Saving Miss Mirabelle Read online

  Furtively she tiptoed along the corridor. As she came closer she heard Miss Mirabelle’s clear voice echoing from the classroom. But was she teaching them anything? Or was she, as usual, just admiring somebody’s wobbly tooth, or showing them photographs of her sister’s new-born baby, or asking their advice on the best kitty litter?

  But, no! It sounded as if, just for once, she’d actually caught Miss Mirabelle giving a lesson. How very strange!

  ‘If there are twenty-five of you,’ Miss Mirabelle was saying, ‘and I have exactly one thousand lolly sticks in this box, how many should I give to each of you, to make it fair?’

  Miss Mirabelle made it sound as if it really was a problem. What a good way of making division sound interesting – lolly sticks! Mrs Spicer eavesdropped with interest as the whole class struggled aloud with the sum. They all seemed very keen to get it right, as though no one wanted too many, or too few.

  Then out the answer popped:

  ‘We get exactly forty each! And there’ll be none left over!’

  ‘Good. That will be all fair then,’ Miss Mirabelle said. And she sounded as if it really mattered. Mrs Spicer was astonished. She made her way silently back to her office and sat in front of the paper, bewildered. What was she going to do now? She might be a bit of a dragon, but she was always scrupulously fair. She couldn’t write a dreadful report on Miss Mirabelle after overhearing that simply splendid lesson in division. She’d have to put the report aside for a little while. Catch Miss Mirabelle out later . . .

  Just before break, Mrs Spicer tried again. She slunk along the corridor, making no sound. No sound came from Miss Mirabelle’s room, either. Perhaps they were all busy, Mrs Spicer thought, with one of their little eye-squelching sessions . . .

  Mrs Spicer peeped through the pane of glass set in the door. Amazing! She could scarcely believe her eyes! The whole class was working hard, even that little daydreamer, Lancelot Higgins! Everyone’s head was bent over their desk. Everyone was concentrating. Usually, when Mrs Spicer peeped into a classroom, at least one person would be staring idly around, and look in her direction, and notice her at once.

  Not here. Not today. Today they were all so busy that no one looked up. Mrs Spicer couldn’t make out exactly what they were doing. It looked as if they were writing numbers neatly on the ends of brand-new lolly sticks, but that was ridiculous. They must have been doing something else. But, no doubt about it, they were certainly working.

  Shaking her head in disbelief, Mrs Spicer turned and went back down the corridor. She had better get back to her office. That report on Miss Mirabelle had to be posted today. But still, it was difficult to write the report she wanted to write after seeing the class working so well and so busily.

  It would be better to wait till after break. She’d feel more like it then.

  A few minutes after the bell rang to signal the end of break-time, Mrs Spicer pushed aside her coffee cup. Time to write the report! She was just glancing out of the window as she reached for her pen, when she happened to notice the children from Miss Mirabelle’s class gathering around the football pitch.

  Mrs Spicer studied her watch. Well, really! Break-time ended at least ten minutes ago. What could Miss Mirabelle be thinking of, letting her class wander about all over the place? This would go straight in the report!

  But what were they doing? Extraordinary! They were working. No doubt about it. They were working hard. With metre sticks and a long tape-measure, the class was busy measuring along the sides of the football pitch and dividing each side into smaller equal lengths.

  Mrs Spicer’s writing hand trembled. She had to write the report. She had to write it today. She knew what she wanted to write. She was desperate to write it and get rid of the amazing Miss Mirabelle and her high heels for ever. But what she was seeing outside made it impossible for her to write Miss Mirabelle a bad report. It simply wouldn’t be fair. How many teachers can make measuring a rectangle interesting for children? Not very many. Using the football pitch was such a fine idea! Mrs Spicer couldn’t help feeling a little bit pleased with Miss Mirabelle as she stared out of the window. She’d have to put off the report till after lunch.

  But after lunch things were no worse. In fact, they were even better. Mrs Spicer could scarcely believe it. There were the children from Miss Mirabelle’s class, outside again, fanning out along the sides of the football pitch. What did they have in their hands? Knitting wool? Yes. How extraordinary! What on earth were they doing?

