by Jilly Cooper
‘Jade’s been going through the same experience since she was twelve. She’s a slut.’
‘Dear, dear, your language! And after all Wandal’s done for you. I hope you’re making enough use of that minibus.’
Janna decided to go on the attack.
‘I’ll never improve my school until you give me more money. We must have more teachers. We must have the roof repaired: reception was flooded last week. We must have more books and more computers—’
‘Must, must, must,’ interrupted Ashton smoothly: ‘I’m amazed you can ask when you’ve just lost us nearly four hundred thousand pounds. I’d concentwate on pulling yourself together as much as possible before Ofsted next week.’
‘The new refuge for asylum-seekers hasn’t helped either,’ protested Janna, getting to her feet. ‘They’re great kids, but we’re getting six and seven a week, most of them with no English. You just settle them in and find them friends, so they don’t totally destabilize established classes, then they move on again. Many of them come from war zones and are used to carrying guns.’
‘Then they must feel thoroughly at home at Larks,’ said Crispin nastily, ‘and at least they’re easing your surplus-places situation, so don’t knock it.’
‘I bet Rod Hyde hasn’t been lumbered with them.’
‘That’s because Wod’s school is overflowing, and if you’re going to use words like “lumbered”’ – Ashton pretended to look shocked – ‘you shouldn’t be in teaching. What was Larks’s mission statement about cultivating every child’s special excellence?’
‘Oh eff off,’ screamed Janna and stormed out.
‘Good luck with Ofsted,’ a highly satisfied Ashton called after her.
69
Janna’s determination to conquer Ofsted was not helped by the panicking of her entire staff. At breaktime the day before, even an old hand like Skunk Illingworth was grumbling that he’d stayed up until four in the morning typing out the three-term development plan of the entire science department.
‘I didn’t,’ scoffed Red Robbie, who was ringing jobs in the TES. ‘All inspectors are failed teachers.’
‘Takes one to know one,’ muttered Wally who seemed to have painted the entire school, even the bird table, a brighter canary yellow.
During the same breaktime, Enid the librarian had fallen asleep on the sofa clutching a cup of coffee, which dripped on to her fawn flares. She had worked the entire weekend rolling back the date stamp, slapping it on every book in sight to indicate extensive borrowing, even bringing in her own rampageous children to rough up unread volumes. If only Paris were still here: he’d never stopped reading.
The pupils, on the other hand, were gleeful at the prospect of seeing their teachers going through the hoop, particularly silly old Basket who was one long panic attack. Dr Boon, the appropriately named local GP, was getting writer’s cramp scribbling sick notes and prescriptions for tranquillizers.
‘It may seem obvious,’ said Janna as she gave the remaining staff a last-minute briefing, ‘but I trust by now you’ve all familiarized yourselves with the files of every child in your class or tutor group. Please emphasize our positive use of the whiteboard and IT, even if most of our computers need updating. Show the inspectors the children’s best work. Tell them the good things about our school. Dress attractively but conservatively – no minis or cleavages.’ She looked pointedly at Gloria. ‘Be friendly; they’re not ogres.’
By which time most of the staff had gone into Red Robbie mode, folding their arms and gazing truculently up at the tobacco-stained staffroom ceiling.
‘And when you go to the toilet’ – Janna addressed their thrust-out chins – ‘for God’s sake check, before slagging anyone off, that an inspector isn’t lurking in the next-door booth. Finally, the inspectors will be based in the interview room, so if any of the more volatile parents roll up, head them off and ask them to come back later.’ Janna forced a smile. ‘Frankly you’re a terrific bunch so just be yourselves and good luck to you all.’
As well as pupils, teachers and parents, the inspectors would be interviewing the governors, who were sharpening their claws, particularly after Janna had ticked them off at the last meeting for caballing behind her back.
‘And please don’t badmouth the school,’ she had added, ‘when we’re trying so hard to save it.’
‘Could have fooled me,’ muttered Stormin’ Norman, who was marshalling disaffected parents to put in the boot.
‘We just hope you’ll keep your students under control,’ had been Russell’s last word. ‘It’s we who have to carry the can.’
