Wednesday morning arrived with a problem.
Not a serious problem.
Not a dangerous problem.
Not even a Barry-sized problem.
It was simply that nothing Mrs Abraham had planned for Reception could possibly beat last Wednesday.
Last Wednesday had involved guide dog puppies.
Actual guide dog puppies.
Tiny, fluffy, impossibly adorable guide dog puppies had waddled around the spare Reception class and immediately destroyed the possibility of every future school activity ever being considered exciting.
How, after that, were you supposed to compete?
“Today,” Mrs Abraham told herself as she stood in the classroom, “will be perfectly lovely.”
She paused.
“Obviously.”
Outside, Barry was already attempting to balance a pencil on his upper lip.
It was going to be a long morning.
The children gathered for registration.
Marmaduke was still talking about Barbados.
“So there will be palm trees.”
“Yes,” said Mrs Abraham.
“And beaches.”
“Yes.”
“And coconuts.”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever seen a coconut fall?”
“No.”
“Does it make a big noise?”
“I imagine it could.”
Barry leaned across.
“I think it would go…”
He made a deep booming noise.
“BONG!”
Several children laughed.
Mrs Abraham smiled.
“Thank you, Barry.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I wasn’t thanking you for the noise.”
“Oh.”
Barry went back to his pencil.
Mrs Abraham looked around the class.
Yesterday had been the autumnal underpants incident.
Today, she decided, had to be calmer.
She had planned forest school for the entire morning.
Trees.
Leaves.
Seasonal changes.
A bonfire.
Apple slices toasted over the fire.
Hot chocolate.
A chance for the children to talk about worries and symbolically put them into the fire.
It was thoughtful.
Educational.
Seasonal.
Peaceful.
There were even safety rules.
There was no possible way Barry could ruin it.
Mrs Abraham had clearly forgotten whom she was teaching.
The Reception children were marched to the far end of the playground where the forest school area sat beneath a collection of large trees.
Mrs Alves was already there.
And she had lit the bonfire.
It crackled and popped gently, sending little curls of smoke into the cool autumn air.
The children stared.
“Ooooooh,” said Marmaduke.
Barry stared at the flames.
“That’s fire.”
“Yes,” said Mrs Abraham.
“Real fire?”
“Yes.”
“Can I touch it?”
“No.”
Barry thought about that.
“Can I touch it a little?”
“No.”
“What about with a stick?”
“No.”
“What if the stick touches it?”
“That is rather the point of the stick.”
“Oh.”
Mrs Abraham looked at him.
“Barry, you must listen very carefully to the instructions today.”
“I always do.”
Mrs Abraham raised an eyebrow.
Marmaduke snorted.
Barry looked offended.
“I do.”
“Barry,” said Marmaduke, “yesterday you brought Daddy’s pants to school.”
“They were autumn.”
Mrs Abraham closed her eyes.
She had been hoping nobody would mention the pants.
Apparently the underpants had become part of the permanent school curriculum.
Mrs Alves gathered everyone around the fire.
“Today,” she began, “we’re going to talk about the changing seasons.”
Barry raised his hand.
Mrs Alves sighed internally.
“Yes, Barry?”
“Are we talking about Barbados?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
She continued.
“You’ve all noticed the leaves changing colour.”
“Yes!” said Marmaduke.
“They’re red and yellow and brown,” said another child.
“And some are still green,” added another.
“Exactly,” said Mrs Alves.
She explained how the trees were losing their leaves and how the long, dry summer had affected them.
The children listened surprisingly well.
The trees around them had been through a very dry summer, and now autumn had arrived.
The leaves were changing.
Some were already falling.
Others were hanging on stubbornly.
Mrs Alves explained that trees respond to changes in daylight, temperature and water availability, and that this year the drought conditions had made some of the changes particularly noticeable.
Barry looked up into the branches.
“So the trees are tired?”
“In a way.”
“Because it didn’t rain enough?”
“Yes.”
Barry nodded thoughtfully.
“Maybe they should have asked for a drink.”
Marmaduke whispered, “They can’t talk.”
Barry looked at him.
“They could write a letter.”
“To who?”
“The rain.”
Marmaduke considered this.
“That might work.”
Mrs Abraham decided not to ask Barry whether he intended to post it.
Then came the best bit.
