The New Teacher
Dominique Demers
Translated by Sander Berg
Illustrations by Tony Ross
ALMA JUNIOR
Alma books Ltd
3 Castle Yard
Richmond
Surrey TW10 6TF
United Kingdom
www.almabooks.com
The New Teacher first published in French by Éditions Québec Amérique in 1994
This translation first published by Alma Books Ltd in 2016
© Dominique Demers, 1994
Translation © Sander Berg, 2016
Dominique Demers and Sander Berg assert their moral right to be identified as the author and translator respectively of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Inside and cover illustrations by Tony Ross. Illustrations first
published in France by Éditions Gallimard Jeunesse
© Éditions Gallimard Jeunesse, Paris, 2003
Printed in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY
isbn: 978-1-84688-399-6
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be resold, lent, hired out or otherwise circulated without the express prior consent of the publisher.
Contents
Chapter 1
She’s Completely Bonkers!
Chapter 2
Dear Toothbrush
Chapter 3
You Crispy Duck, You!
Chapter 4
A Letter and Seven Garden Gnomes
Chapter 5
Such a Rude Gorilla!
Chapter 6
Our Teacher Is a Fake!
Chapter 7
A Dramatic Turn of Events
Chapter 8
Lots of Kisses and a Fleeting Image
Epilogue
The New Teacher
Chapter 1
She’s Completely Bonkers!
Normally teachers walk very fast. They’re always in a hurry. Their heels go click! clack! click! clack! click! in the corridor. That morning, it was different. Our new teacher seemed to take her time. We heard two or three little tap-taps. Then, nothing. As if our new teacher were dawdling in the corridor instead of hurrying up.
The class was silent. You could have heard a pea roll across the floor. We were all dying with curiosity to see what our new teacher looked like. We’d been talking about nothing else all week. No one knew what this mysterious person from another town might look like. Our old teacher was having a baby. She’d left us to look after her big round tummy.
Suddenly the door opened and a very tall and very thin lady appeared. She was wearing a strange hat. It was like a witch’s hat, except that the top was round instead of long and pointy. Her dress, however, was nothing like a witch’s outfit. It was an old-fashioned evening gown with bows and lace, a bit faded but still pretty.
And that was not all. Our new teacher didn’t wear tiny shoes with high heels like the others. She was wearing big leather ones with thick soles. These were shoes made for hiking in forests, climbing up mountains or walking to the ends of the earth… Not for going to school at any rate.
We all opened our eyes as wide as planets, and quite a few jaws dropped too. As always, it was Alex who spoke first.
“She’s not a teacher: she’s a scarecrow!”
Some of us chuckled. Then, nothing. Our eyes were riveted on that weird old lady. She slowly walked to the window, the one from where you can see the little wood where Matthieu and Julie meet to kiss. Our new teacher looked out of the window. Then she smiled. She had a lovely smile.
Normally teachers present themselves. They say: “Good morning children, I am Mrs Lagalipette.” Or else: “Hello, my name is Nathalie.” Their voice is soft or shrill, their tone harsh or cheerful. You get an idea who you’re dealing with. But our new teacher didn’t say a word.
She went to her desk, and then I realized she didn’t even have a bag with books or anything. That funny old teacher had come to school empty-handed! If we forget our school bag, we have to go and see the head teacher, Mr Cracpote, and explain why. I always find that a little difficult, because if you forget something, you forget something. That’s all there is to it. You can’t really explain why.
Then at last our beanpole of a teacher sat down. Everyone was holding their breath. We’d finally find out if she was obsessed with maths or with spelling tests. Or if she was the kind who makes a fuss about nothing.
There are teachers who go berserk when words go any which way on the page instead of neatly staying on the lines of our exercise books. Others panic at the slightest noise. A mouse’s fart would wake them up at night.
What I wanted to find out most of all was if our new teacher liked – a little, a lot or an awful lot – to put people in detention. Because with the old one, let’s just say I got my fair share.
Our new teacher was now well and truly installed behind her desk, but she didn’t seem to be in a hurry. She quietly smoothed out the hem of her dress and then, without even looking at us, she delicately took off her huge hat, holding it by its broad brim, and placed it on the desk.
Her grey hair was held together in a bun. She wore her hair like many old ladies do, except that she had a strange object on her head. It was the size of, say, a tangerine, a golf ball or a big marble. A few pupils got up to have a better look, and Benoît even climbed onto his desk.
It was a pebble!
Very carefully, our new teacher picked it up, as if it were a very rare and fragile object. Then – believe it or not – she gave it a huge smile, gently stroking it with the tip of her index finger, like a parent tickling a child!
Then she finally spoke. But not to us. To her pebble!
“Hello my pumpkin. Aww, poor little peanut. I woke you up, didn’t I? I’m sorry. I was feeling a bit lonely… We’re in the new class now. Are they friendly? I don’t know yet. They’re all looking at me as if I’ve forgotten to put my dress on. As if I’m walking around in my pyjamas or in my knickers. I’m going to have to say hello to them. But first I wanted to have a chat with you. Don’t worry… I’m feeling better already.”