At least Janna’s friends hadn’t let her down. Mags Gablecross and Year Nine had produced a marvellous Spanish display of sombreros, tambourines and brave bulls tossing terrified matadors.
Cambola was magicking celestial sounds out of the choir and an orchestra which she’d started. ‘“If the trumpet gives an uncertain sound”,’ she exhorted them, ‘“how shall he prepare himself to the battle?”
‘Every child matters. Our ethos is to cultivate each child’s special excellence and bolster their self-esteem so they confront the future with confidence,’ intoned Lydia, Lance and Gloria. ‘Every child matters, our ethos is to . . .’
‘Please let me not let Larks down,’ prayed pretty, very plump Sophy Belvedon, Patience and Ian’s daughter, who had taken Vicky’s place as head of English and drama and who had proved a huge success.
Mike Pitts, meanwhile, was overdosing on Gold Spot, scurf drifting on his shiny blazered shoulders. Skunk Illingworth ponged so dreadfully, Janna engaged in stench warfare and placed on his desk a deodorant, which he merely returned to her desk.
‘This must be yours, headmistress.’
I’m a head’s mistress, thought Janna wearily, or would be if I ever got a chance to see him.
Determined not to look like a school-marm, she had invested in a lovely ivy-green suit and a pretty frilled shirt in wild rose pink, which she had laid out with new tights last thing, before falling to her knees: ‘Oh dear God, look after my school tomorrow.’
After a restless night, she arrived at Larks at half past seven. Partner, sporting a crimson bow, his red winter coat thickening, bounced ahead, happy to find Debbie, whom he loved and who meant titbits, had already put on a slow cooking goat curry, and was now in reception watering a jungle of potted plants forming the background of the Save the Tiger project. In and out of them drifted gaudy parrots, howler monkeys, sly snakes and splendid amber-eyed tigers. Graffi, who had drawn and cut them out of cardboard for Year Seven to colour, was touching up the tigers’ stripes with black gloss.
‘That looks grand,’ sighed Janna. ‘Bless you, Graffi.’
To add authenticity to the tiger display, the schizoid central heating had opted for tropical. Graffi had already removed his crimson sweatshirt. Noticing a big purple bruise on his arm, Janna hoped his father wasn’t drinking again.
Reception had also been brightened by flags representing the nationalities of every child in the school. Two more had been added after yet another influx of asylum-seekers on Friday.
Beside the main desk like a welcome committee was a second display entitled ‘Movers and Shakers’, which included life-size cut-outs of Kennedy, Martin Luther King and Margaret Thatcher.
‘Here’s hassle,’ hissed Graffi as Chally bustled in, her dark brown suit topped with a yellow autumn-leaf-patterned scarf, which Janna found herself sycophantically admiring.
‘Yes, everyone likes it,’ replied Chally smugly. Having sniffed Debbie’s goat curry approvingly – ‘a caring gesture to our Afro-Caribbean brethren’ – she predictably bristled at ‘Movers and Shakers’.
‘Black women are deplorably under-represented.’
‘Not any more they ain’t,’ grinned Graffi, splashing black gloss over the faces of Margaret Thatcher, Germaine Greer and Florence Nightingale. ‘Florence was a lesbian as well, which makes her even more PC. Silly old bitch getting her effnics in a twist,’ h
e murmured as an apoplectic Chally was fortunately distracted by one of Johnnie Fowler’s BNP posters and made a fearful fuss about breaking a nail when she ripped it off the wall.
The young teachers, Lance, Lydia and Sophy Belvedon, yawned as they straightened displays, checked spelling, jazzed up lesson plans and prayed the children would be in a good mood.
‘It all looks lovely,’ repeated Janna.
In her office the sun had shrugged off its polar-bear coat of dirty white cloud and was shining on the new yellow paint. She was touched to receive good-luck cards from all the Bagley children who’d been on the geography field trip except Paris, and from Sally Brett-Taylor, but worried that the central heating was growing increasingly tropical. She longed to take off her jacket but before the inspector arrived at nine she had to take assembly.
‘“Every little thing gonna be all right”,’ sang Bob Marley over the public-address system.
