In a Class of His Own (21 page)

I put up my hand to the
two women who were sitting out on the patio enjoying some late
afternoon sun, shouted across that yes, I would love a cup of tea and
no, I didn’t want a gin and tonic and eventually tracked down my
father in his garden shed.

Ostensibly
he was tidying up. I suspected it was the only place he could find
some peace and quiet to listen to his beloved cricket commentary on
his
ancient radio.

He rose stiffly to greet
me. “Nicky love, how nice to see you.” Then he looked closely at
my face and noted the strain. “Still working too hard I see.”

“No
choice Dad,” I replied gloomily. “They’re coming next week.”
I’d had the official ‘phone call that day.

He nodded in sympathy. He
knew only too well who ‘they’ were.

I leaned against the old
tool bench that had featured so heavily in my childhood and lovingly
fingered the grooves that Andy and I had carelessly made when trying
out Dad’s tools.

“How’s
Mum?” I asked, as casually as I could. It was still a tricky
subject to broach with my father, as I supposed it always would be.

He
held up his hand to silence me for a minute and listened intently to
the latest Worcestershire score. “Never better,” he answered
stoutly. He tutted. “But I don’t know where that woman gets her
energy from.” I knew that he was referring not to Mum but to Joyce.
“Still, I suppose it’s down to her that your mother’s better.”
He jerked his head in the
vague direction of the patio. “She’s got them both going
regularly to the WI now, you know. That’s what they’re jabbering
about.”

I
smiled. I knew Dad was as pleased as punch at Mum getting involved.
“Why aren’t you out there, enjoying the weather?” After a slow
start, the Summer
was turning warm.

“There’s
a limit to even my knowledge about Victoria sponges, Nicky.”

I admitted he had a
point. There was what looked like a pile of netting on the bench
beside me. I fingered it cautiously.

Dad saw me. “That’s
your old hammock. Do you remember it? We used to have it hung up at
the old house. You and Andy used to bicker something terrible about
whose turn it was to get in it.”

And then we’d end up in
it together I recalled, thinking back to far simpler days.

“Thought
it would go a treat in that garden of yours,” Dad said. He picked
up a flowerpot and stacked it inside another.

I thought of the little
garden at the barn with its trees at the far end.

“I
could put it up for you if you like.”

I knew
he was trying to reach out to me. I knew this was his way of saying
that he cared and he was telling me not to worry about the
inspection.
“That would be nice Dad,” I murmured, wondering when I’d ever
get the time to lie in it. I put my hand on his and he grunted,
embarrassed.

Joyce
interrupted our moment by poking her nose around the door of the
shed. “There you are,
you two. Nicky! How are you? Time for a little drink, lovie?” She
waved a jug of Pimms at me and some slopped out onto the dusty floor.

I
looked at her. She was dressed in an orange sundress;
her skin burned a similar colour through injudicious exposure to the
sun and thought ‘What the hell.’ The paper work heaped in an
untidy pile at home in the flat could wait. Besides, there was
something I wanted to discuss with Joyce and this was as good a time
as any.

I beamed at her. “I
can’t think of anything I’d like better. And Joyce - there’s a
vacancy on the governing body at school. I don’t suppose you’re
interested?”

The
week of the inspection loomed. Everyone was experiencing a weird kind
of stage fright, the sort that actors get at last minute rehearsals.
I offered up a silent prayer of thanks that Ofsted hadn’t visited a
few weeks ago, during the SATs and then started to panic at how we
were going to keep the Year Six
pupils onboard, now they were well and truly demob happy.

Rupert
had the answer it seemed. He outlined an idea that the pupils could
prepare a presentation on a subject of their choice and that some of
them could give their talks during the Ofsted week. He’d been
encouraging the children to use the computers and some of the
presentations were in PowerPoint. It aimed to simultaneously show off
our use of computers and the children’s knowledge. It seemed a good
idea - at the time.

