Sunday Mass or Art, and a New Order of Nuns

Sunday at the château was always a special day. All the children were told on Saturday that if they wanted to, they could go to Sunday mass at the cathedral in St. Pol. Sometimes, there were also a few catholic children whose parents had asked for them to attend the mass. So, if anyone did want to go then they had to inform a teacher after Saturday supper at the latest. Once decided, no change of mind was permitted. The inquisitive always wanted to know what the alternative was. “Work,” was the reply.

Usually there were five or six children who wanted to attend mass and two volunteer members of staff accompanied them on the walk to the cathedral. The year in question, it was the chief medical officer, also known as the school secretary, and Kath Dalmyre. After waving them off, work began.

Art.

The choice was a sketch/watercolour of the château or the sea view from the terrace. Now I appreciate art, I can talk and enthuse about, for example, chiaroscuro -epitomised in much of Caravaggio’s work or the pointillism of Seurat, Signac and Pissarro. I appreciate the pre-cubists like Braque, Derain or Dufy and can laugh at the work of surrealists like Chagall, Dali or Miro.

So I can talk the talk. Can I draw or paint? No. I cannot. In art terms I am a prime candidate for natural de-selection or if drawing ability was taxed I would get a rebate. Whenever possible this subject was contracted out to another teacher.

So Sam, the Damian Hurst of his day, was in full flow announcing loudly that the children’s work would be formally assessed and given a National Curriculum level by me every ten minutes!

It was already warm and hats were being worn. Watching children work was an interesting part of teaching and this group’s level of concentration was very good with very little chatter, and, they seemed to be enjoying what they were doing. I noticed that one child hadn’t started at all but was told that he had “autistic tendencies,” So that was alright then!

While they drew, Vaughan Williams—The Lark Ascending—was being played on a portable CD player. For a long time these were not brought to the château but by 2001 I brought my own CDs and my taste in music was, quite often, severely criticised. So began the custom of each member of staff bringing a few CDs of choice. These might be played in the classroom whilst the children were working or in the evening, when the children were in bed, accompanying the staff’s card playing, having the craic, general banter and the odd alcoholic drink.

Art class had officially finished. Free time was given. A boy passed and simply said, “This place is really nice.”

“I’m glad you like it. I think it’s fantastic.”

Five children were still sketching voluntarily. Magic.

As she went to mass, the chief medical officer, in line with regulation 2.35 of sub section 7 of the visits handbook, had left her mobile number and I decided to ring her on the school mobile in order to wind her up. Why? No real reason. Well, one of the girls had just informed me that she had a splinter in her hand and that it hurt! The phone rang and then went to voice mail. The splintered girl was told to leave her message and her three friends were told to wail quietly in the background,

“AH, AH AH!”

Soon there was a ring on the school mobile and a child’s voice, not that of the chief medical officer, said,

“The priest is jumping up and down. What shall we do?”

“Call the gendarmes, call the sapeurs,” I replied. Obviously the wind up was working both ways now.

Two minutes later and the phone went again.

“Mrs Dalmyre and the chief medical officer have been taken away by nuns.”

“Good.”

“No, no they have.”

“Bring them all back and we’ll have a party.”

At 12.15 the “churchers”, as they were named, returned, walking up to the château with headscarves fashioned into nuns’ headwear. Thus the society of “The Gorgeous Sisters of Eternal Optimism” was born.