SHE HAD SO MANY CHILDREN 

by a School Matron. 

Clatter of heavy boots on the stairs, slamming of doors, shouted greetings and shrill whistling - the boys are back, and the tumlt has begun which will never completely subside till the end of the term.

 “Where's Matron?" shouts someone, the cry that will follow me day and night, for it has not occurred to my numerous family that Matron is ever "off duty". Why, the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe was nowhere with me. First, of course, I am a temporary Mother to some three hundred boys, most of whom credit me with supernatural powers. Blazers are left on the cricket field, handkerchiefs used for cleaning rags, shirts lent to each other, but still the owners believe that an all-powerful Matron will retrieve and replace all lost things. 

As if three hundred sons were not enough, I also mother a large squad of daughters ~ the domestic staff. Of this raw material I must make a quiet, efficient band of maids, who must be as inconspicuous as possible. When I have finished my supervision of dormitories, kitchen and linen room, I think longingly of the armchair in my own room. But woe betide me if I sink down in restful ease. Inevitably comes the knock at the door, for it seems to be understood in the school that every unsolved problem shall be brought to Matron. Who is it this time? An apologetic young man -

 "About that broken window, Miso. Sorry to trouble you, but they said you would know." 

I drag myself up and accompany him down the corridors. As I return, a tearful maid confronts me. 

“Matron, I can't work with Clara. The things she has been saying about me." A quarrel has to be investigated and settled, and two girls interviewed and advised.

And so it goes on, till at the end of a trying day there drops in the Head, not the least difficult child of them all. With a charming smile, he reminds me of the forth-coming old Boys Dinner, “Just the usual dinner, Matron, five course, coffees, cigarettes, so oh. About a hundred and fifty this year, I should think. You might see Higgins about the tables. It will be alright in your hands, I know" and he smiles himself out. Through my brain flash the innumerable details of a dinner for a hundred and fifty – food to be planned and ordered, tables to be hired and arranged, special table linen, silver, flowers, shaded lights. As I roll wearily into bed ghostly lists rise up and take shape before my eyes and it is not sheep I count to induce sleep but knives and forks and spoons. There was an Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe.