Miss Carney innovates
Edna Carney prepared herself for rainy playtime. Usually, she took a cup of tea and a biscuit, but today was different. Miss Carney had devised a plan. It hadn’t rained at playtime for the past two weeks, and her plan needed the big hall and an electric power supply. She had plenty of time to mull over the Inspector’s hurtful remarks, and her anger had given way to craftiness. She gathered together the equipment she would need in advance, and bided her time. On the Thursday morning, the heavens opened.
When it was too rainy even for Lancashire, the smallest children of St Luke’s Primary School were shepherded into the big school hall for their thirty minutes of morning play. Let’s be clear about terminology here: the hall was the biggest room in the school, and had a stage at one end. Not at all to be confused with an American ‘hall’, which is a corridor in old-world English.
The hall was utilitarian at best. It acted as a gymnasium, a temporary clinic, an occasional theatre, and of course as the place to put Class One when it was bucketing down outside. Class One were the smallest, youngest, and most fiendishly energetic pupils in the school. Miss Carney knew them inside out, having taught every single Class One for the past thirty years.
Far from being difficult, rainy playtime in the big hall was easy, almost pleasant, if a little noisy. Unlike outdoor playtime patrol, here in the hall you could sit down, sip tea and see what each child was up to with ease. Remarkably, the frequent collisions and tumbles didn’t result in tears like they did outside. The kids were just too excited to notice pain.
Within minutes of Class One entering it, the big hall would become a deafening maelstrom of short, whirling, excited figures. The hall had an intoxicating, energising effect – but why?
Well, for a start there was the sound. It echoed. If you whooped or shrieked the sound of your own voice bounced off the walls. The pale maple planked floor felt warm to a five-year-olds knees. Falling over in the hall didn’t hurt like it did in the playground. This was a big consideration to Miss Carney’s class as they fell over quite a lot. Moreover you could sit, lie and roll on the floor of the big hall without getting cold or wet or dirty. And then there were the gym benches that lined the walls, which had great scope for sitting, jumping on, and pushing each other off.
But best of all was the ‘no shoes in the big hall’ rule. Mr Johnson the caretaker spent long hours polishing the floor of the big hall to a soft sheen. Mr Johnson’s golden rule was actually ‘gym shoes only’. In practice, the chaos of thirty mixed infants changing into PE shoes was too daunting. Most hadn’t brought any PE shoes to school, others had got theirs mixed up or lost them and only two could get them on the right feet without help.
Normally getting the reception class organised was like keeping kittens in a basket, but they all followed the shoes-off the routine with no urging. Every child wanted to be first to slide across the glassy polished floor at top speed on their stocking feet. It was blissful, the closest thing to flying a five-year-old could get.
And if things looked like getting out of hand, there was the miraculous whistle. The whistle demonstrated the herd-like instincts of small children. Nobody ever actually sat them down and instructed them in how to react to the teacher’s whistle. This was a response they learned on their first day in school.
Small children are hard-wired to copy older children. When a teacher blew the whistle once, the older children went silent and stood still. The youngest ones copied them. On the second whistle, the children lined up ready to go back to their classrooms - copied by the youngest children.
Even the end-of-playtime whistle gave the opportunity for play. One game was to freeze in an exaggerated pose on the first whistle. This must have been hysterically funny for the adult in charge. Sometimes they would wait more seconds than was strictly necessary before blowing the second whistle, to see if anyone started to wobble.
Blowing the whistle inside the big hall was doubly effective because of the echo, which also made the standing still game even better. There would be the odd reverberating thud as a child attempting to hold an especially balletic posture keeled over, and stifled giggles that were inaudible outside chirruped around the big hall like small birds.
Miss Carney knew how to run a classroom. She knew what these children needed and how to organise them. To have an Inspector refer to her methods as somewhat old-fashioned left her speechless with rage. Going on about learning through play, free expression, and similar rot. It wasn’t fair. And so, Miss Carney’s plan was formed.
She would show them how to be modern. And she would do it where everyone would see, and hear, during a rainy playtime in the hall. Instead of random play, her class could have a music and dance lesson. Not using the old jangly upright piano for music, but using a real modern record. One from the Pop Charts. This was an indicator of how furious she was, because in Miss Carney’s world view, the Pop Charts were only a step away from the devil.
