Book week, and happy children

The weather was fine and clear for the final day of the Book Week at the small country school where I had been invited to speak about stories and writing. A few adults appeared as I talked to the teacher who had invited me to speak. Parents, she explained, nodding in their direction. I felt a twinge of nerves; children were one thing, parents were another; and they were then joined by the school bus driver, a vet, the principal of the local high school, a teacher from another school and the mayor and mayoress of the district. Two policemen who had arrived earlier, were already seated at the back chatting with the children. They were to hand out awards for those who had accomplished a Safe Bicycle Ride programme earlier in the week. Other awards for spelling, writing and reading were to be given out by teachers at the school.

Just as it was almost time for my talk, a bright-eyed pupil asked me if I was a celebrity, and I laughed. But he was serious. No, I said, nothing like that. I just write things. He gave me a cheery grin, which was encouraging.

I began. The children were great with lots of smiles and enjoyed my readings and stories. Quite a few were dressed as characters from story books. There was a Robin Hood with a broken bow, Caspar the ghost appeared twice, and both of them were too friendly to have frightened anyone. Jane Eyre was there next to Anne of Green Gables, while seated behind them was a witch with an enchanting smile and sparkling eyes. I saw several assorted supermen, and there was a Noddy; a petite, shy little thing, and she won my heart.
The children enjoyed everything that was going on, dressing up, parents and special visitors. Their delight was infectious too; the adults had lowered their normal barrier of reserve, it seemed to me, as they chatted freely with those around them. Children do that for us, don’t they? It was good to be here I thought, and relaxed even more, so that as I finished I was pleased that I’d said yes to taking part.

The school song was sung, a modern, bouncy number in keeping with the lively spirits that filled the room, and then other guests added their part adding more variety to the day. Towards the end of the programme as pupils went forward for their awards, Noddy’s little figure stepped to the front. Good for you, I thought, as she was given her award for best handwriting for her class. When it was all over I saw her standing on her own and went over to her and asked her if she was going home on the school bus.

No, my Mummy will collect me, she said softly. That’s nice; I said. And my Daddy; she added. Then she gave a little shiver in the slight wind, blowing keener now. So small and so very vulnerable, and I suddenly thought of the primary school in Dunblane, Scotland, a school like this one that had seen so much horror not so very long ago. Then Noddy saw her mother and ran off, waving and smiling.

Maybe that’s why, before I left the school I said to the teacher who had organized the Book Week how much I’d enjoyed my visit.

And I meant it. I know my inner enjoyment was more than just seeing the children eager, happy and surrounded by so many willing to encourage them in their learning. They were also safe; and it came to me that we ought to enjoy to the fullest such moments, for things can change so easily, and suddenly, change.

Dennis Crompton © 1997
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)

The Dunblane school massacre occurred at Dunblane Primary School in the Scottish town of Dunblane on 13 March 1996. The gunman, 43-year-old Thomas Hamilton (b. 10 May 1952), entered the school armed with four handguns, shooting and killing sixteen children and one adult before committing suicide. Along with the 1987 Hungerford massacre and the 2010 Cumbria shootings, it remains one of the deadliest criminal acts involving firearms in the history of the United Kingdom. (Wikipedia)

Seasons to cry

In the midst of an ordinary day there's a Thomas with a mind out of balance ready to snuff out the lives of anyone for no valid reason. And he did. He killed sixteen children along with Gwen, their teacher, that ordinary day. A shocked Dunblane policeman, his brain in neutral running on a kind of official automatic statement, said to reporters, “It was a random attack. We are not aware of any motive.” And the world cried for the children, their parents and relatives, their teacher and playmates, and for that sad bereaved community. Yes, and even for those who'd loved Thomas, knowing that there but for the grace of God... I wonder sometimes where he is now. What he's doing. How he, and especially his mother, are coping. It could have happened to anyone: it does. Cruelly. Savagely.

In my study I have a list of pupils who attended the schools where I've taught. Most died by accident, some through sickness, a few by their own hand. They were aged from between 14 and 23. The list reminds me that each person was a distinct and unique personality living with ne’er a thought that in the midst of life, in the twinkling of an eye, life could be snatched away. Sometimes I look at the school magazine to jog my memory as to what they looked like. One pupil I'll never forget. She's fixed in my mind forever. A seventh former looking forward to her next year at university, except another mind temporarily out of balance got in the way.

It was close to the end of the last term for the year. Senior exams had finished. Textbooks had been handed in. Lunchtime was halfway through and the seniors were gathering in the assembly hall to hear a visiting speaker. He promised to be interesting having appeared several times on TV as a radical and a stirrer. I was free, so I went along too. From the back of the hall I watched this particular student seat herself on the top step leading up to the stage, place the guitar she carried across her knees and tune it, leaning forward to hear the sound of the strings. When she was ready, she looked up, smiled and waited. The hubbub gradually subsided and when all was quiet and without any introduction she started to sing: 'Don't cry for me, Argentina'. She captivated us as her voice, soft and beautiful carried the words clearly and distinctly around the hall. (Of the speaker who followed, I recall only that he was a radical. Abrasive and blunt he strutted the stage, his message lost in the arrogancy of the delivery. I've never forgotten that student, or her presentation.)

A few months later I heard she'd been killed not very far from her home. Some youth, keen to impress her of his driving skills, persuaded her to accept a lift the short distance into town. She never made it. According to the report that came out later, a witness who was with her at the scene stated that when she discovered he'd been drinking it was too late to get out. He'd refused to stop and while she was terribly injured and knew she was dying he was not badly hurt at all. Sometimes the song brings it all back to me. Sometimes it comes back on its own, and sometimes I cry. Thankfully, there's a time and a season for that.

© Dennis Crompton 1999
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2012)