Page 4 of Lessons in Life

‘I know Mason wanted me here this morning,’ Ms Potter was saying, ‘to support him as regards a couple of things that have arisen over the Christmas break. As Chair of Governors, I need you to know that one of St Mede’s pupils was very badly hurt in a knife attack last night. It will be on the local news this evening and both myself and Mason have been asked to comment.’

‘One of our kids?’ Jo Cooper, Head of History, spoke the question that was on all our lips.

‘Joel Sinclair.’ Mason nodded, visibly upset.

‘Joel?’ I briefly closed my eyes. Joel Sinclair, one of the most talented dancers I’d come across in years, with the potential to go far were he allowed to do just that by the OCG of drug dealers his family was a part of. Joel Sinclair, the lovely, exceptionally bright kid who’d rescued me from the notorious Year 9 class on my very first morning here at St Mede’s. Joel Sinclair, my little sister Sorrel’s best friend.

I realised Melanie and Mason had moved on. Already moved on from somethingso awful? Was there worse to come?

There apparently was.

‘…And this terrible incident, which unfortunately happened late last night on the edge of the school playing fields – I’m assuming you all came in through the main gate and didn’t see the police cordons – will do absolutely nothing to help what we’re about to tell you now.’

Ms Potter paused, and there was a collective holding of breath as the entire staff focused on what the chair of governors was about to say.

‘In a nutshell, the local authority is determined to go ahead with what they’ve been wanting to do for years.’

‘What? Close us down?’ Dave Mallinson, Head of English, asked.

‘Knock us down,’ Mason put in dryly. ‘Apparently Frozen has had its eye on the site for years. Melanie and I were in a meeting yesterday and the local council can’t wait to wash its hands of us. The Sattar brothers are determined to go ahead with their plans.’

‘The Sattar brothers?’ Molly Burkinshaw, the young maths teacher who was even newer to St Mede’s than me, turned in my direction.

‘Local businessmen,’ I whispered. ‘They’re intent on world domination when it comes to their frozen fishfingers and sweetcorn.’

‘Blimey.’ Molly blew out a long sigh.

‘Blimey indeed,’ I replied.

2

The full staff meeting, followed by departmental meetings, seemed to go on for ever. I found myself having to straddle both the English department meeting, run by Dave Mallinson, an old-timer whom I liked enormously, as well as the girls’ PE department under whose directive my role as dance teacher unfortunately sat. Unfortunately, because Colleen McCartney, Head of PE, and I didn’t always see eye to eye. Colleen’s ideas for teaching dance were at odds with my own: she appeared to actually teach as little of it as possible, wanting instead to get the kids out cross-country running or on the netball courts. The cross-country running invariably ended up with the older girls hunkered down behind the hedge at the boundary of the school premises, reaching for their phones and vapes to get them through the sixty-minute session. I was convinced Colleen was totally aware of what was going on, but at least they were out of Colleen’s hair – and her gym – and she wasn’t being confronted with bolshie adolescents refusing to shin up ropes or go in goal on the hockey pitch.

I spent the compulsory twenty minutes with Colleen and the two ECT PE teachers, outlining my plans for the spring term before escaping down to the drama studio in the very bowels of the school. Expecting it to be as freezing down there as it usually was – and especially after the two weeks’ Christmas break – I was pleasantly surprised to find it warm and actually fairly inviting. I’d spent a lot of time at the end of last term ensuring the studio was as welcoming as possible. Not only for the kids in my dance and drama classes, but also for the mums who’d asked if they could come along to the contemporary dance, as well as the Zumba and Sh’bam sessions I’d started running at their request.

‘You responsible for this?’ I asked as Mason appeared at my side.

‘For what?’

‘Putting the heat on. You usually say your budget won’t stretch to it.’ I raised an eye in his direction thinking, as I always did, that, had Fabian not reappeared in my life and Mason’s wife not returned to his, there would probably still be something ongoing between us.

‘Yep.’

‘Good of you.’

‘I don’t want to lose you.’

‘Lose me?’

‘Now that your barrister bloke has come to reclaim you I’m half expecting you to hand in your notice and be heading back to your old life in London with him.’

‘Possibly on the cards.’ I nodded, recalling the conversation with Fabian that morning. ‘And,’ I added, ‘if you remember I’m here at St Mede’s on a supply basis. I don’t have to give youanynotice.’

Mason looked worried. ‘I’d forgotten that. Right, we need to get you onto contract.’

‘No, we don’t,’ I warned. ‘I like the freedom supply work gives me. Means I can be up and off at the drop of a hat.’

‘I’ll have a word with Melanie Potter re an actual contract,’ Mason said, ignoring what I was saying. ‘And are you? Thinking of going? You wouldn’t leave us when we’re in the middle of rehearsals forGrease?’ Mason put a hand on my arm, stroking it gently, and I gave it, and then its owner, a warning glance.

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