them tups. He ’ad a fair good head on him, a reight good straight back, four solid legs, one at each corner, and were near on twenty stone.’
‘Really?’
I must have sounded astonished because she expanded further. ‘Sheep I’m talkin’ abaat, not me Grandad Braithwaite!’
I laughed and shook my head. The little girl looked at me for a moment and then tapped me gently on the arm. ‘Are tha’ comin’ in then, mester, or are tha’ stoppin’ out theer all day admirin’ view?’
I followed my little companion into a long room, bright and warm and full of colour, and introduced myself to Mrs Beighton, Headteacher of the school, and to Mrs Brown, her assistant. They were uncannily alike: broad and sturdy and ruddy complexioned with short steely-grey hair and wide, friendly faces. They were both dressed in brightly coloured floral dresses and cardigans and wore beads and matching earrings. As I discovered when I had spent a few years in the county, Mrs Beighton and Mrs Brown were the archetypal Yorkshire women: plain speaking, unflappable, hard working, generous to a fault and witha wry sense of humour. They both greeted me with warm smiles.
‘Mr Phinn, I presume,’ said the Headteacher. ‘How very nice to meet you.’
‘How very nice to meet you,’ echoed Mrs Brown, ‘and so early, too.’
‘He is early, isn’t he, Mrs Brown?’
‘He is, Mrs Beighton.’
I explained that I wished to spend the first part of the morning with the juniors and the remainder with the infants, listening to the children read, looking through their exercise books and asking them a few questions about their work. I would also test them on their number work and spellings before I left.
‘A pleasure,’ replied the Headteacher.
‘A pleasure,’ echoed her assistant. ‘We always enjoy having visitors here.’
‘We do, don’t we, Mrs Brown?’
‘We do, indeed, Mrs Beighton.’
Mrs Brown and I went into the juniors’ classroom, and soon the children started to arrive. They came in chattering excitedly, their keen, happy faces a pleasure to behold. They hung up their coats, changed into their indoor shoes, exchanged reading books and sat talking to each other quietly until Mrs Brown called for their attention. Then all eyes were on their teacher. The register was taken and the school day began.
There were sixteen bright-eyed children ranging between seven and eleven who listened attentively to Mrs Brown as she explained the first task of the day which was concerned with some number work. I sat in the small reading corner and, in the course of the first hour, heard one child after another read to me, first from their ownreading book and then from some I had brought. I asked the younger pupils to read to me from
The Tales of Peter Rabbit,
the children’s classic by Beatrix Potter. The selection of this book, I found, was singularly unfortunate and I came to appreciate just how shrewd, bluntly honest and witty the Dales child can be.
John, a serious little boy of about seven or eight with a tangled mop of straw-coloured hair, was clearly not very enamoured with the plot. He had arrived at that part of the story when poor Peter Rabbit, to escape the terrifying Mr McGregor who was searching for him in the vegetable garden, had become entangled in the gooseberry net. The frightened little rabbit had given himself up for lost and was shedding big tears. It was the climax to the story and when I had read this part to my little nephew Jamie and my niece Kirsten, their eyes had widened like saucers and their mouths had fallen open in expectation of the capture of the poor little rabbit by the cruel gardener. But John, having faltered in his reading, stared impassively at me with tight little lips and wide staring eyes.
‘What a terrible thing it would be,’ I said, hoping to encourage him on again, ‘if poor Peter Rabbit should be caught.’
‘Rabbits! Rabbits!’ cried the angry-faced little lad, scratching the tangled
‘Really?’
I must have sounded astonished because she expanded further. ‘Sheep I’m talkin’ abaat, not me Grandad Braithwaite!’
I laughed and shook my head. The little girl looked at me for a moment and then tapped me gently on the arm. ‘Are tha’ comin’ in then, mester, or are tha’ stoppin’ out theer all day admirin’ view?’
I followed my little companion into a long room, bright and warm and full of colour, and introduced myself to Mrs Beighton, Headteacher of the school, and to Mrs Brown, her assistant. They were uncannily alike: broad and sturdy and ruddy complexioned with short steely-grey hair and wide, friendly faces. They were both dressed in brightly coloured floral dresses and cardigans and wore beads and matching earrings. As I discovered when I had spent a few years in the county, Mrs Beighton and Mrs Brown were the archetypal Yorkshire women: plain speaking, unflappable, hard working, generous to a fault and witha wry sense of humour. They both greeted me with warm smiles.
‘Mr Phinn, I presume,’ said the Headteacher. ‘How very nice to meet you.’
‘How very nice to meet you,’ echoed Mrs Brown, ‘and so early, too.’
‘He is early, isn’t he, Mrs Brown?’
‘He is, Mrs Beighton.’
I explained that I wished to spend the first part of the morning with the juniors and the remainder with the infants, listening to the children read, looking through their exercise books and asking them a few questions about their work. I would also test them on their number work and spellings before I left.
‘A pleasure,’ replied the Headteacher.
‘A pleasure,’ echoed her assistant. ‘We always enjoy having visitors here.’
‘We do, don’t we, Mrs Brown?’
‘We do, indeed, Mrs Beighton.’
Mrs Brown and I went into the juniors’ classroom, and soon the children started to arrive. They came in chattering excitedly, their keen, happy faces a pleasure to behold. They hung up their coats, changed into their indoor shoes, exchanged reading books and sat talking to each other quietly until Mrs Brown called for their attention. Then all eyes were on their teacher. The register was taken and the school day began.
There were sixteen bright-eyed children ranging between seven and eleven who listened attentively to Mrs Brown as she explained the first task of the day which was concerned with some number work. I sat in the small reading corner and, in the course of the first hour, heard one child after another read to me, first from their ownreading book and then from some I had brought. I asked the younger pupils to read to me from
The Tales of Peter Rabbit,
the children’s classic by Beatrix Potter. The selection of this book, I found, was singularly unfortunate and I came to appreciate just how shrewd, bluntly honest and witty the Dales child can be.
John, a serious little boy of about seven or eight with a tangled mop of straw-coloured hair, was clearly not very enamoured with the plot. He had arrived at that part of the story when poor Peter Rabbit, to escape the terrifying Mr McGregor who was searching for him in the vegetable garden, had become entangled in the gooseberry net. The frightened little rabbit had given himself up for lost and was shedding big tears. It was the climax to the story and when I had read this part to my little nephew Jamie and my niece Kirsten, their eyes had widened like saucers and their mouths had fallen open in expectation of the capture of the poor little rabbit by the cruel gardener. But John, having faltered in his reading, stared impassively at me with tight little lips and wide staring eyes.
‘What a terrible thing it would be,’ I said, hoping to encourage him on again, ‘if poor Peter Rabbit should be caught.’
‘Rabbits! Rabbits!’ cried the angry-faced little lad, scratching the tangled
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