TERM IN FULL SWING

The last day of the month has a beauty of its own, for it is pay-day. Jim Bryant brings the post while I am still at breakfast, and the cheques arrive together in one envelope. There are four of them: one for Mrs. Pringle's cleaning and washing up work, a smaller one for Mr. Willet, our caretaker, one for Miss Gray, and the last for me.

I was busy looking through a lengthy document and numerous catalogues as this was the time to apply for the stock needed throughout the coming year.* So much money is allocated to books, stationary, and other materials for each child that it takes a considerable amount of time deciding how best to allot the stock. This year I felt that the infants' room should have the lion's share, for Miss Clare had never demanded much in the way of educational-play apparatus.* In fact, I had had to introduce much there that she disapproved of and failed to use. Now that Miss Gray was in charge* she had many good ideas for apparatus which I was only too glad to order. I only hoped that her successor would be as enterprising and enthusiastic.

Today she handed in her resignation from Fairacre School. Notice had to be given for three months,* so that we should have her with us next term, as Mrs. Annett, until the end of September. The marriage was to be at the beginning of August.

'And we both hope you'll be able to come to the wedding,' said Miss Gray, as I handed back the letter of resignation which she was posting to the office.

*

John Burton and Cathy Waites were standing in front of the class, picking up sides for cricket,* and as there were only nineteen children pres­ent I foresaw that I'd have to make up the number.*

It was sultry weather. A hot little wind blew the dry grass and dust round and round the playground. The children crossed the road to Mr Roberts' field opposite, where we have his permission to play.

The wicket is not all it should be, but it is reasonably flat, and it is possible to give the children some elementary notion of the game and its rules.

The game wore on.* Above us, black clouds were piling up and I was wondering whether we should get our game finished and whether Mr. Roberts would get his hay in* before the rain came, when I noticed a stranger leaning over the gate, watching us with interest.

On seeing that he was observed, he opened the gate and crossed the grass towards me.

*

It appeared that the stranger was one of Her Majesty's Inspectors of Schools, newly appointed to this area. He had served before, he told me as we walked back to the school, in one of the home counties,* where new estates had gone up* rapidly since the war, and the new schools, despite their classes of forty or more children, were efficient in design and very well-equipped.

'You've no playing-field then,' he asked, 'al­though there are fields all round you? Do you think it's worth while trying to teach these children cricket under such conditions? Actually, you've not really enough people for two teams, I gather?'

I told him that I thought the effort was justified. At least the children knew the rules of the game, enjoyed it, and could, in their next school, feel that they could take part in the game with some knowledge and pleasure. Thanks to Mr. Roberts, the children were able to get out of the small playground to take much of their exercise.

He looked at the lofty ceiling, the high Gothic windows and at last at the skylight.

'Do you find it dark here?' he asked. I said that I realized it was dark compared with the steel and glass schools of the present day, but I didn't think the children's sight was impaired.

'Despite its architectural drawbacks,' I told him, 'there is something in this atmosphere con­ducive to quiet and to work. I know it is only right that children should have big, low windows that they can see through, but they can be very distracting.'

The inspector sighed, and I could see that he thought me prejudiced, as he walked round the room studying the wall-pictures. The children watched him furtively, their library books open but unread.

Outside, the wind had started to roar, and the black clouds which had gathered during the after­noon made the room dark enough to horrify any inspector. There was a flash of lightning, a few muffled squeals from the children, and then a long rumble of distant thunder.

The rain suddenly burst upon us in torrents. In a few minutes the usual steady drip began into the classroom below.* Without waiting to be told, Cathy went into the lobby, returned with the bucket, and, folding a dishcloth neatly, she tucked it methodically in the base of the bucket to stop the clanging of the drops. Mr Arnold, the inspector, watched these proceedings amusedly.

'How long has this been going on?' he asked.

'Seventy years,' I answered, and his laugh was drowned in another clap of thunder.

'Can I go through to the infants' room, before they go home?' he asked, and I took him in to meet Miss Gray, who was already buttoning children into coats and peering hopefully across the playground to see if any mothers had come with their children's mackintoshes. I left them discussing reading methods and returned to get my own class ready to face the weather.

While Mr Arnold engaged Miss Gray in conversation I saw off those children who were well-equipped for the weather. Only Cathy, Jimmy, and Joseph Coggs remained and I brought the old golf umbrella and opened it against the lashing rain on the doorstep.

'There you are, Cathy,' I said, handing over the red and green giant, 'hold it as low as you can over the three of you, and get to Tyler's Row in record time!'

I watched the umbrella bob along the lane and then hurried to my empty classroom.

Mr Arnold came through from the infants' room to make his farewells.

'I'm afraid I picked an unfortunate day for my first visit,' he said, 'but I should like to come again, quite soon, to see you all in action.'

He waved, and sprinted across to his car through the puddles and drove away through the rain.

*

Mr. Annett, with solicitude for his future wife that was quite touching, had deserted his schoolchildren at four and dashed over in his car to collect Miss Gray. I invited them to stay to tea and together we sat gossiping and eating home-made gingerbread in the schoolhouse.

'As long as schools are dependent on local rates,'* said Mr. Annett decidedly, 'there are bound to be serious disparities* in buildings and equipment. My three little nieces started their schooling in Middlesex. Their first school was a model one, individual towels, combs, beds, and so on. There was a paddling pool, lots of first-class toys, mounds of paper, chalks, and everything else a teacher or child could wish for. Now they've moved into this area, and their local village school is as antiquated in design and as primitive in sanitation and water supply as this one. It is also looked upon by the families with whom they play, as only "good enough for other people's children.'"

'Don't I know!' I agreed feelingly.

'My sister is looked upon as an oddity* because her daughters are going to the village school,' he continued. 'But she and her husband have faith in our state education and believe they are doing a wise thing. They live within a stone's throw* of the school and the girls are taught in small classes by teachers who are all qualified and certificated. If only more intelligent parents would make use of their local school and take an interest in it, instead of complaining about the rates they have to pay, it might be a step in the right direction.'

'Owners of private schools won't think so,' I pointed out, as he rose to help Miss Gray with her coat. We made our way to the car. The storm was no longer raging. The air was soft and fresh and a blackbird was singing in the cherry tree.

'We're very lucky,' I observed, breathing in the damp earthy smell, but Mr. Annett was gazing at Miss Gray. It was some time before he spoke.

'Very lucky, indeed!' he echoed softly.

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