French lesson child's play
“Be cool,” Lucy unhelpfully suggests.
The comment is directed at me, not our daughter. She is calming herself in a book.
I am trying to get them to stop eating Nutella-smothered baguette so Eve makes it to her first day at a French primary school on time.
They are paying little attention to my fussing. It’s only a five minute drive to the school but I want to be there early.
“It’s not your first day at school,” Lucy says.
It feels like it though.
“Have you got everything Eve? Where’s your water bottle?”
“Yes Dad, calm down.”
I walk to the car to encourage them out of the house.
School starts at 8.30am and pick up is 4.15pm. It’s 8.15am.
“You don’t need to drive so fast.”
“I’m not.”
In the backseat, Eve is still immersed in her book. About three blocks from the school she pops her head up and says: “I can’t do this.”
Being a bundle of nerves myself, I focus as hard as possible on driving and leave Lucy to explain that Eve having next to no French is nothing to worry about at a French school.
At the school, cars throng as parents park and walk their children to the controlled entry gate. Once their children are inside they stop for a gossip with the other mums and dads.
It’s clear there are distinct groupings - some of the parents put a lot of effort into their appearance for the school run, while others turn up in their dressing gowns. Where we will fit in is not clear. We are living out of a small backpack each. Our dress sense is somewhere in the middle.
There’s no grass to be seen, despite this being the countryside, and a high chain metal fence. As we jump out, nearly every child in the concrete playground turns, sees the new girl, walks to the fenceline and presses their faces against it.
I walk slowly behind Lucy and Eve gulping down the nerves.
Eve mutters something about not doing it again and I give her a gentle nudge towards the waiting crowd. Eve’s new teacher, Madame Morales, is at the gate to meet us.
She and Lucy converse while Eve lets out a quiet, nervous sob. I throw the massed children dirty looks.
We are escorted in and a group of 10 kids peel off from the main bunch and follow us up the stairs before realising we’re off to see the principal. As they retreat, she emerges from the staffroom. Madame Bordes smiles warmly, extends her hand and says: “Enchante.” She wears the happy, inquisitive frown that is a good teacher’s trademark.
She speaks directly to Eve, who stammers out a bonjour in between a couple of sobs. Lucy remains a picture of calm, talking to Madame Bordes as she leads us downstairs to the classroom. Eve relaxes a little there - it looks just like any other home of learning: artwork of various quality smattered around the walls; maps of France and the world; a class project on the importance of grammar.
Madame Morales says Eve should come outside and meet some of her classmates, while suggesting we’re also welcome to come back for lunch in the cafeteria if we want. Eve gives us a dirty look which clearly conveys that’s out of the question, whatever her emotional state.
As we enter the courtyard the group of 10 re-emerge and head for Eve. She looks at us and says: “You can leave now,” before turning on her heels in the direction of the classroom, a tear in her step.
Madame Morales gives a suitable shrug, one that says Eve will be fine and we can come back at 4.15pm to pick her up.
As we leave, a man with a very large dog and bright orange vest introduces himself.
“You must be the new people.”
He speaks English and his accent is not French.
“Yes, we’re Eve’s parents. We’re hoping it goes OK today.”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I have told my daughter, Ebba, to look after her. It will be OK. I’m Rogier and this is Freya.”
Freya wags her tail in introduction.
We spend the day nervously counting the minutes to 4.15pm.
Rogier and Freya are outside the school gate again when we arrive, he invites us for a drink at the end of the week.
“Look, there,” he says. “It’s Ebba and is that your daughter?”
Eve and Ebba are walking together, bags on their backs, chatting away and smiling broadly.
“How was that?”
The answer comes in a quick stream.
“Awesome. We had a cooked lunch. And Wednesday is a day off. They’re going to give me extra French lessons. We did geography. I think French school is better than in New Zealand. Can Ebba and I go for a swim together?”
Rogier smiles. For the first time that day, we relax.