The teacher put her pebble on the corner of her desk and, for a few seconds, I had the impression it was alive, that it would start to yap, grunt or miaow. From the back of the class Alex shouted, with his usual tact:
“She’s bonkers!”
I looked at my friend Léa. She tapped her forehead with her index finger a couple of times. I knew exactly what she meant. And I agreed. Our new teacher was stark raving mad. Off her rocker. Barmy. Mental.
The class began to be noisy. Everyone was wondering what to do in a situation like this. Warn Miss Lamerlotte in the classroom next door? Get Mr Cracpote? Or the police, a doctor, the fire brigade?
Suddenly our new teacher got up. She slowly walked around her desk, and when she got to the front she sat down… on top of her desk.
Even sitting down our new teacher was tall. She cleared her throat and gave us a smile. Immediately the class fell silent. Everyone stopped whispering, as if spellbound.
“Hello…”
Her voice was reedy but cheerful, with a hint of shyness.
“Would you like to do some… err… maths?” she asked.
No one answered. We were all a bit shocked. Then she addressed Guillaume.
“You, would you like to start the day with some divisions or a bit of geometry?”
Guillaume can’t stand anything that even remotely resembles a number. Although our new teacher had made quite an impression on him, he still managed to reply:
“No… No, ma’am… Err… No, miss. Err… Not at all.”
The funniest thing was that our new teacher seemed to be over the moon with his reply.
“Would you like to do a spelling test then?”
This time Alex didn’t hesitate. He replied:
“No. We all hate spelling tests here. They get on our nerves…”
The way he said it almost sounded like a threat. Alex enjoys being the class clown, and our new teacher gave him a delighted smile. Her eyes sparkled with joy.
“Really? That’s great! Me too.”
That’s literally what our new teacher said. And she sounded perfectly sincere. That’s when it occurred to me that perhaps this weird old lady is from another planet. That normally she’s small and green with three eyes in her head. Her pebble must be some sort of two-way radio allowing her to stay in touch with a marvellous spaceship twirling around in space, billions of light years away from our classroom.
The worst thing was that, basically, I probably wasn’t far wrong.
Chapter 2
Dear Toothbrush
After a week, we still didn’t know all that much about our new teacher. Her name was Miss Charlotte, and she came from a faraway village in the north of Quebec. At least, that’s what she told us. Alex swore she made it all up. He was convinced she was a spy. Those sweet nothings she addressed to her pebble were some kind of secret code. She may disguise herself as an eccentric old lady, but she was actually a formidable woman who had slit other people’s throats and had endured the most awful forms of torture.
Miss Charlotte often talked to her pebble, and always out loud. She called it “my precious darling” or “my own little Gertrude”, or “my beautiful sweet cupcake”. I found it hard to imagine that these messages were being decoded by spies. Anyway, however strange it may sound, after a few days we almost got used to her pebble.
What we did in class with Miss Charlotte was nothing like what normally goes on in schools. And as far as schools are concerned, let’s just say I know my onions. My dad and I have moved house loads and I’ve been to tons of schools!
Every morning Miss Charlotte would ask us about our projects. The first time, no one answered. We were too baffled. Miss Charlotte walked through the classroom with her eyes wide open in amazement. Looking gutted, she just muttered:
“Well… OK then. If you wish. This morning we’ll be bored.”
She was sitting right there, in front of us and on top of her desk, heaving heart-rending sighs. After a couple of very, very long minutes, Marie put up her hand and asked if we could talk among ourselves. That was a brilliant idea. Ever since the first bell I’d been counting down the minutes until morning break, because I was dying to tell Léa that Tartiflette, my cat, had had kittens that night.
Miss Charlotte gave us permission, and we chatted until break. When we got back, Simon suggested we play a game of football. The weather was beautiful, and even though I’m not mad about ball games, I was delighted that Miss Charlotte said yes. The idea that we could run around in the playground when our old teachers would normally make us do times tables made any sport sound interesting.
We formed two teams, but our side was one player short. Without saying a word, Miss Charlotte hitched up her dress, taking the hem up to her waist and retying her belt to keep it all in place.
At the start, Miss Charlotte was as clumsy as can be. You’d think she’d never seen a football in her life. Let alone a goal! But after half-time she passed the ball brilliantly to Alex, who scored a goal. A stroke of luck? Not at all! Immediately afterwards, our new teacher kicked the ball straight into the back of the net. And three goals later we all realized that big old Charlotte had a terrific shot.
At 5–4 the game was tight. Shouts were ringing out from all sides. I was dripping with sweat, as were the others. Miss Charlotte’s bun was a mess, and her dress had become undone. We were too busy to notice Mr Cracpote. Mélanie nearly suffocated when she charged into his big, soft belly. I heard a cry. Everyone stopped.
