Chapter 5
5
ROBYN
I’d assumed that now I’d been at St Mede’s for a whole term and had established myself with both the staff and the kids, the teaching itself would be easier. Easier than in those hellish first weeks when I’d had to constantly tighten the reins and crack the whip in order to keep control of the hard-work kids in my care. I left Sorrel – who’d been unusually quiet during the fifteen-minute car journey into school – at the main entrance and immediately made my way down to the drama studio to prepare for lessons. As I headed back out into the school grounds, taking a shortcut from the basement to the staffroom for the coffee I couldn’t start the day without, I offered up thanks to that great teacher in the sky that I didn’t, as a supply teacher, have a tutor group of my own to prepare and be responsible for. This fact alone generally gave me another ten to fifteen minutes at the start of each day: time to catch up with the seemingly never-ending marking and planning, once the rest of the staff had departed for their registration groups.
I was shaking icy raindrops from my mass of black curls and debating whether I actually had time for coffee when Mason popped his head round the door.
‘Ah, found you.’ Mason came into the staffroom, closing the door behind him.
‘I wasn’t hiding.’ I pulled a face. ‘Oh, all right then, I was. You looking for me?’ I narrowed my eyes slightly, anticipating yet more work being chucked in my direction. ‘What?’
‘Celia Logan’s not in. And…’ Mason frowned. ‘…won’t be in for some time, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh?’ My heart sank; I knew what was coming. ‘Escaped, has she?’
‘Broken pelvis. She was air-ambulanced off Courcheval 850 at the end of the day on Saturday. A snowboarder took her out. She was only able to contact me here at school once you’d all left yesterday or I could have let you know what I’ve had to come up with, at the meeting itself. Mind you, I had enough on my plate to deal with what with Joel, the police, the press and then the bloody Sattar brothers.’
‘Right.’ I cursed under my breath.
‘So, I’d like you to step in as form teacher for her class for the foreseeable future, Robyn. Could you get along there now? Pronto? There’s no one with them.’
‘Are you saying I’ve to be… to be mother to the worst class in the school? Year 9CL are now officially my responsibility? Oh, I don’t think so, Mason. In fact, I know not so. Come on, I’m still in my ECT years. They’ll eat me alive.’
Mason laughed. ‘Their mother ? I’ve never heard the role of a form tutor equated to mothering. No,’ he cajoled, ‘you’ll be their form teacher, their mentor and confidante. They’ll come to you when they can’t cope, when they’re upset, worried, frightened of their world and what it throws at them…’
‘They’re just as likely to be throwing stuff at me . And, they know more about the world than I do. You should hear what they get up to once school is out. Actually, when they’re still in school, to be honest.’ I knew I was gabbling, playing for time, but I couldn’t stop. Once I stopped talking, Mason would find a way in and I’d be doomed. Doomed to be 9CL’s form teacher for eternity. ‘And who do I go to when I’m feeling upset, worried and bloody frightened?’
‘You know you can always come to me, Robyn. My door’s always open to you…’
Ignoring the suggestive look in Mason’s beguiling brown eyes – the look that had seduced me into his bed only a couple of months earlier – I tutted, but carried on in the same vein. ‘Frightened like I am now, Mason, at the very thought of facing them every morning for registration? At least when I take them just once a week for their drama session, I know, a bit like visiting the dentist, or… or… Christmas or… or… having a smear test I won’t be having to put myself through it again for a while.’
‘While we’re at it, Robyn, and I confirmed this with Melanie Potter yesterday, we’d like to offer you the position of drama and English teacher on a proper contract. Keeping you on here on a supply basis is bloody expensive, to be honest. I’ll get all the papers to sign over to you asap…’
‘Mason, I told you yesterday, no. I need to be able to be up and off if Fabian decides he wants to be back in London for his work.’
‘I thought he’d run away from London? Left his responsibilities when it all got too much for him?’
‘Mason, leave it out. Please? OK, OK, I’ll go and register 9CL now, but it’s a one-off. You need someone with more experience.’
‘Lovely. I knew you’d be up for it. Just give myself or Petra a shout if there are any problems. Assembly in ten minutes. You’re going to be late if you don’t go now.’
Glaring at Mason, I gathered my laptop and bag and headed for the door, pausing to turn before I left the room. ‘I need to talk to you about Joel, Mason. What’s going on? I can’t get anything out of Sorrel. Says she knows nothing.’
‘I assumed you’d know more, what with Sorrel being Joel’s mate. I need coffee. I’ve assembly in ten minutes and I can’t face a new term and a new assembly – with all the usual rubbish preaching about New Year resolutions – without caffeine.’
‘Do I hear some cynicism creeping in?’
Ignoring me, Mason switched on the kettle before reaching for the instant coffee and, knowing myself dismissed, I headed unwillingly along G corridor and up the stairs to the notorious 9CL’s tutor room, where it was obvious from the raucous noise coming from behind the closed classroom door the thirteen-year-olds were already tuned up to give it all they’d got. I took a deep breath and went in.
‘Hello, miss, did you have a good Christmas?’ Lacey Mosley gave me a welcoming wave before continuing with the French plait she was constructing on Sienna Walker’s blonde head.
Well, at least I was being acknowledged rather than ignored. Maybe, after a term here, I was at last being given some credence.
‘I did, thank you. Right, OK, seats, all of you. Now. Quick registration and then it’s down to the hall for full, first-morning-back-to-school assembly.’ I moved to the computer on Celia Logan’s desk, quickly logging into SIMS, the online registration app, and started calling names…
‘Miss.’
‘Yep.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Miss.’
‘Where’s Miss Logan, miss?’
