The Rainbow - 27

  And yet, as the afternoon wore away, the sweetness of the dream returned again. Kingston-on-Thames—there was such sound of dignity to her. The shadow of history and the glamour of stately progress enveloped her. The palaces would be old and darkened, the place of kings obscured. Yet it was a place of kings for her—Richard and Henry and Wolsey and Queen Elizabeth. She divined great lawns with noble trees, and terraces whose steps the water washed softly, where the swans sometimes came to earth. Still she must see the stately, gorgeous barge of the Queen float down, the crimson carpet put upon the landing stairs, the gentlemen in their purple-velvet cloaks, bare-headed, standing in the sunshine grouped on either side waiting.
  
  "Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song."
  
  Evening came, her father returned home, sanguine and alert and detached as ever. He was less real than her fancies. She waited whilst he ate his tea. He took big mouthfuls, big bites, and ate unconsciously with the same abandon an animal gives to its food.
  
  Immediately after tea he went over to the church. It was choir-practice, and he wanted to try the tunes on his organ.
  
  The latch of the big door clicked loudly as she came after him, but the organ rolled more loudly still. He was unaware. He was practicing the anthem. She saw his small, jet-black head and alert face between the candle-flames, his slim body sagged on the music-stool. His face was so luminous and fixed, the movements of his limbs seemed strange, apart from him. The sound of the organ seemed to belong to the very stone of the pillars, like sap running in them.
  
  Then there was a close of music and silence.
  
  "Father!" she said.
  
  He looked round as if at an apparition. Ursula stood shadowily within the candle-light.
  
  "What now?" he said, not coming to earth.
  
  It was difficult to speak to him.
  
  "I've got a situation," she said, forcing herself to speak.
  
  "You've got what?" he answered, unwilling to come out of his mood of organ-playing. He closed the music before him.
  
  "I've got a situation to go to."
  
  Then he turned to her, still abstracted, unwilling.
  
  "Oh, where's that?" he said.
  
  "At Kingston-on-Thames. I must go on Thursday for an interview with the Committee."
  
  "You must go on Thursday?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  And she handed him the letter. He read it by the light of the candles.
  
  "Ursula Brangwen, Yew Tree Cottage, Cossethay, Derbyshire.
  
  "Dear Madam, You are requested to call at the above offices on Thursday next, the 10th, at 11.30 a.m., for an interview with the committee, referring to your application for the post of assistant mistress at the Wellingborough Green Schools."
  
  It was very difficult for Brangwen to take in this remote and official information, glowing as he was within the quiet of his church and his anthem music.
  
  "Well, you needn't bother me with it now, need you?' he said impatiently, giving her back the letter.
  
  "I've got to go on Thursday," she said.
  
  He sat motionless. Then he reached more music, and there was a rushing sound of air, then a long, emphatic trumpet-note of the organ, as he laid his hands on the keys. Ursula turned and went away.
  
  He tried to give himself again to the organ. But he could not. He could not get back. All the time a sort of string was tugging, tugging him elsewhere, miserably.
  
  So that when he came into the house after choir-practice his face was dark and his heart black. He said nothing however, until all the younger children were in bed. Ursula, however, knew what was brewing.
  
  At length he asked:
  
  "Where's that letter?"
  
  She gave it to him. He sat looking at it. "You are requested to call at the above offices on Thursday next——" It was a cold, official notice to Ursula herself and had nothing to do with him. So! She existed now as a separate social individual. It was for her to answer this note, without regard to him. He had even no right to interfere. His heart was hard and angry.
  
  "You had to do it behind our backs, had you?" he said, with a sneer. And her heart leapt with hot pain. She knew she was free—she had broken away from him. He was beaten.
  
  "You said, 'let her try,'" she retorted, almost apologizing to him.
  
  He did not hear. He sat looking at the letter.
  
  "Education Office, Kingston-on-Thames"—and then the typewritten "Miss Ursula Brangwen, Yew Tree Cottage, Cossethay." It was all so complete and so final. He could not but feel the new position Ursula held, as recipient of that letter. It was an iron in his soul.
  
  "Well," he said at length, "you're not going."
  
  Ursula started and could find no words to clamour her revolt.
  
  "If you think you're going dancin' off to th' other side of London, you're mistaken."
  
  "Why not?" she cried, at once hard fixed in her will to go.
  
