School Run

by Sophie King

  He glanced round the staffroom, his forehead creased with anxiety. He looked a wreck, thought Kitty, and it wasn’t surprising. Until today’s staff meeting (postponed from yesterday), she hadn’t known how many problems the school had and she wondered if the parents were aware of the situation. Bernard had informed them that a group of sixteen-year-olds had been caught smoking cannabis in the playground. They had received a warning but if it happened again they would be suspended. In the meantime no one was to mention this to anyone outside the staffroom in case the school’s already doubtful reputation was damaged.

  Kitty put up her hand. ‘Yes?’ said Bernard. She could see he was struggling to remember her name even though she had been there for nearly a year. Staff didn’t last long at St Theresa’s, which was why Bernard was currently ‘acting’ head. The actual head was recovering from a nervous breakdown, reputed to have been caused by pressure of paperwork and pupil behaviour.

  ‘I just wondered,’ said Kitty, nervously, feeling the eyes of all her colleagues on her, ‘why St Theresa’s doesn’t have a policy of excluding pupils immediately when they’ve taken drugs.’

  There was a murmur, with some people nodding and others shaking their heads. ‘Since you are relatively new, Miss Hayling, you may not know that this is an issue we have discussed several times. However, the governors feel that in a mixed area such as this, children should be given a second chance to mend their ways. Any more questions?’

  Kitty would have liked to ask if this was a matter they should keep from the Ofsted inspector on Thursday but suspected it was. Like most of the other teachers, she couldn’t help feeling apprehensive about the visit.

  ‘Well done,’ said Susy Hughes, as they made their way out of the staffroom to their respective classrooms. ‘I’ve been fighting for instant expulsion for ages. I’ve got three girls of my own and there’s zero tolerance in our house.’

  Kitty liked Susy Hughes, who seemed to embody everything she had hoped to be: a good teacher with a balanced family life.

  ‘How did your date go last night?’

  Kitty had forgotten she had told Susy – and she wouldn’t have if Susy hadn’t seen her changing in the ladies’ after school before she had received the call from Mark saying it was off.

  ‘He blew me out,’ she said airily. ‘Made up some excuse about a meeting.’

  Susy’s eyes looked sympathetic. ‘He might have had a meeting.’

  ‘Somehow I don’t think so. Anyway, I’m not bothered. He wasn’t my type.’

  ‘Why don’t you go on one of these dating evenings that are advertised everywhere?’ said Susy, as they walked down the corridor.

  ‘I’m not that desperate.’

  ‘I don’t mean speed-dating. I’m talking about those upmarket dinner parties for professionals. I think Vivienne Price – you know her, she teaches IT – is going to one tomorrow. I heard her talking about it. Do you want me to ask her?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Kitty hastily. ‘I’ve got loads of marking to do and, really, I don’t want to meet a stranger.’

  ‘All men are strangers until you get to know them. Sometimes they become strangers after you marry them.’

  Kitty looked at her carefully. ‘Really?’

  ‘Not that you need to worry about that at the moment. But give the idea some thought – occasionally we all need a helping hand.’

  ‘I will,’ promised Kitty. ‘Thanks.’ She popped into the loo to get away.

  Why, she thought, as she rinsed her hands in the basin (no soap again) couldn’t she find anyone nice? She looked at herself in the mirror. A reasonably pretty – if ordinary – girl stared back, with shoulder-length curly hair, a splash of freckles, and brown eyes. She smiled. That was better. She looked more approachable now.

  Mandy’s call yesterday had reminded her of how far adrift her life plan had gone. When they’d been at school, she and Mandy had had their lives mapped out. Mandy was going to be a scientist and Kitty was going to teach before they had families. They were going to have done both before they were thirty so they would have plenty of time after the children had left home to do other things like exploring the Himalayas.

