Trouble at the Little Village School (6 page)

‘With his reading and writing,’ sighed the boy’s mother.

‘With his reading and writing,’ agreed Elisabeth. ‘But we can help him. I think your son has a form of dyslexia or word blindness called dysgraphia, which means he finds writing in particular difficult. A lot of dyslexic people have problems with language, and Darren tries very hard but it does cause him some problems. The content of his written work is of a good standard, it’s lively and interesting, but it’s the spelling and handwriting that causes him problems.’

‘My husband thought Darren might be dyslexic,’ said Mrs Holgate. ‘He’d seen this programme on the television and there were children like my Darren who couldn’t spell, but when we spoke to Miss Sowerbutts on parents’ evening she said he was just slow and that some children are good spellers and others are not. She said you can’t teach spelling. You’ve either got it or you haven’t. She said he needed to concentrate more and take greater care with his writing.’

‘Did she?’

‘She said dyslexia was just a fancy label parents say about their children who can’t spell.’

‘Well, I don’t agree with Miss Sowerbutts,’ Elisabeth replied. ‘There
is
a condition called dyslexia. It has been quite clearly proved and I feel sure this is Darren’s problem. With some specialist help his work will improve.’

Listening to the parent’s words, Elisabeth recalled the occasion when she had first broached the subject of James’s special needs with Dr Stirling. She had received a similar response to the one the parent had got from the former head teacher. ‘James has no condition, disorder or problem,’ he had told her dismissively. ‘He is just a quiet, under-confident little boy who is still grieving for his mother. I am weary of hearing and reading about all these so-called children’s disorders and syndromes.’

‘I first met Darren when I came for the interview for the head teacher’s position,’ Elisabeth told the parent, ‘and I looked at his work. It was imaginative and well-expressed, but his spelling and handwriting were below average for a child of his age. At first your son was reticent in letting me see his exercise book and told me his writing was not very good. He tried hard, he said, and liked writing but found words really difficult. I think he was of the opinion that he was not very clever.’

‘That’s true,’ agreed the mother. ‘He’s always saying he’s rubbish at writing and that he can’t seem to do anything right. He gets so upset and angry with himself. He’s not a lad to push himself forward and he lacks confidence.’

‘It’s not unusual for children with dyslexia to have low self-esteem and lack confidence in themselves, but I am telling you, Mrs Holgate, that your son is a bright, creative boy. Dyslexia affects a lot of people, some say over ten per cent of the population, and it is no reflection of a person’s intelligence.’

‘I see.’

‘At the beginning of the term, Mrs Goldstein, the educational psychologist, came into school and I asked her to speak to Darren, look at his work and give him a couple of tests. His verbal reasoning skills are high, he has a good visual memory, his number work is excellent and he has an above average IQ. The test on vocabulary, comprehension and spelling did, however, show that Darren does have a problem with some aspects of his writing.’

‘Yes, he told me he’d been doing tests,’ said the parent. ‘I thought all the children were doing them, though.’

‘What I am suggesting, Mrs Holgate, is that we put Darren on a personalised programme where he will receive some specialist support to help him reach his potential. It will be tailored to his needs and will only involve one lunchtime tuition a week and some work for him to do at home. Does that sound acceptable to you?’

‘Oh yes, Mrs Devine,’ said the parent. There was a tremble in her voice. ‘I only want what’s best for Darren. He gets so frustrated and unhappy at times with his writing and he’s always telling me he’s not as good as the other children in the class.’ She suddenly started to cry. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just that I feel a great weight has been lifted off my shoulders.’

‘So if you would have a word with Darren and see how he feels about it . . .’ said Elisabeth. ‘He has to be willing to do it.’

‘I will, Mrs Devine,’ said the parent. ‘I’ll speak to him tonight.’

The following day at lunchtime the subject of the discussion approached Elisabeth hesitantly as she walked around the playground.

‘My mum said you would like a word with me, miss,’ he said. He looked on the verge of tears.

‘Don’t look so worried, Darren,’ his teacher reassured him. ‘You are not in any trouble.’

‘My mum said you want me to do some special course, miss.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Will I have to go to another school?’ His bottom lip began to tremble.

‘Of course you won’t have to go to another school. All it means is that you will spend one lunchtime a week with me and maybe with one of the other teachers, and you will be given some work to do at home to help you with your spellings and handwriting. How does that sound?’

The boy sniffed and wiped his nose on a finger. Elisabeth reached into her pocket and passed him a tissue. He blew his nose loudly. ‘I’m rubbish at spelling,’ the boy told her. ‘I always have been.’

‘But you won’t be for long. Not if you work hard and try your best. Will you do that?’

‘I’ll try, miss.’

‘We can start next week if you like,’ said Elisabeth. ‘You know, Darren, what I said to you when I first met you was right. I don’t tell children something just to make them feel better. I meant what I said to you when I told you I liked your story about your dog and that it was well written and very amusing.’

The boy nodded, sniffed and smiled. ‘Miss, you know how you said that if you really want to say how you feel then the best way is through poetry?’

‘Yes, I do. A very famous poet once said that poetry is the shortest way of saying things and that it looks nicer on the page than prose. It gives you room to think and dream. You have to write down what you want to say at first and deal with the punctuation and spelling later on.’

‘I’ve written some poems, miss,’ the boy informed her. ‘Sometimes when I’ve not got a lot to do at home I write a poem. You don’t have to get everything right with poetry, do you?’

‘Will you let me see some of your poems?’ asked Elisabeth.

‘I haven’t shown them to anybody, miss,’ he said. ‘I just do them for myself.’

‘Well, that’s all right. There are things I write that I don’t want anybody else to see.’

At the end of the day Elisabeth found a piece of paper on her desk, folded neatly into a square. She opened it up. It was from Darren. The writing was spidery, the spelling poor, but the content took her breath away with its honesty and emotion.

