A guest post by Tim Taylor
With renewed attention on speaking and listening across the curriculum, the challenge is not simply to increase opportunities for talk, but to ensure that talk remains purposeful, sustained, and closely tied to learning. Otherwise, oracy risks becoming an added layer of activity rather than something that deepens thinking and strengthens understanding. What matters is how talk is shaped so that it carries meaning, supports reasoning, and connects directly to the curriculum.
One way of approaching this is through the use of imagined contexts for learning, where students work within a shared situation that gives their talk direction and consequence. Within this, much depends on the teacher’s voice. Not the fully adopted voice of a character, and not the instructional voice of the classroom, but something more precise and responsive. Dorothy Heathcote described this as twilight role: a way of speaking that holds the situation in mind while allowing the work of the curriculum to continue.
This article draws on a lesson observed at Bradshaw Primary School, taught by Alison Lockwood, to examine how that voice operates in practice.
Imagine a class of children in Year 2, aged six and seven. They are studying the Great Fire of London. Their teacher has brought them into the fiction by representing King Charles II and casting them as a team of firefighters. Their commission is to find a way to stop the fire before it gets completely out of control and destroys the city.
Their first step is to look at a map of the city’s streets, prepared in advance by the teacher. It is drawn on a large sheet of paper. She asks the children to sit in a circle and rolls it out in front of them. As she does, she explains what is happening and what she wants the students to do.
This sounds simple enough. A teacher unrolls a map and explains the task. But a number of complex choices are bound up in this apparently straightforward action:
- What is she going to say, and how is she going to say it?
- Are the teacher and class inside the story or outside it?
- Is this act of looking at the map something the students are doing in their classroom, learning about the layout of London at the time of the fire? Is it the firefighting team planning their next move? Or is it both?
- And if it is both, what language should the teacher choose – the language of the firefighters or the language of the classroom?
This is the function of twilight role. The teacher does not step entirely outside the fiction, nor does she fully disappear into it. Instead, she works across the boundary, speaking in a way that belongs to both worlds at once. She is teacher and colleague, facilitator and team member. The position is deliberately ambiguous, yet the purpose remains clear, so the class are not confused about what they are doing or why they are doing it.
To illustrate, here is an example of the kind of language she might use:
“I thought we’d start by looking at this map marking the layout of the city. You can see here the Thames flowing from west to east, and the different occupied areas north and south of the river.”
Who is speaking here? It could be the teacher or it could be a colleague within the team. The language works in both worlds, yet it is carefully chosen, drawing attention to specific areas of learning. She continues:
“Our first job is to look at the buildings in this part of the city. As you know, most housing is made of wood with thatched straw roofs. The city has grown so quickly that there is little space between the buildings. Here’s a drawing.”
She puts a picture on the board showing typical housing at the time.
Again, her words could belong to either world. The act of showing the drawing, however, clearly belongs to the classroom. The firefighters would already be familiar with the buildings; the students are not. Her aim is to address the learning objective, but she does so in a way that remains faithful to the fiction. She says:
“I expect you can see the problem.”
She pauses, waiting to see whether the students recognise it for themselves.
She avoids saying, “Who can tell me why this is a problem?” That would be a teacher question, not one from inside the story, and it would pull them out of the fiction.
If the students do not see it, she continues: “The houses are so close together, the fire can jump from one roof to the other. Once the straw catches fire there is nothing that can be done. And this wind doesn’t help.”
Again, she conveys the teaching points while sounding like a member of the team speaking to colleagues. She continues:
“Before we do anything else, we need a clear idea of the buildings in the path of the fire. If you head back to your tables you’ll find small pieces of paper and pencils. Let’s start drawing the houses and other buildings and placing them on the map, one building per piece. I’ll put some pictures on the board that might help.”
The first sentence sits firmly inside the fictional world, in what Dorothy Heathcote called ‘now time’[1], yet it still makes sense in the classroom.
The rest of the instruction moves more clearly outside the fiction, since the firefighters would not literally be doing this at that moment in their world.
Nevertheless, the teacher avoids sounding didactic. Her language remains invitational and collaborative. Rather than saying, “I want you to…” or “You have to…”, she says “let’s”, implying shared responsibility.
In fact, the students’ role has shifted.
By asking them to draw the buildings and add them to the map, the teacher has moved them from being firefighters within the story to being co-creators of its artefacts outside.
They have become world builders, like set designers, costume designers and script writers working on a film or play. They are no longer characters caught up in the ‘now time’ of 1666, but the people co-creating the story and making the resources needed to bring it to life.
