Guest Post

A Story of a Genteel Ghost told by Roger Britton

A Genteel Ghost

a true story by Roger Britton

I never believed in ghosts before, but now I am not quite sure … perhaps a “presence” is what I mean …

St Mary’s Convent and school, in Warren, central New South Wales, had been the home for Josephite nuns for over one hundred years. A shortage of vocations meant that they could no longer staff the school. I had accepted the position of the new lay Principal. This old, two-storey convent, with its iron lacework verandahs, was to be our home. With my wife, Angela and our four children, we moved in during the Christmas holidays of 1977.

A willing band of excited children carted bedding, toys and toiletry items up the stairs. Angela unpacked and set about organising the kitchen boxes and food, knowing that hunger would soon call us to table.

The Lovely Old Convent Building in Warren

February 16, 2016 6 comments

Guest Post Writing

A Guest Post: Off The Rails

A True Story by Roger Britton

Nerves sometimes get the better of me. Charlie, the Assistant Scout Leader, and I had planned an exciting night-time tracking game for my Scout Troop. But, my university Sociology exams were the next morning. I had cancelled the game as I’d decided to study; then, at the last minute, I decided to go. I didn’t want to disappoint the kids. I rang Charlie’s wife to get a message across to the Scout Hall.

‘Joan, could you get a message to Charlie? I’m coming after all,’ I said, a bit embarrassed. Ask him to tell the kids the police have called. They need “scout help” to shadow a suspicious character through town. I’ll dress up as a baddie and be down near the railway crossing. If they can follow me through town without being seen, they can get their badges. Just don’t tell them it’s me.’

‘Righto, Britt,’ Joan giggled, ‘I’ll pass the word on to Charlie.’

I quickly donned a pair of black overalls, black sneakers and my black duffle coat. I even started to feel like a genuine “baddie”.

‘Here, love, how about I put some burnt charcoal on your face,’ my wife said, getting into the spirit of things, ‘and put this stocking over your head’.

February 6, 2016 2 comments

Australia Guest Post Writing

“Kids Will Be Kids” by Ian Harry Wells

Here’s a story from my Teachers’ College friend, Ian Wells. It’s great for me to re-live that all-important primary school teaching experience through his words. It’s the kids’ future that is at stake, and they do it well in small schools.

A Country Police Station

One Police School visit in the mid-seventies was particularly memorable, but it wasn’t so much due to the officers, as it was to the cute kids in my classes. Small schools were nearly all one-teacher schools and mostly on bush roads, often along meandering rough gravel tracks. My school at Coolongolook was a favoured small school for the Police Liaison group to visit, as it was on the Pacific Highway and was easily accessible. There were only two classes, so there was no need to split the ‘task force’ for the visit. The two constables could take a class each and the sergeant could supervise rather than take a class.

The sergeant and I became quite friendly over time, as I invited him to ‘supervise’ (socialise) from the nearby school residence over coffee, munchies and a natter, while the constables each ran their race with the kids. Talk about six degrees of separation; the sergeant and I discovered some mutual friends and acquaintances and also some similar mutual interests; a love of motorbikes not the least of these. In other words, ‘big kids’ stuff! It was quite a pleasant arrangement, which continued year after year for the best part of a decade.

Just before each visit I would remind the kids of their obligations towards visitors, the need to be polite, to listen, not to fidget and not to ask questions—certainly never about the officers’ weapons—until invited and warn them that if I found any of them touching the guns or wearing handcuffs at the end of the visit I would be very annoyed. They were good kids and I had no doubts the day would go well both for them and for the police. I also organised a child from the primary group and another from the infants group to formally thank the officers for their instruction at the end of the visit. This practice of thanking visitors was a normal thing for us and the task was shared around, not always just the duty of a ‘captain’.

The car arrived and two male officers got out and walked to the school building. I met them on the verandah, said my good mornings and asked if there were just the two of them that day.

A reply from the poker-faced sergeant informed me, “Constable Powell is making herself presentable.”

The constable, smiling broadly, like a cheeky kid, added “She’s trowelling on more spakfilla and touching up her lipstick. She’ll be here presently.” This earned a stern sideways glare from the sergeant.

When she arrived shortly after, I saw that Constable Powell was an attractive young lady, but one who obviously knew it. She was also quite heavily made-up.

