This is in response to the writing prompt given out at Janet Howson's
book launch about something dramatic that happened at school.
By Dawn Knox
milk
I suppose I could blame the many children’s books I’d
read where there was always a hero who saved the day. Or perhaps it was my childish
and naïve confidence that adults were always in control and therefore nothing
could go wrong. There again, maybe I was an empty-headed child so caught up in
the wonders and exuberance of childhood that I simply didn’t notice what was
going on around me.
Now,
as an adult who is reasonably disciplined and informed, it’s hard to judge why,
as a child, I was so calm and unconcerned about the world around me. In those
days, there was no suspicion of global warming, rising sea levels,
deforestation or of the pandemics to come. It seemed to be a world where if you
knew where to look, you could easily stumble across the Magic Faraway Tree of
Enid Blyton’s story, or a Hobbit Hole of JRR Tolkien’s book.
Over
the last few years, I’ve often puzzled over one particular day in the mid-1960s
when I was at junior school. I was a carefree, daydreamer who would invariably
forget to take her PE kit to school in the morning and wouldn’t remember to bring
her coat home in the afternoon but on that particular day, unusually, I’d
thought ahead and worked out that at mid-morning, my form would be taking part
in another dreaded country dancing class. A special form of torture dreamt up
by teachers to force shy girls to hold hands with grubby boys who didn’t know
their left foot from their right foot. Or perhaps it was supposed to encourage
teamwork as each couple had to work hard to avoid collapsing in an ungainly
heap of arms and legs.
Girls
and boys were paired up for the term in a seemingly random fashion although I
later wondered whether our teacher simply had a quirky sense of humour. I was
one of the smallest children in the class, so, to have paired me up with the rather
large, bear-like Paul, was a curious choice. Resembling Baloo and Mowgli, we
skipped, galloped and polkaed around the hall in our plimsolls; he squeezing all
feeling out of my hand and trampling over my feet; and me, trying to match his giant
strides as we Roger de Coverley’ed with the other children.
Once,
for no particular reason, Paul told me he would wait for me at the gate after
school… and then beat me up. That was one of the few afternoons when I didn’t
dawdle after school. I was out of the building seconds after the bell rang,
escaping through a gate out of which I wouldn’t normally leave school and then
I took a circuitous route home.
The
following day having thwarted his plans, I expected there to be some reprisals
from Paul but there was none. In fact, he seemed quite friendly and after a
while, I realised it had simply been an idle boast and that he probably hadn’t
been at the gate waiting for me at all.
But
the particular country dancing lesson in the mid-1960s which I remember so
vividly, taught me an important lesson. And it had nothing to do with skipping,
springing or side-stepping.
That
morning over breakfast, I recall a slight feeling of triumph in reading an
article in the newspaper which led me to believe that my country dancing lesson
would have to be abandoned. There would be no more hand-crushing or toe-mashing
from Paul. Sadly, it would also mean no opportunity to pair up with Stuart, the
boy on whom I had a crush. I longed to dance with him, yet dreaded the prospect,
knowing I’d be so shy, I wouldn’t be able to look him in the eyes.
But
if the newspaper report was true–and why wouldn’t it be? Then the country
dancing lesson should be disrupted shortly after it began. I must admit, to
being slightly doubtful because neither of my parents seemed particularly
perturbed–indeed, neither of them had mentioned that the day was expected to be
anything other than ordinary. Both of them said goodbye to me with no greater fondness
on that day than any other.
The time came for the lesson and we changed into our
plimsolls and filed into the hall. As usual, I waited with bated breath to see
if the teacher would change our partners around–wouldn’t it be ironic if, on
this particular day, I was paired with Stuart? But, no. My partner was Paul. As
usual, the music started and with the size-difference of Yogi and Boo Boo, we began
to strut our stuff.
During
the lesson, there wasn’t much opportunity to consider the newspaper article as Paul’s
sweaty hand crushed mine and I fervently hoped he wouldn’t suddenly let go as
he swung me around, sending me hurtling with centrifugal force into the
climbing bars attached to the wall. It therefore came as quite a surprise when
the end of the lesson arrived with the ringing of the bell and we changed back
into our outdoor shoes then went to lunch.
I
was baffled and slightly disappointed. It appeared the newspaper report had
been wrong. The asteroid which had been hurtling through space hadn’t collided
with earth at eleven o’clock on that day as the newspaper report had predicted.
Looking
back on it now, I can only wonder at how calmly I ate my porridge at
breakfast-time while reading about the imminent destruction of the world. Why
hadn’t I asked my parents that morning? Why hadn’t I been frightened? From the
perspective of adulthood, I can’t believe I hadn’t foreseen the likely consequences
that would follow an asteroid strike.
I
can only imagine I’d read so many amazing stories where heroes overcame all
sorts of disasters that the idea of a real calamity happening didn’t seem
possible. And surely my parents would have kept me off school if they’d
believed the world was about to be devastated? It simply couldn’t be true. And
yet, it had been in the newspaper…
And
then again, perhaps my dislike of country dancing lessons added a dollop of
wishful thinking, with no regard for the repercussions for the world, its
inhabitants, my family or me.
However,
I learned an important lesson that day. Nothing to do with dance steps or even the
wisdom of keeping out of Paul’s way–no, I learned that the news media can be
wrong and isn’t always to be trusted. A very important lesson indeed.
The
following week and from then on, I was paired with Paul during country dancing
and the lessons continued until I left junior school. And I never got to dance
with Stuart once…
On
the other hand, I lived to tell the tale…
About the auhtor
Dawn enjoys writing in different genres and has
had romances, speculative fiction, sci-fi, humorous and women’s fiction
published in magazines, anthologies and books. She’s also had two plays about
World War One performed internationally. Her latest book was written with Colin
Payn–a near-future romance called The Future Brokers.
You
can follow her here on https://dawnknox.com or on Twitter here https://twitter.com/SunriseCalls
