C is for Chronicles . . .

C is for Courage . . .

C is for Civility . . .

C is for Curiosity . . .

C is for Crimes of (not so) Cautious Hands (followed by Crimson Countenances) . . .

C is for Calder House . . . We were lined up outside our billets - well . . . more a beautiful Grade II Listed barn, really, but you have to allow boys (both young and old) a little creative freedom on a day such as this. We departed with military precision – 8:30 sharpish in the school’s omnibus (sorry, minibus), known affectionately to Mr Perks and Mr Day as Bertie. There was tension in that mode of conveyance, I’ll tell you. The boys and girls of Brown Class shuffled in their seats - just as Sherlock Holmes did when he became excited with news of a new, and challenging, case. There could be no doubt about it: this was a much-anticipated school trip – perhaps, Christmas theatre-trip aside – the best trip of the year (certainly for the two adult males present).

C is for Chronicles . . . So, why were the children of Year 6 there? Well, they have been studying World War I. There can be no doubt about it: our children love this subject. At Calder House School, History is given the dignity it deserves by being delivered as a distinct subject, so that it can be studied purposefully and in detail. Our Principal’s retort to the (highly theoretical!) suggestion that History might be combined with geography and taught in a more general ‘Humanities’ lesson would be a curt: ‘Not on our watch!!’

And rightly so.

History is deserving of our full attention. There is a very strong sense of History (yes, I give it an upper-case) at Calder House School. Not just in an academic sense, but in the very stones (and buildings made of those stones) and trees around us. It is an ethos here – not just a curricular issue.

C is for Courage and Civility . . . I cannot tell you how many times I have been to the Imperial War Museum. And I would not wish to tell you how many times I have visited with Calder House, and witnessed other children (sometimes, adults for that matter) either run (yes, run!), or lope (with disinterested, glazed, eyes) around the World War I exhibits. What I will tell you (with considerable pride) is just how respectful and engaged Calder House students are when walking around the displays and dioramas. Our students ‘connect’ with History not merely on an academic level, but on an emotional one. One of our girls, whose Great, Great Grandfather (again, upper-cases deserved) had been awarded medals in this war for outstanding bravery, stood transfixed by one lovingly-assembled diorama, saying: ‘That could have been my Great, Great Grandfather.’ For her, the tiny painted figures came to life – this wasn’t a toy – all fun-and-games. For her, this model was a serious representation of the Front – with its barbed wire; feet-sucking, clay-clogged, craters; dead stretcher-bearers; DEATH and DYING.

That’s History, folks.

C is for Curiosity . . . During the de-brief, back at Calder House, Brown Class spoke of how they would have loved to have returned to the trench exhibit – to spend the night, even - so that they could get a real sense of not just the desolation – but of the comradeship: a kind of, ‘Night at the Museum’ scenario.

Questions, questions, questions . . . so many questions! I LOVE BEING A TEACHER! There is nothing else in the World I’d rather be. What a privilege. Our classrooms are a million miles away from the apathy, boredom, and languor one sees outside of teaching. The best thing about our trips is that they rouse more questions than they answer: our students return – not sated, but ignited: ‘Yeh, but would the war have started even if the assassination hadn’t happened?’ ‘Would the war have been shorter if the machine-gun hadn’t been invented yet?’ And: ‘What about the men AFTER the war? Were they the same as they were BEFORE they started fighting each other?’

Yes . . . we are privileged indeed.

C is for Crimes of (not so) Cautious Hands (followed by Crimson Countenances) . . . Now I was asked (or told) not to include this little event in my report, but I am going to anyway (let’s attribute it to me being ‘de-mob happy’). As I have said, you will be hard-pushed to find another school visiting this museum (or, indeed, any museum) that exhibits the level of politeness and adherence to rules as Calder House. But, sometimes – just sometimes – we get overly excited.  When I say ‘we’ – I mean ‘us’ . . . and when I say ‘us,’ I mean MR DAY.

Now, both Mr Day and I are like boys in a sweet shop in a place such as the Imperial War Museum. Mrs Devereux is the same. Place us in a museum and you might just find it’s the adults who get lost, and need to be constantly reminded to ‘stay-with-the-programme.’ I don’t blame Mr Day. Old pictures of Fry’s chocolate cream had me in raptures, and there is so much that is redolent of our own childhoods: much of the packaging of products in the 1970s was, for example, not so different to that just after the Second World War.  

And there is another C for you – the Collective Unconscious. There is something about places of History that stir something deep within us, and carry us away to places and times we have never witnessed, yet sense an affinity with – a bit like the way salmon know the exact location of their spawning grounds – without ever having properly seen it for themselves. Well . . . that was us. Over-awed by the suspended spitfires, the V1 Rocket, the tanks and cut-away sections of Halifax bombers.

Then . . . the rule was broken.

In his zeal, and in the midst of telling one of his stories, Mr Day began to (entirely unconsciously!) slap the metal object in front of him – adding gestures and emphasis to the tale being told. The children were gripped by the yarn – and so, clearly, was Mr Day. For the gesticulation went on (and grew)! The metal artefact in front of Mr Day almost becoming a kind of drum, upon which to beat out the cadences of the words!

Unfortunately, to some of the museum’s assistants (those whom have become, with time, de-sensitised to the wonder and powers-of-enchantment of dwelling in such a place), the vision of a grown man (a Headmaster, no less) slapping – with some gusto – the (thankfully de-fused) shell of an Atomic Bomb, was not quite so magical (or forgivable). Mr Day was shown no mercy, and, as is fitting in a place telling of war, was rebuked pitilessly by a lady half his size.

Suitably florid-of-face, Mr Day apologised (as someone who man-handles an H-Bomb always should), and was quick to remind all of his students (a few hiding smirks) of the absolute importance of: NOT TOUCHING PRECIOUS, HISTORICAL, ARTIFACTS!!!

But, what a day, really.

De-mobilised at five in the afternoon, the students returned home, brains buzzing, and an important part of History more vivid – more real than before.