Primary School Confidential (16 page)

TO MISS WITH LOVE

My second year of teaching could not have been more different to my first. Fresh from the bucolic peace of Macdonald Valley Public School, I was now standing outside a building that could easily pass for a prison. I had accepted a teaching assignment at Southwold Primary School, in the London Borough of Hackney.

This particular school was as rough as guts, and I had been put in charge of thirty-three eight-year-olds. Despite the obvious challenges, though, I was as keen as mustard, my head filled with visions of Sidney Poitier in
To Sir with Love
. I was going to be the change that these kids were yearning for, the inspiration, the guiding light that would instil in them a lifelong love of learning. I was going to be that teacher they would remember for the rest of their lives. The one who would be mentioned in speeches in years to come, when my charges had gone on to achieve great things.

The school was a few blocks from the bus stop, and I'd had to step carefully around syringes as I walked the cold, dreary route
past off-licences and betting shops. The school itself was protected by high security gates. Three storeys tall, it was an imposing sight, with nary a trace of greenery to soften its forbidding exterior.

Taking a deep breath, I entered the gates and made my way to the office, where I announced that I was Miss Murphy, reporting for duty.

The lady behind the desk barely looked up from her paperwork, but just handed me a clipboard and asked me to fill out a form.

‘Take a seat,' she said when I handed it back to her a short time later. ‘Patricia will be with you shortly.'

The school began to come to life, with small kids streaming through the doors. I was joined in the reception area by a large African woman, who told me that she had to inform the principal about a domestic dispute she was having with her partner, who was not to set foot inside the school ever again.

‘What the fuck have I got myself into?' I was asking myself, when a kid burst into the office with what looked like a badly broken nose. He couldn't have been more than seven years old, and he explained to the school receptionist that he had been smashed in the face by someone called Friendly. It turned out that Friendly was a girl in my class, and she had some anger management issues, but more on that later.

The principal of the school was a woman of immense dignity. She walked down the corridor with an air that was positively regal. Stopping first to talk to my friend with the domestic issues, she said something along the lines of, ‘Not today, Evelyn. I just cannot deal with this today,' before sending her on her way. She then turned to me.

Standing up, I said, ‘Hi, I'm Kayte Murphy—the agency sent me.'

She looked me up and down, then motioned to me to join her in her office. There, having introduced herself as Patricia Downey, she went on to explain some things about Southwold Primary School. Apparently, the school had an Ofsted inspection scheduled for the following term, and the class I had been assigned was adorable and delightful.

Actually, she said the exact opposite.

Of course, the term ‘Oftsed' meant nothing to me, and I suppose it means nothing to you either, so let me explain: Ofsted was in fact the Office for Standards in Education, Children's Services and Skills. It was responsible for undertaking a thorough inspection of schools and childcare centres to ensure they were meeting the highest possible educational and administrative standards. Established in 1992 by Prime Minister John Major, the prospect of an inspection had struck the fear of God into the hearts of teaching staff the country over.

By this stage the school bell had gone, so Patricia rose. ‘Let's go meet your class,' she said.

I am not going to lie to you; I was shit-scared.

The corridors were deserted as I meekly followed Patricia. We passed classroom after classroom and all were quiet—except for one: the classroom we were heading towards.

Patricia flung the door open and burst through like a cabaret star, bringing instant quiet to the room. There were children everywhere. Unsupervised, they were running riot. It took all my willpower not to turn and flee.

‘Class, this is Miss Murphy,' Patricia said, before promptly walking out again.

In the silence that followed the principal's announcement, I heard her footsteps click-clacking back down the corridor.

Sixty-six eyes were locked on my face. I greeted the class, then invited a few of the boys to extricate themselves from each other and take a seat on the floor.

I sat on a chair, but before I could explain who I was and what I was doing there, I noticed one scrawny kid had his hand in the air.

‘Yes?' I said, thinking he might have some valuable information to impart, such as how long we had to go before recess.

‘I'm really f'rsy, can I 'ave some wa-ahr?'

To which I answered, ‘Pardon me?'

‘I'm really f'rsy, can I 'ave some wa-ahr?'

I had no idea what he was asking. I stared at him blankly.

Exasperated, he said, ‘I just wan' a glass ov wa-ahr, okay?'

