My Mother Wore a Yellow Dress Read Free

a desertion.
    It is not an abandonment, I soon learn, but a handing over into the care of an angel: my new teacher. Miss McKeague strokes my hand with a gentle ‘Now, now,dear’, and so eases my passage from one blurry world into another. …
    Lisnamuck Primary, some three miles from the town of Maghera, was housed in the typical rural school building of the time. It was a simple, two-roomed structure built on a slight incline, whitewashed and drably lifted with a coat of fading blue on windows and doors. A low wall and gate shielded us from the roadway. To one side was a playing field where we were let loose at lunchtime for that necessary respite from the daily grind.
    In Miss’s room there were four rows of miniature desks and chairs, each row representing a year-group from P1 to P4. As each year passed I would be informed and altered, progressing from row to row, from start to finish, from the front to the back of the room.
    The most prominent feature was a large fat-bellied stove, kept burning all winter. There was an ominous guardrail around it which warned us of its danger and kept our childish inquisitiveness in check. The blackboard stood to the right of the fire and faced us accusingly. The only remaining items of furniture were Miss’s desk and several cupboards, bloated with layers of shiny, pink paint. The cupboards contained the tricks of her trade, for our instruction and play. There were books and pencils, paint sets and brushes, toys and skipping ropes. All this equipment would help me engage with a whole new world and tease my brain down new pathways of learning.
    Miss McKeague was the enchantress who would make this paraphernalia live. She was the omniscient presence that would keep an attentive vigil for the next four years and represent all a child desired from a teacher and adult: calmness, stability, gentleness and grace.
    Looking back now I can see that she was a cliché of her time – a model of rectitude and fine breeding, with that dedication to duty that only the selfless spinster can lay claim to. She was the quintessential teacher, who had flattened all her ambitions to fit the classroom – in a drift of ruled lines, squeaking chalk and red comments in margins.
    There was nothing fussy or complicated about her. She wore serviceable tweed suits in blue or grey, and dependable low-heeled shoes in black or brown. Her silver hair was always gathered into a bun. Often some strands would slip their moorings to frame her kindly, unpainted face and watchful, sympathetic eyes. Those eyes were her finest, most distinctive feature. Her only artificial adornments were a pearl brooch and a simple watch that served the dual purpose of telling the time and securing a forever pristine handkerchief at her wrist.
    There was little deviation from routine with Miss. We lined up every morning to await her ever-punctual arrival. She would park her Hillman Minx in the same careful spot by the school gate, then crunch down the hill with her little tan suitcase and her smile. Her singsong greeting seldom varied and we’d respond in kind.
    â€˜Good morning, children.’
    â€˜Good morning, Miss McKeague.’
    â€˜Very cold this morning, children, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Yes, Miss McKeague.’
    She would then appoint someone to hold the case while she fished for the keys. Offering up our little arms as supports, we all jostled for this privilege. But we needn’t have: everyone got their turn in due course. Once she’d found the key she’d turn it in the lock, yank open the swollen door, causing the tongued latch to rattle its objection. We would file in obediently, shrug off our coats, and so our day would begin.
    I was never at ease in school and not even Miss’s love could change this. I looked at others with fear and longing: those girls with bouncy ringlets and shiny shoes who could talk and laugh easily and got all the answers right. By comparison I was