  "That's why not," he said.
  
  And there was silence till Mrs. Brangwen came downstairs.
  
  "Look here, Anna," he said, handing her the letter.
  
  She put back her head, seeing a typewritten letter, anticipating trouble from the outside world. There was the curious, sliding motion of her eyes, as if she shut off her sentient, maternal self, and a kind of hard trance, meaningless, took its place. Thus, meaningless, she glanced over the letter, careful not to take it in. She apprehended the contents with her callous, superficial mind. Her feeling self was shut down.
  
  "What post is it?" she asked.
  
  "She wants to go and be a teacher in Kingston-on-Thames, at fifty pounds a year."
  
  "Oh, indeed."
  
  The mother spoke as if it were a hostile fact concerning some stranger. She would have let her go, out of callousness. Mrs. Brangwen would begin to grow up again only with her youngest child. Her eldest girl was in the way now.
  
  "She's not going all that distance," said the father.
  
  "I have to go where they want me," cried Ursula. "And it's a good place to go to."
  
  "What do you know about the place?" said her father harshly.
  
  "And it doesn't matter whether they want you or not, if your father says you are not to go," said the mother calmly.
  
  How Ursula hated her!
  
  "You said I was to try," the girl cried. "Now I've got a place and I'm going to go."
  
  "You're not going all that distance," said her father.
  
  "Why don't you get a place at Ilkeston, where you can live at home?" asked Gudrun, who hated conflicts, who could not understand Ursula's uneasy way, yet who must stand by her sister.
  
  "There aren't any places in Ilkeston," cried Ursula. "And I'd rather go right away."
  
  "If you'd asked about it, a place could have been got for you in Ilkeston. But you had to play Miss High-an'-mighty, and go your own way," said her father.
  
  "I've no doubt you'd rather go right away," said her mother, very caustic. "And I've no doubt you'd find other people didn't put up with you for very long either. You've too much opinion of yourself for your good."
  
  Between the girl and her mother was a feeling of pure hatred. There came a stubborn silence. Ursula knew she must break it.
  
  "Well, they've written to me, and I s'll have to go," she said.
  
  "Where will you get the money from?" asked her father.
  
  "Uncle Tom will give it me," she said.
  
  Again there was silence. This time she was triumphant.
  
  Then at length her father lifted his head. His face was abstracted, he seemed to be abstracting himself, to make a pure statement.
  
  "Well, you're not going all that distance away," he said. "I'll ask Mr. Burt about a place here. I'm not going to have you by yourself at the other side of London."
  
  "But I've got to go to Kingston," said Ursula. "They've sent for me."
  
  "They'll do without you," he said.
  
  There was a trembling silence when she was on the point of tears.
  
  "Well," she said, low and tense, "you can put me off this, but I'm going to have a place. I'm not going to stop at home."
  
  "Nobody wants you to stop at home," he suddenly shouted, going livid with rage.
  
  She said no more. Her nature had gone hard and smiling in its own arrogance, in its own antagonistic indifference to the rest of them. This was the state in which he wanted to kill her. She went singing into the parlour.
  
  C'est la mère Michel qui a perdu son chat, Qui cri par la fenêtre qu'est-ce qui le lue renda——"
  
  During the next days Ursula went about bright and hard, singing to herself, making love to the children, but her soul hard and cold with regard to her parents. Nothing more was said. The hardness and brightness lasted for four days. Then it began to break up. So at evening she said to her father:
  
  "Have you spoken about a place for me?"
  
  "I spoke to Mr. Burt."
  
  "What did he say?"
  
  "There's a committee meeting to-morrow. He'll tell me on Friday."
  
  So she waited till Friday. Kingston-on-Thames had been an exciting dream. Here she could feel the hard, raw reality. So she knew that this would come to pass. Because nothing was ever fulfilled, she found, except in the hard limited reality. She did not want to be a teacher in Ilkeston, because she knew Ilkeston, and hated it. But she wanted to be free, so she must take her freedom where she could.
  
  On Friday her father said there was a place vacant in Brinsley Street school. This could most probably be secured for her, at once, without the trouble of application.
  
