by Ali McNamara
It’s my turn to grab Ellie’s arm now. ‘Thanks for your concern, everyone,’ I announce to the few people who have gathered on the zebra crossing. ‘But I’m fine, really. Please continue with whatever you were doing.’ Then I drag Ellie on to the pavement.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I ask. ‘Kissing a roll of paper? Have you flipped?’
She looks at me with a puzzled expression. ‘Are you having me on? We’ve been waiting weeks to get these posters; the last thing we wanted was for you to flatten them. Much as I’d like to see Robbie doubled, a crease down the centre of his face splitting him in two would not look good on my wall.’
I watch her put them carefully back in the Woolworths carrier bag. Ellie doesn’t look much like a teenage girl to me, the type I’d expect to be screaming at concerts and kissing posters of pop stars on her bedroom wall. She looks older than that, maybe in her late twenties, early thirties? She still has the same long blonde hair she’s always had, but this time it’s not curly, it’s just really… big. It’s like she’s gone a bit mad with the mousse, and blow-dried her hair upside down until it’s as full as she can possibly make it.
I glance at myself in the reflection of the nearest shop window.
I’m hardly what you’d call a teenybopper, either. I’m a similar age to Ellie, maybe a year or two older, and in addition to my Take That hoody, I’m wearing plain black trousers and sensible flat black court shoes. I pull open my hoody at the neck and take a peek inside, nearly blinding myself at the neon that glares back up at me from a pink, blue and yellow checked black shirt.
‘What are you doing?’ Ellie asks. ‘Have you got something stuck down there after your fall?’
‘Only a bad taste in fashion,’ I moan.
‘Bloody hell, is that the time,’ Ellie says as she glances at her watch. ‘We need to get back to school, afternoon lessons will be starting in a minute and we’re gonna be late.’
I’m torn by my ever-present urge to speak to George as soon as I arrive in a new decade, and by my loathing of being late for whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing right now. I take a quick look to make sure Groovy Records is still further along the street, and then at Ellie already speeding up the King’s Road.
I choose to follow Ellie.
She’s usually the link that helps me discover just what type of life I’m living in each new year I find myself in. Without her I haven’t a clue. I’ll just have to pop back later and catch up with George after I’ve discovered what I’m in for this time.
As we run together along the road and then duck down a couple of side streets – a short cut, Ellie insists – I wonder if I’ve got this all wrong. Maybe we’re younger than we look? Maybe it was the fashion of the nineties to dress older? I’ve quickly worked out that’s where I must be this time – from the fashion and Ellie’s obsession with Take That. Plus it would make sense; each time when I jumped through time so far I’ve moved on a decade, so it ought to be. But what doesn’t make sense is this age thing; if we’re on our way back to school, carrying Take That posters and wearing Take That merchandise, we must be teenagers, surely? But then why aren’t we wearing school uniform? Perhaps we’re sixth formers – yes, that must be it.
‘Afternoon, Miss Williams,’ a caretaker wearing a brown overall says as we dash through the school gate. ‘Cutting it a bit fine, aren’t you? The bell went five minutes ago.’
‘Thank you, John,’ Ellie calls, pulling her sweatshirt over her head as we dash across the playground, ‘we’re quite aware of that!’
‘Proverb 19:2,’ John calls as we dash past him. ‘“It is not good to have zeal without knowledge, nor to be hasty and miss the way”.’ He gives me a meaningful look as I pass. ‘It’s good to see you again, Miss McKenzie.’
‘Yes,’ I smile. ‘It’s good to be back. I think.’
‘Quick!’ Ellie hisses as she holds open a door. ‘Let’s get away before he quotes the whole Bible to us. Plus we need to get to the staffroom and get changed as fast as we can – I’m supposed to be in a bloody Year 2 assembly now.’
‘We’re teachers?’ I gasp as I follow her down a hall with a notice that clearly states ‘No running’ even though we are.