The climbing.
Some of the lower branches had been checked and prepared for the children, and they were allowed to climb carefully under adult supervision.
Marmaduke went first.
He scrambled onto a low branch and grinned.
“I’m a monkey!”
“You are not a monkey,” said Mrs Abraham.
Marmaduke climbed another bit.
“I’m a Barbados monkey.”
“I’m not sure there are Barbados monkeys.”
Barry immediately climbed onto the branch beside him.
“I am.”
Mrs Abraham looked at the two boys.
“You are both Reception children.”
“We can be monkeys at the weekend,” said Barry.
“Possibly.”
Barry stretched out his arms.
“Look!”
He wobbled.
“Careful.”
“I am.”
“You’re wobbling.”
“That’s because I’m climbing.”
“That is not how climbing works.”
Marmaduke giggled.
Barry carefully lowered himself down.
“I think I’m better at football.”
“You’re not particularly good at football,” said Marmaduke.
Barry stared at him.
“I am.”
“You kicked the ball into the hedge.”
“It was tactical.”
“It was in a bush.”
“It was tactical bush football.”
Mrs Abraham decided that forest school was going to be significantly more complicated than she had anticipated.
After the climbing came the apples.
Each child was given a slice of apple on a long stick and, under very close supervision, they held them near the fire to toast.
The smell was wonderful.
Warm apple.
Smoke.
Autumn leaves.
Wood burning.
The children watched their slices change.
Barry held his very carefully.
“It’s cooking.”
“Yes.”
“It’s getting brown.”
“Yes.”
“Can I eat it?”
“Not yet.”
“How long?”
“A little longer.”
“How long is a little longer?”
“A short amount of time.”
“How short?”
Mrs Abraham sighed.
“Barry.”
“What?”
“Please just wait.”
Barry looked at his apple.
Then the fire.
Then Mrs Abraham.
“Waiting is hard.”
“I know.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Eventually, the apples were ready.
The children ate them.
Marmaduke took a bite.
“It’s delicious.”
Barry took a bite.
He nodded.
“Mine tastes smoky.”
“That’s because you’ve been holding it over a fire.”
“Oh.”
He took another bite.
“I like it.”
Mrs Abraham smiled.
“Good.”
Barry looked thoughtful.
“Can we do this every Wednesday?”
“Perhaps.”
“Can we do it at home?”
Mrs Abraham paused.
“With a grown-up.”
Barry nodded.
“Daddy could do it.”
Mrs Abraham thought about the underpants.
She wasn’t entirely convinced Mr Brand needed another Barry-led experiment.
Then came the hot chocolate.
There were several versions prepared, including alternatives for children with allergies.
The children sat on logs and low benches, wrapped up against the cool air, holding their warm cups between both hands.
Marmaduke took a sip.
“This is amazing.”
Barry took a sip.
“Mine’s hot.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s hot chocolate.”
Barry looked into the cup.
“Oh.”
He waited.
Then took another sip.
“It’s still hot.”
Mrs Abraham looked at the sky.
She was beginning to understand why guide dog puppies were easier.
The puppies had simply been puppies.
They hadn’t asked questions about the temperature of hot chocolate.
Then Mrs Alves gathered everyone together.
“There is one more thing we’re going to do.”
Barry looked interested.
“Are we climbing again?”
“No.”
“Eating?”
“No.”
“Hot chocolate?”
“No.”
Barry sighed.
“Okay.”
Mrs Alves held up a small piece of wood.
“Sometimes we all have worries.”
The children became quiet.
“Things we’re frightened about. Things we’re thinking about. Things that make us sad or cross.”
Barry looked into the fire.
Mrs Alves explained that each child would have the chance to say a worry out loud, then throw a small chip of wood into the fire as a way of symbolically letting that worry go.
It wasn’t about pretending that worries disappeared magically.
It was about sharing them.
Naming them.
And remembering that grown-ups could help.
The children listened.
One child worried about moving house.
Another worried about getting lost.
One worried about thunderstorms.
Another worried about a grandparent being ill.
The worries were small and big.
Some made the children quiet.
Some made them think.
Some were met with a reassuring hand on a shoulder.
Mrs Alves gave each child a piece of wood.
“Barry?”
Barry stepped forward.
He looked at the fire.
Then at his little piece of wood.