  Her heart halted. Brinsley Street was a school in a poor quarter, and she had had a taste of the common children of Ilkeston. They had shouted after her and thrown stones. Still, as a teacher, she would be in authority. And it was all unknown. She was excited. The very forest of dry, sterile brick had some fascination for her. It was so hard and ugly, so relentlessly ugly, it would purge her of some of her floating sentimentality.
  
  She dreamed how she would make the little, ugly children love her. She would be so personal. Teachers were always so hard and impersonal. There was no vivid relationship. She would make everything personal and vivid, she would give herself, she would give, give, give all her great stores of wealth to her children, she would make them so happy, and they would prefer her to any teacher on the face of the earth.
  
  At Christmas she would choose such fascinating Christmas cards for them, and she would give them such a happy party in one of the class-rooms.
  
  The headmaster, Mr. Harby, was a short, thick-set, rather common man, she thought. But she would hold before him the light of grace and refinement, he would have her in such high esteem before long. She would be the gleaming sun of the school, the children would blossom like little weeds, the teachers like tall, hard plants would burst into rare flower.
  
  The Monday morning came. It was the end of September, and a drizzle of fine rain like veils round her, making her seem intimate, a world to herself. She walked forward to the new land. The old was blotted out. The veil would be rent that hid the new world. She was gripped hard with suspense as she went down the hill in the rain, carrying her dinner-bag.
  
  Through the thin rain she saw the town, a black, extensive mount. She must enter in upon it. She felt at once a feeling of repugnance and of excited fulfilment. But she shrank.
  
  She waited at the terminus for the tram. Here it was beginning. Before her was the station to Nottingham, whence Theresa had gone to school half an hour before; behind her was the little church school she had attended when she was a child, when her grandmother was alive. Her grandmother had been dead two years now. There was a strange woman at the Marsh, with her Uncle Fred, and a small baby. Behind her was Cossethay, and blackberries were ripe on the hedges.
  
  As she waited at the tram-terminus she reverted swiftly to her childhood; her teasing grandfather, with his fair beard and blue eyes, and his big, monumental body; he had got drowned: her grandmother, whom Ursula would sometimes say she had loved more than anyone else in the world: the little church school, the Phillips boys; one was a soldier in the Life Guards now, one was a collier. With a passion she clung to the past.
  
  But as she dreamed of it, she heard the tram-car grinding round a bend, rumbling dully, she saw it draw into sight, and hum nearer. It sidled round the loop at the terminus, and came to a standstill, looming above her. Some shadowy grey people stepped from the far end, the conductor was walking in the puddles, swinging round the pole.
  
  She mounted into the wet, comfortless tram, whose floor was dark with wet, whose windows were all steamed, and she sat in suspense. It had begun, her new existence.
  
  One other passenger mounted—a sort of charwoman with a drab, wet coat. Ursula could not bear the waiting of the tram. The bell clanged, there was a lurch forward. The car moved cautiously down the wet street. She was being carried forward, into her new existence. Her heart burned with pain and suspense, as if something were cutting her living tissue.
  
  Often, oh often the tram seemed to stop, and wet, cloaked people mounted and sat mute and grey in stiff rows opposite her, their umbrellas between their knees. The windows of the tram grew more steamy; opaque. She was shut in with these unliving, spectral people. Even yet it did not occur to her that she was one of them. The conductor came down issuing tickets. Each little ring of his clipper sent a pang of dread through her. But her ticket surely was different from the rest.
  
  They were all going to work; she also was going to work. Her ticket was the same. She sat trying to fit in with them. But fear was at her bowels, she felt an unknown, terrible grip upon her.
  
  At Bath Street she must dismount and change trams. She looked uphill. It seemed to lead to freedom. She remembered the many Saturday afternoons she had walked up to the shops. How free and careless she had been!
  
  Ah, her tram was sliding gingerly downhill. She dreaded every yard of her conveyance. The car halted, she mounted hastily.
  
  She kept turning her head as the car ran on, because she was uncertain of the street. At last, her heart a flame of suspense, trembling, she rose. The conductor rang the bell brusquely.
  
  She was walking down a small, mean, wet street, empty of people. The school squatted low within its railed, asphalt yard, that shone black with rain. The building was grimy, and horrible, dry plants were shadowily looking through the windows.
  
  She entered the arched doorway of the porch. The whole place seemed to have a threatening expression, imitating the church's architecture, for the purpose of domineering, like a gesture of vulgar authority. She saw that one pair of feet had paddled across the flagstone floor of the porch. The place was silent, deserted, like an empty prison waiting the return of tramping feet.
  
