Chapter Fifty-One
By the second week of the autumn term, Izzy knew she didn’t have a child protégé lurking among the new intake, despite what the parents might like to believe of their offspring. ‘He’s so artistic, so amazingly good with his hands,’ was a boast she had frequently heard since she had trained to be a teacher. And Mrs Claremont, an insipid mother of the oh-don‘t-do-that-darling variety, who had already bestowed on the school a generous offering of three ready-made, badly-behaved boys had felt the need to make the same proud boast of her latest, hopefully last, contribution. ‘He likes nothing more than to really get stuck in,’ she had gushed on the first day of term, when she had presented a moon-faced child of five to Izzy. Claremont number four looked more like a bruising seven-year-old, and at eight thirty-five in the morning, with his tie already askew, and his shirt bubbling over the top of his grey shorts, he had certainly looked the type to want to get stuck into anything and everything. The muckier the better, probably. The more annoying the better.
Two weeks on and Claremont number four had lived up to Izzy’s predictions. He was an utter menace in the art room, lacking the ability to concentrate for more than three minutes at a time and wrecking anything he touched. He was also a bully, picking on nearly everybody in the class, terrorising them with his bigger build and strength. He took special pleasure in making fun of a timid little girl called Gemma, who spent most of their art lessons sniffing back the threat of tears and twisting a prettily embroidered handkerchief around her fingers. She was such an unhappy child that Izzy had sat down with her at the end of Friday afternoon’s lesson, just before last break, and asked her if she was all right. A tiny nod was all she received for an answer.
‘Have you made any friends?’ she asked, suspecting not: the child was new to the school and hadn’t come up from the kindergarten like most of the others had.
A sideways shake of her head confirmed Izzy’s suspicions.
‘That’s a shame. Friends are important. Do you know what would make you lots of friends?’
Another sideways shake of her head.
Izzy leaned in close to her and whispered into her ear. Then, with a reassuring smile, she said, ‘Do you think you could do that?’
‘I think so.’
‘Good. So why don’t you practise getting that voice a little louder over the weekend and then give it a go in our next art lesson on Monday afternoon?’
It was now Monday afternoon, first period after lunch and Izzy had the staffroom all to herself. Not having a lesson to teach, she was supposed to be genning up on the latest edict from the headmistress about the new report system she was implementing. Computerised report cards were replacing the out-of-date A4 sheets of paper upon which teachers with handwriting as poor as any GP’s could disguise the unpalatable truth behind scribbled lines of false praise.
But computerised report cards, or whatever else the headmistress wanted to introduce, held no interest for Izzy. Looking out of the window, down on to the playing-fields where on one side a group of boys in muddy shorts were being taught to run headlong into an enormous battering ram, and on the other, girls were chasing each other with hockey sticks and showing scant regard for anybody’s safety, she knew that soon none of this would matter to her. Some time in the new year she would be gone.
No one knew of her plans to leave, not even Max and Laura with whom she had spent Saturday evening. They had come to her for supper; it was her small, rather inadequate way of thanking them for such a wonderful holiday. Laura was looking fabulously well on her pregnancy and was clearly going through the blooming stage. Snuggled up on the sofa with Max, she was a picture of health and happiness, and bursting with energy and enthusiasm. As was Max. Much to Izzy’s surprise he had told her that evening that he was thinking of selling his hugely successful management consultancy.
‘Are you serious?’ Izzy had asked him.
‘Very. I’ve even got somebody sniffing round wanting to make an offer. It’s a good one too. I’d be a fool not to take it.’
‘But what will you do?’
‘That’s what I want to know, Izzy.’ Laura had laughed. ‘I have visions of him wearing a zip-up cardie and following me round the supermarket like Victor Meldrew, saying, “How much? I don’t believe it! ”’
‘I’m not sure what I’ll do,’ Max had said, shrugging off Laura’s joke. ‘Something new, something different. Small-scale consultancy work on my own terms would be tempting. I missed so much of Francesca’s early years, I’ll be darned if I’m going to make that mistake again. So we’ll just have to see.’
