Chapter 5
Joe Balls dropped the last remaining sticky sweet into the bin. Poor old Brian Hughes wouldn’t need those any more, just as he wouldn’t need the half-eaten packets of out-of-date Bourbon biscuits in his middle drawer.
It had been the end of a long day. Just as well the main school didn’t start until tomorrow, due to ‘staff training’ which the head had cancelled at the last minute. Another sign of disorganisation, although it had given Joe extra time to prepare for tomorrow, not to mention clearing out Brian’s stuff from his desk and locker, which no one else had bothered to do.
It was then that he heard the voices from the room next door. The first high-pitched one he hadn’t heard before, but the second, the sort of heavy, breathy, ten-a-day type, definitely belonged to the school secretary. Diana Davies, but do call me Di, had introduced herself when she’d turned up at midday. He himself had been there since 6.15 a.m. On the dot.
‘What’s he like then?’ said the high-pitched one. ‘Imagine a cross between a northern Colin Firth with a slight paunch and Mr Grumpy and you might get the picture! Really dishy even if he does act a bit stern and, get this, no wedding ring! Some of the mums are going to love him!
‘Mind you, goodness knows what time he must have got in. You know how early I usually am? Well today, I was running slightly behind and you could see from his face that he thought I should have been here before. Right now, he’s clearing out Brian’s desk. Probably should have done it myself but to be honest, it didn’t seem right to nose through the poor man’s things.’
There was a cluck of approval from the other woman. ‘Such a shock. I couldn’t believe it when I heard.’
‘I know.’ The voice dropped but Joe, who’d had plenty of practice at picking up low conversations, still managed to tune in. ‘Makes you wonder if this one is any good, if they managed to get him in at such short notice.’
If there was anything that his years on the fourteenth floor of the second biggest bank in the world had taught Joe, it was to deal with backbiters immediately.
Slamming shut Brian’s top desk drawer to make a noise and alert the two gossipers that he was there, he strode across the room, bending his head to avoid the ridiculous pot plant with the knobbly crooked stem.
Poor old bugger. Brian, he meant, not the plant, which would have to go, along with all the other mess that had been left behind. Streamlining and grade boosting. That’s what the Reception year at Corrybank Primary needed. It was, after all, why he had been given the job in the first place. A touch of overall business acumen wouldn’t be amiss either, even if that hadn’t been in his job remit.
It would also help, in his opinion, if the whole playgroup concept was tidied up. Some areas seemed to call it a pre-school instead. Frankly, it was confusing.
‘Mrs Davies?’
‘Goodness, Mr Balls! I thought you said you were going to examine the supply cupboard.’
‘I have.’ He nodded shortly at the owner of the squeaky voice, a skinny woman with the hair-tucked-behind-the-ears style which, he suspected, she might just have been sporting since her teenage years. Ditto her canary-yellow sweatshirt, which looked like school uniform. ‘And you are …?’
‘Penny. I’m one of the teaching assistants.’
Joe couldn’t help feeling a flash of scepticism. In his experience, ‘teaching assistants’ could be very varied in terms of abilities, ranging from bright graduate mummies at the top end, down to inadequately educated parents who used commas when they ought to have used full stops. One of his arguments at his interview for this job was that there should be a more uniform entry qualification for TAs.
‘Do you mind telling me what your qualifications are?’
The woman fiddled with the buttons on her yellow sweatshirt. ‘I don’t actually have a teaching qualification but I did an English A-level before I had my kids.’
‘Right.’ He nodded that short sharp nod that had earned him the reputation of ‘Balls by name, balls by nature’ on that fourteenth floor. In fact, as Ed always said, his bark was far worse than his bite, but the problem was that once he started, he couldn’t seem to stop. Like now. ‘Want to know what my qualifications are?’
