by Olga Wojtas
I had completely misjudged him when I first met him. I had him down as a macho type, and I thought he had been quite rude when I suggested taking an English lesson. But now I saw that he was actually quite a nervous, uncertain individual. He needed jollying along a bit.
I noticed he was holding a baguette stuffed with ham, lettuce and tomato.
“How kind, you’ve brought me breakfast,” I joked.
“No, this is mine – I mean, yes, of course, it’s for you – here, take it.”
He scurried across the room and thrust the baguette into my hand. I was going to refuse, but he seemed very insistent, and I really was quite hungry.
He glanced at the blackboard.
“I hope you don’t mind my rubbing off your maths lesson,” I said.
“It wasn’t my – that is, of course I don’t mind. The classroom is yours.”
“Ah, mi escuela es su escuela.”
“Is that English?” he asked.
“No, Spanish – it’s wordplay on the well-known phrase mi casa es su casa. I was imagining you saying that your school was my school. Just as you would say to me, ‘my house is your house’.” I realised I wasn’t being terribly clear, especially as he didn’t have the Spanish. I had been too optimistic in thinking that he would understand, given that French and Spanish were both Romance languages. He hadn’t had the benefit of a Blaine education. “What I mean is, the school and your home are yours, but you tell me that they’re mine.”
“Why do I tell you that?”
His voice was positively shaking. What I had taken for hostility the previous day, when he had made an issue of English and Scottish, had stemmed from his embarrassment at not knowing any other languages. He was the teacher in a small village school – it was unreasonable of me to expect that he would reach the standards demanded by the General Teaching Council for Scotland. Especially as the GTC was only set up in 1965.
“It’s a nice thing to say,” I explained. “You’re making me feel welcome by acknowledging that everything you have is mine.”
He still seemed very ill at ease. I would move on to another topic.
“This is a lovely baguette,” I said. “Fortunately, I’m not one of these people who’s totally obsessed with cheese.”
His face crumpled in dismay. Apparently, his lack of language skills extended to his own language and he had misunderstood me.
“It wasn’t irony. I’m saying I like the baguette,” I expanded. “I’m not complaining about the lack of cheese. Actually, right now, I’m more interested in drink.”
“Drink?” he stammered.
He had good reason to be discomfited, an educator hiding a hip flask in his desk.
“Yes, I know all about your little secret,” I said. “You’re lucky it’s me who found out – someone else might have gone to the authorities, but I’m not like that.”
“What do you want?”
“Don’t worry, I’ve no interest in drinking any of your precious stash. But I wouldn’t mind a wee cup of tea.”
His face recrumpled. He really needed to lighten up.
“It’s all right,” I reassured him. “I’ve had some water out of the tap. You can buy me a tea later. Right now, I’ve got a class to teach.”
I waved him away as, on cue, the small pupils trooped in and stood behind their double desks. I recognised Cart Woman’s daughter, and the wee scone who had been bullied by the policeman.
“Good morning, girls and boys,” I said.
“Good morning, madame,” they chorused.
“You may be seated.”
They sat down quickly and quietly. These were well-behaved, attentive pupils, eager to learn. It would be a pleasure taking this class.
“Today we are going to have an English lesson,” I said. “Who can tell me where people speak English?”
Every hand shot up.
I couldn’t help it, I gasped in horror.
Every hand was covered in blood.
Six
“Your hands,” I stuttered. “What on earth have you been doing?”
They sat silently, just watching me. Thankfully, they had lowered their hands so I no longer had to look on the ghastly sight. But there was something creepy about the unbroken silence. It took me a few moments to realise that these children were so well-behaved in class that they would only speak when addressed individually.
I nodded at Cart Woman’s daughter. “You, girl. Why are your hands all … like that?”
She stood up. “We had our nature study lesson first thing, madame.”
“Nature study? What on earth do you do in nature study to end up like that?”
“We crush the–” And there it was, that word again: “sangliers”.
These well-behaved, innocent-looking children had just spent an hour or more vivisecting wild boar. The most we had done at Marcia Blaine was dissect an ox eye. And the rest of the ox had been nowhere around at the time.
I wasn’t having the class sitting there like murderers in a Jacobean tragedy. It was distasteful.
“All of you, out into the cloakroom and wash your hands thoroughly,” I said.
Obediently, they stood up and filed out. There was the sound of running water and splashing before they returned one by one.
When they were all in place, I singled out a small child in the front row. “You, boy. Where do you do this crushing of wild boar?”
He stood up. “In the forest, madame.”
“I thought the forest was out of bounds except for authorised personnel?”
“We’re authorised personnel, madame.”
The children were being put in harm’s way for the sake of a lesson. This wasn’t education, this was appalling. It had also created a vicious circle: no wonder the wild boar were getting antsy if the schoolchildren were crushing them. I resolved to have a word with the teacher when next I saw him. And given his nervousness about the inspectorate, I could threaten to report him if he proved difficult. Yet another good reason to stick to classroom-based education.
“You may sit down again. Now, class, who can tell me where people speak English?”