The Trubble with Words

Words spel trubble.

They trip you up,

Trap you,

Trick you,

They dont folow the rules.

Words spel trubble.

They cofnuse you,

Snare you,

Scare you,

Make you seem a fool.

Words spel trubble.

They ambush you,

Buly you,

Hurt you,

Make you feel unhappy inisde.

Words spell trubble

They decieve you, Supprise you,

Worry you,

They make you cry.

Miss Brakespeare was tidying up her classroom when Elisabeth put her head around the door.

‘First couple of weeks nearly over,’ she said brightly, catching sight of the head teacher.

‘And things seem to be going well,’ said Elisabeth.

‘Very well, actually. I cannot tell you what a difference it has made having a smaller class,’ replied her colleague, ‘more space and all these new tables.’

‘I haven’t had much of a chance to see you since the term started,’ said Elisabeth. ‘It’s been so busy and gone so quickly. How was your Christmas?’

Miss Brakespeare shook her head and gave a small smile. ‘Not what you would call a barrel of laughs,’ she replied.

‘Oh dear,’ said Elisabeth.

‘I am afraid Mother seemed to delight in playing the martyr more than ever. I know she’s not been well but she could put a bit of a brave face on it, especially when it’s Christmas, a time of supposed peace and goodwill. I’m afraid she’s a dedicated hypochondriac. When Father was ill he rarely complained. Right up to his death he remained cheerful and made the best of the time he had left. My mother, I’m afraid, is one of the world’s grumpy old women. Nothing anyone does for her seems to be right. Her presents didn’t suit, there was nothing on the television, the house was too cold and nobody bothered to come and see her. The turkey wasn’t cooked enough, the sprouts were too hard, the stuffing dry and the potatoes overcooked. I tried to persuade her to go with me to the carol concert at the chapel but she wouldn’t. She went to bed early on Christmas Eve feeling sorry for herself and grumbling that this would be the last Christmas she would be having. “I won’t be here next year, Miriam. I’m on my way out,” she told me.’

‘You went to the carol service then?’ asked Elisabeth.

‘I did,’ replied Miss Brakespeare. ‘Mr Tomlinson asked me to turn the pages while he was playing the organ. I do it most Sundays for him.’ She reddened a little. ‘It gets me out of the house.’

‘He’s such a nice man, isn’t he?’ said Elisabeth.

‘He is, yes,’ replied the deputy head teacher coyly.

Elisabeth was aware that her deputy head teacher had been seeing quite a bit of the chapel organist of late and thought that this might very well have contributed to Miss Brakespeare’s constant, cheerful good humour and to the fact that she was making a real effort with her appearance. She smiled but resisted making a comment. ‘Did Chardonnay sing?’ she asked.

‘She did, and beautifully too,’ replied Miss Brakespeare. ‘The minister looked quite overcome. George – Mr Tomlinson that is – said it was like listening to an angel. He said it was amazing that she has such a clear and powerful voice and she’s never had any voice coaching.’

Elisabeth had discovered quite a deal of hidden talent when she arrived at Barton-in-the-Dale. In an effort to widen the children’s experience and offer them greater opportunities, she had invited a number of people into the school to work with the children. As well as Mrs Atticus, the lunchtime art teacher, there was the Reverend Atticus, who frequently called in to take the morning assembly. Mr Parkinson, the scout leader, came in to run a football team, in which Malcolm Stubbins had proved to be such a skilful player, and Mr Tomlinson had started a school choir, in which Chardonnay amazed everyone with her singing.

‘So to be honest,’ Miss Brakespeare confided, ‘I’m glad to be back at school. Oh, here I am nattering on about myself. Did you have a nice Christmas?’

‘Very pleasant,’ replied Elisabeth. ‘I had Christmas morning at Forest View with the staff and children.’ She failed to mention to her colleague that the afternoon and evening had been spent with Dr Stirling and the two boys at her cottage.

It had been quite a mystery to the governors at her interview why Elisabeth should want to leave her last position as head teacher of a large and very successful primary school in the city to take on the small village school, which had received such a poor report from the school inspectors. Apart from her deputy and the staff she had never divulged the reason for wanting to leave her last post, this being so that she could be nearer to her son. John was a pupil at Forest View, a special school for autistic children and a stone’s throw from Barton-in-the-Dale.

‘How is your son?’ asked Miss Brakespeare now.

‘He’s very much the same,’ Elisabeth told her. ‘Improvement tends to be slow. John’s very settled and likes his teacher, and the routine suits him well, which is the main thing. It’s a very good school and I’m so pleased he managed to get a place there. I go to see him every Saturday and, touch wood, I’ve not missed a visit yet.’

‘Well, I’m glad you decided to come. You’ve been a real tonic and made such a difference.’

‘That’s kind of you to say, Miriam,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Anyway, come along, you shouldn’t be here at this time. You should be getting off home.’

‘I think I’ll stay another half-hour,’ the deputy head teacher told her. ‘It’s Mother’s weekly visit from Dr Stirling today – he calls in on her every other Thursday – so I need to brace myself to prepare for the blow-by-blow account of her many ailments.’

Elisabeth left the school to find Miss Sowerbutts at the gate. The former head teacher must have been waiting quite some time, for it was getting on for five o’clock.

‘May I have a word with you, Mrs Devine?’ said Miss Sowerbutts. Her face was pinched with cold and irritation.

‘Yes, of course, Miss Sowerbutts,’ replied Elisabeth, meeting her eyes. ‘Would you care to come into the school?’

‘No, thank you,’ Miss Sowerbutts said in the petulant tone of the aggrieved. ‘What I have to say can be said here. I wanted to tell you that I am most displeased.’