From early on, the children and I developed routines. We paced out the days with morning intensity and afternoon languor. Mornings, when we were most alert, were filled with activities demanding close attention and persistence. Afternoons, when we’d used up much of our physical and mental resources, were devoted to more comfortable activities, such as music, gentle sports, craft and reading for pleasure.
To open each day we exchanged friendly good mornings. The children said, ‘Good morning, Sir’ or ‘Good morning, Mr O’Brien’. I’d considered allowing them the use of my first name, but although I wanted our environment to be friendly and relaxed, I had to be seen to be in charge. My youth caused me some lingering uncertainty, and I wasn’t sure if I could maintain the level of control required by the educational authorities if I permitted the kids to call me Peter. I didn’t yet have a sense of personal authority that could be relied on at all times and in all matters in the school. I remained dependent on the prestige of my position: teacher-in-charge. Carries a bit of a ring to it, I thought. In addition, I knew that justifying any permission for the children to call me Peter would have been impossible if I’d been called on it by other teachers. It was a widely held ‘truism’ that formality in the teacher–pupil relationship was a necessity; any breach would have been viewed as ‘letting down the side’. My self-belief was not yet strong enough to suffer that.
We pledged our loyalty once a week. ‘I honour my God, I serve my Queen, I salute my Flag.’ And the kids saluted the flag on one wall, next to a picture of the Queen. I was aware many commentators saw this as an expression of thought control employed by conservative governments to promote ideological goals and encourage obedience in a complacent population. I, though, was happy the children recited the pledge, even if I may have shared some minor concerns about it. The kids saw few people outside their village and its surrounds, so feeling part of a bigger event, part of the nation, was, I believed, important for them; I wanted them to have a broader image of where they might fit and what their identities might be beyond their families and Weabonga.
Almost every morning we exchanged news about ourselves. I also wanted the children to realise their lives and families were important, and that what happened in their homes and in their village and its surrounds was worthy of discussion. I hoped the kids would build respect for themselves, each other and all around them.
Much of the news was about birth: chicks, lambs, calves, pups, kittens.
Gary, from Grade Three, once told us, ‘Our pet sow, Gilly, had seven piglets and most are all pink but one has brown markings.’
Sometimes news featured mercantile items.
Will, Gary’s older brother, reported, ‘We caught ten rabbits over the weekend. We’re saving the money we get for the skins to buy a saddle.’
There were reports of dramatic happenings.
Lindie, from a sheep station out of the village along the Back Ingelba Road, surprised us with, ‘A brown snake sneaked into the pantry on Saturday. Mum was terrified. We were terrified. Mum wouldn’t go in there until Dad got it out.’
‘How did your dad get it out?’ another kid asked.
‘Well, he heated up some milk and put it in a saucer on the floor just outside the pantry. Dad didn’t have to wait long. The snake came slithering out. Its tongue flicked when it smelled the hot milk. Dad chopped off its head with a mattock.’
Once the news was reported, and we’d all recovered from laughter or shock, we might share a song or recite a favourite poem from the collection we quickly began to build together: something to do as one as we started the day.
After all that morning ritual, we got to work. Most pupils commenced the tasks I’d prepared for them, choosing from the blackboard instructions and using the materials set out on their desks, while I gave my attention to one group after another. In the midst of a steady morning we might take a break for chatter, for a song or to recite a poem.
Our schoolroom was designed to be inviting for the children. Their work decorated available wall spaces. Charts were in view, and any three-dimensional objects they produced were displayed on cupboards and desks. We did most of our work in that room, and it became an inclusive, vibrant place, redolent of the children and their efforts.
In good weather we ventured into the schoolyard for physical activities and, sometimes, lessons. It was spacious for our numbers and a little bare, providing plenty of room for games, sport and exercises.
We discussed having a school garden but quickly let the suggestion drop. All children reported outdoor responsibilities at home, and many assisted in—or were even in charge of—the family vegetable plot, an important source of fresh food.
Stories of snake visitors had featured since the first day, and on day three I’d drilled the children to leave the vicinity of any snake immediately, retreat to the school veranda and call the creature to my attention. I knew these kids had much better knowledge of snake behaviour than I did, but I wasn’t going to put them in harm’s way—this was my responsibility.
The snakes were easy to spot in the bare yard. Most were easily frightened or encouraged to continue on their slithering way, and I would watch them leave. On only one occasion was I surprised and frightened by such a visitor.
‘Sir! Sir!’ the children shouted. ‘Snake! Snake!’
I rushed out to find a large red-bellied black snake, about eight feet in length, heading towards a hole in the earth beside the pathway to the school gate. The children would be walking there in just two hours. The snake disappeared into the cleft, but I couldn’t leave it there and have the kids in peril. I went over to take a look.
Suddenly the serpent shot out of its hole, missing me by only a few inches. Snakes can turn upon themselves in a complete about-face, a good reason for never standing directly behind them.
As usual with black snakes, this one was more frightened than I. It sped off, writhing across the schoolyard to escape back into the tall grass outside the fence.
The children gave me a great cheer.
‘Good on you, Sir!’ Rick called.
I grinned in triumph, but I found myself shaking for some time after that encounter.