Fair Play

Like many independent schools, Collingwood hosts an annual Spring Fair as a fund raiser. It is a fun-filled joyous occasion. (Well, as I write this, I have the memory of the sickly taste of whipped cream about my features because young children used to pay money to put a plate of whipped cream in my face, so, Dear Reader, it is fair to say that writing ‘joyous’ caused a frantic twitching of my  eye tic.) The dunk in the water tank, Dear Reader, was a far better deal. Well marginally. What do you think, Lisa Evans?

The parent body is multi-cultural so the food for sale is magnificent. I always walked through the woods from the Cleveland Dam not wishing the chaos of parking at the school. I brought an empty day pack with me because I knew that I was going to buy food for our evening meal at home. Truth be told, like most of my life, I was only in it for the food. Herewith endeth the introduction.

In one particular academic year I had a keen and enthusiastic mother in my class. Actually I had many such characters on my daily round. They were sort of intimidating because I didn’t effervesce to match their fizz.  My enthusiasm was there but at a deep seated cavernous depth, a sort of abyss of lurking demonstrativeness whereas theirs was all bounce and bubbles, a surface of excitement.  I had one mum who took energy to a new exhausting level. She was into everything Collingwood, a gem of a volunteer, probably wanted by every politician vying for power,  certainly needed  by every advertising agency striving for sales.  I remember her with tired affection, glad for her presence, feigning disappointment at her absence. She had a heart of gold, her generosity of time and spirit permeated the hallways of the school, molten lava down a mountain side. Were there no bounds to her eagerness, Dear Friends?

 I remember flinching one morning when she walked towards me down the hallway flanked by three other formidables. Friendly wave from a cohort of intimidation.

“Mr. Davidson, Mr. Davidson, a quick word.”

Every exit escape route blocked off. No point in pretending I was late for somewhere else. Bite lip, force friendliness, glib welcome.

“We are having a parent coffee morning. Anything you would like us to bring up?”

“Not offhand but I’ll think of something”.

Feeling of dread, a parent coffee morning could ruin my whole week. Nothing I wanted less, Dear Friends, than a raft of new ideas, innovation snapping at the heels of the Davidson equanimity, my life-jacket of peace hopeless on a vast ocean of well-intentioned seas.

“And another thing, no more sad novels.”  Four waving of fingers, shaking of heads.

I was reading ‘Shiloh’ with my class, a heart-rending dog story about a mistreated beagle.

“It has a happy ending,” I pleaded pathetically.

Walking through the door that night after work, Irene had laid out about 10 of my old rugby jerseys which she had decided were to be donated to the used clothing section of the Spring Fair. I was to deliver them to the senior campus in the morning on my way to the junior school where I worked. She never wanted to see them again.  We all know, Dear Friends, the lie of the land when our partner in life decides on a purge. I was to be rid of that which was second most dear to me, my rugby jerseys, on the instructions of she who was and is most dear to me. I searched for ‘buts’ with which to rebut but I could see the look that brooked no but-ing of buts. My rugby jerseys were doomed.  An unstoppable force of nature had spoken. I dropped them  off for the fair.

As a favour to staff and select parents such as those who helped organise the event of which Mrs. High-Energy in my class was one, on the Thursday before the Saturday we were allowed a preliminary visit during which we could purchase that which we wished. Wonderful for Collingwood teachers with young children to clothe, methought, but Davidson in a clothing store? More likely to find a polar bear in a sauna.  We were allowed in before the ‘great unwashed’ arrived on the Saturday. I could never be a part of the ‘great unwashed’ Dear Reader, because I was often in the dunk tank.  (Ha! A puerile joke from the woeful wit that is Davidson!)

The Spring Fair, as ever, was uplifting. I left with a smile on my face, a bounce in my step and drooling with anticipation at the mealtime goodies in my backpack. I had showered off the chill waters of the dunk tank or soaked the whipped cream from my face. I can’t remember which particular of those two traumas I had experienced that year. The curry and rice mingled with the forest fragrances as I walked down through the woods. Dogs sniffed the air as I passed.

Monday morning came. I always arrived at school early. As usual Viktor and the maintenance department had opened up. One of my early morning pleasures was my brief chat with Viktor before the day began. I was surprised, however, when some 20 minutes before the main bulk of children arrived, the aforementioned  enthusiastic mother was knocking at the door of the classroom. She had done so much to help with the Spring Fair that I thought she would be heavily involved in counting the takings or a dawn debrief with her Parent Council cronies over a cuppa Jo. But there she was in my classroom with her child in tow. I congratulated her on the success of the event and all the hard work she had put in. But she could not contain herself she was on to other things. She had a large kit bag in front of her. She was keen to show me its contents.

“Mr. Davidson, Joanna and I have something for you..”

She unzipped the bag with a flourish.

“I saw these at the Fair. I thought to myself, “I know just the person who would appreciate them.” We bought them for you. They’re XXL so we know they will fit.”

(Beaming smiles from mother and child)

“Ta-da”.”

And there, in all their wear worn splendour, Dear Friends, were my tattered old rugby jerseys.

Thanks for reading.