It was Izzy’s view exactly about her own future, except while Max wouldn’t have to worry where his next penny was coming from as he waited for something new and different to land in his lap, she would have worry in spades over the coming months.
Discovering that she was pregnant had seen to that. Misfortune couldn’t ever just rain on Izzy Jordan with a soft pitter-patter, oh, no! She had to be swept away on a tidal wave of rotten luck.
Not that the baby was bad luck. The baby was wonderful, but it was a frightening prospect. She would be entitled to maternity leave, of course, but what then? How would she be able to afford decent childcare on her salary and run her flat? She would probably have to sell it, buy something smaller, live in a cheaper area.
And how would she ever live down the shame her mother would make her feel?
A child born out of wedlock in the Jordan family!
A single-parent family!
A government statistic!
Scandalous!
Still, there was always the hope that her mother would be so appalled she would never speak to her again.
There was also the shame she would bring on school to consider. Once it became impossible to hide the bump under her power suit — yes, as absurd as it was she had succumbed to the horror of wearing a skirt and jacket — the head would never stand for anything as sordid as an unmarried mother-to-be on the staff. What sort of a message would that give the youngsters, to say nothing of the awkwardness of explaining her situation to the board of governors?
And what about Mark?
When she had used the pregnancy-testing kit yesterday evening and had seen that she had hit the jackpot, her first thought was of the expression in Mark’s eyes that night in bed when he had asked her if she thought he would make a good father. She would have to tell him, of course. It was only fair. And even if she did keep it from him — and the thought had occurred to her — when Max and Laura found out she was pregnant they would be sure to tell Theo, and in turn, Theo would be bound to let Mark know. But what mustn’t happen was for Mark to think she was using the baby as a bargaining tool. She would never do that.
But for all the chaos ahead, she was really quite calm. Surprisingly so. She had no idea what she was going to do, how she was going to juggle the consequences of her summer away, but some inner force of optimism was gently leading her by the hand. It was as if the tiny baby inside her knew best. ‘Hey,’ it was saying, ‘trust me on this, I’ve got it all worked out.’
The children were coming in from the playing-fields now. She looked at her watch. Ten minutes and the bell would summon her for her next class.
It wasn’t until she saw Gemma looking anxiously over her shoulder to where Claremont number four was preparing to take aim with a bit of spit-soggy tissue that she remembered her chat with the shy little girl on Friday afternoon. ‘Gemma,’ she said, standing in front of her desk, ‘I’d like you to be my personal helper this lesson. You can start by passing round the sheets of paper we need.’ She watched the child move nervously round the two large squares of desks, sliding a piece of orange A3 to everyone as they laughed, chatted, scraped chair legs on the tiled floor, slipped on their art overalls and rummaged noisily through their pencil cases. In contrast to their happy, relaxed faces, Gemma’s was a study of fixed concentration. Poor child, thought Izzy, recognising the expression she had worn most of her school days when she had been terrified of making a mistake. Just as she had been all her childhood, frightened to death of dropping the responsibility she had been given but wanting so much to prove that she could do it.
When Gemma was two boys away from David Claremont, Izzy saw him raise his fingers to flick his revolting handmade missile at her. Gemma saw it too. She looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘David Claremont, you’re nothing but a silly baby and if you can’t behave, you should go back to being in the kindergarten class where you belong with all the other silly babies.’
She was word-perfect, had remembered every word Izzy had whispered into her ear. Not only that, her diction had been as clear as a bell, as authoritative as any teacher’s, and from the expression on her face, she was suddenly walking on air. She didn’t seem at all bothered that she was now the focus of everybody’s attention, that everyone had stopped what they were doing and were staring at her, wondering, no doubt, where this new, assertive Gemma had come from. Izzy noticed a few smiles of admiration around the classroom, as well as the frown on Claremont number four’s face. There was even a hint of a trembling lower lip.
If it was the only lesson Izzy ever taught a child, she knew it would be the best one. She was going out on a high, if nothing else.
But, meanwhile, she had a lesson of doing creative things with pasta tubes and lentils to make the most of. Not even the thought of clearing up the floor afterwards lowered her spirits as she saw the dramatic change she had wrought in Gemma. Gone was the threat of tears, gone was the twisted handkerchief, and in place was a smile of heady achievement as she continued to help Izzy, handing out what was needed.
Forty minutes later when it was a toss-up between describing the nearly finished pieces of work as art or have done with it and call it a pasta and lentil bake bound with glue, the shadowy figure of the headmistress appeared at the half-glass-panelled door. Izzy hoped that it was nothing more than one of her regular patrols to make sure that everybody was where they were supposed to be and that they weren’t enjoying themselves too much. But the handle turned and in she came.
Oh, Lord, what did this mean? Had she got wind of her pregnancy? But how? Nobody knew, she had told no one. Her panicky thoughts were abruptly distracted by a cry of ‘Oh, Miss, look at what David’s done! He’s got glue everywhere!’
Perfect! Just what she needed. This would really impress the head.
She turned to see what the dreadful child had done now and groaned at the sight of him. He was covered in white PVA glue. The stupid boy must have lifted the pot over his head and poured it over himself. It was a wickedly tempting thought to roll his chubby body round the floor and cover him in pasta and lentils, then staple him by his ears to the display wall. From behind her she could hear the head muttering about it being an inappropriate moment, that perhaps they would call back a little later when Miss Jordan wasn’t quite so busy.
Izzy groaned to herself again. Oh, this was really bad. A prospective parent was being shown round the school and had just witnessed the art teacher’s singular lack of talent for keeping a class of five-year-olds under control. But then she heard a man say, presumably the prospective father, ‘How refreshing to see such a hands-on technique being employed. Do you mind if we don’t rush away?’
Oh, thanks, buddy, she thought, stooping to untie the knot of Claremont number four’s art overall. Brilliant. She had caught herself one of those sly parents, who wanted to see how she was going to handle things. But then she stopped what she was doing. That had been no prospective parent. Not with that voice.
Slowly, hardly daring to believe what she had heard, she straightened up and turned round.
It was him.
It really was Mark.
He looked different somehow. Smarter than she had ever seen him, as if he had tried to dress the part of a prospective parent. The baseball cap was a mistake, though.
‘I think it would be better, Mr St James, if we came back later,’ the head insisted, looking pointedly at Izzy.
‘We’re extremely proud of the new science laboratories we had built last autumn. Mr Weston is our head of — ’
His gaze on Izzy, Mark said, ‘I’m not interested in science. Science is for geeks. Art and literature, that’s what does it for me.’
His words, together with his forthright tone, brought an instant hush to all the children, as well as a cold glint to the headmistress’s eyes. Izzy recognised it as the look of a headmistress who had decided that this parent would be trouble, that no matter how strapped for cash the school was, she could do without his money. ‘Perhaps the library would be of more interest to you,’ she said briskly. ‘This way.’ She held open the door, and gave him space to pass.
‘In a minute,’ he said, making no attempt to move and keeping his gaze on Izzy. ‘I want to see more of this classroom. Why don’t you deal with the sticky problem child while Miss Jordan gives me the low-down on what goes on in here?’
Izzy was almost quaking at his sheer nerve. She hid her face by trying to untie the wretched knot on Claremont number four’s overall, but she knew that the head had to do as Mark had suggested or appear grossly discourteous and unprofessional. She felt a pang of sympathy for the moon-faced child as he was hauled from his seat and all but dragged outside to his awaiting punishment.
The classroom was still unnaturally quiet as Mark approached her, his boots crunching twirls of pasta with each step he took.
‘Well, Miss Jordan, how about it?’
She forced herself to look at him. ‘How about what?’ How could he do this? How could he just wander in here without warning her? And why?
He came within a few inches of her. His voice was so low she had to strain to catch it. ‘Is that the power suit you told me about? It makes you look different. Very high maintenance.’