Despatches from a mother who started late (and is running to catch up)

School for thought

"What about trying this place," suggests Va-vay, as we debate a school for our two-year-old daughter Beanie.

Though he would never admit as much, Va-vay is basing this idea on Alexander McCall Smith's 44 Scotland Street novels, whose young hero Bertie is forced to attend the same institution. I cannot help thinking that Va-vay has slightly missed the point here: Bertie is miserable at being made to go to school there. But at twenty five weeks pregnant, I choose my battles carefully.

The next day I call the school.

"Allo, yes?" says a Germanic accent on the other end of the phone that sounds like a parody of itself.

"Err, hello, could you put me through to your admissions secretary?"

Silence. No farewell niceties, just a click on the line. Another voice answers.

"Hello. What can I do for you?" I feel like I've broken a rule by knocking on the staffroom door at lunch break and she's torn herself away from a sandwich to see me.

I explain I am looking for a school for my young daughter. My voice is cracking up slightly and I swallow nervously.

"Very good. I'll put a copy of our prospectus in the post. And we have a tour of the school on 1 May for prospective parents. Can you attend that?"

"Yes, I think so. Let me just check my diary," I reply, feeling slightly crushed, as if I haven't done my homework on time or forgot to wash my PE kit for games. "Yes, that should be fine."

"I will put your name down then. Will your husband be with you?"

I haven't mentioned a husband. How does she know I'm married? Is this how they go about 'nurturing the imagination' and fostering 'keen thinking and questioning skills' as promised on their website - jumping to conclusions about people's private lives?

"No, he won't be," I explain, feeling inexplicably nervous. "But I'd like to bring my daughter along, to show her the place. See her response."

"That won't be possible," says Madam, sounding ticked off. "We don't permit young children to come on tours. They're too disruptive."

I force myself to state the obvious. "But it's my daughter who would be at the school. I need to see how she takes to it." Or not, I think, silently.

"No, children are not allowed. We take tours into classrooms and young children of her age would disturb pupils who are working."

I remember that these people are proposing to charge us many thousands of pounds for educating Beanie. A flame of anger jumps up in me.

"Oh, okay. I see. Well, look, I think in that case we might just leave it then, thanks all the same. This isn't really what we're looking for."

I hear a click on the other end of the phone and the line goes dead. Even these people haven't had the cheek to suggest they'll be teaching pupils much in the way of social skills.

Later that day I recount the experience to Beanie's granny, a former teacher.

"Why is it that so many people in teaching don't actually seem to like children very much?" I ask her. "Don't they know they'll be with children all day long if they go into teaching?"

Granny just shrugs. "Don't know. Some people go into it because they want to reform children. It gives them a moral uplift. There's a power dynamic there, you know."

Even if it turned out Beanie adored the place, I wouldn't want to set foot in it.

Posted 27 March 2008 15:56

Edinburgh Granny

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