” This continued for a few minutes. The children followed my instructions and things were going really well until I said, ”Hands on thighs,” and all the children covered their eyes.

I decided to move on. ”In a moment I will be asking you to walk around in the hall using all the s.p.a.ce, but whenever I say the word ”Freeze!” I want you to stop what you are doing immediately and imagine you are frozen. You must remain as silent and as still as the statue of St. Bartholomew who looks down on you from the front of the hall.” All eyes examined the large, olive-wood figure of the benign-looking man, with arms outstretched, who stood on a plinth. ”Then, when I say ”Relax!” I want you to return to normal.

All right, is everybody ready?” The children stood to attention. ”You are walking through the woods on a bright, sunny day. The sun is streaming through the trees and you can hear the birds singing and the rustling of the leaves and the crackling of the branches underfoot. Freeze!” Most children stood stock still but a few shuffled their feet, others scratched their heads and one large girl began to suck her thumb.

”That was good for a first attempt, but let's see if, when we do it again, we can all remain perfectly still.” I repeated the commentary of the walk through the woods and this time all the children froze. ”Very good. Relax!”

”Mr. Phinn, when we freeze, can we breathe?” asked the small fair-haired boy who had enquired earlier if I could 'inspect' the gerbil.

”Yes, Sean, you can breathe, but you mustn't move. Now, this time we are on a cold, cold street. The crisp snow crunches under our feet and the icy wind makes our ears and cheeks tingle. We start to s.h.i.+ver and we rub our hands to make ourselves warm. Cars and lorries are whoos.h.i.+ng along the road and you are splashed by a big bus. Freeze!” The children froze. ”Relax!” All the children relaxed with the exception of Sean who remained inert, as if caught in amber. ”You can relax now, Sean,” I told him.

”I can't,” he replied through tight lips. ”My feet are frozen in a snowdrift.”

”He might have got frostbite,” chirped up a small girl. ”My grandpa says you can get frostbite in snow.”

”No, he hasn't got frostbite,” I explained, 'because the snow has now melted and that's why Sean can move.” The little boy relaxed and began to rub his feet dramatically.

”This time we are in a far-off desert,” I continued. ”The hot, hot sun is burning down on our heads. We wipe the perspiration from our foreheads and we start to pant. Our mouths are as dry as the sand and we feel faint with the heat. Freeze!” Every child froze except fair-haired Sean.

”But, Mr. Phinn, you wouldn't freeze in a desert. You'd burn up or melt.”

”And might get sunburn,” piped up the small girl for a second time. ”My grandpa says you can get burnt in the sun.”