Then back at the fire.
“My worry is FIV.”
The adults became very still.
Barry continued.
“Because Snowball has it.”
He swallowed.
“And I don’t want her to get poorly.”
Mrs Abraham crouched beside him.
“That’s a very understandable worry, Barry.”
Barry nodded.
“I love Snowball.”
“I know.”
“And she’s got to stay inside.”
“Yes.”
“And we have to look after her.”
“Yes.”
Barry looked at the fire.
Then he tossed his piece of wood into the flames.
It landed with a tiny crackle.
Barry watched it disappear.
Marmaduke stepped forward next.
He looked very serious.
“My worry is pets not being cared for.”
Mrs Alves nodded.
“That is a good worry to talk about.”
Marmaduke held his piece of wood tightly.
“Because animals can’t always tell you what’s wrong.”
Mrs Abraham smiled.
“That’s very thoughtful.”
“And they need people to look after them. Barry was the one who realised Snowball needed help.”
“Yes.”
Marmaduke threw his wood into the fire.
It landed beside Barry’s.
The two boys stood silently for a moment.
Then Barry whispered:
“Bye, FIV.”
Marmaduke whispered:
“Bye, not-looking-after-pets.”
Mrs Abraham smiled.
“It’s not quite magic.”
Barry looked at her.
“I know.”
He paused.
“But it felt nice.”
“It can.”
The children continued.
More worries went into the fire.
A fear of dogs.
A fear of sleeping alone.
A worry about homework.
A worry about a friend.
A worry about being shouted at.
One little boy said his worry was that his mummy might forget to buy biscuits.
Mrs Abraham looked at Barry.
Barry looked at her.
They both knew exactly where this was going.
Barry whispered to Marmaduke:
“That one’s serious.”
Marmaduke nodded.
“Very.”
Mrs Alves gently explained that grown-ups sometimes had worries too.
Barry looked shocked.
“Mrs Abraham has worries?”
Mrs Abraham laughed.
“Of course.”
“What about?”
She hesitated.
There were several answers.
Mostly involving Reception.
But she decided against them.
“Sometimes I worry that people I care about might be unhappy.”
Barry considered that.
Then said:
“I worry about Snowball.”
“I know.”
“That’s the same.”
“It is.”
Barry smiled.
Eventually, the fire began to die down.
The children had eaten their apples.
They had drunk their hot chocolate.
They had climbed trees.
They had talked about autumn.
They had listened to the fire.
And they had shared their worries.
It had been, Mrs Abraham thought, a genuinely lovely morning.
Calm.
Thoughtful.
Educational.
Even Barry had managed not to cause any major incidents.
Mrs Abraham looked at him.
Barry was sitting beside Marmaduke, staring at the embers.
He looked peaceful.
She smiled.
“Barry?”
“Yes?”
“What are you thinking about?”
Barry looked at the fire.
“Snowball.”
Mrs Abraham nodded.
“That’s nice.”
“And Barbados.”
“Of course.”
“And apple.”
“Yes.”
“And hot chocolate.”
“Yes.”
Barry paused.
“And Daddy’s pants.”
Mrs Abraham stared at him.
“Why?”
Barry shrugged.
“I was just remembering autumn.”
Marmaduke burst out laughing.
Mrs Abraham put both hands over her face.
The guide dog puppies from last Wednesday suddenly seemed like a distant memory.
She had thought that forest school, with its fire and trees and apples and meaningful conversations, might finally have provided something that could beat them.
She had been wrong.
Nothing could beat guide dog puppies.
But apparently Barry’s dad’s autumn underpants were going to keep trying.
And as the Reception children walked back towards the classroom, Barry looked at Marmaduke.
“Do you think Snowball liked my worry?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think the fire took it?”
“I think it helped you talk about it.”
Barry nodded.
Then he stopped.
“Marmaduke?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think the fire can take homework worries?”
Marmaduke thought about it.
“I don’t know.”
Barry looked towards Mrs Abraham.
She was walking ahead.
“I’m going to ask.”
Marmaduke grabbed his arm.
“No!”
“Why?”
“Because she might give you homework.”
Barry stopped.
“That is an excellent point.”
And for the first time all morning, Mrs Abraham had absolutely no idea how close she had come to losing control of the entire forest school curriculum.
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