In Loco Parentis (6 page)

“Preston.” Money's been tight since I bought the flat. Seemed like the right thing to do with the inheritance when it came through. Doesn't feel like it any more. “You?”

“Lanzarote.” He strokes his arm and I try and think of a compliment to go with his tan.

“You got yourself a nice tan.”

“Cheap at half the price.”

He's a good man. Does his job and more besides. Deserves to get away every now and then like the rest of us.

“And the horses?” It's the easy way out. I let him ramble about doubles and trebles, combinations and near missed until even he's bored.

“Best get on,” I say. “See what the damage is.”

“It's a good job you came in early.” He walks off down the lawn, the keys swinging in his hand.

Business as usual I reckon. Not a whiff of suspicion.

When I go into the room, I realise what he meant about me getting in early.

How the previous teacher got away with it, I've no idea.

We all knew she was cracking up. Teachers have a nose for such a thing. It comes with practice.

The smell's like that of a petting zoo, straw and piss and rodents.

The deceptive tidiness of the place is exposed as soon as I look in the trays.

In the first, no label and no clue, I find letters of assorted size and material. Nothing wrong with that per-se, but the pellets of mouse crap won't be any use to the kids. At least I know where the smell's coming from. It's the same in the dressing-up box, the Lego, construction and the pastels drawers.

And I hate mice.

Before I can control my thoughts, I'm picturing rats scuttling about. Long tails and furless. Pink alien bodies under the floorboards.

I want to get out.

Only thing that kept me here is the reassurance of my Doctor Martens.

Time to see Des, pick up a cartload of disinfectant, some rubber gloves and maybe one of those beers he keeps in the fridge.

Make a mental note - if I get any animals for the class, they're going to be able to live underwater.

come on in the water's fine

Standing in the cloakroom, I can hear the voices of parents and kids in the entrance.

It's a huge beast of a door, built as if it might be to protect us from invaders.

I feel sick, really sick. Put my hands on the wall and take a breath.

It's difficult to tell what's causing it. Could be the fact that I didn't get to sleep until half four. Maybe it's the whisky that was supposed to help me drop off.

It's probably just the fear. The fear that I've forgotten what to do, that I can't stand up in front of anyone and put on my performance, that they'll run rings round me when they come in and everyone will know I'm no good and should be drummed out of the profession as soon as they can find a drummer.

Lorraine comes over and puts her hand on my back. Gives it a quick rub.

Sue does the same.

At least we're in this together, I think, my classroom assistants and I.

I lift up my shoulders, put a smile on my face and lift the latch.

Like an actor appearing from behind the curtain, I beam at my audience and deliver my first lines. “Hello everyone. Nice to be back.”

Come on in, the water's fine.

one cup of coffee and a cigarette

Torn between getting to the front of the line for the kettle and my duty of care, it's my conscience that wins out. I walk down the path holding the tiny hands of Aurora and Emily. The rest follow in a crocodile, making sure they keep their fingers on their lips like I've shown them. Give it a couple of weeks and they'll be running out there as quickly as they can, but for now everything's fresh, new and nerve-wracking.

I show them where the lines are and where they're not allowed to go and point out the tumbledown, Victorian shacks we call the toilets.

I let them go and run up the back way to the staff-room. The queue's already gone and everyone's sitting around chatting musically about their holidays.

“Hiya,” I say pouring the granules into my mug.

“Nice holiday?” a couple of people ask.

“Great.”

“You?”

“Fabulous, thanks.”

There's just enough water in the kettle to give me half a cup. “Just going downstairs.”

“We thought you were giving up,” Mildred says, then laughs as if she knew I'd never make it.

“I was doing OK until...” and I can't remember what it was that mucked it up, “...I had a drink.” It's the truth. I just don't bother to mention when the first drink was.

I make it out without being interrupted and beetle off down the stairs.

Thank goodness the head-teacher smokes. Like a chimney, he is.

We're the only school in Camden with an allocated smoking room. Not that it doesn't have other purposes - serves as the photocopying room, the kiln and stock-cupboard.

I call it the Haven.

It's in the basement, where those of pure lung and heart feel it ought to be.

Five minutes till the bell and I set to rolling like the world's about to end.

Sal laughs at me from her usual chair, the one in the corner. “Didn't give up then?”

“Nah.”

“Me neither.”

Carol Carpenter's standing talking to the boss. Something about how marvellous Italy was, how cultured, how utterly divine. “And the opera,” she says, “would melt your heart. If I'd died at that very moment,” and some of us might wish she had, “I'd have been the happiest soul at St Peter's gates.” All this is said through a rasping throat that sounds like there's phlegm in there that needs to get out.

I pull over a chair. Take a puff and a swig.

“Nice break, Sal?” She's one of the good guys. Straight down the line, dedicated and knows her stuff.

“Not bad,” she says. “We were down in the Lakes.”

“What a beautiful part of the world,” Carol says. “Did I ever tell you about the time Phil and I went to the commune there?”

Did she ever. It's my cue. Another puff and my craving's gone. It's either that or go through the whole nipple and nut thing again.

While I stub the cigarette out, Alistair speaks. “How did the little ones go?”

“Great,” I say. “A couple of criers and one accident. We did the tour, had a couple of stories, circle time and a little bit of a play.”

I can tell he's not satisfied. Likes to feel he's got his finger on the pulse, he does, but he wouldn't know where to find it if you drew him a picture. “What are you working on next?”

Working on? It's the first day. I can't speak for anyone else, but I'm mainly working on survival. “Milk first,” I tell him, “then we're doing ‘Our Family'.”

And after that they're going home. First week is mornings only.

Alistair starts to ask me something else. Thankfully the bell drowns him out. I'm up the stairs to go and collect my new class before the ring is over.

3 o'clock.

