In the late 1970s, John Yeoman and Quentin Blake, an amazing, gifted team of author and illustrator, wrote the tale of The Wild Washerwomen.
This book came into our lives in the late 1980s when my then five year old daughter brought it home from school for her reading diary. The school, a small international school, was located in an old, slightly disheveled plantation house in the African country we call paradise. My daughter's classroom was on the first floor and could be reached by an outdoor staircase that led up to a large veranda behind which, separated by a row of louvre windows, the classrooms were located. Directly below the veranda were the rabbit hatch and chicken run, in the adjacent courtyard under several large jacaranda trees, was the dining area and the stage for theater and music performances.
Her teacher was Miss M, a young woman from the English Midlands, on her first teaching post, sent by an Evangelical organization which was mainly involved in running a Christian radio station, up on the hills overlooking the harbour and small airport, from where missionary messages were broadcast to the heathens in the far away places across the Indian Ocean. The school was not part of it but qualified teachers were always welcome and Miss M was a dedicated teacher full of ideas and energy. Her big project was reading. She believed, as she informed us parents in the first week, that every child eventually loves reading, be it books, newspapers, instruction manuals, gossip pages or the bible. But that this love of reading has to be instilled with real books, not silly meaningless "readers" about "Tom and Sue helping Mummy in the kitchen" or worse, reading cards, reading tests and so on. Real books, she told us, have a story, one with a beginning and an end, with a story line and - importantly - a title and an author. A real story, so she continued, captivates, positively or negatively, the reader and encourages to talk, draw, write, complain about or praise it. For this purpose, she created big reading diaries, one for each of her pupils. And every book a pupil read was to be documented in it, complete with a proper review. Every school day, each pupil selected a book to bring home to read. Reading could mean many things from listening to the book being read, reading some of it, recognising some of the words, telling the story simply by looking at the illustrations because all books had illustrations, some even had no written words. But books they all were, with title, author, story line. And so, every day, we recorded in the big diary what was read and how, but most importantly, what the reader liked or disliked about the book. In a corner of the classroom, Miss M had created a library with whatever children's books she could find. Hand-me-downs, donations, old school stock, very few newly purchased. Many books made the rounds over and over, were read several times again and again. Some books were loved so much they were only reluctantly returned. Every day, in class and at home, there was a lot of talking about the books, sharing of reviews and opinions and regular votes for best book etc. Obviously, other stuff went on as well, clever educational stuff, words, writing, singing, rhyming and so on, to help the process.
Briefly, the story of the Wild Washerwomen is about seven unhappy washerwomen, Dottie, Lottie, Molly, Dolly, Winnie, Minnie and Ernestine, all working in the laundry of Mr Tight, a most dreadful and mean individual. So they decide to go on strike. No spoilers here, if you can, find a copy and read it for yourself. It is a triumph of feminist determination and the spirit of co-operation, no less. When the book was voted book of the week, the class sat down to draw the story while listening to it being read once again by Miss M.
Above is my daughter's painting of the Wild Washerwomen, well, three of them at least. It hangs above my desk, reminding me every day that reading is power and that a book is a gift you can open again and again.
Miss M stayed in my life for many years. In paradise, I had persuaded her to come along to the weekly women's group where we, a group of Peace Corps, NGO, immigrant, posh expat and local women, discussed feminist issues, local and world politics, music, men, sex and rock and roll, drank plenty of cheap South African wine and danced wildly into the night - in that order. She did not miss a week but remained sober and rarely danced. Later, her organization moved her to India where she still lives, teaching, sending the occasional round robin newsletter about rural living, food and water shortages and prayer requests. As far as I know, she has never been paid a salary.