  Mandy had stuck to her life plan although she’d had Tom a week before her thirtieth birthday, which was later than she’d hoped. As for Kitty, she’d managed the teaching bit but there was no prospect of a boyfriend, let alone a husband, she thought. She’d been out with a few boys at university but had failed to find anyone who matched up to Alex. Although she wouldn’t admit it to Mandy, that was one reason why she had taken the plunge and moved to London this year. It would surely, she reasoned, broaden her scope for a social life. But, so far, it had been a dismal failure. She hardly knew any of her neighbours in the block where she rented her flat, and if she’d hoped for a social life via St Theresa’s she was disappointed.

  ‘There might still be Mark,’ she told herself. He had sounded genuinely regretful about cancelling their date. She’d met him last week at a party held by a university friend. He was a financial adviser, which hadn’t struck a chord, but perhaps Mandy was right about her being too picky. If he rang again.

  As for their ‘bet’, it was ridiculous. A serious boyfriend in a week indeed! How crazy was that?

  Kitty glanced at her watch. She’d better hurry or she’d be late for her next lesson.

  ‘Bruce, I told you before. I don’t want you sitting by the window. Come here. That’s right. The front row.’ Kitty waited while Bruce stood up sulkily and carried his books to the table she had indicated. ‘Now you can get on with the essay that everyone else is writing.’

  ‘What’s the title again, Miss? I’ve forgotten it.’

  Kitty took a deep breath. In the short time she’d known Bruce, she’d discovered that she got further with him if he was on her side. ‘It’s on the board, Bruce – “What I’m Looking Forward to This Week”. I’ve given you all some ideas. Maybe it’s somewhere you’re going at the weekend, or perhaps it’s a favourite television programme. I don’t care what it is, as long as you’re interested in it.’

  Bruce fixed her with the glazed look he frequently adopted. ‘You don’t mind what I write about?’

  Kitty felt a qualm. ‘As long as it isn’t rude.’

  The rest of the class tittered and Bruce went pink. Instantly Kitty realised she’d said the wrong thing and made him feel uncomfortable. ‘Just write something you feel passionate about, Bruce,’ she said gently. ‘I’m sure it will be great. You’re good at writing stories.’

  ‘I am?’ He went pink again.

  ‘Well, what I’ve seen of your work has been good.’

  It wasn’t strictly true, thought Kitty, as she watched Bruce bent over his work, his pen flying across the page, but the flattery seemed to have worked. In fact, the whole class appeared engrossed. Maybe she’d hit lucky. Kitty smiled to herself. That was the joy of teaching. When it went right, there was nothing better than seeing a child’s face light up with the knowledge that he or she had done something well.

  She was still glowing after lunch when she bumped into Vivienne in the staffroom. ‘Susy says you’re interested in coming to the dinner event tomorrow night.’

  Kitty did a double-take. ‘That’s not what I said.’

  ‘Oh.’ Vivienne’s face fell and she poured herself an anaemic cup of tea. ‘What a shame. I was dreading going on my own, and when Susy mentioned it I felt so much better at the thought of someone coming with me. It’s not one of those awful dating agencies, you know. It’s Meet a Professional. You pay thirty pounds and you sit at a different table for each course and talk to as many people as you like. There’s no obligation but you never know – you might just meet someone nice . . .’ Her voice tailed off.

  ‘What is it about this week?’ asked Kitty. ‘Everyone seems to want to pair me off.’

  ‘Don’t you want that?’

  Kitty wanted to say that she definitely didn’t want to end up like Vivienne, who was on the wrong side o
f thirty-eight, hadn’t heard of electrolysis and hadn’t found a passion apart from IT. But instead she heard herself say, ‘OK, then. What time does it start?’

  ‘Eight o’clock. Thanks, Kitty. It’s really nice of you. It could be fun.’

  13

  MARTINE

  ‘And now for a lighter piece of news. Today is National Impotence Day and we’ve got Dr Michael Shaw with the latest advances.’

  Dear Diary,

  It is good not to do the school run today. It permits me time to do the ironing and vacuum and make the beds and clean the windows as Sally instructs me. I can also listen to the radio to improve my English.

  Martine scratched her head and frowned as she put down her pen. She switched on the iron.

  ‘Impotence is a malaise of the modern world and a consequence of the stress we live in.’