‘I know,’ she giggles. ‘Doesn’t set a very good example, does it?’ She holds open another door and I find myself inside a teachers’ staffroom. It’s clear that’s what it is by the copious amount of empty mugs and open packets of biscuits that are scattered in amongst the armchairs and copies of the Guardian and Cosmopolitan magazine. ‘What a start to the second day of a new school year!’
Ellie runs over to some lockers, twists hers open, and pulls out a bright green and pink tracksuit top to match the jogging bottoms she’s already wearing. Then, while I watch, she pulls it on, zips it up and slings a whistle round her neck. ‘You’re lucky,’ she says, ‘at least you only have to change your sweater. Why did I ever agree to teach PE this term?’
You’re wearing a shell suit, Ellie! I think as I pull my hoody over my head and hang it in the locker next to hers, which luckily for me has my name on the front. You’re actually wearing a shell suit! I try and keep a straight face while I smooth down my neon shirt, which I guess isn’t that much better, turn around, and follow her as we dash out of the staffroom again.
‘Catch you later,’ Ellie says as we pass a classroom door and she rushes ahead. ‘Lucky for you, your new lot don’t look like they’re causing too much aggro in there.’
I turn and look through the glass panel of the wooden door. Inside there’s a classroom filled with children of about seven or eight years old sitting at and on tables. I turn back to say something to Ellie, but she’s gone hurtling off in the direction of the assembly hall.
‘Right then,’ I say quietly to myself. ‘How scary can a class of kids be?’
I take a deep breath and push open the door. And wish I had Ellie’s whistle to try and restore some calm, as the wave of noise that hits me upon entering the room almost bowls me over.
‘Hey!’ I call into the sea of voices. ‘Hey, can you all be quiet for a moment?’
It’s like throwing a pebble out into the Atlantic.
So I try again. ‘Quiet, you guys, please!’
Nothing.
I walk to the front of the classroom, picking up a metal waste paper bin as I do. Then I empty out the contents on top of my desk, turn it upside down, and bang hard on top of it, like a drum.
If David Beckham had walked into the room, he wouldn’t have got a more stunned reaction than the one on the faces in front of me now. I think for a moment: is David Beckham famous yet? I’m guessing he might just have been playing for Manchester United, so he might have had less impact. I smile at the thought of a non-famous Becks.
‘What’s so funny, miss?’ a small girl with blonde pigtails asks.
‘Nothing. I’m just pleased I’ve got your attention, that’s all. Now,’ I say, walking round to the front of the desk. ‘When I call for quiet in here again, I shall expect quiet, understood?’
There are murmurings of agreement from a few of the children.
‘I said, is that understood?’
‘Yes, miss!’ The majority now speak up.
‘Now, I’d like a volunteer to come and clear the rubbish from my desk.’ I look sternly across the room as everyone tries not to catch my eye.
A young boy with brown curly hair pushes back his chair. ‘I’ll do it,’ he says, standing up.
‘Thank you,’ I say, and as he passes me I see his name is scribbled on a sticker on his sweatshirt. ‘That’s good of you to volunteer, Paul.’
‘Now,’ I announce, as Paul begins sweeping screwed up bits of paper and pencil shavings back into the metal bin, ‘who can tell me what we were doing in the last lesson?’
I’m quite surprising myself at how easily I’m slipping into this new teacher role. As I look around the classroom now, the children actually seem to be listening to me.
‘Them awful things with li
nes in the middle,’ a little girl on the back table speaks up. I squint to see her name tag – thank goodness it’s the beginning of term and they’re wearing them, otherwise I’d have no chance.
‘Can you be more specific, Beatrice?’ I ask.
‘The ones with numbers on the top and the bottom.’
‘Do you mean fractions?’
‘Yeah, them things.’
Wow, I’m teaching them maths – my specialist subject. This is great!
‘Except you was talking about percentages as well,’ another boy – Lee – now helps out. ‘And then you said we’d talk about probably this time.’
‘I said we’d talk about probably?’
‘Yeah. That’s right.’
My desk has now been cleared and Paul goes back to his seat. ‘You said probability, not probably!’ he mutters as he passes.
