Farming Breeds: Miss Hardy – the schoolmistress
Join us for a funny, irreverent look at some of the characters that make the British countryside what it is. Our tongue-in-cheek guide puts characters such as the retired Major, the “perfect” next-door farmer and the young tearaway under the microscope. Here we meet the ferocious school matriarch Miss Hardy…
“Traditional,” is how Miss Hardy describes her teaching methods.
“Ferocious”, others say. The children don’t say anything – they don’t dare. Not in school time, anyway. Outside the gate they say, in whispered voices, she’s a right old bag.
No-one knows how old Miss Hardy is. She taught most of the current pupils’ parents – and a few of their grandparents. “I’ve got to be getting something right if they send their children back,” she says. Truth is, there’s no alternative: the nearest other school is 30 miles away.
Some of the village newcomers certainly wouldn’t send their youngsters there if there was a choice. “She runs that place like a borstal,” they say. Kids, it’s true, would rather wet themselves than ask to be excused from one of her lessons.
No-one knows what the woman’s first name is, either. Even the adults call her, simply, Miss Hardy – petrified of the consequences of doing anything else. “Good afternoon Miss Hardy,” they say nervously, suffering a flash of fear that they’ve forgotten their games kit. Then they remember: they left school decades ago.
A rumour once circulated that her Christian name was Winifred. “Winnie the poo,” the kids – a safe distance from the school gates – said in hushed tones. But there’s no such thing as a safe distance from the school gates. One or two were punished without explanation. “Because life isn’t fair,” said Miss Hardy when asked why.
Discipline, she maintains, hasn’t been the same since corporal punishment was abolished. Her favoured method was a long piece of wood which sat waiting, menacingly, on her desk for its next victim.
Even the adults call her, simply, Miss Hardy – petrified of the consequences of doing anything else. “Good afternoon Miss Hardy,” they say nervously, suffering a flash of fear that they’ve forgotten their games kit. Then they remember: they left school decades ago.
“Tell me again what you’ve done wrong,” she would say, swinging the weapon in her tiny hand, getting all 8st of her weight behind the blow. Red bottoms were once as common in Miss Hardy’s village as in a baboon enclosure.
Miss Hardy, you won’t be surprised to learn, is big on sport. “It’s character building,” she shrills, pushing her pupils out into the rain with her brolly.
Fear, too, is the chief weapon she employs at parish council meetings. “Don’t you dare cheek me, young man – I remember when you were on your potty,” she barks at on eof her fellow councillors Charles. Charles recently retired from a long and successful career in business.
“Sorry, excuse me, please but I was wondering if I might be, er, excused the next meeting please Miss Hardy,” he asks, with a nervous twitch he hasn’t shown since the fourth form.
Miss Hardy’s pupils, meanwhile, don’t need to be told anything twice. They memorised their times-tables almost before they could walk. Their dreams are full, not of brave sea-captains or beautiful princesses, but the elements of the Periodic table. Class 3B can even say the alphabet backwards. “It shows anything can be learnt with effort and commitment,” she reckons.
The creature she’s probably closest to is Darwin, the school cat. Like her, Darwin’s been around longer than anyone can remember. Unlike her, however, it’s round and gentle and sleeps a lot.
He sits on her lap every night as, under the light of a table lamp, she reads scientific journals. Then she heads – with Darwin under her arm – upstairs to bed.
“I’d better get some sleep,” she thinks, “I’ve got a lot of punishment to administer tomorrow.”