B.L.E.S

Wilma G Stark

It was 1954, I was seven years old. I loved school. I did, I really loved it.

It's not that all the memories of it are good. I'm not saying that! Most of the time, the days went uneventfully and pleasantly by - full of learning new words, trying new sums, reading new stories. That was the bit I liked best. Reading. I was pretty good at Reading, I think.

Mind you, that reminds me of one of the memories I have, which wasn't so good. A BAD DAY! You know, one of those when you think of it, makes something inside you curl up and reminds you how you just wanted to Die! If I see any of the class-mates I had at that particular time, I wonder if they remember. I'm sure they do!

I have to point out that the teacher I had was known to be a tyrant. You know the kind I mean. The Old Maid. All sepia brown, like an old photograph. Long brown frock, protected by the loose-flowing beige floral overall; thick lisle stockings with big brown boots equipped with front zips - unzipped! Hair pulled back in a bun so severe her eyes appeared almost oriental, and the smell of something half-dead as she leaned over your shoulder. Even her teeth were brown. She used to inspect us as we trooped passed her into the classroom; backs of the hands, finger-nails, and... 'Do you have a handkerchief?' You weren't allowed into your seat if you didn't. You were promptly sent off to the toilet - one at a time, 'so that there's no nonsense', to fetch some toilet paper. Now it wasn't your 'soft and strong, and very long variety'. It was hard and crinkly, with GOVERNMENT PROPERTY stamped on every sheet. It wasn't very nice to wipe your nose with, never mind the other! So, you almost always remembered to bring a handkerchief. She hated if anybody sniffed.

Anyway, back to my reading, and THAT DAY! She quite liked me, this teacher. For the sake of avoiding possible libel action, I'll call her Miss MacNeill - although she's probably gone to that great Schoolroom-in-the-sky, long ago. She was a great one, as they all were, for Reading,[ and 'Riting,and 'Rithmetic.]

Now, my reading. I loved reading. She always asked the Best to come out to the front of the class to read out of the NEW reading books. I loved that. A NEW Reading Book! The SMELL of the glossy new pages.

I keep going off and not telling you what happened that day with the reading. I'm trying to avoid it, you see. It still makes me cringe.

I had to go out and read the story about Rikki-tikki-tavi. Do you remember that one? I walked out to the front of the class, really excited to be able to hold this New Book. I felt special. (And I was secretly pleased that THAT morning my Mum had had the time to brush my shoes and put a nice white ribbon in my hair. I also had on a Fair-Isle Twinset - not new, mind you - a hand-me-down from my Really-Well-Off-Cousin.) But....oh, dear,....I forgot to take my hankie out with me.

As I began reading, I could feel the dreaded 'Flem' build up inside my nose. I carried on, making a good job of the reading, and trying to sniff quietly. Miss MacNeill hated sniffing. I knew this. I just couldn't sniff OUT LOUD - not in front of The Whole Class!

I desperately tried to hold it back. I thought that I could pull it in quietly with each intake of breath. But I was only seven and I was concentrating on my Reading and I came to a Big Long Sentence so I never took a breath in and...The Worst Happened!! The long stream of mucus came down...it was at the edge of my nostril. My head was bent over the new book, so it didn't run down my lip. Oh No!....it stretched down and down from the end of my nose, till it felt like it was THREE FEET LONG!!..........I JUST HAD TO SNIFF!!......

I sniffed......and..... UP it went...like a strand of spaghetti, back up inside my nostril as if it had never been....but IT HAD! Thank goodness it didn't drop on the new book. I could sense the boys in the front row trying not to laugh. I wasn't looking. My head was bowed down, chin tight against my chest. But I carried on reading. At last, I came to the end of the story. I sidled back to my seat. I wanted to cry. I wanted to run away. The pain of the embarrassment was squeezing me so tight I could hardly breathe. I fumbled blindly in my bag for the hankie, and blew my nose. My head was down. I could hear the sniggers all around me. I could feel Them All Looking At Me!

The boys didn't let me forget the incident for a long time, accompanying their jibes of 'B!L!E!S!, B!L!E!S!, Big ..Long..Elastic..Snotter!!' with the appropriate sign language - much exaggerating the length and the sound effects of my Unfortunate Nasal Experience!

Surprisingly though, Miss MacNeill never passed any comment, neither then nor later. But thereafter, part of the daily discipline was 'Handkerchiefs out, and a good blow of the nose!' - especially before reading.

I loved Miss MacNeill.

I loved school.