The rest of the visit went pretty well as per script. After I introduced the constables to the children in their classrooms the sergeant and I went for a coffee, cake and a yarn, while the kids were entertained in class with stories and instructions about stranger danger, road safety, bike safety and being good citizens. At the same time, the young constables tried to fulfill their duty as positive roles models for the children.

The only time a gun-related question was asked was by a Year Three boy, who showed his birds each year at the Nabiac Show: “Can you come and shoot the rotten fox that is after my prize chickens?” He was quite disappointed when the constable said he couldn’t, as he wasn’t allowed to.

There was nobody wearing handcuffs when I checked, either.

The whole school population gathered on the concrete assembly area in front of the verandah for a final farewell. The nominated Year Five child thanked the male constable for his visit and his talk, then presented him with a hand-drawn certificate of thanks. Each child in the class had made a certificate and voted for the one to be presented. Everybody clapped and the constable gave his thanks in response.

A Year Two moppet then came timidly forward to thank Constable Powell.

”I want to say thank you to Comfortable Cow for coming today …” she began. The quickly but barely muffled guffaws from the other two police officers drowned and then cut short the rest of the speech. A shocked lady constable glared at her companions, while slowly going red under all the spakfilla, as they, in turn, made valiant attempts to gain control of themselves.

What a situation. I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or feel embarrassed, while the Year Two moppet just stood in confusion, wondering whether or not to say the rest of her speech. I assured her all was fine and to go on. She completed her speech, then shyly handed over the certificate and the police left.

Ian (Harry) Wells

Coolongolook Public School is a small school with a student population of 40. It is situated in a picturesque valley located between Bulahdelah and Nabiac. The school has a very interesting and intriguing history, it is 133 years old!

February 2, 2016 4 comments

Guest Post Writing

a father’s tale … by Ian (Harry) Wells

There really are FEELINGS IN YOUR HEART you don’t even know exist until you have a child of your own. It’s a sensation without description.

When our first-born finally arrived, it was the greatest day of my life. A fortnight after the expected time of birth, my wife was put into hospital, as the doctor was worried: the baby was too long overdue. Five days later, with still no signs of action, and on the doctor’s orders, the nurses began inducing the delivery. Two days after that, the baby finally deigned to arrive, but only after some twenty-four hours of labour.

I was teaching the two dozen students in my one-teacher school at Cobbora when the phone rang just before the lunch break that day. It was Doc Campbell ringing from Dunedoo Memorial Hospital telling me I was the father of a boy. He also said both mother and child were well, but very tired due to the protracted labour. I had spent a week batching, but had known THAT day would be THE day; it was Friday the thirteenth after all, when else would it happen?

dunedoo-hospital

January 25, 2016 2 comments

Guest Post Nature Writing

“Snakey” by Roger Britton

I soon learnt Death Adders were dangerous in more ways than one. The common belief among us school boys was that, once you were bitten by a death adder, you only had three minutes before your tongue went black, the whites of your eyes turned pink and you fell over and died in a writhing spasm. This belief sounded reasonable, so no one questioned its accuracy.

In a large preserving bottle was a big ugly brute. It had a wide triangular head, huge fangs and a thick bulbous body with a tapering tail. The grey, black and brown bands would help camouflage it as it lay in wait for its prey. The adder’s eyes seemed to follow us as we dawdled into our Year Six classroom. I knew it was dead and covered with formaldehyde, but I always gave it a wide berth. It had to be the meanest, thickest and wickedest snake that I had ever seen. Bertie Butterfly reckoned its real name was a ‘deaf adder’ as these snakes were stone deaf, but death or deaf, we all knew you didn’t muck around with them.

My first real encounter with one was the day I discovered that I had left my lunch at home. Rather than starve to death, I decided to break school rules and risk a quick bike trip home to retrieve it. I grabbed my trusty push bike and headed off.

The road was so hot that summer that the tar was melting and sticking to my bicycle tyres. When I reached the bottom of our hill, I rode up as far as I could go, before dismounting and pushing my bike at a run.

I was on top of the death adder before I realized it. I gave a shriek of terror and tried to put my right foot over my left shoulder. The bike crashed down on the road and I fled up the embankment.

