Amour iz something merveilleuse!

Amour, Vikings, and Miss Moreau

When I was 12 years old, I attended private school called the Isis. The story is about my French and history lessons, amongst other things.

The story:

I was also in love with Judith Blythe for a while, but it didn’t go anywhere. We exchanged a few love notes, some innocent kisses on the grassy bank, and occasionally held hands. We did go on a romantic trip to a local funfair once, along with Dizzie, my friend, and his girlfriend, Susan Parker. That’s where the real story begins.

Now, I took a fancy to Susan Parker when Dizzie got bored of her, claiming she was a ’day tripper’, a ‘little teaser’... and that she only took him halfway ‘there.’ What ‘there’ was, I didn’t know, and frankly, I didn’t care. I wasn’t particularly interested in ‘going there’, whatever it was. I had no idea what Dizzie was on about with his carnal interests — I was still in that age where girls were fascinating mysteries, like books you weren’t allowed to read yet.

So, I did what any 12-year-old would do: I wrote her a love note. I wasn’t exactly top of the class in English, but I was undoubtedly the class’s greatest (and most secret) love poet. I had written more notes to girls than I could count — some sweet, some more desperate (but hey, who was counting?). This one was particularly special, though: “I love you! From Mr. X.” Hardly a sonnet, I know, but I thought it was enough.

During break, I slipped it into Susan’s desk when no one was around. After that, we had French with Miss Moreau.

Miss Moreau was... well, she was something. With her striking height, an air of elegance that was probably lost on us, and a bit of that classic 1960s ‘librarian chic’ going on, she looked like a woman from a French movie — the kind of woman who made every sentence sound like it could be a love poem. Her glasses — those gold, cat-eyed spectacles — framed her large brown eyes, and her voice had that delightful blend of French and English, like a croissant dipped in tea.

But I write all this in retrospect – because at the time – I just thought of her as our ‘nice’ French teacher with a French accent when she spoke English.

In other words, we boys were all quite mesmerized by her, even if we didn’t know why.

But back to the note: After I’d quietly placed it in Susan’s desk, I tried to ignore the fact that she was now holding it in her hands. She lifted the lid of her desk and waved her hand, signaling Miss Moreau.

“Wa tis eet, Su-zann?” Miss Moreau asked.

“Please, Miss, someone has put a note in my desk,” Susan replied, looking both flustered and suspicious.

“Wot duz ze knot sey, Suzann?” asked Miss Moreau, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“I don’t like to say,” Susan muttered, shifting nervously.

“Giv it tu me, I will reed it!” Miss Moreau commanded in her soft but very authoritative way.

Susan handed the note over, and Miss Moreau read it aloud, her voice thick with drama.

“Je t’aime chéri. Signé par Monsieur X — kiss, kiss, kiss. I mean — Je luv u darling. Signed by Mister X. Kiss, kiss, kiss!”

She paused, letting it hang in the air like a love song. Then, in her most serious teacher tone (which didn’t quite work because it was so charming), she asked, “U iz diz Mister Ix!?”

Now, I didn’t want to admit it — I had to maintain my secret admirer status. But I had seen enough films to know that when a tough guy owns up to his crimes, it somehow makes him more respectable. So, with trembling fingers, I raised my hand.

“E-an... yu shud niver haid yur luv!” she lectured, now growing philosophical. “It tis nuthin’ to be ashem-id off. Amour is something merveilleuse… Yu shud alwayz shew yu-er luv and not kip tit hid!”

I just sat there, blinking, not quite understanding what had just happened. I was expecting a punishment — detention or a few lines, perhaps. Instead, she gave us a lecture about love. “Love”. I was so confused. I gave a half-smile and nodded. By the time she’d finished her grand speech, the lesson was already halfway over.

The disappearance of our French and history lessons

In hindsight, Miss Moreau was a very attractive woman, tall and slim with bouffant-like brown hair. I’d like to say I was above such things, but as a 12-year-old, I certainly noticed how she wore those tight knee-length skirts — the kind that were all the rage in the 60s; but this was more something that appeared to me in retrospect – as a 12-year-old – such thoughts were beyond me.

She often wore high heels — the kind that clicked on the classroom floor with every step, announcing her presence like a character in a movie. I’m sure Mr. Fuglpikk, our Norwegian history teacher, noticed her too. After all, it wasn’t long before he was entranced it seems.

Mr. Fuglpikk, who was quite a bit older, going bald, and seemed to have a permanent squint, would suddenly leave history class in the middle of a lesson. He’d rise from his chair and say something like, “Tern to page fifti-three and reed about de Wikings, an’ how dey murdered de monks at Lindisfarne and stole de gowld. It’s important yu know ze dates… I vill giff yu a tist ven ai come back in fifteen minutt.” And off he would go.

On other occasions, during our French lessons, he’d poke his balding head around the door and say, “Mizz Morro, dere iz sum urgent bizness dat needs fixin’ straight away! Pleez kum!”

And Miss Moreau would say, “I’m kumming Mister Fuglpikk. Chil-dren, learn ze nuns on peige eleven ov yur buks. And learn de Frinch for, ‘Opun yer mus’ (ouvrez la bouche) and ‘kloze yer mus’ (ferme ta bouche),” before disappearing for fifteen minutes. When she returned, her cheeks were flushed. It was as if she’d been riding a stallion as she walked unsteadily and somewhat bow-legged, I thought with innocent curiosity.

The Elopement Rumor

Before long, we’d heard a rumor that Mr. Fuglpikk and Miss Moreau had run away to the South of France to get married. They were probably sunning themselves on the beaches of St. Tropez, or so we thought. We didn’t mind. It just meant that school had become a lot more relaxing.

Instead of French and history, we spent our days doing nature studies in the woods. We’d collect flowers, leaves, and plants, pressing them into our nature books. I got to spend more time with Ladrilla, holding her hand as we ran through the trees, pretending we were on an adventure in the fairy-entranced copses near Astley Brook.

Looking back, I realize our teachers were a bit... ‘relaxed’ about education. But who needs French or history when you can skip class and wander through nature? At least I learned how to say, “ouvrez la bouche” and “ferme la bouche” — that’s French, right?