Ann
had calmed down her approach to Rupert
and, some time ago, I’d suggested to them both that they work on a
project designed to integrate computer technology more fully into the
curriculum. I’d tactfully suggested that it would be excellent
evidence for Rupert’s NQT evidence folder if he had experience
working in another year group and on a project such as this. He’d
taken the bait and my plan seemed to be working. The school was
benefiting from a useful project which would hopefully impress the
inspectors and Ann and Rupert were getting on a whole lot better. I
smiled in satisfaction at my cunning when I heard they’d been
spotted sitting close together in the local pub one Saturday night.
Perhaps Ann was finally to get her man!

Spencer,
true to form,
wanted to push the boundaries with the idea for his presentation. He
wanted to bring in the family pet, a mynah bird, as a visual aid for
his talk on birds.

Since the hamster debacle
I’d put my foot down on having any live creatures in school. I’d
had strong words with Spencer and then had to endure a lengthy ‘phone
call from his father explaining why I did not think it a good idea to
bring in the bird. After slamming down the receiver I reflected that
it was no wonder that Spencer was difficult when he had such an
abusive father at home. I’d learned several choice phrases to add
to my

vocabulary during that
call. But I’d held firm to my decision and felt quite proud of
myself.

When I ‘phoned Jack
that night he’d been adamant that Spencer would defy me over this
and I’d got indignant and then cross. Lately, we had begun to argue
over very minor things like this, more and more. We were both getting
frustrated by his still being in Manchester. I knew he wanted to be
with me and the school during this vital time. I simply wanted him.

The
week of Ofsted passed in a blur. Our preparations for the previous
inspection stood us in good stead. I was especially glad of the
support I received from Huw, the patch inspector, who came into
school every day to see how it was going. He explained that, if I was
interested, the governors were keen for me to be appointed as acting
head in the Autumn term. I knew that if the inspection was a success,
then the job would be mine. It was an added pressure.

We were nearly there - it
was the last day of the inspection and few lessons were expected to
be observed. The team was led by a larger than life figure called
Iris Steen. She was an astute woman who knew exactly what to look for
and missed little. We’d been told to expect the inspectors to drop
in and out of lessons and to ignore them as best we could. Some hope.

Spencer
was dropped off in style in his father’s white
van and arrived at school carrying an enormous birdcage. My heart
sank.

“Spencer,
take that thing back outside and give it to your father to take
home,” I scolded, when I intercepted him in the corridor.

“Can’t
miss. He’s gone to work.” The boy smirked knowingly at me. “Can
I put Gerald in the class miss? He don’t like to get cold.”

I bit back what I’d
really like him to do with Gerald and, seeing Iris striding down the
corridor towards us, resplendent in a red and gold tailored suit,
hissed a yes.

During
an inspection of any kind you get used to keeping an eye on the door
just in case an inspector should decide to grace you with their
presence. Of course, the minute the class gets noisy or you find
yourself remonstrating with a child, that’s when the visitor
arrives. It’s the sod’s law of any
inspection.

We
managed to get through maths
without incident or an observation. Gerald had been put on the
cupboard at the back of the classroom, near the radiator. He appeared
to have gone back to sleep after the inevitable curious poking and
staring his arrival had caused. Spencer seemed genuinely fond of the
bird and was extremely proud of his ‘visual aid.’ I was
reluctantly warming to the idea. What harm could it do?

I’d
included some of the Year Six
presentations in the English planning for the week - it was good
evidence of speaking and listening after all. It was soon time for
Spencer’s turn and I had vague misgivings as, when he took off the
cloth which was covering the cage, the bird began to wake up. I sat
at the side of the classroom facing the door and accepted it as fate
when Iris, her bright suit still immaculate, walked in.

“I’ll
just sit at the back,” she whispered dramatically. “Just carry on
as normal.”

I
tensed as Spencer began his talk. To be fair he’d done a lot of
research and,
as well as preparing his PowerPoint, had brought in other visual aids
to help explain what was involved in looking after a mynah bird.
Gerald though, began to get a little agitated. He really was an ugly
bird and stared balefully out at the class.