  Mrs Spicer leaned her forehead against the cool glass of her window-pane and watched, fascinated, as the children from Miss Mirabelle’s class carefully divided the entire football pitch into exactly equal squares, one thousand of them, and marked them out with wool.

  Wonderful! The most interesting way of measuring area that Mrs Spicer had ever seen. Why hadn’t she thought of teaching it that way herself? Really, she ought to take Miss Mirabelle aside in the staff room next time she saw her and tell her what a splendid idea it was. Excellent! Excellent! So much better than just doing it in the dreary old work books!

  And what were they all doing now?

  How strange! They were all kneeling down and pushing a little marker like a lolly stick into each square. How clever! Now every square was measured out exactly and marked with one of those numbered lolly sticks. And there were exactly one thousand!

  What a splendid lesson!

  Mrs Spicer couldn’t help it. When she saw sloppy teaching, she got annoyed. And when she saw splendid teaching, she was delighted. Drawing the sheet of paper towards her, she unscrewed the top of her fountain pen, and wrote.

  Report on Miss Mirabelle

  I must confess that when Miss Mirabelle first came to teach at Wallisdean Park School I did have doubts. Eye-squelching sessions . . . Sniffers in the cupboard . . . And those shoes! But recently I have seen a great improvement all round. Not everyone can make an interesting class out of division, or measuring rectangles, or working out areas. Mr Rushman couldn’t. Nor could Mrs Maloney or Mr Hubert. But Miss Mirabelle can. She uses lolly sticks, and balls of wool – even the football pitch. She is amazing and I am delighted.

  Yours very truly,

  Emily Spicer

  There. That would do. It was a fine report, and Miss Mirabelle deserved it. Yes! Every last word!

  Mrs Spicer folded the sheet of paper, slid it inside the envelope and sealed the flap. She glanced at her watch again. Time for the post.

  She walked towards the door, holding the letter in her hand. And for the first time ever when thinking about Miss Mirabelle, Mrs Spicer was smiling. A little melody she’d overheard the children singing in the playground floated into her mind, and she began to hum. What were the words?

  Which would you rather?

  Run a mile?

  Jump a stile?

  Or eat a country pancake?

  Really it was a very sweet little song, compared with a lot of the rather tasteless rubbish one heard them bellowing at playtime. Mrs Spicer sang it to herself all the way home and for most of the evening.

  5

  In which Lance’s granny is totally disgusted

  The farmer was astonished. She dropped the end of the hosepipe she was dragging across the courtyard and stared at Lance.

  ‘You want to borrow a cow?’

  Lance stared at the water scudding in silky waves across the cobbles.

  ‘Yes, please,’ he answered politely. ‘Just for the afternoon. She’ll be back in time for milking.’

  ‘A cow,’ said the farmer meditatively. ‘Fancy a cow! I’m often asked for a horse. Never a cow.’

  ‘Well,’ Lance said, a shade uneasily. ‘This is a bit different.’

  ‘It certainly is,’ said the farmer. ‘What do you want a cow for?’

  Lance looked down and inspected the ends of his shoes. They were muddy from the water spilling out of the hosepipe. This was the moment he’d been dreading. It hadn’t been too bad, whispering the idea into Miss Mirabelle’s e
ar in the classroom. That hadn’t been too difficult. And it hadn’t been all that hard, either, explaining it to everyone else in the class. They’d just sat wide-eyed, listening quietly (until the giggling began, of course).

  Telling the farmer was not quite so easy. Lance found it impossible to describe exactly why he wanted to borrow a cow.

  ‘Oh, just to sort of walk about a bit.’

  ‘Just sort of walk about a bit?’

  ‘Yes. On our school football pitch.’

  The farmer was mystified.

  ‘But what’s the point?’

  Lance gave up inspecting the ends of his shoes and took to inspecting his fingernails instead.

  ‘People will probably be standing around the pitch,’ he offered finally, after a long struggle for words. ‘Sort of watching.’

  ‘Sort of watching? Sort of watching what?’

  ‘The cow.’

  ‘But why?’