Both women were looking at him, their mouths open. ‘Four A-levels. First-class degree from Durham. MBA in Business Studies. Ten years working for the second biggest bank in the world. Three years teaching at one of the toughest primaries in east London which released me to step in as acting Reception head here at Corrybank after Brian Hughes’ heart attack. And that is why I was able to come at such short notice, as you put it just now.’
Joe stopped abruptly. He had a nasty feeling that he might have been shouting or raising his voice without realising. The two women were now flushing awkwardly.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Balls,’ breathed Di heavily, fiddling nervously with her skirt band.
Joe waved her apologies away. That was another thing he’d learned on the fourteenth floor. Disarm your enemy with surprise and painful truths, but then forgive them graciously so they became part of your team. ‘Let’s just forget it, shall we?’ He nodded at Penny to show he included her in his pardon too.
‘After all, our main job is to get Corrybank back on its feet, isn’t it?’
Joe suddenly realised he was talking as though he was in charge of the whole school. ‘I’m sure you’ll agree,’ he added hastily, ‘that the Reception year is possibly the most important. We need to catch our children quickly and get them into the right learning frame so they continue to make good progress right on through into secondary school.’
‘And do you know how we can begin?’
Two sets of worried eyes were on him. He needed to restore relations, and fast. ‘By getting rid of that yukky plant in my office. It’s a health and sanity hazard.’
Penny in the yellow sweatshirt twitched nervously. ‘It’s a yucca. And don’t you mean health and safety, sir?’
He nodded tersely. ‘It was meant to be a joke.’
Both women let out a simultaneous peal of false laughter. Ed had always said Joe was hopeless at trying to be funny on purpose.
‘You can also arrange for someone to empty the bin, which is already overflowing with the contents of Brian’s desk. I had to clear it myself.’ He shot a look at Di to show she wasn’t off the hook yet.
‘Sorry, sir, but it didn’t seem right somehow …’
‘Really?’ Joe couldn’t bear it when people didn’t face the obvious. ‘Mr Hughes isn’t going to be coming back, is he? We can hardly leave his office as a shrine.’
‘In fact it’s just as well we’ve all come in before term starts. There’s a staggering amount of random paperwork that still appears to be on his desk.
Di looked as though her forehead was about to overflow with tiny specks of sweat. It reminded him of the water cycle that was on his syllabus to teach the Reception year when they arrived. He’d feel better then, he thought. Children were so much more interesting and straightforward than adults.
‘By the way, sir. You were meant to have got this before but I’m afraid it sort of got mislaid in the kerfuffle after Brian was taken ill.’
Joe glanced down at the untidily stapled paper she’d thrust into his hand.
Puddleducks Newsletter?
Di’s voice got deeper and breathier. ‘Puddleducks is the name of the playgroup round the corner, sir. It is linked to Corrybank and …’
‘I’m well aware of the tie-up between the two, thank you.’ Joe glanced down again at the newsletter, which, he could see, was written in a far too familiar and jaunty style. So unprofessional, with all those exclamation marks. ‘Who wrote this?’
‘Gemma Merryfield, sir. She’s the …’
‘Acting head of the playgroup.’ Joe flashed one of his more charming smiles. ‘I made it my business to know who the main players were before I started.’
Penny looked upset. Well done, Joe, he told himself. Now you’ve implied she isn’t important. ‘There are some changes I need to make to this,’ he began.
‘Changes?’ Di’s eyebrows, which were, he observed, faintly pencilled in as though the originals had disappeared, rose. ‘It’s too late for that, I’m afraid. They’ve already been posted.’
‘Snail mail? Why weren’t they emailed? Do you know how much a stamp costs nowadays?’
The teaching assistant was stammering now in an effort to produce an explanation. This wasn’t the kind of start he had wanted, Joe told himself. Forget the northern Colin Firth. Both women probably saw him now as Mr Grumpy crossed with a three-pronged Halloween figure.
‘Gemma Merryfield,’ said Di coolly, ‘thought it would be a personal touch. Besides,’ she added primly, ‘not all families are on the Net.’