‘Probability! That makes more sense! ’ I ease myself on to the edge of my desk. ‘Now, who can tell me something about probability?’
They all gaze back blankly at me.
‘Let me think of an example then.’ I rack my brain for something I think they’ll understand. ‘Imagine you have a shopping bag and in it there are three bananas and nothing else. The probability of reaching into the bag and pulling out a banana is one; that’s certain because there is nothing else in the bag. But the probability of reaching into the bag and pulling out an apple is zero; it’s impossible, because there are no apples in there. Does that help?’
They still stare up at me blankly. This teaching lark might be harder than I first thought.
‘Does anyone have a coin?’ I try.
They all shake their heads, so I feel around in the pocket of my trousers. I pull out a collection of coins, and in the middle of them is the four-leaf-clover brooch that Rocky gave me. So you’ve come with me this time, have you? I think, strangely unfazed this time, as I pop it safely back in my pocket, just like the Beano and the football boots before it.
‘Now,’ I say, turning my attention back to the class, ‘can anyone toss a coin?’
Three hands are raised. ‘Jason, would you like to come up and toss a coin for us, please?’
Jason comes up to the front of the classroom and spins a ten-pence piece high in the air, then catches it deftly on the back of his hand.
‘Heads or tails, miss?’ he asks.
‘I’ll go heads,’ I choose. ‘But just wait a minute before you take a look at the coin. Now, what are the chances of it being a head?’
A few hands are raised.
‘Mary?’
‘Half and half, miss.’
‘Yes, but what’s half and half expressed as a fraction?’
‘A half, miss,’ she answers without thinking.
‘Good, now what’s a half expressed as a percentage?’
Mary thinks about this one. ‘Fifty per cent?’
‘Yes, that’s right. So if the chances of me getting a head are half or 50 per cent, what is the probability?’
Mary pulls a face.
‘Yes, Stella?’ I respond to the raised hand.
‘One in two, miss.’
‘That’s right, Stella, well done. So 50 per cent, a half and one in two are all ways of describing the probability of a coin toss. What was it, out of interest, Jason?’
‘A head, miss,’ Jason says, lifting his hand to reveal the coin. ‘Good call.’ He begins to walk back to his seat.
‘Jason, haven’t you forgotten something?’ I ask, holding out my hand.
‘Sorry, miss,’ he says, backing down the classroom and returning the ten pence to me.
‘See, the probability of me not noticing that was zero,’ I joke, smiling at him. ‘Now, do we have any dice in here? We’ll do some work with those next.’
I enjoy the rest of the lesson, and the children seem to catch on really quickly once I find ways of teaching the subject that make sense to them.
When the bell goes for break I’m quite surprised to find the time has gone so quickly.
‘Class, gather up your things,’ I call, ‘and proceed in an orderly fashion outside. Remember, no running in the corridor!’
I breathe a sigh of relief as they all file out of the classroom, chattering and giggling together in anticipation of a few minutes’ playtime outside in the fresh air.
‘Excuse me, miss, can I just ask you a quick question?’ It’s Paul, the boy who helped clear my desk of rubbish.
‘Yes, of course, Paul, what is it? Is there something you didn’t understand in the lesson?’
‘No I understood everything you said perfectly. What I was wondering is, what you thought the probability of time travel would be?’
‘H – how do you mean, Paul?’ I manage to reply, a little thrown by his question.
‘I mean, how likely do you think it would be to take place? It’s something I’m really interested in.’
‘I see,’ I say, playing for time. Is this kid for real? But as his innocent blue eyes stare up questioningly at me, I have to assume so. ‘I don’t really know the answer to that, I’m afraid. In maths we deal in facts and figures. I think time travel would be for a different subject altogether.’
‘Which one would that be, then?’ he asks, still looking up at me enquiringly, ‘History or science maybe?’
‘Science, perhaps?’ I suggest, not really knowing how to answer him.
‘Excellent,’ he says eagerly, ‘because you’re teaching us that as well. I’ll look forward to that lesson!’