Children are used to holding more than one reality in mind at the same time. They do this constantly in imaginative play. A child can be a dragon, or a miner, or a firefighter while also knowing perfectly well they are standing in a classroom. They are not confused by these different layers of reality and they move between them without difficulty.
What holds those layers together is not their ability to explain what they are doing, but their understanding of why they are doing it. Purpose gives the experience coherence. It makes the frame secure.
In this example, the teacher has carefully established a storyline that the children understand and have helped to create. Drawing the buildings is not an arbitrary classroom task. It is directly connected to the king’s commission.
When they begin sketching the houses, they are not wondering, ‘Why are we doing this?’ The reason is already embedded in the context: the firefighters need to understand why the fire is spreading, and for that they need a map that makes the problem visible.
The creation of the map, however, does not take place at the same chronological time as the fire in 1666. As they draw, the children are no longer in the immediate unfolding time of the fire, nor are they fully inhabiting the role of firefighters. They have stepped into a different temporal position, what Heathcote called ‘reflective time’ or ‘Great Time’[2].
This is the twilight space between the classroom and the story. Here, the children can stand back from the unfolding events in the fiction, reflect on what is happening, investigate it more deeply, and work on materials – maps, writing, models and other artefacts – that enrich and further develop the context.
The children can occupy this space without difficulty because the teacher’s choice of language provides a sense of stability and coherence. By remaining inside both worlds simultaneously, she maintains the equilibrium of the shared fiction. It is a kind of balancing act, where the careful choice of language keeps the frame secure while allowing movement between classroom and story, between action and reflection, without breaking the continuity of the work.
“As you finish one building, please add it to the map and go back and start another. We need to see more clearly what’s going on so we can make sensible decisions. Up until now, everyone has been working in the dark.”
This capability to occupy the twilight area is an essential dimension of this way of working and of how drama can function as a medium for learning.
Unlike more conventional drama, where participants step deliberately in and out of the fictional world, students spend extended periods of time in the space between. They keep the world of the story firmly in mind while standing slightly outside it, creating, reflecting, generating ideas and shaping the materials that allow the context to deepen and develop.
The students continue to work on drawing buildings and putting them on the map. As they work, the teacher goes around the class, having conversations, offering support where needed and giving feedback. She does this while holding the frame in mind, speaking in the twilight voice.
“What’s this? A cat! I hadn’t thought about the pets! Oh, what do you think we should do? Let’s ask the others. I’m sorry everyone, can you stop working for a moment? One of the firefighters has found a cat in a building close to the fire. Should we just leave it, or try and rescue it? We have a lot to do. Perhaps we should just leave the pets – they can look after themselves, can’t they?”
There’s a lively discussion about what to do about the pets. You can imagine how it goes.
“Well, if you think there is time. We can only do our best. Carry on.”
The students go back to their drawings. The teacher visits another table.
“Ah, this building is going to be a problem. Is there anyone living there at the moment? Where are they? I see. Can you add them to the drawing? We’re going to need to talk to them about leaving and finding somewhere safe to go, maybe down by the river.”
The students continue for a while longer, and then the teacher brings them back round the map.
“Sorry to stop you, everyone, but we need to get together and take a look at the map. There are reports the fire is spreading even faster than we thought, and we might need to take drastic measures. Bring your drawings with you.”
The class returns to the carpet. Some drawings are already on the map; others are still in their hands. The teacher continues.
“So, let’s see what we’re up against. There does seem to be a cluster of houses in this part of the city. Do you think this might be where the fire started? Has anyone heard any rumours?”
One of the students says they heard it started in a bakery, when sparks from an oven jumped onto dry straw covering the floor. The teacher builds on this.
“Oh, that would be terrible! How many times have we told people to be careful about open fires and putting them out at night! Well, it makes sense it started there, it’s spreading east to west, blown by the wind. Let’s have a look at the buildings in its path. Those of you who have drawings can you add them to the map.”
The teacher continues to make observations.
“Oh dear. This is going to be a real problem. Look at the way the houses are jumbled together along those tiny narrow streets. Once the fire reaches this part of the city there is going to be no stopping it, and it is only a short distance to the centre and the king’s palace. Is there anything we can do?”
A conversation follows in which the students draw on what they learned about the fire in previous lessons. One of them suggests pulling down buildings in the path of the flames, something the real firefighters did at the time.
The teacher picks this up.
“Yes, I think it may have come to this. I can’t think of another solution that is going to work. The king did say we must do whatever is necessary. But what about the people living in those houses? What are we going to say to them?”