‘I’m afraid she’s been taken out by a snowboarder in France.’ Glancing at the clock on the wall, I tried to gallop on with the roll call. ‘Charlie?’
‘Miss.’
‘A snowboarder? She’s going out with a snowboarder? I thought she was going out with a copper.’ Willow Jenkinson pulled a face. ‘She’s always telling us if we don’t behave, she’s going to bring her boyfriend in to sort us all out…’
‘No, you moron, “taken out”—’ Keira Jackson air-quoted the words ‘—as in an accident. She was going skiing over New Year. She told us that. Does that mean she’ll be off for a bit, miss?’
‘Well…’ I started, but was interrupted before I could finish.
‘Ooh, Kai, you love Miss Logan. What you gonna do without her? Kai luuuurrrrvves Miss Logan, miss.’
‘Eff off, you daft bitch.’ Kai Vickerman, red-faced, threw a large rubber in Daisy Slater’s direction, catching the corner of her eye. Turning in fury, Daisy launched herself at Kai, pulling at his school blazer. ‘Oy, ger off, Slater. Keep yer bloody hands to yourself. Me mum’ll go ape if I tear this blazer again.’
‘OK, OK, OK. Enough.’ Hell, I could already hear my voice rising an octave and took a deep calming breath. ‘ Enough , I said. OK. Right, make sure you have everything in your bags for the day ahead. Assembly! Now!’
Fifteen minutes into the new school term and I already had a headache.
* * *
By the end of lunchtime, I’d had enough.
The first rehearsal I’d planned for the forthcoming production of Grease came to nothing when the heating in the drama studio – prone to sulking at the best of times – finally gave up the ghost.
‘Aw, miss, it’s freezing down here,’ Isla Boothroyd complained, hiding her numb hands up her navy school jumper. ‘I hate winter. I hate January. It’s ages off until we can go on holiday again and we’ve got our mocks soon. My dad says I should be concentrating on revising in the library rather than doing this.’
‘I haven’t even looked at my books over the holiday,’ Noah Dyson scoffed. He kicked a screwed-up paper towel across the studio, shouting, ‘Goal,’ when it hit the wastepaper bin.
‘I’ve gone off the whole thing anyhow,’ Lucy Earnshaw put in, picking up her bag and voting with her feet. ‘I’m hungry. We have to go on last sitting when we have these rehearsals and there’s never anything left apart from a few manky chicken nuggets. And, after seeing that poor turkey with all those gibletty things up its bum on Christmas Day, I’m now a vegetarian. In fact, I’m a vegan.’
‘You had sausage and chips for your tea at our house last night,’ Isla accused.
‘Oh, I thought they were veggie sausages. Your dad said they were,’ Lucy came back at her mate, equally accusing.
‘And your Sorrel’s not here, is she, miss? I bet she’s already got the place she’s after at that posh drama school in London. Then we’ll have no Sandy. Grease without Sandy? Well, that’ll just be bloody rubbish, won’t it?’ Sienna Walker sniffed and looked at the others.
‘Stop, stop, stop!’ I put up a hand as latecomers to the rehearsal drifted in. ‘Listen: a) if Sorrel does get a place at the Susan Yates school, it won’t be until after Easter, maybe not even until September and, on both accounts, we’ll have put on the performance by then and b) you’re late,’ I snapped in the new arrivals’ direction. ‘Look, actors and dancers need punctuality and discipline if they’re to get anywhere?—’
‘My dad says what I need is my GCSEs if I want to be a vet,’ Isla interrupted once more. ‘He says fannying around, thinking I can sing and dance just because you were once on the stage in London, miss, isn’t going to help me .’
‘A vet?’ I stared. The usual response to what these kids were going to do with their lives once they left St Mede’s was more often than not: ‘gel nails, miss’; ‘footballer, for Man U, miss’; ‘have a kid, miss, and then they’ll have to give me a flat’. As well as the equally disconcerting: ‘Go and work for Andrew Tate, miss, and be an influencer like him.’
‘OK, OK!’ I put up my hands once more. ‘I know where you’re coming from. It’s always hard getting back into things when you’ve had a two-week break and, you’re right, it’s too cold down here to stay and rehearse.’ I glanced across at Jobsworth Ken, the caretaker, who’d just arrived, along with the usual air of martyrdom that always accompanied him like a bad smell. He was now making his way gloomily to the room where the school’s heating and lighting daily creaked and groaned into life like an arthritic octogenarian.
‘Right, it’s up and running again,’ Ken sniffed a few minutes later when he reappeared with an oily rag and a black greasy streak down one side of his usually immaculate brown overalls. ‘But it’ll be a good hour or so before it begins to warm up.’ He shook his head. ‘Best thing for this place is if the Sattars do get hold of it and raze it to the ground.’
For heaven’s sake! I threw the caretaker a furious warning glance. The last thing I needed was the kids getting wind of what was possibly just a rumour.
‘Is the school closing down, miss?’ Fatima Khan pulled a face. ‘Are they pulling it down ?’
‘Oh, right, then, no point in hanging round here in the freezing cold if there’s going to be nowhere to put on Grease . I’m off for me dinner while there’s some left. I’m starving.’ Daisy Slater picked up her bag, reached for her phone and headed for the door and sustenance.
‘Hang on, hang on, let’s get a few things sorted…’ I held up a hand once more while looking out of the window where great gobstoppers of snow were beginning to fall from a mustard-yellow sky.
‘Whoo, it’s snowing!’ Twenty pairs of adolescent feet rushed over to the window, falling over their owners in the rush to get a good view.
‘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.’
‘Where is your Sorrel?’ Isla asked.
I was wondering the same thing.