  Ursula went forward to the teachers' room that burrowed in a gloomy hole. She knocked timidly.
  
  "Come in!" called a surprised man's voice, as from a prison cell. She entered the dark little room that never got any sun. The gas was lighted naked and raw. At the table a thin man in shirt-sleeves was rubbing a paper on a jellytray. He looked up at Ursula with his narrow, sharp face, said "Good morning," then turned away again, and stripped the paper off the tray, glancing at the violet-coloured writing transferred, before he dropped the curled sheet aside among a heap.
  
  Ursula watched him fascinated. In the gaslight and gloom and the narrowness of the room, all seemed unreal.
  
  "Isn't it a nasty morning," she said.
  
  "Yes," he said, "it's not much of weather."
  
  But in here it seemed that neither morning nor weather really existed. This place was timeless. He spoke in an occupied voice, like an echo. Ursula did not know what to say. She took off her waterproof.
  
  "Am I early?" she asked.
  
  The man looked first at a little clock, then at her. His eyes seemed to be sharpened to needle-points of vision.
  
  "Twenty-five past," he said. "You're the second to come. I'm first this morning."
  
  Ursula sat down gingerly on the edge of a chair, and watched his thin red hands rubbing away on the white surface of the paper, then pausing, pulling up a corner of the sheet, peering, and rubbing away again. There was a great heap of curled white-and-scribbled sheets on the table.
  
  "Must you do so many?" asked Ursula.
  
  Again the man glanced up sharply. He was about thirty or thirty-three years old, thin, greenish, with a long nose and a sharp face. His eyes were blue, and sharp as points of steel, rather beautiful, the girl thought.
  
  "Sixty-three," he answered.
  
  "So many!" she said, gently. Then she remembered.
  
  "But they're not all for your class, are they?" she added.
  
  "Why aren't they?" he replied, a fierceness in his voice.
  
  Ursula was rather frightened by his mechanical ignoring of her, and his directness of statement. It was something new to her. She had never been treated like this before, as if she did not count, as if she were addressing a machine.
  
  "It is too many," she said sympathetically.
  
  "You'll get about the same," he said.
  
  That was all she received. She sat rather blank, not knowing how to feel. Still she liked him. He seemed so cross. There was a queer, sharp, keen-edge feeling about him that attracted her and frightened her at the same time. It was so cold, and against his nature.
  
  The door opened, and a short, neutral-tinted young woman of about twenty-eight appeared.
  
  "Oh, Ursula!" the newcomer exclaimed. "You are here early! My word, I'll warrant you don't keep it up. That's Mr. Williamson's peg. This is yours. Standard Five teacher always has this. Aren't you going to take your hat off?"
  
  Miss Violet Harby removed Ursula's waterproof from the peg on which it was hung, to one a little farther down the row. She had already snatched the pins from her own stuff hat, and jammed them through her coat. She turned to Ursula, as she pushed up her frizzed, flat, dun-coloured hair.
  
  "Isn't it a beastly morning," she exclaimed, "beastly! And if there's one thing I hate above another it's a wet Monday morning;—pack of kids trailing in anyhow-nohow, and no holding 'em——"
  
  She had taken a black pinafore from a newspaper package, and was tying it round her waist.
  
  "You've brought an apron, haven't you?" she said jerkily, glancing at Ursula. "Oh—you'll want one. You've no idea what a sight you'll look before half-past four, what with chalk and ink and kids' dirty feet.—Well, I can send a boy down to mamma's for one."
  
  "Oh, it doesn't matter," said Ursula.
  
  "Oh, yes—I can send easily," cried Miss Harby.
  
  Ursula's heart sank. Everybody seemed so cocksure and so bossy. How was she going to get on with such jolty, jerky, bossy people? And Miss Harby had not spoken a word to the man at the table. She simply ignored him. Ursula felt the callous crude rudeness between the two teachers.
  
  The two girls went out into the passage. A few children were already clattering in the porch.
  
  "Jim Richards," called Miss Harby, hard and authoritative. A boy came sheepishly forward.
  
  "Shall you go down to our house for me, eh?" said Miss Harby, in a commanding, condescending, coaxing voice. She did not wait for an answer. "Go down and ask mamma to send me one of my school pinas, for Miss Brangwen—shall you?"
  