  Lance shrugged, as if that part of things were no concern of his.

  ‘Well, really, just to see where she goes, I expect.’

  The farmer shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m glad I don’t have any children. I’m sure I’d worry myself silly about what they do all day in school.’

  She reached down for the end of her hosepipe.

  ‘Well, Lance,’ she said, ‘you’ve spent whole weeks helping me. So you can borrow a cow for one afternoon. But it will have to be Flossie. Flossie knows you, and Flossie is calm and sensible. Flossie won’t mind.’

  ‘I’m sure no cow would mind,’ Lance said eagerly. ‘Our football pitch must be like Sunday dinner to a cow. All lovely and rich and green and luscious.’

  ‘I can’t think why you want a cow wandering about on it, then,’ said the farmer. ‘Before you know where you are, you’ll be having to run after her with a shovel!’

  She took off to the barn, dragging the hose. If she’d looked back, she might have seen Lance standing there in the courtyard hugging himself and grinning, before he too took off towards the meadow.

  Flossie was lying in the meadow, chewing the cud. Lance slipped through the bars of the fence and strode over towards her. Most of the other cows in the herd got up and walked away as he came closer, but Flossie didn’t bother.

  Lance sat cross-legged on the grass in front of her.

  ‘Hello, Flossie.’

  Chewing, she gazed into his eyes. He gazed back into hers. They were enormous, as dark and gleaming as the beautiful old polished furniture in Granny’s house.

  ‘Flossie,’ said Lance. ‘It’s about Saturday.’

  He’d known her all her life. He loved her dearly. He couldn’t just spring this on her. He had to explain.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Lance, ‘I need your help.’

  Flossie kept chewing imperturbably.

  Lance spread his hands.

  ‘It’s an odd thing to ask anyone to do,’ he admitted openly. ‘Even a cow.’

  Her great jaws ground away steadily at the green spinachy cud. She didn’t seem at all bothered.

  ‘I wouldn’t ask you if I had a choice,’ said Lance. ‘To be honest, I wish she’d picked another cow entirely. I wish she hadn’t chosen you. But she says you’re calm and sensible . . .’

  He watched her closely.

  ‘And she says you won’t mind.’

  Flossie swung her great head round and stared out thoughtfully over the meadow. Lance wondered what she was thinking. What did cows think about? Did cows think at all?

  Not really, he decided. They couldn’t think like people can. Oh, they could feel. They could feel pain if they got a thorn impacted in one of their hooves, or if nobody milked them, or if they broke a leg.

  And they could feel satisfaction if they had a long drink of water on a hot day, or found a good bit of fence to scratch on.

  And they could follow their instincts enough to gather at the corner of the field when it was milking time, and find their way to their own stalls.

  But Flossie couldn’t think the same way Lance could think. And she couldn’t have such complicated feelings. She wouldn’t feel excited about something that was going to happen, and she wouldn’t fret afterwards if it went wrong. Cows had no imagination. That’s why they were so peaceful, Lance thought. They didn’t spend their days, like he did, chewing over yesterday and tomorrow. They just chewed the cud.

  It was a pretty cushy life, when you came to think about it. No worries. Water on tap. Salt-licks tied to the fence. Constant meals. Nice warm barn. No fears for the future. No reason why a cow shouldn’t be expected to be a bit of a help every now and again, when opportunity offered.

  Lance rose to his feet, decided.

  ‘So you’ll help, won’t you, Flossie? You won’t mind?’

  Flossie burped contentedly. The sweet smell of fermenting cud wafted over Lance. He waved it away.

  Flossie struggled to her feet, startled.

  ‘Don’t bother to get up,’ said Lance. ‘I’m leaving anyway. But I’ll be back to fetch you on Saturday.’

  He paused, still a tiny bit anxious about the arrangement. There was one more small thing he felt he really should get clear.

  ‘I do hope you understand how serious all this is,’ he said gravely to Flossie. ‘Almost all of the squares of the football pitch have been bought in the raffle. So we must have a winner.’ He caught Flossie’s eye. ‘You mustn’t just come and wander round the football pitch and nothing else. You mustn’t let me down.’