Really? From his experience during the last three years at an inner London school, most of the kids there were glued to Instagram or TikTok.
‘Actually,’ added Penny, smoothing down her yellow sweatshirt in an action that seemed to go with a sudden boldness in her voice, ‘we’ve had quite a few phone calls for the PS bit.’
The PS bit?
‘There,’ Di’s squat, unpainted index finger stabbed in the general direction of the bottom of the page in front of him.
Do any of you mums have a secret talent? If so, we’d like to hear from you. At Puddleducks Playgroup, we welcome outside speakers who can tell us about their own area of expertise. So if you’re an artist or a writer or a singer or even if you have just come back from an interesting holiday, please get in touch.
Penny was virtually jumping up and down now with a schoolgirl excitement that made Joe feel embarrassed on her behalf. His banking days had taught him to be wary of unrestrained enthusiasm. It was usually the sign of someone going over the edge. ‘We’ve got one Puddleducks parent, Molly’s mum,’ she was babbling, ‘who’s a keeper at the zoo near here.’
Joe frowned. ‘But what relevance does that have to the curriculum?’
‘It’s all part and parcel of showing children how the world works.’ Di was colouring up again as she spoke. ‘Well, something like that anyway.’
‘I can see that.’ Always let someone know you can see their point of view, he reminded himself. ‘Fond as I am of figures, I can see that children need more than hard-nosed facts. But talks from monkey keepers?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Don’t you think all that is a bit amateurish?’
Clearly not, from the stony look on Di’s face, and her silence, which said more than any words could. An unfamiliar cold wave of uncertainty passed through him. Had he made a mistake in coming here and leaving the sharp end of teaching in London? The thought made him shudder. Maybe this was not the clever career move it had initially seemed to be.
When Joe had first been emailed by someone rather high up from the local authority, asking if he would consider a post that had just come up to cover an emergency in a lively town that was ‘only an hour from London’, he had, to be honest, been quite tempted. His time at the inner-city school had ceased to be the challenge it had been at the beginning and he was aware that as a late entrant to the teaching profession, he needed to build up his CV.
Corrytown had seemed just the ticket. No need to move, since he could just about commute from the flat he had bought in Notting Hill after Ed. The job would also be a challenge of a different kind.
‘If you can turn this place around, it will be a real feather in your cap, Mr Balls,’ he’d been told at the interview, and he had felt excited shivers down his spine.
And now, here he was, discussing zookeepers! ‘Talking of Gemma Merryfield,’ said Joe, in what he hoped was a conciliatory tone, ‘I see from Brian’s diary that he had a meeting booked with her this evening, which I intend to keep. So if anyone calls for me, would you kindly tell them that I will be at the playgroup until,’ he checked his watch, ‘at least 6 p.m.’
Di sucked in her breath. ‘I think we’ll both be gone by then, Mr Balls.’
He felt another flash of annoyance. A school was a business like any other, and whatever their rank, staff ought to be prepared to work late. ‘That’s a shame. I was going to ask if you would like a working supper at one of the cafés in town.’
‘I’ve got my Sid to cook for, thanks,’ said Di hastily.
The teaching assistant was beginning to stammer again. ‘I’ve got to walk my … my dog.’
‘Really!’ Di’s eyes flashed interest. ‘I didn’t know you had one. Oh, I see …’
Pretending not to feel hurt, Joe returned to his office and began taking down the calendar bearing pictures of Corrytown’s Top Twelve Beauty Spots that Brian had pinned on the wall next to his desk. Poor bloke hadn’t realised then that he wouldn’t be there to turn over to the September page.
After that, it would be time to tackle Miss Gemma Merryfield about the newsletter and her ideas for next term. Then he needed to spend another four hours (or as he liked to think of it, two hours squared) on his own proposals. Nothing like numbers, thought Joe happily as he walked briskly down the high street towards the first turning on the right. Good, clean and simple figures which made you feel that everything was nicely in control.