‘We won’t bother with a hymn or a talk today,’ she told the packed hall, ‘but I’d just like you all to put your hands together, shut your eyes and ask God to look after our school.
‘On the other hand,’ she continued thirty seconds later, ‘God will need your help. The inspectors will be with us for several days, so please be nice to them. Try not to shove or shout, or swear, or drop litter, or your gum.’ Glancing around at their anxious faces: ‘And try to look happy.’
‘How can I look happy when I’m trying to remember all these fings,’ grumbled Rocky.
‘Above all,’ urged Janna, ‘be yourselves.’
On cue she received a text from Hengist: ‘Above all, don’t be yourself,’ she read, ‘or you’ll duff up any inspector who criticizes your beloved children. Good luck. When am I going to see you? H’.
Laughing, Janna looked up at the children and said, ‘As you file out, I’d like all teachers to double-check the appearance of their classes. Do up your shirt buttons, Kitten, and pull down your skirt. Tuck in your shirt, Johnnie; pull up your socks, Martin. Have you all brushed your hair and cleaned your nails? Miss Basket isn’t in? OK, I’ll check Nine A.’
She was just working her way down the row of black, yellow, brown, pink and freckled hands, all with commendably clean nails, when she felt Partner’s tail bashing her legs, heard whoops of laughter and found herself examining a huge hand, whitened by scars from rugby studs, and with big square nails and fingers.
Looking up, she found Emlyn grinning down at her.
‘Oh Emlyn, you are daft.’
‘’Lo, Mr Davies, ’lo Mr Davies.’ The children swarmed joyfully around him. ‘When are we going to Bagley again?’
‘When you learn to behave.’ Emlyn produced a big bunch of reddy-brown chrysanthemums from behind his back, ‘For your office, lovely, and to match your hair. And these are for your inspectors.’ From his pockets he produced packets of herbal, peppermint and fruit tea and a jar of decaffeinated coffee. ‘If you don’t have any, they’re sure to want it.’
‘You are so dear,’ gasped Janna.
‘And you look so pretty in your green suit, just smile and wow them. I must go.’ As he kissed Janna on the cheek, all the children whooped again.
‘Now, you be particularly good, Miss Curtis has worked her heart out for you lot.’
He was so reassuring and made everything seem so normal, Janna longed for him to stay.
‘You’re blushing, miss,’ accused Pearl.
‘It’s the central heating,’ said Janna hastily. ‘Now hurry back to your classrooms, they’ll be here in a minute.’
Dear Emlyn, thought Janna, then groaned as her head of PE approached in patent-leather thigh boots, leather shorts and a see-through black shirt.
‘You told me to cover up,’ protested Gloria. ‘That Emlyn’s right hunky, isn’t he?’
Gloria, it seemed, had, out of nerves, gone out clubbing, and hadn’t had time to go home and change.
‘Well, for God’s sake,’ said an exasperated Janna, ‘nip down to New Look and get a less transparent top.’
‘It’s nearly nine,’ warned Rowan. ‘You’re a disgrace, Gloria.’
‘You’d better take my shirt,’ snarled Janna, dragging Gloria into her office. ‘I’ll just have to keep my jacket on.’
‘I’m ever so sorry. Such a pretty blouse, are you sure?’
‘No, I’m bloody not. Put it on.’
In fact Janna’s wild rose pink shirt straining over Gloria’s thrusting thirty-eight-inch boobs looked even more flagrantly provocative than the see-through black.
Bugger, thought Janna buttoning her wool suit, the temperature was rising by the second.
As Wally gave her brown boots a last polish, there was an enraged banging on the door and Chally barged in.
‘Oh, there you are, Wally. Everyone is so stressed, the women’s toilet smells like a sewage farm. Can you please put more air freshener in there?’
‘And in Skunk Illingworth’s classroom,’ snapped Janna.
‘And I don’t know’ – Chally’s lips tightened – ‘who put all those Penhaligon’s toiletries in there, the inspector will think we’re rolling in money.’
‘I did.’ Janna was fed up with Chally. ‘They were a present. Do you want me to put up a sign saying “Gifted Toiletries”?’
‘They’re here, they’re here.’