A little Jamaican girl sitting next to him explained helpfully, ‘Miss, him are t'irsty an' want a drink.'

Thanks to my translator everything was suddenly made clear. I granted the boy permission to get a drink of water.

This instantly led to the entire class needing a drink of water. So I lined them up at the door and off we went in search of some water. Needless to say, I had no idea where the drinking fountains were, but I was helped by a few of the kids.

Once at the bubblers, a full-scale water fight broke out. It was winter and it was not warm, but soon the entire class ended up soaked, including me.

My voice rose to a screech as I pleaded for calm.

A kindly teacher who was on a break rescued me. She restored order and got the dripping students into some sort of a line. She introduced herself to me as Gulcan, and to this day I will never forget her kindness. I will also never forget her words of wisdom.
‘Don't give them even the tiniest inch,' she advised, ‘or a mile they will take.'

Southwold was officially classed as a disadvantaged school, with 42 per cent of the students eligible for the free school dinner program. Since 1944, children of families on low incomes were entitled to a hot school lunch provided by the government. Margaret Thatcher slashed a sword through the program in the 1980s, insisting that it should be put out to local tender, which the schools would pay for, depending on the financial demographic of their area and the demand. This led to a dramatic decrease in the quality of food provided, as caterers tried hard to turn more profit. I was later to discover that this meal was sometimes the only meal my students would eat all day.

To further compound the disadvantage, 75 per cent of Southwold's student body spoke no English at home. And, it turned out, many of them spoke no English at school either. So my class comprised thirty-three hungry students from racially diverse backgrounds, many of whom were not able to understand me. It was like peeling an onion, revealing a new challenge with every layer.

That first day was full of surprises, but none more than a lad called David. All day, I noticed, he lingered near the edge of the carpet, touching and stroking it as if he had never felt anything quite like it before in his life. My translator told me that David was blind.

This was the sort of information that it would have been useful to acquire in a handover meeting with their previous teacher, but it transpired that the class had so far gone through four teachers
in the current academic year. Each teacher had left because of the stress.

I was stunned. Again, my head urged me to flee, but my heart was already lost to this rabble. Did Sidney Poitier/Mark Thackeray abandon his class when faced with very similar circumstances?

No, he did not.

That first day was long and I could not
wait
until the home time bell rang out, but I persevered. I was sitting reading with a small group of children (and I say ‘reading' but we really should have been reflecting on the alphabet, because that was where we were at) when I noticed that a fight had broken out at the back of the classroom.

As far as I can work out, the fight had something to do with the conquest of the Greek territory of Cyprus by Ottoman Turks back in 1571. You might think that was a bazillion years ago, but clearly it was still a sore point for some in my classroom.

‘Turkish dogs!' yelled Nico as he smashed his rival.

Now, I know that you should not get involved in fights, and you absolutely should not put yourself between warring small men/boys, but I did believe that I had some type of duty of care in this instance and it was up to me to put a stop to the dispute.

I approached the boys, urging peace. And that's when it happened.

After all these years, an image of Mehmet has stayed with me. He was as solid as a rock with a very cheeky smile. Later, I would find out that he had the foulest temper I'd ever encountered, with a colourful vocabulary to boot. But there was something about
him that I liked immediately. I don't know where he is now, but I suspect he might be languishing in one of Her Majesty's hotels.

Long story short, I copped one in the guts.

Mehmet took a huge swing at Nico, who dodged away just as I stepped forward. As I felt the wind being knocked from my body, the school bell went. Within an instant the room had cleared, leaving me lying on the floor, gasping for breath. I believe that I might have been in shock. I'm not sure how long I lay there, but when Patricia turned up a little while later to see how I'd got on, I told her, ‘Piece of cake.'

15

THE INSPECTION

As the weeks and months flew by, my time at Southwold Primary School continued to throw challenge after challenge at me. Perhaps the greatest challenge of all was the girl whose parents had named her Friendly.

She was a walking contradiction when it came to her moniker. She barely spoke, but when she did her speech was aggressive and usually littered with profanities. Her mother was basically a larger version of Friendly. I suspect it wasn't a happy home. Nonetheless, I took the girl under my novice wing, and slowly, very slowly, she started to come out of her hard little shell.