Just
as Spencer was explaining how he and his father had taught Gerald to
talk,
Iris squeezed her way from the back of the classroom. “Thank you
very much,” she trilled as she opened the door. As she did so, her
stiletto heel caught on a metal rubbish bin with a clang.

Whether
it was this or the sight of her colourful costume I’m not sure, but
Gerald, now fully alert, shrieked out:“’Allo me
darlin’. Fancy a quickie? Go on, you know you want it!” He then
rounded off this stirring performance with a shrill wolf whistle.

Iris stopped in her
tracks. My heart stopped in my breast. The class were held in rapt
attention. Even Spencer, never usually lost for words, didn’t utter
a sound.

“Why,
thank you. Gerald is it? I’ll have to think about your kind offer.”
Iris looked at Spencer, with a wicked twinkle in her eye. “Thank
you for your talk, young man. Most interesting.” She glanced my
way. “And thank you Miss Hathaway. A most
memorable
lesson!”

And
then she was gone to resounding cheers from Year Six
and a cackling “Tarra me beauty,” from Gerald.

“I
didn’t know where to look, Jack!” I said to him, on the ‘phone
that night, after returning from a celebratory drink with the others.
“I really thought I’d blown it. But I was wrong - she loved us!”
It had indeed been a successful inspection. We’d done it. We’d
managed to turn the school round.

Jack had laughed long and
hard and genuinely.

The sound made me yearn
to see him. “I wish you were here,” I whispered, alcohol making
me maudlin. “There’s a big gap in my bed and it should be filled
with you.”

Jack sighed volubly.
“Don’t Nicky. Not long now. I’m trying to get away as soon as I
can. I love you.”

“I
love you too. I want you.”

“Soon,”
he whispered. “Soon, my love.”

The
Summer
term trundled on interminably. As the weather improved and my stress
levels dropped I got into the habit of going for a walk in the
evenings. I’d discovered some beautiful countryside around my flat
and the gentle evening air often soothed my over full brain. If, for
some reason it didn't, it did at least give me a few hours to myself.
This particular evening seemed special. It was stiflingly hot. There
was something in the air - the promise of a sticky Summer night or
perhaps a thunder storm. The atmosphere crackled with electricity. I
could almost see it darting around the trees.

It was dusk when I turned
round and headed for home. When I approached the courtyard I could
see a halo of light surrounding the barn. As I walked faster, curious
and more than a little alarmed, I could see someone had put hundreds
of tiny tea lights all along the steps, leading up to the flat and
along the driveway and edges of the small lawn. Garden flares had
been placed among the trees and they gave off a magical light which
scented the air. It made the garden look surreal and dreamy. I
walked, trancelike, towards it.

Someone was lying in my
old childhood hammock which Dad had strung up between the two old
apple trees at the far end of the garden.

Jack.

He wore chinos rolled up
to his calves and a loose white shirt which was undone. One long leg
was hanging over the side of the hammock and every now and again his
bare foot pushed against the ground to make the hammock swing. My
heart thumped painfully in recognition and love made tears spring to
my eyes.

The French doors to the
kitchen were open wide and from the house came the desolate sobbing
of a Puccini aria. Even my uneducated ears recognised Madam Butterfly
crying out in the hope that one fine day her beloved husband would
return. The sound rose into the heavy night and charged the
atmosphere with raw emotion.

I
stood there, watching him. It struck me that this was the first time
I had ever seen him so still. Doing nothing. It also struck me that I
had never seen anyone who looked so completely at peace. Whatever
had happened in Manchester must have given him some sort of closure.
I felt giddy with love and longing.

That same second he
became aware of me. With one elegant move he slipped from the hammock
and walked towards me. He didn’t say a word but his blue-green eyes
were eloquent. He held my face in his hands and breathed “Nicky!”
before kissing me. It was a kiss of such tenderness, such sweetness.

When
it was over he rested his forehead on mine and again breathed
“Nicky.” Around us the opera soared into the still air, taking my
heart with it.
“I thought I owed you a little romance,” he whispered and I
sighed.