Tired of sticking on labels, sorting through books and cutting out flowers I'm back in the smoking room for the end of the day.

It's good to have it to myself.

The windows are open letting in the babble of women's voices as they wait outside Year One's room.

When I stub out the cigarette into the old clay pot, no doubt fashioned by a pupil way back when, it's completely full.

I leave the position of security to expose myself to those above to walk over to the bin.

Turning back to hide again, I look up to the outside world and there's Emma.

Her red hair burns a hole in my gut when she looks in through the window.

In that moment, I realise there's no sanctuary. No place to hide. The structures and routines of the working day aren't going to be the things that save me, after all.

rent boy

Things aren't going so well for Wolf.

Folk are always chasing him for some reason or another. Mainly cash.

The landlord's on his back for not paying the rent.

“Bloody chancer.” Wolf's been handing the cash to Maxine every week, or so he says. “Might have to go and give him a fright.”

When Wolf mentions giving someone a fright, it's time to sit up and listen. It's only a short step to ‘I'm going to kill the fucker.' I only heard him say it the once and that's exactly what he did. All over some bloke feeling Maxine up in a bar.

Played the self-defence card and got off with manslaughter. The only time I can remember his luck holding out.

Course my reputation was on the line, same as with all the others who'd lied for him during the trial.

I still haven't shaken off the guilt about that one.

Anyway, he's in front of me now, on the other side of the table and looking like he hasn't slept for a month. The bags under his eyes are more like trunks and I don't reckon he's washed his hair since I last saw him.

To be honest, I'm not up for listening. First day back in school and everything. But there's no way I'm turning my back on him. Even so, if I can get him out of the house I'll be a happy bunny.

“Have you asked her about the money?” Makes sense that he would have.

“She's off in bloody Ireland.” He crumbles hash as he speaks. “Her dad's had a heart attack.”

“Man.”

“I reckon his heart's not up to carrying all that ego.” I'll second that. “Two grand the landlord wants, otherwise I'm out.”

“Bloody scum.”

“And then we're really screwed. Where the hell are we going to get a place for the four of us without cash?”

I puff out my cheeks. Let him know I can see it's tough.

He lights the smoke and inhales deeply. He taps the lighter quickly on his raised knee. “Doomed man,” he says. “We're doomed.”

The moods about to dip. All the warning signs are present. There's the screwed up news, the size of the joint, the fidgeting and the clenching of the teeth. If I don't act soon, he's a gonner and so's my night's sleep.

“Could always stay here,” I tell him. “There's plenty of room.”

That last bit's clearly a lie. Sure, it's big for a one-bedroom place and a family of four could take over the lounge for a week or two, but it would be a hell of a squeeze.

“You're bloody marvellous, squire,” he says, laughs out loud and passes me the joint.

The fact he's looking so happy all of a sudden's got me worried.

Soon as the dope hits, I'm wondering what the hell I've just done. I see the whole plot unfolding as my life unravels before my very eyes.

Wounded Knee

Thursday morning and the first week's almost done.

The coffee I carry is extra strong. Sue knows to put a double spoonful in when I'm on playground duty. Keeps the cravings down.

Today I'm sticking to the infant section. No chance of having to face Sheena that way.

This moment has a perfect feel to it.

The sun's shining, my coffee's hot and there are three kids from my new class wandering round me holding my hands or grabbing my trouser leg as they tell me their exciting news.

Don looks up to me with big, wide eyes. He's cute in an Ugly Duckling sort of way.

“I was looking at space through a telescope,” he says. “I could see everything.”

“Wow.” I really am interested, it's just that I'm watching the big kids sprinting in and out of the arches looking like they're looking for trouble.

“And when I'm older I'm going to be an astronaut.” Can't help but love him. Nobody wants to be an astronaut any more, or a train driver. It's good that he's got an imagination. Maybe he's been able to use it to escape some of the things he's been through. If he hasn't, I wouldn't want his dreams.

I read Don's file yesterday. It's the thickest in the cabinet. Pages and pages of meetings and misery. The boy needs some looking after.

David runs past, followed by Max. They've got their jumpers over their heads and look like superheroes.

Don and Alexi let go of my hands and chase them. In mid-flight they adjust their uniform and morph into something new.

Aurora grips on more tightly to my leg. Can't be easy when you can't speak the language. I smile down at her and it seems to communicate everything she needs.

I keep my eyes on my boys, the four heroes setting the world to rights. As they weave between the trees and the old life-boat, they converge at top speed. I see it before it happens. There's nothing I can do.

Sheena and Lucy get there before me. They have the wounded up and hobbling over within seconds.

Alexi and David hold Lucy's hands and rub their heads at the same time. Max has tears welling up in his eyes like he's feeling responsible. Sheena becomes Don's crutch and he limps toward me.

Part of me wants to turn away, let Sal sort it out. She's about the same distance away and will do exactly the same as I will.

Problem is they're my guys. It's me who's supposed to be the real hero.

Sheena looks at me, so eager to please just like always. A wave of guilt stops me in my tracks as I picture her mother pulling open that denim shirt. I focus on Lucy when I speak. “Thanks girls.” The boys with the sore heads are consoled by a quick rub. “Did you bump?” Sometimes stating the obvious is the only thing to do. “There, there.”

Don's busy rolling up his trouser legs so I can see the damage.

His knees are like mutant fried eggs, big circles of white with red centres. “I fell over,” he tells me. “I need a plaster.”

“Should we take him in for you?” Sheena asks.

“Yes.” Means I can get away from her.

The five of them set off, the junior girls talking comfortingly to the boys like they were born to tenderness.

“And Sheena,” I shout after them, “Could you stay with them till they're ready to come back?” That way she'll be out of sight. If only I could keep her out of mind at the same time.