Miss Carney’s plan was based around a portable ‘Dansette’ record player and the latest long-playing record of Franҫoise Hardy, both borrowed from her niece in Swinton. Playing pop music would have been frowned on by an Inspector. But pop music in French? Clearly educational. And dance was in the official category of ‘music and movement’. Wait till that Inspector heard about it, he would have to eat his words.
You can google Dansette, but basically we’re talking a turntable on which was placed a vinyl recorded disc that rotated at 33 rpm. The sound was picked up by a fine metal stylus on an arm that was pivoted at one end. As the disc rotated, the stylus progressed along the fine spiral groove cut into its surface, picking up vibrations which were made into music by a tinny in-built speaker. This was the height of technological wonder for 1962. It was also a bit delicate, as the slightest nudge or vibration could make the stylus jump about.
So on that rainy Thursday morning, Miss Carney followed Class One into the big hall, pushing the Dansette on a tea-trolley. She plugged it in and let it warm up, and then explained to the class what they were to do. Then she raised the lid of the Dansette, delicately placed the stylus at the start of the disc, and turned up the volume.
Miss Carney should have known that children do not respond well to changes of routine, especially if that involves swapping sliding and shrieking for listening to a foreign lady warbling sadly. Worse still, ‘Miss’ told them to use dancing to show her how the music made them feel. What they actually felt was bafflement, tinged with mild outrage. They wanted to get back to business as normal.
Billy Doherty discovered that by jumping as high as he could, and landing with a very hard stamp, he could make the floorboards vibrate, jogging the arm of the record player and making the sad singer hiccup. Miss Carney sent Billy to the far end of the hall for being naughty. But it was too late. Billy’s game spread like wildfire, with the children competing to see who could jump the highest, and land the hardest. ‘Tous les garҫons et les filles de mon age’ quickly deteriorated into ‘too-too-too-too’ and ‘feeeder-feeeder-feeder’, which class one found hilarious especially as they had made it happen.
Neither Miss Carney nor Franҫoise Hardy could compete with thirty-five small, excited kids leaping like a herd of wildebeest. She dug into her pocket for her whistle, inhaled deeply and blew and ear-splitting five second blast. Class one froze like slightly giggly, out-of-breath statues. Rainy playtime was over.
Miss Carney never repeated daring educational innovation ever again. She retired not long afterwards, and in the big hall, with a packed audience of parents and pupils, she was publicly thanked for her decades of work, and was presented with a special gift that would remind her in retirement of the happy times at St Lukes.
It was a nice new Dansette record player.
When it was too rainy even for Lancashire, the smallest children of St Luke’s Primary School were shepherded into the big school hall for their thirty minutes of morning play. Let’s be clear about terminology here: the hall was the biggest room in the school, and had a stage at one end. Not at all to be confused with an American ‘hall’, which is a corridor in old-world English.
The hall was utilitarian at best. It acted as a gymnasium, a temporary clinic, an occasional theatre, and of course as the place to put Class One when it was bucketing down outside. Class One were the smallest, youngest, and most fiendishly energetic pupils in the school. Miss Carney knew them inside out, having taught every single Class One for the past thirty years.
Far from being difficult, rainy playtime in the big hall was easy, almost pleasant, if a little noisy. Unlike outdoor playtime patrol, here in the hall you could sit down, sip tea and see what each child was up to with ease. Remarkably, the frequent collisions and tumbles didn’t result in tears like they did outside. The kids were just too excited to notice pain.
Within minutes of Class One entering it, the big hall would become a deafening maelstrom of short, whirling, excited figures. The hall had an intoxicating, energising effect – but why?
Well, for a start there was the sound. It echoed. If you whooped or shrieked the sound of your own voice bounced off the walls. The pale maple planked floor felt warm to a five-year-olds knees. Falling over in the hall didn’t hurt like it did in the playground. This was a big consideration to Miss Carney’s class as they fell over quite a lot. Moreover you could sit, lie and roll on the floor of the big hall without getting cold or wet or dirty. And then there were the gym benches that lined the walls, which had great scope for sitting, jumping on, and pushing each other off.
But best of all was the ‘no shoes in the big hall’ rule. Mr Johnson the caretaker spent long hours polishing the floor of the big hall to a soft sheen. Mr Johnson’s golden rule was actually ‘gym shoes only’. In practice, the chaos of thirty mixed infants changing into PE shoes was too daunting. Most hadn’t brought any PE shoes to school, others had got theirs mixed up or lost them and only two could get them on the right feet without help.