Mr Cracpote was furious. He looked for our new teacher. When he spotted her, her hair a riot and the hem of her dress dangling down bizarrely, his eyes widened.
“Good day Mr Laporte! Would you care to join us?” Miss Charlotte asked him, beaming with joy.
After a huge effort, Mr Cracpote managed to force a smile. It was plain to see he didn’t know how to react.
“Oh, please! Come and join us, Mr… Laporte!” Alex begged.
It was the best way to save Miss Charlotte. Acting as if it were perfectly natural and invite Mr Cracpote to join in.
The plan worked. Mr Cracpote muttered something and then he left. I think he would have preferred to clean all the toilets in the school with a toothbrush rather than play a match with us.
On the second day, Miss Charlotte suggested a new timetable. The first hours of the day would be set aside for “compulsory stuff”: French, maths and English. Our new teacher was quite good at explaining things, and Alex stopped mucking about, because we were all keen to get to the “fun stuff”.
Miss Charlotte had reckoned that if we worked hard and did a little bit of homework every evening we could get through the “compulsory stuff” in two hours, which left us exactly three hours and fifty-eight minutes for “fun stuff”. After a few days, we had a whole raft of ideas on how to fill all that extra free time.
Guillaume did a magic show. Miss Charlotte got scared when he proposed to saw her in half and put her back together again, but he was just kidding.
Judith, who’s a bit stuck-up and dreams of becoming a TV presenter, made us taste five kinds of chocolate-chip cookies blindfolded, like they do in the ads.
Martin stole the show, though, with his grasshoppers. Everyone wanted to eat one, but there were only seven of them. Mélanie thought they tasted like soft peanut butter, and Éric like a pizza margherita. Léa said their little legs tickle your throat when you swallow them.
Manon came up with a brilliant game: setting records. Everyone has to pick something he or she is good at and then challenge the rest of the class. Yesterday Éric ate eleven biscuits in fifty-four seconds without drinking a drop of water. The day before Geneviève held her breath for one hundred and nine seconds. Simon put his leg around his neck – like a real contortionist! – and Aude blew a bubble with her gum the size of a grapefruit, ending up with her eyelashes stuck together and all.
We all wanted to know what Miss Charlotte’s speciality was. She was sure to have some extraordinary gift or mysterious powers, but no one dared to ask her. Last Thursday I couldn’t resist any more, and I asked. There was a very long silence. Then Miss Charlotte simply began to talk.
It was even more wonderful than anything we could have imagined. I’d have never believed that mere words could be so powerful.
First she told us a horror story. For a few minutes the classroom disappeared. We were transported to a dark cemetery crawling with zombies. It was a stormy night, as cold as ice. The frosted branches rattled like the bones of a skeleton. A sickening smell filled the air. Ghosts were spying on us from the shadows. All of a sudden a hideous creature leapt towards us, landing a few metres away. A voice cried out. A werewolf was devouring us with its famished eyes, its terrible fangs glistening in the deep, dark night.
No sooner had we finished the first story – the shivers still running down our spines – than Miss Charlotte took us to a dazzling desert in the East. I felt the flanks of my camel heave beneath my feet while the animal sped towards the horizon, its large hooves pounding the sand and throwing up jets of dust, which were quickly swept away by the howling wind. Long after Mis
s Charlotte had stopped talking, I could still feel the grains of sand between my fingers.
Every day from that afternoon on, Miss Charlotte made us laugh, cry, weep and travel to faraway places with her stories, wherever she got them from. When she took us to the high seas to hear singing whales up close, I told myself that I too would love to paint pictures of waves in people’s minds with nothing but words. And the morning when pirates attacked our ship, Alex told me he’d felt the cold steel of a cutlass against his cheek.
Friday afternoon that first week, Emma was late for school. Miss Charlotte was talking to her pebble while we were finishing off some sums. Emma sat down at her desk without greeting anyone. A few minutes later she burst into tears.
There are various ways of crying. The way Emma cried made it clear she was frightfully upset. Zoé, her best friend, wanted to comfort her and find out what the matter was. But Emma refused to speak.
We all thought Miss Charlotte would get involved. Our old teacher would have gently taken Emma to one side and forced her to tell everything. But Miss Charlotte calmly put her stone under her hat, sat down on her desk and asked for our attention.
This time our new teacher didn’t invent a story. She told us a little bit about herself. A long time ago – and given that Miss Charlotte is quite old, this could be five or fifty years ago – a long time ago, then, something awful had happened to her. Something really terrible. So terrible that she no longer felt like eating, running or sleeping. I think Miss Charlotte had even lost the will to live.
The worst thing was that she was alone. Without parents, neighbours or friends. She had no one to talk to, no one to comfort her. Then, one day, she picked up a pebble. She called it Gertrude and started talking to it.
Miss Charlotte said that we can invent anything. That in our heads there are millions of countries, characters and planets. It’s up to us to bring them to life. And you shouldn’t worry about what other people might think.
The New Teacher Page 1