Archive Article: 2000/06/16
Miss Hardy –
the village school-teacher
TRADITIONAL," is how Miss Hardy describes her teaching methods.
"Ferocious," others say. The children dont say anything – they dont dare. Not in school time, anyway. Outside the gate they say, in whispered voices, shes a right old bag.
No one knows how old Miss Hardy is. She taught most of the current pupils parents – and a few of their grandparents. "Ive got to be getting something right if they send their children back," she says. Truth is, theres no alternative: the nearest school is 50 miles away.
Some of the village newcomers certainly wouldnt send their youngsters there if there was a choice. "She runs that place like a borstal," they say. Kids, its true, would rather wet themselves than ask to be excused from one of her lessons.
No one knows what the womans first name is, either. Even the adults call her, simply, Miss Hardy – petrified of the consequences of doing anything else. "Good afternoon Miss Hardy," they say nervously, suffering a flash of fear that theyve forgotten their games kit. Then they remember: they left school 40 years ago.
A rumour once circulated that her Christian name was Winifred. "Winnie the poo," the kids – a safe distance from the school gates – said in hushed tones. But theres no such thing as a safe distance from the school gates. One or two were punished without explanation. "Because life isnt fair," said Miss Hardy.
Discipline, she maintains, hasnt been the same since corporal punishment was abolished. Her favoured method was – not the cane or the slipper – but a long piece of wood which sat waiting, menacingly, on her desk for its next victim.
"Tell me again what youve done wrong," she would say, swinging the weapon in her tiny hand, getting all 8st of her weight behind the blow. Red bottoms were once as common in Miss Hardys village as in a baboon enclosure.
Miss Hardy, you wont be surprised to learn, is big on sport. "Its character building," she shrills, maniacally, pushing her pupils out into the rain with her brolly. "Its s,s,s,s,so cold," they shiver, their little legs a peculiar shade of blue.
Fear, too, is the chief weapon she employs at parish council meetings. "Dont you dare cheek me, young man – I remember when you were on your potty," she barks at Charles. Charles recently retired from a long and successful career in business.
"Sorry, excuse me, please…but I was wondering if I might be, er, excused the next meeting please Miss Hardy," he asks, with a nervous twitch he hasnt shown since the fourth form.
Miss Hardys pupils, meanwhile, dont need to be told anything twice. They memorised their times-tables almost before they could walk. Their dreams are full, not of brave sea-captains or beautiful princesses, but the elements of the Periodic table. Class 3B can even say the alphabet backwards. "It shows anything can be learnt with effort and commitment," she reckons.
Miss Hardy has never taken a husband. "Ive got 60 children to look after as it is – I certainly dont want another one."
The creature shes probably closest to is Darwin, the school cat. Like her, its been around longer than anyone can remember. Unlike her, however, its round and gentle and sleeps a lot.
He sits on her lap every night as, under the light of a table lamp, she reads scientific journals, her round spectacles balanced on the end of her nose.
Then she heads – with Darwin under her arm – upstairs to bed. "Id better get some sleep," she thinks, "Ive got a lot of punishment to administer tomorrow."