My younger pupils remained relatively unformed. When I interacted with the older students, I could glimpse the adult solidifying from their developing components. But for the youngsters, possibilities remained open—almost nothing had jelled.
The first impression the younger boys gave was the mass of their group, its physicality. Between Grades One and Four there were eleven of them, ranging from six to ten years of age. The first cousins—Will, Rick, Robbie and Gary—dominated the group without eclipsing the others.
The youngest, Charlie, was easily distinguished. Though I’d shared a home with him for the first several weeks in the village, I had come to know him only a little—very little—on his own while I was there. He was chubby and timid. He had a slight speech problem, but he didn’t speak much and initiated communication rarely. I worried about him more than any other pupil, so I devoted lots of time to him. My encouragement was working well for him, and he was always a trier, making serious and intense efforts. I would have appreciated an opportunity to discuss ways of supporting such a pupil with an experienced and expert mentor. Charlie made progress, but it wasn’t rapid until the days following his inaugural story of helping his dad dump old metal scraps.
Charlie loved painting, drawing and colouring in, and he enjoyed puzzles. When we had folk dancing, singing or physical activities, he came alive and could be somewhat vivacious. He sang along with the group, and when he learnt a tune he would remember it well, much better than words from a text. And when Charlie smiled—slowly, shyly and reservedly—it was a terrific reward.
I sometimes had trouble telling apart the first cousins in Grades Three and Four. They were all the same height, all the same shape, all with similar facial features. There was no sense of differences in maturity among them: they were a unit. They loved being together and were rarely separated, although they easily admitted other boys into their circle. In the schoolroom, they always sat near each other; in the schoolyard, they were always side by side, often with arms slung over shoulders. Away from school they were always together, playing games, rabbiting, collecting firewood and rambling through the bush.
Over my two years with them, I saw them grow increasingly into replicas of their dads. This was just what they seemed to want, and their dads were great models for them. I imagined these nuggety little guys growing up into a formidable team of shearers, strong and powerful, just below average height—and, through their solidarity, a bit intimidating to any grazier who questioned their tallies or shearing style.
Academically, these boys travelled along reasonably well. They built up their sight-word libraries and wrote acceptable stories with a variety of sentence types. They began to try writing with some order while using paragraphs. They remembered more and more maths facts and could almost automatically apply their times tables. Anything to do with numbers in agriculture caught their attention and application.
Joe and Jimmy, the boys whose mother, Marie, had failed to shoot a roo, were in Grades Four and Two. Both did well academically, not just keeping up but getting ahead. Engaging cheerfully in all school activities, they were always a reliable source of humour and attempted witticisms.
Joe, who had begun the raucous laughter at his mum’s poor aim, looked for fun in most things. He encouraged his fellow pupils to join in, and they did in their own reserved ways, genuine in the smiles and quiet chuckles he elicited from them. Joe could be a lot of fun—I just sometimes had to guide him towards acceptable targets for his humour.
It was Joe who referred to the inspector Mr Flood as ‘more a trickle than a flood’, following his visit in the third term.
‘Good one,’ I acknowledged, as the gibe had caught the reticence and gentleness that Mr Flood had adopted with the children.
On his visits, the inspector always appeared in a pinstriped blue suit, looking more like a bank manager than a schoolteacher, so the children found him distant and, I suppose, aloof. He didn’t mean to be: he was always pleasant and easy with me, and aimed to be so with the children.
It was also Joe who asked, ‘How did you get on with the inspector?’
I’d told the kids that the inspector’s visit was about my performance rather than theirs, and they weren’t to be concerned if Mr Flood asked any of them questions or looked over their work. Joe seemed pleased when I answered honestly that my inspection had gone well and I’d been found worthy of appointment as a permanent teacher, no longer on probation.
I had no doubt that Mr Flood’s visit had been much discussed over the Wallace family dinner table—I felt sure Joe hadn’t found the ideas he expressed on his own.
Jimmy was a true delight: always smiling, always happy, often charming. Sailing through his work, he talked to me freely about everything that interested him and asked many questions, with a well-developed curiosity in the world around him. I often thought a class full of children just like Jimmy would be a teacher’s heaven.
There were six more of the younger group. Mike, Phil, Charlie’s brothers and the other O’Callaghan lads from my first village home were very reserved and hesitant in entering into any discussion. Lots of encouragement would produce a response, but they rarely volunteered an answer or made suggestions to their peers. When I instructed or coached them directly, they responded appropriately, attending well, so their learning was fine, and gradually both were gaining knowledge and skills in the curriculum areas. These two older boys of Lawrie and Jill were thin and spare. Like little whips, I thought. A bit awkward and skittish, they had to be treated with care and sensitivity.
In the other Grade Four lad, Mark, there was a looseness of limb. He walked with a loping, easy action, and he had fluidity in all his movements. This didn’t always give him superiority in the kicking ball and running games in which the boys readily engaged. There was an element of grace in Mark’s actions, accompanied by quickness in his intellect. He was curious about the world, loved life and never seemed daunted by any challenge. He enjoyed sharing his interests with the others but was also quite happy to pursue his own interests, savouring academic work.
Mark kept pace with our goals and set himself additional ones when time permitted. He asked many, many questions but was not demanding, although he couldn’t be overlooked. He could be quite content on his own and wasn’t a leader with his peers, never wanting to cause them to rally to his ideas, and I noticed they found his frequent questioning curious. Of all the children, I believed he would have flourished most in a school with library facilities, art rooms and choices of subjects. There was always a half smile and a quiet amusement about him—at only nine, perhaps he was already developing a sense of irony. Sometimes when he assayed a little sally to another child, Mark would look at me and we’d nod to each other: we both got it, even if no one else had.
We shared a nod and a smile one day after he made a suggestion to Lindie. Every child knew that she enjoyed trying out any new activity; she didn’t push herself forward to be first, but we all recognised her happiness when allowed to be so.
As we were about to tackle a new skill in craft work, Mark said, ‘Lindie, would you like to go first?’
He looked at me. We gave each other a subdued, easy nod of acknowledgement.
His remark illustrated to me the support the children gave each other. He wasn’t inferring a criticism of Lindie or meaning any harm—he was actually delighted that she could get so much enjoyment from such a simple thing, but he also saw the funny side.
The youngest girl, Susie, was very similar to the charming boy, Steve, one of her Grade Two classmates: they were likeable, quick and friendly little people. Susie had some of her older sister’s sense of fun but unlike Lindie was never overly excited. Academically, Susie seemed to me the most gifted of all the children. She read well, she easily gained proficiency in beginner maths, she wrote interesting little stories with some complexity, and she chose to spend lots of any free time in reading for pleasure.
The sessions I had with the three Grade Twos, Steve, Susie and Carol, were always enjoyable. They soaked up my attention, and Susie and Steve were such quick learners that they picked up any point of instruction with ease. Carol, a small, neat child, needed more of my attention; she was a quiet girl, a little overshadowed by her two shining classmates, so I made certain to be attentive to her whenever I could.
Steve and Susie would giggle while pretending to chide each other. Susie would say, if she was a little slower in completing a learning task than Steve, ‘Oh¸ I’m such a slowcoach, just a silly thing.’
Not to be outdone, Steve would return, ‘No. I’m the dumbcluck.’
If I overheard these exchanges, I’d chime in. ‘Good-oh. What will we do with the two of you?’
How charming they were, and I took enjoyment from their obvious confidence. That they could denigrate their own performances suggested to me they were keenly aware they were competent learners, and that pleased me enormously.