“Ill take your little girl into my class, if you dont mind,” said the teacher who had overheard the conversation between my mother, the headmistress, and another teacher.
But the teacher whose class my mother had hoped to place me in refused outright.
“Shell be a poor student in your classshe cant read, she cant even put letters into syllables,” the woman argued. “Where have you ever seen a failing child in the top stream?”
She was right. I couldnt read or write, and my mother couldnt sit me down with a primer in the summerI was far too busy exploring. “Youre out from dawn till dusk,” Mum would say. But I only wanted to know every corner of our yard, then the next, and to climb every tree. With such desires, even a whole day wasnt enough.
Yet Mrs. Evelyn Hart must have seen something in me. Thats how I ended up in the second stream. My behaviour was dreadful, but I excelled in my studies. Learning came easily to me, and she had a gift for reaching every child.
How we adored her! By the time we left primary school, there wasnt a single poor student in our classonly top marks. There was no other way with Mrs. Hart.
She was already retired when our class moved on. She had no children of her own, nor had she married. Her life was devoted to teaching.
On weekends, we often gathered at her cottage, and it was always a joy. Fresh flowers filled the rooms, and there were always sweets, though such things were scarce in those days. Sometimes wed find former pupils visiting, and theyd stay to share stories of their school days, of trips taken long ago. We dreamed that one day, wed return with sweets of our own and tell new children how wed once sat just like them.
Mrs. Hart lived alone in a three-bedroom house left to her by her parents. It was simple but elegant, and we loved exploring the shelves of trinkets brought by students or made by their hands. One room held nothing but booksshelves upon shelvesand beside them, a cosy armchair.
There she would sit, and we would gather like chicks at her feet, some sprawled on the rug. She would choose a book and read aloud, and afterwards, wed chatter about it. She spoke of artists and poets, played records, and immersed us in art.
At the start of each season, our class would take easels to the park near her home. There, in the hush of nature, wed capture the world as we saw it. Only in winter did we paint indoors, gazing through the window at the frosted trees. Mrs. Harts own paintings were exquisite, and shed gift them to us. We played draughts, and the winner took home a prize.
After leaving school, we often visited. She taught another generation before retiring from the classroombut not from teaching. She tutored from home instead.
Mrs. Hart passed at eighty. She was in her favourite chair, a book in her hands, when she closed her eyes as if to sleep. Beside her was Catherine, a former pupilnow a doctor in her fortieswho still stopped by after her shifts.
Ive never seen so many weeping faces at a funeral, nor so many flowers, nor heard so many kind words spoken.
That was Mrs. Evelyn Hart. Her family wasnt smallit was made of dozens who loved her. She remembered every pupil, had the right words for each, and never once needed to assert authority. It wasnt necessary. Her quiet example, given so early, set us all on the right path.
As one of her students once said, “Mrs. Hart wasnt just a teacher. She was our first guide into a world of curiosity and kindness. She showed us how beautiful, how gentle, and how wondrous life could be.”