  As if deeply offended at the very suggestion that she might fail in her charitable duty, Flossie swung round, turning her back on him. Delicately raising her tail, she left a huge fresh deposit practically at his feet before indifferently ambling off.

  Lance looked down at the great steaming pancake, two inches from his shoes. Then he looked up and grinned. And calling after Flossie who was disappearing between the trees, he added his last stern warning:

  ‘Mind now, Flossie! I’m taking that as a definite promise!’

  ‘A raffle!’ said Granny. ‘Lovely. I adore raffles. May I buy a ticket?’

  Lance dug in his pocket and drew out the last of the lolly sticks. They had been selling like hot cakes all week.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I saved the last five for you. Fifty pence each.’

  Granny took the lolly sticks and inspected them curiously.

  ‘A bit odd,’ she said. ‘Not like your common or garden raffle ticket.’

  ‘They stick in the ground well,’ Lance assured her.

  Granny found herself eyeing Lance rather carefully.

  ‘I’m glad your term is nearly over,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I worry that school is all too much for you.’

  Lance couldn’t think what she was on about. He carried on explaining about the lolly sticks.

  ‘They have to stick in the ground,’ he said. ‘To mark the raffle squares. We read the number on the lolly stick when Flossie has chosen.’

  ‘Flossie?’

  ‘You know Flossie,’ Lance said. ‘Flossie the cow.’

  Granny narrowed her eyes.

  ‘A cow is picking the winner? A cow?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lance said. ‘It’s all arranged. It was my idea.’

  Granny reached out a hand and laid it thoughtfully on Lance’s forehead.

  ‘I’m wondering if I should take you home,’ she said. ‘I’m not absolutely one hundred per cent certain you ought to be out of bed.’

  Lance realised suddenly that Granny thought he was unhinged.

  ‘I’m perfectly all right,’ he assured her. ‘I haven’t gone potty. Flossie will choose the winner.’

  ‘Oh yes? Is she going to dip her hoof in a tub?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Lance. ‘She’s going to do it differently. She’s going to –’

  He broke off. However many times he tried to describe the process, this bit was always difficult. He had no trouble imagining it himself. In his own mind the picture was perfectly clear. I
t was like one of his daydreams. Flossie became as sleek and powerful as the most valuable Arabian mare. She wore a bridle studded with precious jewels that glittered fiercely in the harsh sunlight. Astride her rode Lance himself, high in the saddle. He wore a suit of the richest velvet, a cap with a feather and a silver sword. Upon his saddle was emblazoned the royal crest that proclaimed his princely ancestry.

  Tall, noble, handsome . . . When he rode through the gate into the field the crowds went mad, cheering wildly, hurling their hats in the air, dropping to their knees in wonder, fainting from the sheer excitement of the day.

  Three times around the field of green they rode, he and Flossie, until at last the waiting crowd fell silent, gasped –

  ‘Lance?’

  Granny was looking quite anxious.

  ‘Lance? Are you all right, dear?’

  Lance pulled himself together.

  ‘Sorry. I was just off in a daydream.’

  Hastily Granny gathered up her jacket and her bag. She had decided it was best to take her grandson home and leave him in his parents’ care. Obviously he was a bit feverish.

  As they walked down the lane, hand in hand, the sight of all the cows in the meadow reminded Granny of what they had been talking about before Lance suddenly went peculiar.

  ‘About this raffle, Lance. Explain to me again. How is the cow going to pick the winner?’

  Lance tried to pick his words carefully. But it was no use. Granny stopped dead in her tracks.

  ‘Lancelot Higgins! I am totally disgusted!’

  Furiously blushing, Lance stared ahead.

  All the way home, Granny went on about it. ‘Disgraceful . . . don’t know what the schools are coming to . . . read in the papers . . . I blame the teachers, frankly . . . wouldn’t dream of such a thing in my day . . . totally disgusted.’

  Lance just kept walking.

  As they reached the front gate, Granny stopped muttering and laid her hand on his.

  ‘I won’t come in. I’ll say goodbye here.’

  Lance hung his head.

  Granny lifted his chin.