Page 51 of A Class Act

‘Well spotted.’ I panted after her as we went through empty classrooms, making detours and short cuts before finally arriving at a door marked:

MS P WATERS

Deputy Head Teacher

‘Had one myself after skiing,’ she announced, nodding in the direction of my knee. ‘Mine was torn. Had to have three months off work. If you’re able to walk on it like that, you’ve only got minor damage. I’ll try and make sure you’re able to sit down some of the time in the classes you’ll be taking. Mind you’ – she frowned – ‘I know Mason’s hoping you’ll be able to lead us in dance and drama.’

‘Lead you?’I stared. ‘I’m here on a supply basis. I’m hoping, seeing I’ve not been in a classroom for over a year, someone will beleading me.’

‘Well, of course, we’ll do everything to help. Mason insists we all muck in together. I’m trained Phys Ed, so I still do a lot of the games and PE as well as mopping up lessons where we’ve not been able to afford a day’s cover. But dance? Wow? You were in the West End? I guess they had to replace you? Temporarily? Are you able to go back?’

‘I doubt it,’ I said, remembering the cavalier fashion with which Carl Farmer had replaced the pregnant former dancer with me. I determined, however, I’d be ringing both Carl at the theatre and Dorcas, my agent, later on today. As well as getting a professional opinion on my knee from the local GP. If this Petra knew as much about ACLs as she appeared to, there might be some hope for me yet.

Petra waved a hand towards the chair in front of her desk, seating herself behind it before reaching for the pile of papers, sifting through each one and asking me questions as we went along.

‘Cuckooing? FGM?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I’ve forgotten what they are. I don’t suppose I had any reason to be concerned about these things in London.’

‘I think we have to be aware of drugs and female genital mutilation in all walks of life, not just in schools,’ she admonished. ‘But obviously, especially in schools when we’re working daily with kids.’

‘And here in a village like Beddingfield?’

‘Little Micklethwaite,’ she amended. ‘And absolutely. The danger is in assuming that because we’renotLondon,notin Manchester, these things don’t happen out here in the sticks. You need to be aware of behaviour – of clues – that a childin your class is being manipulated either by other kids or by adults and could be involved in something they shouldn’t. Not necessarily by outside influences, of course,’ Petra went on. ‘Kids can be in fear of their own families.’

‘Right.’

Petra held my eye for a fraction longer than necessary before handing over the wad of documents. ‘OK, behaviour policy. We have strict written guidelines on which you need to proceed when a student’s kicking off.’

‘And is that often?’

‘This is St Mede’s, not Eton,’ Petra retorted before relenting somewhat. ‘Much, much less so since Mason took over two years ago. He is an absolutely superb head. The school is on the up and up. I think he’s asked you to come here because he’s obviously seen something in you – believes you’ll be an asset to the school.’

Or, I thought, cynically, he can’t get anyone else to venture over the doorstep.

Two hours later and with my head spinning and the bell for break only adding to the pain that was starting to build over my eyes, Petra handed me the remains of enough paper to have decimated a forest and stood up. ‘Come on, caffeine.’ She grinned.

‘Gin?’ I asked.

‘Safeguarding rules, remember,’ she replied, laughing.

We made our way back along corridors packed with a veritable army of kids, little Year 7s in new, too big uniforms mingling awkwardly with man-sized giants sporting downy bumfluff on their top lip, but all intent on their fifteen minutes of freedom outside in the September sunshine. As we neared themain exits, streams of youths met and joined like a confluence of rivers and a couple of scuffles broke out. Petra was immediately in there, barking orders, holding back one stream while allowing another to move forward. ‘Main exit’s been damaged and is unsafe to open,’ she explained over her shoulder. ‘Hence the pushing and shoving to get out.’

The pervasive odour, peculiar only to high schools, of rubber-soled trainers, leather satchels, school dinners, sweat, cheap floor polish and disinfectant assailed my nostrils and I closed my eyes slightly, remembering how I’d sworn never again. Teaching and me just weren’t a fit.

‘Coffee?’ Petra asked, seeing the panic in my eyes. ‘Honestly, it’ll all come back.’ She grinned. ‘Like riding a bike.’

‘Never very good at bike riding,’ I muttered. ‘Fell off and broke my thumb when I was ten,’ I added but, nevertheless, carried on through the escapees in Petra’s wake, in search of coffee.

‘New girl in Year 11’s pretty bolshy,’ a sandy-haired bloke, probably in his late fifties, was saying to no one in particular, the rest of the staff too busy grabbing sustaining coffee, tea and KitKats in their fifteen minutes’ break to be interested in what he was saying. ‘Been kicked out of Beddingfield High apparently. Should have been on her way to the PRU but, for whatever reason, our lord and master’s decided to give her a place here.’

‘Not daft though.’ A tall black woman around my age turned towards the sandy-haired bloke. ‘She knew almost as much as me about the Weimar democracy, its political change and unrest, and the Munich Putsch as well.’

‘Well, she needs keeping an eye on.’ The other sniffed, slurping at his coffee while still masticating his biscuit. ‘It won’t be long before she starts showing her true colours.’ Noticing me for the first time, he turned in my direction. ‘Hello,’ he said contemplatively, his small eyes taking in every bit of me in much the same way as Julius Carrington had mentally undressed me on the first occasion I’d met him.

‘Hi.’ I smiled, determined to be friendly: I needed the natives on my side if I was to be working here. ‘What do you teach?’

‘Wankers mainly,’ he replied, the start of a smirk on his face.

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