They discuss the options. The teacher asks:
“Who was it that drew the person in the house? Could you tell us something about them? Ah, I see. And she lives alone? Oh, not alone – she’s got a cat. And you say she’s quite elderly. Well, let’s talk to her and see if we can persuade her to leave. I’ll be the elderly lady.”
The teacher moves onto a chair, a sign the children recognise as meaning she is going into full role. She says,
“Why are you here?”
The students, speaking as the firefighters, explain the situation and try to convince her to leave. The lady replies,
“I don’t want to leave. This is my home. Can’t you put out the fire?”
The firefighters tell her that they cannot, and that the fire is out of control.
“But I don’t want you to pull down my house. I’ve lived here all my life. I grew up here. I had my children here. What is to become of me? What about all my possessions? What about my cat?”
The students, speaking as the firefighters, do their best to explain, but they soon need help.
To help them, the teacher comes out of role.
“This is a tricky situation, isn’t it? This must have been something the firefighters at the time had to cope with. Why do you think she is so upset? Is there anything we could say to reassure her?”
The teacher and the students discuss options. The teacher talks to them about what happened at the time and how people had to be taken over the river and housed in temporary accommodation, some in tents, others in the homes of people who offered to open their doors.
She goes back into role, to give the students the opportunity to use this information.
“Where am I to go?” the elderly lady asks. “If you pull down my house, I will have nowhere to live.”
The firefighters explain that she will be housed in temporary accommodation and that her house will be rebuilt, this time in brick, with a tiled roof, so it will be safer from fire.
Reluctantly, the lady agrees. The firefighters fetch her cat and load her most precious possessions onto the back of a horse-drawn cart.
And this part of the story ends.
Just in time for phonics.
Twilight role is not simply a position between teacher and character. It is also the place Heathcote described as ‘Great Time’, where chronological time and reflective time overlap. In that space, events continue to unfold, but they can also be examined, shaped and redirected. Students can act and reflect at once.
It is also the place where things are made. Maps, drawings, plans, writing. Much of what happens there might look ordinary without the frame. Children sit at tables, sketch buildings, discuss options. Yet the fiction gives those activities purpose and meaning, as well as excitement.
The map matters because the fire is spreading. The drawing matters because a decision has consequences. The discussion matters because someone may lose their home. These things are both urgent and important inside the world of the story.
The teacher maintains the tension through her choice of language. She keeps the urgency of the story alive even while the work slows down. She introduces knowledge without stepping outside the frame. She shifts between action and reflection without announcing the shift. The balance is subtle and deliberate.
Twilight role asks a great deal of the teacher. It demands attention to purpose, judgement about tone, and the ability to hold more than one position at once. It is neither full immersion nor formal discussion. It is the working space where the fiction remains in focus and curriculum activities find meaning and purpose. It sits at the heart of this way of working, bringing the context to life and turning ordinary classroom activity into something immediate and meaningful.
Some pointers on using twilight role:
- Sound authentic. The voice should feel natural. It is measured, purposeful speech that could plausibly belong to a colleague within the team. Avoid exaggerated tone or artificial language. If it would not sound credible in the situation, do not use it.
- Listen and build on the students’ ideas. Twilight role depends on responsiveness. What happens next should grow, where possible, from what the students introduce. Their drawings, suggestions and questions can open new lines of inquiry. The teacher’s task is to recognise which contributions deepen the work and to shape them carefully into the unfolding context.
- Do not ask questions you already know the answer to. A classroom checking question can pull the children out of the story. If the purpose of the question is simply to test recall, it belongs outside the fiction. In twilight role, questions should arise from genuine uncertainty within the situation.
- Use collaborative language. Speak as if you are part of a team working alongside colleagues. Use “we” and “let’s” with intention. This does not mean surrendering authority, but it does mean framing decisions as shared responsibilities rather than instructions issued from above.
- Avoid overshooting. Do not dilute your authority in an effort to appear collaborative. Twilight role is not about pretending to hand over control or asking for permission you do not need. The authority is real, but it is exercised through consultation rather than command.
- Keep the tension in mind. The fiction carries urgency. Even when the work slows down into drawing, writing or discussion, the underlying problem remains. The teacher’s language should continue to signal that something is at stake. Without that tension, the activity risks becoming procedural rather than purposeful.
Footnotes
[1] Dorothy Heathcote, ‘Signs and Portents’, in Cecily O’Neill (ed.), Dorothy Heathcote on Education and Drama: Essential Writings (Abingdon: Routledge, 2014).
[2] From “Drama” by Dorothy Heathcote et al, in “Encouraging Expression: The Arts in the Primary Curriculum”, ed. Tessa Roberts (1988).