  The boy muttered a sheepish "Yes, miss," and was moving away.
  
  "Hey," called Miss Harby. "Come here—now what are you going for? What shall you say to mamma?"
  
  "A school pina——" muttered the boy.
  
  "'Please, Mrs. Harby, Miss Harby says will you send her another school pinafore for Miss Brangwen, because she's come without one.'"
  
  "Yes, miss," muttered the boy, head ducked, and was moving off. Miss Harby caught him back, holding him by the shoulder.
  
  "What are you going to say?"
  
  "Please, Mrs. Harby, Miss Harby wants a pinny for Miss Brangwin," muttered the boy very sheepishly.
  
  "Miss Brangwen!" laughed Miss Harby, pushing him away. "Here, you'd better have my umbrella—wait a minute."
  
  The unwilling boy was rigged up with Miss Harby's umbrella, and set off.
  
  "Don't take long over it," called Miss Harby, after him. Then she turned to Ursula, and said brightly:
  
  "Oh, he's a caution, that lad—but not bad, you know."
  
  "No," Ursula agreed, weakly.
  
  The latch of the door clicked, and they entered the big room. Ursula glanced down the place. Its rigid, long silence was official and chilling. Half-way down was a glass partition, the doors of which were open. A clock ticked re-echoing, and Miss Harby's voice sounded double as she said:
  
  "This is the big room—Standard Five-Six-and-Seven.—Here's your place—Five——"
  
  She stood in the near end of the great room. There was a small high teacher's desk facing a squadron of long benches, two high windows in the wall opposite.
  
  It was fascinating and horrible to Ursula. The curious, unliving light in the room changed her character. She thought it was the rainy morning. Then she looked up again, because of the horrid feeling of being shut in a rigid, inflexible air, away from all feeling of the ordinary day; and she noticed that the windows were of ribbed, suffused glass.
  
  The prison was round her now! She looked at the walls, colour washed, pale green and chocolate, at the large windows with frowsy geraniums against the pale glass, at the long rows of desks, arranged in a squadron, and dread filled her. This was a new world, a new life, with which she was threatened. But still excited, she climbed into her chair at her teacher's desk. It was high, and her feet could not reach the ground, but must rest on the step. Lifted up there, off the ground, she was in office. How queer, how queer it all was! How different it was from the mist of rain blowing over Cossethay. As she thought of her own village, a spasm of yearning crossed her, it seemed so far off, so lost to her.
  
  She was here in this hard, stark reality—reality. It was queer that she should call this the reality, which she had never known till to-day, and which now so filled her with dread and dislike, that she wished she might go away. This was the reality, and Cossethay, her beloved, beautiful, wellknown Cossethay, which was as herself unto her, that was minor reality. This prison of a school was reality. Here, then, she would sit in state, the queen of scholars! Here she would realize her dream of being the beloved teacher bringing light and joy to her children! But the desks before her had an abstract angularity that bruised her sentiment and made her shrink. She winced, feeling she had been a fool in her anticipations. She had brought her feelings and her generosity to where neither generosity nor emotion were wanted. And already she felt rebuffed, troubled by the new atmosphere, out of place.
  
  She slid down, and they returned to the teacher's room. It was queer to feel that one ought to alter one's personality. She was nobody, there was no reality in herself, the reality was all outside of her, and she must apply herself to it.
  
  Mr. Harby was in the teachers' room, standing before a big, open cupboard, in which Ursula could see piles of pink blotting-paper, heaps of shiny new books, boxes of chalk, and bottles of coloured inks. It looked a treasure store.
  
  The schoolmaster was a short, sturdy man, with a fine head, and a heavy jowl. Nevertheless he was good-looking, with his shapely brows and nose, and his great, hanging moustache. He seemed absorbed in his work, and took no notice of Ursula's entry. There was something insulting in the way he could be so actively unaware of another person, so occupied.
  
  When he had a moment of absence, he looked up from the table and said good-morning to Ursula. There was a pleasant light in his brown eyes. He seemed very manly and incontrovertible, like something she wanted to push over.
  
  "You had a wet walk," he said to Ursula.
  
  "Oh, I don't mind, I'm used to it," she replied, with a nervous little laugh.
  