The snake stayed still. From my vantage point of two metres up, I observed the scene. The death adder seemed stuck to the tar and was, apparently, dead. Gingerly, I crept down the bank and collected my bike. Once more, I resumed my run, though I kept a wary eye out for any other scaly reptile that might have been parboiled.

“Mum! Mum! There’s a death adder stuck on the road!”

The house was empty. She wasn’t home.

I gulped down my lunch and headed back to school, with a biscuit stuffed in my lunch bag.

The snake was still there, and that was the beginning of my downfall. How could I resist acquiring a new specimen for our science table? A handy stick was found, and the dead death adder was poked and prodded into my lunch bag, minus the biscuit.

I arrived at the school corner just as the line-up bell rang. All the students were gathered on the parade ground and, knowing that I’d be late, I parked my bike and snuck in the back door. I was peeved that I didn’t have time to show off my prize to my mates.

Upstairs, I stole a glimpse out the window and saw our class about to ascend the stairs, while the headmaster kept time with a marching drum.

Now, I thought, how should I introduce the snake to the class? Hmmm, why not share the fright that I had had? Without thinking too much, I lifted the lid of Frances’ desk and slipped the death adder on top of her books.

Kenny Curll bounded into the classroom, racing Ferret to be first. The others staggered in, aware that they had a few minutes to gossip before the headmaster could pack away the drum and stride to the classroom. Ferret took up his usual role of cockatoo, ready to call a warning when Old Thumper was in sight.

“Hey Britt, where yuh been?” Curlly enquired.

“Ah, mate, you won’t believe what I found! Come here.”

Curlly sauntered over to my desk. Before I could explain, Ferret sounded the alert.

“Ssshh, Old Thumper’s comin’!”

Students dived for their desks to avoid a confrontation with the headmaster.

“Tell you later, Curlly.”

Frances and I tripped over each other to get to our shared double-desk.

“Quick, Fran, get a book out.”

The expectation was that we had to read quietly whilst awaiting the headmaster.

Frances gave me a smug look, lifted her desk lid, and put her hand in. Her hand touched something warm and clammy.

“Aaaaaaaaahhh!”

Her screech made my hair stand on end. Terrified kids ducked in all directions, screaming in fright and unison with Frances. Something terrible had happened somewhere.

Frances’ eyes widened. She paused for breath, then her shriek grew louder. Suddenly her bladder cascaded down her chair like Niagara Falls. She sprang to her feet and knocked over her desk. The death adder spilled into the jostling crowd.

Instantly the class realized why they were screaming. Additional yelps rent the air. Bodies pressed against the walls and a few pupils collided as they shot out the door.

“What the hell is going on?” bellowed the headmaster.

He was running down the corridor now.

“Stop it you idiots! Keep still the lot of you!”

Classroom conditioning kicked in. Instantly all was hushed. Students remained backed against the wall, warily eyeing the adder of death.

Frances, her chest racked with dry sobs, stood amidst a pool of piddle, her feet frozen to the floor. The death adder’s menacing gaze held everyone in fear, including the headmaster. I edged to the centre of the classroom.

“Its dead, Sir.” I whispered.

All eyes swivelled towards me. Somehow, everyone knew I was the instigator of the chaos. I wanted to ooze down through the floorboards like the slowly receding pee.

“Britton, get that bloody snake out of here!” yelled Headmaster Nebone, forgetting about teacher decorum.

I picked it up on my ruler and once more pushed it in my lunch bag and left the room. Outside in the corridor, I could hear classroom order being restored. Desks were picked up and chairs straightened. Two girls led Frances out and down to the sick bay to change into something from the clothing pool. The three of them gave me reproachful glares. Frances was still softly sobbing.

Curlly came to fetch me, but the snake was to remain outside.

“Oh, man, that was marvellous,” beamed a delighted Curlly, “but boy, are you going to get it now!”

That afternoon I could hardly hold the handlebars of my bike. Three strokes of the cane on each hand had left them stinging and throbbing. Through my watery eyes, I couldn’t help giggling, despite the pain. As Curlly had said, it was an absolutely marvellous event.

It was sad, but Frances never ever saw the funny side of it.

Editor’s Note: I fondly believe that Roger, when he became a teacher of a small school in the 60s, must have experienced a huge wollop of karma from the behaviour of schoolboys in his classes.

January 20, 2016 7 comments