Page 15 of Lessons in Life

‘Oh, come on, you lot!’ I called. ‘You’ve all seen snow before.’

‘Not for years, we haven’t, miss,’ Ollie Metcalf shouted excitedly over his shoulder. ‘You never heard of climate change?’

‘OK, it’s too cold to rehearse this lunchtime and we’ve wasted the opportunity anyway. Go and get your lunch.’

‘Whereisyour Sorrel?’ Isla asked.

I was wondering the same thing.

6

By the time the final bell to end the school day sounded, I realised I’d spent the whole time on a roller coaster of highs and lows. Despite the unwanted promotion to 9CL’s form teacher and theGreaserehearsal that had come to nothing, I’d had a lovely session with the Year 7s introducing them to Michael Morpurgo’sWar Horse, which they’d lapped up and which had led to much debate, particularly from Lena Boyd who’d said she’d shoot anyone who tried to take awayherhorse to make it fight.

‘You’ve a horse?’ I’d asked.

‘Well, he’s a pony. I show him.’

‘Show him what?’ Billy Caldwell had asked, which had made me laugh and kept me going through the rest of the day.

‘Where are you? What are you up to?’ I fished my phone from my bag and was straight onto Fabian before the last of my Year 11 GCSE English group had even left the classroom. ‘I’ve had enough already! I’m bloody freezing, I’m a lousy teacher and theGreaseproduction seems to be falling apart around my ears. After just one day back withthesekids, atthisschool, I need you. Right now!’

‘Come over, then.’ Fabian finally managed to get a word in. ‘Come on! This minute! Shake the chalk dust from your hair and get in your car. If you leave now, you might just miss the rush hour on the M62.’

I couldn’t think of anything I wanted more than spending the evening – the whole night – the rest of my life – with this heavenly man who was, unfortunately, up in Harrogate, a good thirty miles away.

‘It’s snowing here and I’ve no idea what the Honda’s like in snow. If it’s anything like me, it’ll be rubbish.’ I’d kept one wary eye on the weather all afternoon, while the kids – particularly the younger ones – in all my classes had kept both of theirs constantly towards the huge paned windows, instead of on me, itching to get out onto what remained of St Mede’s playing fields. ‘Oh, Ican’t, Fabian.’ I closed my eyes, remembering I had a meeting and knowing the impracticality of leaving everything up in the air and driving – skidding – up to North Yorkshire just for the night. ‘I’ve a planning meeting with the English department…’ I looked at my watch ‘…which started five minutes ago. And, I need to sort out what Sorrel’s up to. She’s got this audition in London and I said I’d go through routines with her, but she suddenly doesn’t seem as enthusiastic as she was and, to be honest, I don’t know where she is and?—’

‘Robyn, Robyn, can you just stop talking for two minutes? Can you hear this?’

‘What?’ I stopped gabbling, straining to hear.

‘My car keys jingling. I’m on my way.’

‘Oh,really? Oh,Fabian.’

‘Yep, there’s no snow here. Do what you have to do there and I’ll be at your mum’s by six thirty.’

‘And stay the night?Stay with me,’I sang, belting out the words of Shakespears Sister, almost light-headed with joy that Fabian was on his way to be with me. I closed my eyes, altering the lyrics to fit the moment, while using the whiteboard rubber as microphone, letting the tension of the day out in glorious song.

‘You all right, miss?’ Whippety Snicket, aka Blane Higson, the fourteen-year-old with whom I’d had various run-ins the previous term, had come to find me, as he often did now that we were mates. Of sorts.

‘Never better, Blane. You? You weren’t in registration this morning. You know I’m taking over from Ms Logan as your form tutor for a while?’ I smiled then started laughing at being caught mid-song. I realised I could cope with anything now that Fabian was coming over. ‘Hang on.’ I replaced the board rubber and spoke once more into my phone. ‘Right, see you when you get here.’ I ended the call, giving all my attention to the scrawny kid now slumped onto one of the hard wooden, graffitied chairs. He needed a haircut and, despite it being only the first day back, the collar of his white school shirt was grubby.

‘Did you have a good Christmas?’

Blane shrugged his shoulders.

‘What does that mean?’ I asked gently, moving nearer to him. ‘Did your brothers come home?’

‘I told you, miss, they’ve gone. Can’t cope with me mum and what she gets up to.’

‘So, was it just you and your mum for Christmas Day?’ My heart went out to him, and I instinctively put out a hand to his bent head, withdrawing it before making contact. You couldn’t touch a kid these days without it being misconstrued.

‘Yeah, summat like that.’

‘So, who did the cooking, then?’ Bloody stupid question, that, Robyn, I chastised myself. He’d probably had beans on toast on Christmas Day while his mum saw to her heroin addiction by working the streets down in Midhope town centre.

‘The meeting, Ms Allen?’ Dave Mallinson, Head of English, popped his head round the door. ‘We’re all waiting for you. You should be off home now, Blane.’

---