And with that he runs off through the classroom door out into the corridor.
And all I can think to say to his departing figure is:
‘Don’t run!’
Thirty-Five
I flop into one of the comfy armchairs in the staffroom.
‘Cup of coffee, Jo-Jo?’ one of the other teachers asks. ‘I’m just making one.’
‘Yes, please,’ I reply to a woman wearing a large floppy scarf that holds back her curly brown hair. ‘That would be great, thanks.’ Instant coffee hasn’t killed me so far in the last three decades, so I’m sure I can cope with it again now.
The staffroom door opens again, and another teacher, carrying a huge pile of exercise books, backs through it. The pile begins to wobble, so I jump up to help him.
‘Harry!’ I exclaim, as he turns around and our eyes meet over the top of the books. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘No,’ Harry says, putting the books down on a table and straightening them up, ‘the job didn’t work out so I’m back for another term.’
‘Ah… I’m sorry.’
I try not to stare at him too much as he goes over to the drinks area and makes himself a cup of coffee. Unlike the Harry from the eighties who was sharply dressed in suits, shirts and ties, this Harry is wearing baggy brown corduroy trousers, a checked shirt – and is that actually a tank top?
My coffee is passed to me and I thank my fellow teacher. Taking a quick sip, I realise it’s actually not that bad. I really must stop whining about my lack of expensive caffeine-based beverages – anyone would think I was addicted!
Harry comes back over to the seating area and sits down in one of the armchairs. He reaches into his pocket and puts on a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. Gosh, now I really have seen it all – Harry as an office boy, Harry as a teen punk, Harry as a yuppie businessman and now this, Harry as a geeky teacher.
He picks up a Guardian and begins to read it, and I see the last part of the date on the front page – September 1994.
‘So what happened with the other job?’ I venture, hoping to find out a bit more about this version of him.
He lowers the paper. ‘It didn’t work out. Not my cup of tea.’ He lifts his cup. ‘Or coffee, in this case.’
I smile politely. ‘Why?’ I ask, as he’s just about to lift the paper again.
A flicker of irritation crosses his face. ‘Apparently I’m not the right type.’
‘The right type of teacher?’
Harry bl
inks at me a couple of times. ‘No, the right type of person.’
‘To?’
He sighs now. ‘To manage a tour.’
‘A tour?’
‘What is this, Jo-Jo, twenty questions? Yes, apparently I’m not the right material to manage a rock band’s tour around the UK.’
Even I could have told him that, dressed the way he is.
I take another sip of my coffee. ‘Is that what you’d really like to do instead of teach? Manage bands, or rather their tours?’
Harry looks around the staffroom. ‘Got to be better than this. Teaching music in a grotty London school to a bunch of kids.’
I watch him while he tries to read his paper again. This Harry, he’s different to the others. He seems jaded with his life while the other versions of him, whatever their persona, always had a certain vitality about them.
‘Perhaps you’re good at teaching?’ I suggest, trying to be positive.
Harry lowers the paper again. ‘Maybe I am, but it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t rather be somewhere else, doing something else now does it?’
‘No, I guess not.’ I can relate to that feeling.
The bell rings to signal the end of break.
‘And there’s my five minutes up. Great!’ he says, tossing his paper back down on the table.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you with all my questions.’
Harry smiles now for the first time.
‘No, I should apologise to you, I’m in a foul mood today, I’m not the best company.’ He leans in towards me as we both stand up. ‘Just between the two of us, my wife was quite pleased I didn’t get the job. She thought it was a stupid idea from the start. And if I’m honest, I only really wanted the job so I could get away from her for a bit.’
My eyes shoot immediately to Harry’s left hand, and there it is, as clear as day, a thin gold wedding band.
‘That’s not good,’ I say, tearing my eyes away from his hand. ‘I mean her not being keen, not you wanting to get away.’ What am I supposed to say?
‘No,’ Harry pulls off his glasses and eyes me a tad suspiciously. ‘I guess not.’