future lives.”
“Indeed we are, yet I believe we can best do this by giving the children the ability to think independently. You seem to take the opposing view that children should only move along pre-established, regulated lines.”
“The exam results speak for themselves,” repeated Miss Hill, sounding like a stuck record.
“The exam results merely show that your students can regurgitate information after studying twenty-years’ worth of past exam papers. By any other criteria, such as how much of that information they actually understand, they fail. Are we here to teach these young people to have enquiring minds, or are we here to turn them into brainless automatons who can recite facts and figures only?”
“The results speak for themselves!” repeated Miss Hill, who had clearly made this into a personal mantra.
“And we are not questioning the results,” said a cold, reptilian voice, which Pandora recognised in horror. Mabel. What was she doing in there?
“On the contrary, Miss Whitemarsh,” replied the testy voice of Mr Gilchirst, “I am doing precisely that. I would have hoped that a school governor would understand my concerns, but I am not surprised that you don’t.”
“Oh, I have my concerns,” purred Mabel. “Concerns raised by Miss Hill and the other dedicated teachers of this fine school. Concerns against your teaching methods.”
“Ah, I wondered why this meeting of the school governors had been called,” said the voice of Mr Gilchirst.
Pandora could imagine him rocking back and forth on his heels as he talked, looking over the heads of the other people in the room. She crept down the corridor and risked peeking around the door. There, she saw Mabel sitting at the head of a large table. To her left sat Miss Hill and Reverend Cope, while to her right was Mr Toy. Finally, almost overlooked as always, was Mr Jackson. In front of them stood Mr Gilchrist, his back to Pandora.
“We have all been concerned with your refusal to teach the curriculum set out before you,” continued Miss Hill.
Mr Gilchirst pounced on the statement. “Really? Perhaps you could elaborate on when I have refused to teach the texts set out by the external examination board?”
“We are not talking about the national curriculum,” backtracked Miss Hill, irritation pulling at her voice.
“And what other curriculum is there?”
“There is the school curriculum.”
“Ah, yes, the blinkered school policy of turning children into little more than clones in your image. Now, I admit that at times I suspect that the national curriculum and our political masters are aiming to reduce us all to unthinking automatons, but until the hidden policy is made public and official, I shall continue to teach children to think independently.”
“And that is your final word?” asked Mabel, her voice bloated with satisfaction.
“Indeed it is,” said Mr Gilchirst, “and as I have not defied the national curriculum, I look forward to your attempts to remove me from the school before the contract ends.”
“That will not be a problem,” hissed Mabel. “We have removed many of the evils which plague us–disruptive, violent, antisocial elements–and we can remove you. Our power has grown. The more we exercise it, the more we have.”
“Power?” said Mr Gilchirst in puzzlement. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“You are disharmonious,” said Reverend Cope.
“You bring disruption to order,” said Mr Toy.
“We cannot tolerate your insubordination,” added Mr Jackson, trying to impose his presence onto the room.
“You are really not making any sense,” said Mr Gilchirst, whose tone indicated he had concerns about the mental health of his colleagues.
“Miss Hill,” snapped Mabel, “bring out the box.”
Pandora stared as Miss Hill went to a cabinet in the corner of the room and carefully pulled from it a small wooden chest. She turned, holding the chest carefully. The wood was dark but also
“Indeed we are, yet I believe we can best do this by giving the children the ability to think independently. You seem to take the opposing view that children should only move along pre-established, regulated lines.”
“The exam results speak for themselves,” repeated Miss Hill, sounding like a stuck record.
“The exam results merely show that your students can regurgitate information after studying twenty-years’ worth of past exam papers. By any other criteria, such as how much of that information they actually understand, they fail. Are we here to teach these young people to have enquiring minds, or are we here to turn them into brainless automatons who can recite facts and figures only?”
“The results speak for themselves!” repeated Miss Hill, who had clearly made this into a personal mantra.
“And we are not questioning the results,” said a cold, reptilian voice, which Pandora recognised in horror. Mabel. What was she doing in there?
“On the contrary, Miss Whitemarsh,” replied the testy voice of Mr Gilchirst, “I am doing precisely that. I would have hoped that a school governor would understand my concerns, but I am not surprised that you don’t.”
“Oh, I have my concerns,” purred Mabel. “Concerns raised by Miss Hill and the other dedicated teachers of this fine school. Concerns against your teaching methods.”
“Ah, I wondered why this meeting of the school governors had been called,” said the voice of Mr Gilchirst.
Pandora could imagine him rocking back and forth on his heels as he talked, looking over the heads of the other people in the room. She crept down the corridor and risked peeking around the door. There, she saw Mabel sitting at the head of a large table. To her left sat Miss Hill and Reverend Cope, while to her right was Mr Toy. Finally, almost overlooked as always, was Mr Jackson. In front of them stood Mr Gilchrist, his back to Pandora.
“We have all been concerned with your refusal to teach the curriculum set out before you,” continued Miss Hill.
Mr Gilchirst pounced on the statement. “Really? Perhaps you could elaborate on when I have refused to teach the texts set out by the external examination board?”
“We are not talking about the national curriculum,” backtracked Miss Hill, irritation pulling at her voice.
“And what other curriculum is there?”
“There is the school curriculum.”
“Ah, yes, the blinkered school policy of turning children into little more than clones in your image. Now, I admit that at times I suspect that the national curriculum and our political masters are aiming to reduce us all to unthinking automatons, but until the hidden policy is made public and official, I shall continue to teach children to think independently.”
“And that is your final word?” asked Mabel, her voice bloated with satisfaction.
“Indeed it is,” said Mr Gilchirst, “and as I have not defied the national curriculum, I look forward to your attempts to remove me from the school before the contract ends.”
“That will not be a problem,” hissed Mabel. “We have removed many of the evils which plague us–disruptive, violent, antisocial elements–and we can remove you. Our power has grown. The more we exercise it, the more we have.”
“Power?” said Mr Gilchirst in puzzlement. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“You are disharmonious,” said Reverend Cope.
“You bring disruption to order,” said Mr Toy.
“We cannot tolerate your insubordination,” added Mr Jackson, trying to impose his presence onto the room.
“You are really not making any sense,” said Mr Gilchirst, whose tone indicated he had concerns about the mental health of his colleagues.
“Miss Hill,” snapped Mabel, “bring out the box.”
Pandora stared as Miss Hill went to a cabinet in the corner of the room and carefully pulled from it a small wooden chest. She turned, holding the chest carefully. The wood was dark but also
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