Part 17 (2/2)
”Really?” I said.
The clock on the County Hall tower struck eight o'clock as I drove down Fettlesham High Street which was just becoming busy with early morning traffic. I was soon on a twisting, empty road, bordered by craggy grey limestone walls and verges fringed by last year's dead, murky-brown bracken and tussocky gra.s.s. Beyond the walls was an austere, still scene, a vast undulating world of dark fields covered in a light, fleecy mist, empty save for the small cl.u.s.ter of barns and square farmhouses, and the occasional twisted hawthorn tree. The shadowy green foreground lay ahead of us, backed in the distance by the sombre, pale blue peaks. Bars of purple cloud stretched across the sky. Gerry didn't speak until the pale sun, s.h.i.+ning through the clouds with an almost luminous warmth, made the whole landscape before us glisten with the splendour of a gemstone.
”It's magnificent,” she said quietly.
”It is, isn't it? I can never get used to it.”
The small stone primary school we were to visit first was nestled in the very heart of the village of TarnclifTe. It was sandwiched between the post office-c.u.m-general store and the squat, grey Primitive Methodist chapel and looked like a private dwelling at first glance. From the pavement the door opened directly into the one large cla.s.sroom and pa.s.sers-by could peer through the leaded windows to see the pupils at work. We were given a warm welcome by the Headteacher, Miss Drayton, and her a.s.sistant, Mrs. Standish, who both shook our hands vigorously and ushered us into the cla.s.sroom.
Gerry and I started with the junior-aged children who were behind a large part.i.tion, working industriously on various models and construction work. In the corner of the amazingly cluttered and busy cla.s.sroom were two girls of about ten or eleven, their school clothes shrouded by large men's s.h.i.+rts. They explained to us that they had been asked to design and produce a labour-saving device for use in the home. They had come up with the idea for a gadget which would tell the milkman the number of pints required each day. Their first, not very novel idea had been to design a clock face with numbers from one to eight around the rim and a hand which could be adjusted to point to the number of pints needed that particular day.
”But then,” explained one of the girls enthusiastically, 'what if you wanted some cream as well as milk?”
”Or orange juice?” added the other.
”Or eggs or yoghurt?”
”And some milkmen sell potatoes as well.”
”So the problem has become very complicated,” observed Gerry, looking at their plans. ”Have you managed to resolve it?”
”One solution would be to have six different faces, each one for a different thing milk, cream, eggs, orange juice, yoghurt and potatoes but Mrs. Standish said our design has to be simple, clear, easy to use and cheap to produce.”
”This is a real problem, isn't it?” said Gerry. ”Have you found the solution?”
”Oh, yes!” exclaimed one of the girls. ”Tessa had a brain wave She plucked a piece of paper from her folder and pushed it in Gerry's direction with a triumphant look on her face. Gerry examined the sketch, smiled, nodded and observed, ”Ingenious' before pa.s.sing it to me. The design was for a small square of thin plywood on which was written in bright capital letters: ”MILKMAN! SEE NOTE IN bottle; In another corner of the room a large boy was humming quietly and contentedly to himself, his body moving backwards and forwards in time to the tune as he filed away at a long piece of wood.
”And what are you doing?” asked Gerry cheerfully.
He looked up for a moment. ”Oh, I'm just raspin', miss,” he replied simply, before returning to his work.
I left Gerry with the 'rasper' and moved into the infant section of the cla.s.sroom.
”Would you like me to read to you?” asked a small girl, with wide, cornflower-blue eyes and a ma.s.s of blonde hair which was gathered in two large candy floss bunches.
”Yes,” I replied, ”I would like that very much.”
”I'm a very good reader, you know,” she confided in me, while she searched in her bag for her book.
”Are you?”
”I read with expression.”
”Do you?”
”And I can do different voices.”
”Really? I expect you use dramatic pauses as well,” I said mischievously.
She looked up for a moment and then added seriously, ”I don't know what they are, but I probably can.”
She was indeed a very accomplished little reader and sailed through her book confidently and fluently. ”I am good, aren't I?” she announced when she had completed three pages.
”Very good,” I said.
”I'm good at writing as well.”
”I imagined you would be.”
”Would you like to see my writing?”
”I'd love to.”
”Poetry or prose?”
”Poetry, please.”
”I keep my poems in a portfolio.”
”I guessed you would,” I said, smiling.
Her writing was neat, imaginative and accurate. ”I am good at writing, aren't I?”
”Very good,” I agreed.
”I'm good at talking as well.”
”I can tell that. I think your mummy's got a little chatterbox at home.”
”Oh, no!” exclaimed the child. ”My granny has asthma and I'm not allowed to keep pets.”
”I see,” I said chuckling. I couldn't imagine what sort of animal she thought 'a little chatterbox' was.
”My granny calls me her ”bright little b.u.t.ton”.”
”That's a lovely name,” I told her. ”They're very special are grannies and we must really look after them.”
”My granny wobbles, you know,” the little chatterbox continued.
”Does she?”
”She has a special disease which makes her wobble and forget things.”
”I'm sorry to hear that.”
”Yes,” said the little girl, nodding sagely. ”It's called ”Old Timers' Disease”.”
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