In a twist of fate and circumstance, I recently found myself amidst a book fair. It was a wonderful thing; thousands of donated books liberally scattered around the benches of a school hall.
Like an ante-library, the strewn chaos was a testament to the children’s enthusiasm. Five books could be purchased for a pound. I kid you not. Sunderland is singlehandedly managing what has so far eluded the Bank of England.
Amidst the hubbub of literary Borrowers, came a plea that pierced whatever the opposite of ‘silence please’ is. It was a call to arms, amplified by a Year Five girl on behalf of an unrequited infant: ‘Has anyone seen an Enchanted Horses?’.
Henceforth, a collective fevered pursuit ensued, the benches scoured for a glitter-pony in a haystack. I smiled, witnessing the serious business of enchanted horse-whispering.
I’m not sure whether an Enchanted Horses was eventually corralled or not. A book fair is not always ‘fair’ in that way. But its value was enormous. Children rummaged amongst their parents’ hand-me-down purses for 20ps, excavating, investing and no doubt stockpiling some of the very books the grown-ups had hoped they’d seen the back of. Which is exactly the point. Childhood should never be seen-the-back of. It must find its own way out, in its own time and way.
Value is not fixed. A seven-year-old cherishes the prospect of finding a hidden gem during a wet Wednesday dinnertime. The hope and possibility are real. We might not share the same sentiment, but the feeling is undeniably priceless. The primary years are the closest any of us ever come to experiencing true magic. The older we get, the more forgetful we become. Schools are far more than bricks and mortar. The front door is a portal to the wonder years.
Lest we forget. Ever. Teachers are the gatekeepers to an incredible world, whether real or imaginary. You’re a long-time grown-up.
If you listen carefully, we can all hear the hooves of enchanted horses galloping around the school corridors. That’s the way it must always be.