  Malaise? That she could understand, but it didn’t explain what ‘impotence’ was. Where was her dictionary? She usually left it here by the phone. Maybe it was in the car.

  She put the door on the latch and went outside. She would be glad when the bigger car came back from its service. The smaller one that Sally and Simon had found for her wasn’t big enough for all the children with their things and they got so squashed. Martine opened the door and shook her head at the sight of all the rubbish and school books she should have reminded them to take in. Everything was here, apart from her dictionary.

  ‘Oy, love. I need to get in.’

  She looked up at the huge lorry on the other side of the gates. Sally and Simon had said something about plants being delivered for the sunhouse next to the pool. The driver grinned down at her and Martine, glad to see a pleasant face for a change, smiled back. ‘Please wait. I let you in.’ She ran to the security panel just inside the front door and punched in the numbers. Slowly the gates swung open and the lorry drove across the gravel. Only then did Martine see what was lying in front of it.

  ‘Stop, wait!’ She ran in front of the lorry, waving her hand.

  ‘Look out, love,’ roared the driver.

  There was a hollow crunch.

  ‘Oh, no,’ whispered Martine, and fell to her knees.

  The lorry driver had leapt out and was running towards her. ‘What’s up?’

  Martine surveyed the fragments of wood and leather ruefully. ‘The violin,’ she said mournfully. ‘It is departed.’

  ‘Bloody hell, you had me worried there for a minute,’ said the driver.

  Martine scratched her head. ‘You have a dictionary, yes?’

  He looked at her strangely. ‘Not on me.’

  ‘Then, please, do you know the meaning of this word. Now, what was it again? “Impotence.” What does it mean?’

  The man eyed her doubtfully. Tiny beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. A real man, thought Martine. ‘You having me on, love?’

  And then they heard it. A loud, high-pitched noise that set the dogs off and hurt her ears. A window opened above them and Martine looked up.

  ‘For pity’s sake, do something,’ yelled a familiar voice. ‘Can’t you hear the smoke alarm?’

  ‘Sheet,’ said Martine, going pale. ‘The iron. I have failed to turn it off.’

  The lorry driver was still gawping. ‘Is that who I think it is?’ he asked, and ran after Martine into the kitchen. Clouds of black smoke were coming from the iron. Hastily, she threw the extinguisher blanket over it, like last time. There was a smell of burning but no flames, thank God.

  Suddenly she was conscious of the driver behind her, not quite touching her but nearer than the situation demanded.

  ‘Bloody hell, you were lucky, girl. By the way, that woman upstairs – isn’t she on the telly?’

  Martine nodded, trying not to scratch her head in front of this nice man, who seemed so interested in her. But the more she thought about not scratching, the more she needed to.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned. Any road, where do you want these plants?’

  ‘I show you. This way, please.’ She smiled over her shoulder.

  ‘Your name, what is it?’

  ‘Barry, love. Like it says on the front of my lorry.’

  She looked across the drive and saw ‘BARRY’ in big letters stuck to the windscreen.

  ‘That is good, yes,’ she said. ‘Me, I write things down too so I don’t forget them.’

  ‘Well, remember my name, won’t you, love?’

  Martine led the way, sensing that his eyes were focused on her neat rear, which she swung provocatively as she walked, just as her mother had taught her. It was a good feeling, she told herself. She might already have a man but it was nice to be admired. Besides, Barry might be able to explain what this ‘impotence’ was. Maybe she could put it in her essay to impress her tutor.

  ‘Something wrong with your head, love?’

  Martine flushed. ‘I am apologising.’

  Barry grinned. ‘No need to do that. Couldn’t help noticing you’ve been scratching away since I got here. Got a dose of headlice, have you?’

  Martine frowned. ‘Dose?’

  ‘It’s not the dose that’s the problem – it’s the lice. Little creatures. In your hair. My sister’s kids have them all the time. You get them when you’re near kids.’

  Martine could feel her fingers creeping closer to her head. She had no idea what Barry was talking about but he had mentioned hair and the word was enough to make her head feel on fire again. ‘Your sister? She has a baby?’