Normally getting the reception class organised was like keeping kittens in a basket, but they all followed the shoes-off the routine with no urging. Every child wanted to be first to slide across the glassy polished floor at top speed on their stocking feet. It was blissful, the closest thing to flying a five-year-old could get.
And if things looked like getting out of hand, there was the miraculous whistle. The whistle demonstrated the herd-like instincts of small children. Nobody ever actually sat them down and instructed them in how to react to the teacher’s whistle. This was a response they learned on their first day in school.
Small children are hard-wired to copy older children. When a teacher blew the whistle once, the older children went silent and stood still. The youngest ones copied them. On the second whistle, the children lined up ready to go back to their classrooms - copied by the youngest children.
Even the end-of-playtime whistle gave the opportunity for play. One game was to freeze in an exaggerated pose on the first whistle. This must have been hysterically funny for the adult in charge. Sometimes they would wait more seconds than was strictly necessary before blowing the second whistle, to see if anyone started to wobble.
Blowing the whistle inside the big hall was doubly effective because of the echo, which also made the standing still game even better. There would be the odd reverberating thud as a child attempting to hold an especially balletic posture keeled over, and stifled giggles that were inaudible outside chirruped around the big hall like small birds.
Miss Carney knew how to run a classroom. She knew what these children needed and how to organise them. To have an Inspector refer to her methods as somewhat old-fashioned left her speechless with rage. Going on about learning through play, free expression, and similar rot. It wasn’t fair. And so, Miss Carney’s plan was formed.
She would show them how to be modern. And she would do it where everyone would see, and hear, during a rainy playtime in the hall. Instead of random play, her class could have a music and dance lesson. Not using the old jangly upright piano for music, but using a real modern record. One from the Pop Charts. This was an indicator of how furious she was, because in Miss Carney’s world view, the Pop Charts were only a step away from the devil.
Miss Carney’s plan was based around a portable ‘Dansette’ record player and the latest long-playing record of Franҫoise Hardy, both borrowed from her niece in Swinton. Playing pop music would have been frowned on by an Inspector. But pop music in French? Clearly educational. And dance was in the official category of ‘music and movement’. Wait till that Inspector heard about it, he would have to eat his words.
You can google Dansette, but basically we’re talking a turntable on which was placed a vinyl recorded disc that rotated at 33 rpm. The sound was picked up by a fine metal stylus on an arm that was pivoted at one end. As the disc rotated, the stylus progressed along the fine spiral groove cut into its surface, picking up vibrations which were made into music by a tinny in-built speaker. This was the height of technological wonder for 1962. It was also a bit delicate, as the slightest nudge or vibration could make the stylus jump about.
So on that rainy Thursday morning, Miss Carney followed Class One into the big hall, pushing the Dansette on a tea-trolley. She plugged it in and let it warm up, and then explained to the class what they were to do. Then she raised the lid of the Dansette, delicately placed the stylus at the start of the disc, and turned up the volume.
Miss Carney should have known that children do not respond well to changes of routine, especially if that involves swapping sliding and shrieking for listening to a foreign lady warbling sadly. Worse still, ‘Miss’ told them to use dancing to show her how the music made them feel. What they actually felt was bafflement, tinged with mild outrage. They wanted to get back to business as normal.
Billy Doherty discovered that by jumping as high as he could, and landing with a very hard stamp, he could make the floorboards vibrate, jogging the arm of the record player and making the sad singer hiccup. Miss Carney sent Billy to the far end of the hall for being naughty. But it was too late. Billy’s game spread like wildfire, with the children competing to see who could jump the highest, and land the hardest. ‘Tous les garҫons et les filles de mon age’ quickly deteriorated into ‘too-too-too-too’ and ‘feeeder-feeeder-feeder’, which class one found hilarious especially as they had made it happen.
Neither Miss Carney nor Franҫoise Hardy could compete with thirty-five small, excited kids leaping like a herd of wildebeest. She dug into her pocket for her whistle, inhaled deeply and blew and ear-splitting five second blast. Class one froze like slightly giggly, out-of-breath statues. Rainy playtime was over.
Miss Carney never repeated daring educational innovation ever again. She retired not long afterwards, and in the big hall, with a packed audience of parents and pupils, she was publicly thanked for her decades of work, and was presented with a special gift that would remind her in retirement of the happy times at St Lukes.
It was a nice new Dansette record player.