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MISS
WEBBLEY
She
read us The Water Babies, made me sit
by
John who drew maps of the world like quilts
with
China next to London and Ceylon.
I
was no better. Told to draw
a wall,
I
didn’t need to watch her at the board
but
did a grid of squares and got ticked off.
Mondays
was handkerchiefs. My
jersey sleeve
stiff
with dried snot. Asked Mum.
Received a rag
from
her discarded bloomers. Which
wasn’t nice,
the
silk was slimy even before I blew.
Got
my first taste for acting. Captain
Kyd.
Mad
Hatter. Peter Pan.
Arabian Nights.
Knights
of the Table better than the Beano!
Doing
sums and copperplate were fun:
we
always got good marks for copying.
She
dragged partitions like great hangar doors
and
three classrooms were made into a hall.
All
things bright and beautiful! They
were.
In
summer, sweaty feet in stiff, grey socks.
Girls
with dirty hair and skipping ropes.
Saw
Miss Webbley on the tram once. She
looked
strangely
old in mackintosh and hat.
She
was younger when we brightly paid attention
or
bowed ashamed on being ruler-smacked.
Alan
Marshfield
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