Rowan rushed in removing her suit jacket to show off a charming cream linen shirt, straightening Janna’s papers, shoving her buckling in-tray under the sofa, then, like a teenager’s mum before a dance, straightening Partner’s bow tie, before he rushed off sending cardboard, black-faced Margaret Thatcher flying in his haste to welcome the visitors.
As Bob Marley was replaced by Schubert’s Marche Militaire, such a brisk jaunty tune, Janna found herself marching down the corridor. In reception, the inspector was crouched down admiring the largest of Graffi’s tigers.
‘This is a very fine beast,’ he said. Rising to his feet, he took Janna’s trembling hand. ‘Wade Hargreaves, and, from your photographs, you must be Janna Curtis.’
Janna had expected an ogre but the man smiling down at her was tall, slim, in his late thirties and with the genial friendliness of a yellow Labrador.
‘Welcome to Larks,’ said Janna in relief.
‘Oh Christ,’ muttered Mike Pitts, going green and reversing into his office, ‘it’s Wade Hargreaves. I sacked him when I was head of maths at Rutminster Comp.’
Wade Hargreaves was accompanied by, amongst others, a spinster called Miss Spicer, who had one of Chalford’s draped scarves, short spiky hair, a lantern jaw, disapproving coffee-bean brown eyes and who, having demanded a cup of peppermint tea, seemed disappointed when it was provided. Well done, Emlyn.
From then onwards Janna felt the sharp constant pain of a steel toothcomb being plunged into the scalp and tugged through tangled hair as Wade Hargreaves’s team went everywhere, talked to everyone and asked for every lesson plan, file and balance sheet to be taken into the interview room. Brandishing clipboards they moved around devouring timetables, schemes of work, attendance figures, the first tentative coursework of Year Ten, and listening to Sam Spink in her Hogwarts’ character socks, her massive thighs spilling over her chair like suet as she charted the inadequacies of Larks’s workload agreement.
Mike Pitts, unable to face Wade Hargreaves, disappeared home with stress. By contrast Mags Gablecross was everywhere, guiding, supporting, comforting staff who felt they had cocked up.
‘I could have done it so much better,’ sobbed Lydia. ‘I made a tape about Simon Armitage to nudge my memory but Johnnie Fowler got hold of it and played it back to the class and Miss Spicer.’
‘I got Ten C too revved up about Billy the Kid,’ said Lance dolefully. ‘One of the asylum-seekers pulled out a gun and Miss Spicer said I must remember that the Indians not the cowboys were the heroes.’
But there were good moments.
‘Until Miss came, I had no grown-ups to talk to,’ Pearl told Wade Hargreaves. ‘No one respected me. Now
school remembers my birthday, I get a card and a Mars bar and a song in assembly. She’s going to help me take a make-up course.’
‘Miss is there for the mums,’ said Kylie. ‘She helps them fill in forms for the social and the courts. She listens when their partners leave them or they can’t pay their rent. She filled in my brovver’s driving licence for him, and she remembered Cameron’s birfday. Lots of teachers don’t know all our names. Miss even knows all our babies’ names.’
‘We get letters to take home in Urdu,’ said Aysha, ‘so Mum and Dad can understand what’s going on. Mum came to parents’ day for the first time; there was cake and orange juice and she talked to other mums.’
70
Assembly the following morning was a great success. Kylie Rose lifted the hair on the back of everyone’s neck singing ‘It’s a Wonderful World’. Aysha in her headscarf read from the Koran, Graffi from the New Testament – ‘Judge not that ye be not judged’ – which made Wade and even Miss Spicer smile. Danijela, one of the new asylum-seekers, read a Bosnian prayer, then the choir sang ‘How Lovely are Thy Dwellings’ so beautifully as the morning sun streamed through the stained-glass St Michael that even Miss Spicer wiped away a tear and Wade grinned across at Janna.
He was a terrific listener, as still as a wildlife cameraman who knows the only way to score is to move quietly. He and Miss Spicer were unfazed when Graffi’s father, who’d been in the pub all day, dropped into the interview room for a quiet kip before going home. Or when Pearl’s boxer father, just out of gaol, rolled up to get even with one of the pushers outside the school gates and try and catch a glimpse of his wife and her toyboy friend.