  But already he was not listening. Her words sounded ridiculous and babbling. He was taking no notice of her.
  
  "You will sign your name here," he said to her, as if she were some child—"and the time when you come and go."
  
  Ursula signed her name in the time book and stood back. No one took any further notice of her. She beat her brains for something to say, but in vain.
  
  "I'd let them in now," said Mr. Harby to the thin man, who was very hastily arranging his papers.
  
  The assistant teacher made no sign of acquiescence, and went on with what he was doing. The atmosphere in the room grew tense. At the last moment Mr. Brunt slipped into his coat.
  
  "You will go to the girls' lobby," said the schoolmaster to Ursula, with a fascinating, insulting geniality, purely official and domineering.
  
  She went out and found Miss Harby, and another girl teacher, in the porch. On the asphalt yard the rain was falling. A toneless bell tang-tang-tanged drearily overhead, monotonously, insistently. It came to an end. Then Mr. Brunt was seen, bare-headed, standing at the other gate of the school yard, blowing shrill blasts on a whistle and looking down the rainy, dreary street.
  
  Boys in gangs and streams came trotting up, running past the master and with a loud clatter of feet and voices, over the yard to the boys' porch. Girls were running and walking through the other entrance.
  
  In the porch where Ursula stood there was a great noise of girls, who were tearing off their coats and hats, and hanging them on the racks bristling with pegs. There was a smell of wet clothing, a tossing out of wet, draggled hair, a noise of voices and feet.
  
  The mass of girls grew greater, the rage around the pegs grew steadier, the scholars tended to fall into little noisy gangs in the porch. Then Violet Harby clapped her hands, clapped them louder, with a shrill "Quiet, girls, quiet!"
  
  There was a pause. The hubbub died down but did not cease.
  
  "What did I say?" cried Miss Harby, shrilly.
  
  There was almost complete silence. Sometimes a girl, rather late, whirled into the porch and flung off her things.
  
  "Leaders—in place," commanded Miss Harby shrilly.
  
  Pairs of girls in pinafores and long hair stood separate in the porch.
  
  "Standard Four, Five, and Six—fall in," cried Miss Harby.
  
  There was a hubbub, which gradually resolved itself into three columns of girls, two and two, standing smirking in the passage. In among the peg-racks, other teachers were putting the lower classes into ranks.
  
  Ursula stood by her own Standard Five. They were jerking their shoulders, tossing their hair, nudging, writhing, staring, grinning, whispering and twisting.
  
  A sharp whistle was heard, and Standard Six, the biggest girls, set off, led by Miss Harby. Ursula, with her Standard Five, followed after. She stood beside a smirking, grinning row of girls, waiting in a narrow passage. What she was herself she did not know.
  
  Suddenly the sound of a piano was heard, and Standard Six set off hollowly down the big room. The boys had entered by another door. The piano played on, a march tune, Standard Five followed to the door of the big room. Mr. Harby was seen away beyond at his desk. Mr. Brunt guarded the other door of the room. Ursula's class pushed up. She stood near them. They glanced and smirked and shoved.
  
  "Go on," said Ursula.
  
  They tittered.
  
  "Go on," said Ursula, for the piano continued.
  
  The girls broke loosely into the room. Mr. Harby, who had seemed immersed in some occupation, away at his desk, lifted his head and thundered:
  
  "Halt!"
  
  There was a halt, the piano stopped. The boys who were just starting through the other door, pushed back. The harsh, subdued voice of Mr. Brunt was heard, then the booming shout of Mr. Harby, from far down the room:
  
  "Who told Standard Five girls to come in like that?"
  
  Ursula crimsoned. Her girls were glancing up at her, smirking their accusation.
  
  "I sent them in, Mr. Harby," she said, in a clear, struggling voice. There was a moment of silence. Then Mr. Harby roared from the distance.
  
  "Go back to your places, Standard Five girls."
  
  The girls glanced up at Ursula, accusing, rather jeering, fugitive. They pushed back. Ursula's heart hardened with ignominious pain.
  
  "Forward—march," came Mr. Brunt's voice, and the girls set off, keeping time with the ranks of boys.
  
  Ursula faced her class, some fifty-five boys and girls, who stood filling the ranks of the desks. She felt utterly nonexistent. She had no place nor being there. She faced the block of children.