The hands, reassuringly clean, went up again.
“England, madame,” said the child I chose.
“That answer is correct, but only partially so,” I said. “There are dozens of countries where English is the indigenous or official language. But there is one country in which that English is well-seasoned with French. And that country is where I come from, Scotland.”
I took the long wooden pointer from beside the blackboard and went over to the map of the world hanging on the wall.
“There,” I said, pointing. “Scotland.”
I waited for the inevitable, which never came. These innocent, open-minded infants were simply sitting and listening to what I had to say without questioning it. Give me a child at an impressionable age and they are mine for life, I thought.
“We,” I said, “the Scots and the French, you and I, are bound together through the Auld Alliance, which is why in my native city, Edinburgh, we have an area called Little France, and another called Burdiehouse, its name a corruption of Bordeaux House where some of Mary, Queen of Scots’ retinue stayed.”
The pupils, wide-eyed, hung on my every word. Sometimes when I’m explaining things to my colleagues in the library, I see their attention wander. I blame technology for ruining attention spans. But here I was addressing a pre-internet generation. I had never had such an interested audience, and I warmed to my theme.
“In Edinburgh, over a century ago, we built great stone tenements, up to fifteen storeys high.”
They leaned forward on their desks.
“The plumbing was more basic in those days, in the sense that there wasn’t any. So, the thousands of people who lived in the tenements relied on chamber pots. They obviously didn’t want to trail up and down all those flights of stairs to empty them, so they just threw the contents out of the window.”
They were scarcely
breathing now.
“But in order to warn passers-by down below, they would shout, ‘Gardyloo!’”
I smiled encouragingly, but there was no sign of any comprehension.
“They were speaking French,” I said. “They were saying look out for the water, garde à l’eau.”
A small child raised his hand.
“Yes?” I said.
The child stood up. “But it wasn’t just water, was it?”
Small children are greatly drawn to the scatological.
“No, it wasn’t just water,” I conceded. “But people in Edinburgh are very well-mannered, so they warned the passers-by in a polite way. You may sit down.”
Cart Woman’s daughter raised her hand.
“Yes?” I said.
She stood up. “It’s not very well-mannered to throw …” She hesitated. “… stuff out of the window, is it?”
“Other times, other manners,” I said firmly. “Sit down. And now, in honour of the Auld Alliance, we’re going to learn some English.”
Cart Woman’s daughter raised her hand again.
“Yes?” I said wearily.
She stood up. “We already know a little,” she said in passable English.
Why on earth hadn’t the schoolteacher told me? I would have tailored the lesson accordingly.
“Including numbers, days and months?” I asked, and was relieved to see them look cagey. The lesson could go ahead as planned.
They were adept at rote learning and before long were reciting all of the words on the board in fine Edinburgh accents. I went round the class asking when their birthdays were in English, which met with reasonable success. I asked when Christmas Day was, New Year’s Day and All Saints’ Day, which went perfectly.
“And when is Bastille Day?” I continued.
They looked at me in incomprehension. Not a hand went up.
I indicated the wee scone. “You, boy. Bastille Day. When is it?”
He stood up. “I’m sorry, madame. I don’t know.”
I tapped the pointer at three words on the board. “What does that say?”
“Thursday, twelfth of July, madame.”
“Very good. And now this?”
“Saturday, fourteenth of July,” he said in a small voice.
There was furtive murmuring from his classmates, and I saw Cart Woman’s daughter, who was sitting in the row behind, lean forward to rub his arm.
“Correct,” I said. “Two days from now. And Saturday, fourteenth of July is?”
“The day of the celebrations,” he said in an even smaller voice.
“And what do we call the day of the celebrations?”
His voice was now so small that I could barely make it out.
“No,” I said, “you got it right first time. It’s Saturday, not Tuesday. I want to know the special name of the day.”
Cart Woman’s daughter waved her hand in the air, clicking her fingers.
“Yes?” I said frostily. “You wish to speak?”
She got to her feet. “He didn’t say Tuesday. He said Cheese Day. Which is the correct answer.”
The others all nodded vigorously.
“I’m in the choir,” she went on, going back to speaking French. “We all are. We’re going to sing a special cheese song. May we sing it for you?”
I was flummoxed. Since when was Bastille Day Cheese Day? But the pupils were all watching me. From my experience as a Blainer, I knew that a teacher must never appear flummoxed. It’s tantamount to displaying weakness, and when pupils sense weakness, they can be as vicious as wild boar. I quickly concealed my flummox.
“That’s an interesting suggestion. Yes, I would like to hear your special cheese song.”
They all rose to their feet and drew breath to begin. But the wee scone was waving his hand frantically.
“Yes?” I said.
“Please, madame, I don’t know whether I’m allowed to sing or not.”
He must have a dreadful voice, but it was unfair to be disbarred for that reason. I remembered our school singing classes, when we were divided into nightingales, thrushes and baby birds. Some pupils were permanently traumatised by their categorisation.
“Certainly, you may sing,” I said.
“Thank you, madame.”