  ‘Only if you count her old man! Nah, her kids are six, eight and ten-going-on-sixteen. Blimey, you have got it bad, haven’t you, love?’ Barry was looking at her kindly and she felt warm inside. ‘Go and see the chemist, love. Tell them you’ve got an itch.’

  Itch! She could understand that. Chemist, too. Martine did not trust English pharmacists but maybe it was better than going to the doctor. The last time she had gone for her pill prescription, the doctor had not been sympathique about her history.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Any time,’ said Barry. ‘Now, where’s this pool, then?’

  It took her all morning to sort out Barry and the pool. The poor man was so thirsty and he enjoyed talking as well. It was so nice to chat to someone who was genuinely interested in what she had to say about her work and her employers.

  By the time she had finished and Barry had gone, promising to return tomorrow with the second load, it was almost time to collect the children. Where had the day gone? Martine stubbed out one of Simon’s cigarettes and tried to think. First, before she picked up Josh and Alice, she had to go to the supermarket. It was not her job to do the shopping but Sally had been most insistent.

  So, too, was Simon – but, so far, she had managed to hold him off. She had her principles, after all.

  She did not like English shops, thought Martine, pushing the trolley through the swing door. There was not enough choice and the assistants were too proud.

  ‘Excuse me, madam, would you like to try this?’

  Martine smiled at the man in the crisp white coat who was offering her a small glass. How nice! Perhaps she had been too hard on British shopkeepers. She had not realised they gave out free drinks.

  ‘You don’t like it, madam?’ asked the man.

  Martine struggled to be polite. ‘It is very sec and in France this drink she has more body.’

  ‘Perhaps you would like to try this one, then.’

  Martine knocked it back, as her mother had taught her. ‘Very good. I prefer this.’

  Feeling much happier, she tried to follow Sally’s complicated shopping list and slipped some chocolate cake into the trolley for Barry tomorrow. It was hard to pack it all into the boot so a lot had to go on the back seat.

  ‘You’re late,’ said Josh, accusingly, when she got to school.

  ‘I had to go shopping.’

  Alice tried to get in. ‘There isn’t room. Where are we going to sit?’

  ‘Where you like.’

  ‘You s-s-smell funny.’
/>   ‘Don’t be rude, Josh.’

  ‘You do. You smell like Daddy does sometimes. Have you been drinking?’

  ‘Alice, you are a rude girl. Get in now. I am going to drive. If you do not get in, we will be late for television. And then you will not see your parents.’

  Martine smiled at herself in the rear-view mirror. She glanced at the children, who were dwarfed by tins, bottles and packets. It had been a nicer afternoon than she had anticipated. Maybe she should go shopping more often.

  Even better, when they had returned and she had unpacked all the shopping, made the beds (no time earlier) and run the vacuum cleaner round the house, she discovered a letter addressed to her that Sally must have slipped under her door. Martine frowned. She had checked the post that morning and there had been nothing. The envelope was loosely sealed – had Sally opened it?

  She locked her door and lay on the bed. Maman’s familiar writing immediately wafted her away from this horrible place to the old shuttered house in Vérazy, where her mother had also been brought up and her mother’s mother.

  My precious daughter,

  I hope you are well and that your employers are not giving you so much work now. The children sound horrible but I have heard that the English abuse their children with artificial drinks and television. They have only themselves to blame.

  I have some good news for you. Madame Devally has moved back to Paris so she cannot cause any more trouble for you. There is still no news of Monsieur although it is rumoured he is still in Calais. People are not talking so much now and those who are say Madame Devally deserved it because she was not a good wife to her husband. Since you left, they are more sympathetic to you and say you were just a young girl.

  Do not feel too sad, Martine. There will be other babies. You did what was right, I am sure of that.

  Your affectionate Maman.

  Martine tore the letter into tiny pieces. She would have liked to keep it but she did not dare: those awful children might find it. Her eyes filled with tears as she flushed the bits down the lavatory. She had not wanted an abortion but her mother had persuaded her it was the only thing to do and, besides, Monsieur Devally had not wanted to know. But that did not stop her thinking of the baby, who would have been nearly a year old now.