There was the sound of clicking fingers again. Cart Woman’s daughter.
“All you require to do to indicate that you wish to speak is to raise your hand,” I said. “The clicking is superfluous. Do you wish to leave the room?”
“No, madame. Sorry, madame. I just wanted to ask, is he allowed to sing on Cheese Day as well?”
He must have a really dreadful voice. But even so. “I see no reason why not,” I said.
Cart Woman’s daughter patted him supportively on the back. “There!” she said.
Now the wee scone’s hand was up in the air.
“Yes?” I said.
“But madame, the police officer said I wasn’t allowed to join in the celebrations. How can I sing?”
That was why he had been so ill at ease when I asked him what was happening on the fourteenth. He was upset about missing the big day. There was concerned muttering from the rest of the class. They obviously thought as much of the police officer’s diktat as I did.
“We’ll worry about that later,” I said, sitting down on the high stool behind my desk. “In the meantime, let me hear your song.”
They all drew breath again, and I saw Cart Woman’s daughter was counting them in. Their young piping voices filled the room with a remarkably familiar tune. Frère Jacques.
Cher fromage, cher fromage,
Port Salut, Port Salut,
Sainte-Maure de Touraine, Sainte-Maure de Touraine,
Reblochon, Reblochon.
“Well done,” I said. “Is that a traditional song?”
Various hands shot into the air.
“We’re going to have a new system,” I said. “There’s no need to keep raising your hands and standing up.” I picked up the pointer again. “Here’s what we’re going to do. This is the Talking Stick. You can’t talk unless you’re holding the stick, but when you’re holding the stick, nobody else can talk. Understood?”
They all nodded and I handed the pointer to the nearest pupil.
“It’s not a traditional song, madame. Our teacher wrote it specially for us.”
I was surprised. He hadn’t struck me as a songwriter. “That was very good of him,” I said.
Cart Woman’s daughter grabbed the pointer. “You’re not holding the Talking Stick,” she objected.
My experience as a prefect enables me to pull rank when necessary, but in my current role, I found myself channelling Marcia Blaine’s most formidable mistresses as I thundered, “I am your teacher, girl! The rules do not apply to me!”
She visibly quailed, as did the rest of the class, and the pointer clattered to the floor.
“Now,” I said in a more measured tone, “would you like to learn the song in English?”
There were a few nervous nods, but nobody spoke.
“Have the wild boar got your tongues?” I snapped. “I’m waiting for an answer.” For a moment, I wondered whether I had missed my vocation, and should have gone in for teaching rather than librarianship. But only for a moment. I’m where I should be.
A small boy scrabbled under the desk for the pointer and lifted it up. “Yes please, madame,” he said. “We would like to learn the song in English.”
“Very well,” I said. “I’ll write it for you. While I do that, class monitors, give out the slates and pencils, and everyone copy out what’s already written on the blackboard.”
I would have suggested an alternative occupation if I’d realised that slate pencils squeaked. Horribly. But I persevered despite the noise, and in a few minutes, I had the new version. I felt it had the additional advantage of actually rhyming.
“Everyone finished copying out? Good.” I quickly cleaned the board and wrote up the new lyrics. We spoke them s
everal times to get the pronunciation right, and then I led them in song:
Highland Caboc, Highland Caboc,
Lanark Blue, Lanark Blue,
Isle of Arran Cheddar, Isle of Arran Cheddar,
Crowdie too, Crowdie too.
“You can sing that at the celebrations after you’ve sung the original. Your parents will be very impressed,” I said. “I see from the clock that it’s nearly lunchtime. You’ve worked hard this morning – keep it up. Class dismissed.”
A small child grasped the pointer. “Please, madame, can we have some more lessons?”
The pointer was seized by the child next to her. “Yes please, madame. We haven’t had any lessons for such a long time.”
I looked at the blackboard, which now had nothing but the English verse of the cheese song on it.
“You’ve just had a maths lesson,” I said.
The pointer was passed to the row behind. “That was ages ago, madame. It was the last lesson we had. It wasn’t with this schoolmaster, but with the one before.”
Cart Woman’s daughter appropriated it. “The one who taught us English.”
Another hand gripped the pointer. “The one who was torn to death by wild animals.”
“In the forest?” I asked.
“Yes, madame.”
“The forest that’s out of bounds?”
“It wasn’t out of bounds then, madame. It only became out of bounds afterwards.”
“After your teacher and Officer Sylvain were torn to death by wild animals?”
Nods all round. But silent nods, since nobody had the Talking Stick.
Cart Woman’s daughter leaned across and took charge of the pointer. “Not just our teacher and Officer Sylvain. My dad as well.” There was a touch of pride in her voice.
“That’s dreadful,” I said. “I’m most terribly sorry.”
“It’s all right,” she said. “My mum says Madame Madeleine has gone quite mad with grief because she’s not from here, and that here we just have to get on with it when someone’s torn to death by wild animals.”
This was philosophical but worrying. “Torn to death by wild animals in the forest. Where you still go?”
