by Hannah Tovey
I felt Mr Reid watching me. I put the papers down.
‘We were very impressed with your interview,’ he said. ‘You were a different person to the one I saw in your work experience week.’
‘I’d like to take this opportunity to formally apologise for the kissing.’
‘Don’t worry. I had stomach flu in my interview; I was so disorientated that, when I got into the room, I walked right into a cupboard. Seconds later, I threw up and had to be escorted out.’
‘Wow, that’s quite the first impression.’
‘It says a lot about you that you came back here to interview.’
‘That I love a challenge?’
‘It means you took a leap of faith. It means you believed you could do something, and you did everything you could to make it happen.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘I saw something in you, Ivy, but you needed a push. You let the little things get to you; you let the children’s moods get to you. It’s important to pick your battles, see the bigger picture.’
‘I’m going to work my socks off for you.’
‘We’re going to have a cracking year together.’
I smiled. ‘You say cracking too?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think it’s a Welsh thing?’
‘It is, yes.’
He put his hand out again to shake mine. ‘We’re excited to have you with us, Ivy.’
‘Me too, Mr Reid.’
‘Please, call me Finn when the children aren’t around.’
‘OK, Finn.’
‘Today’s a lot of admin, I’m afraid. But you can familiarise yourself with the space, take a look at the expressive arts corner, see if it’s up to scratch.’
‘Great. Is there a fridge I can put this in? I baked a Victoria sponge for everyone.’
‘Is it gluten-free?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely not.’
‘It’s my fault, I should’ve told you,’ he said. He walked to the door and peered down the corridor, then came back inside and spoke in a whisper.
‘One of the teachers – and I won’t name names – is allergic to gluten. It’s caused quite the furore in the staff room. She said people were deliberately leaving her out of the bake sales, but the truth is that nobody can master a gluten-free cake.’
I sympathised. I had tried for Mia and failed. Also, being gluten-free isn’t a real thing.
‘There was a disagreement about whether she was in fact allergic, or mildly intolerant,’ he said. ‘Because the two are very different, Ivy. White pasta doesn’t agree with me, but you don’t see me going around telling everyone that I’m allergic, do you?’
‘No?’
‘We’ve agreed that we should make all cakes gluten-free. I can’t say I was on board with this decision. But this is a democracy.’
‘I can try and make one for next time?’
‘I’m sure everyone would be thrilled. There, first challenge of the day done!’
I spent the next hour organising the stationery, games and materials into various tubs, boxes and folders. Mr Reid gave me very specific instructions, and I could feel him watching my every move. I made sure the books in the literacy corner were organised in height order, just as he requested, which I thought was a pointless exercise, but I wasn’t there to comment on his neurotic compulsions.
‘The methodology helps to centre me,’ he said. ‘Are you an organised person, Ivy? Or do you enjoy mess?’
‘I enjoy organised mess.’
He laughed. ‘So you enjoy mess.’
‘I am here to learn.’
‘On a serious note, whenever you feel overwhelmed, or uncertain, please come to me. You can ask for my help anytime – it’s what I’m here for.’
I was admiring the various colours in his beard – ginger, white, grey and black – when suddenly, and completely involuntarily, I found myself imagining him naked. I shook my head to try to get the thought out of my mind and put my attention back on the phonics sheets I’d been sorting through.
‘It’s important to keep things in perspective and learn to breathe,’ he said. ‘You’ll be navigating a colossal amount of change this year. Things will go wrong. You must ask for help.’
‘I will, I promise.’
‘Have you eaten?’
‘Not since five this morning.’
‘No wonder your stomach’s making such a racket. Why don’t we take your cake to the staff room, and I can introduce you to everyone?’
After shaking several hands and failing to remember anyone’s name, Mr Reid and I took a slice of cake and a cup of tea and went to sit out in the sunshine.
‘Have you ever had a really challenging class?’ I asked him, as we looked out to the playground.
‘Yes, several. It’s down to communication, Ivy. We’ve got to remember that they’re only just learning how to communicate verbally. We’ve got to be clear, simple and direct.’
‘I’m quite direct with my mother, so hopefully that’ll put me in good stead.’
‘We’ve got to learn to move at their pace, which is much slower than ours. Even learning to exhale around them is good practice.’
‘That’s great advice, thank you.’
‘It’s mostly the parents that you need to worry about. And the death of your social life.’
‘I was getting bored of mine anyway.’
Mr Reid told me the lay of the land, as I sat beside him, eating my substandard cake.
For every hour-long lesson, I will spend three to four hours planning.
I will be stressed, emotional and I’ll never be able to catch up with the lost sleep.
Lots will go wrong.
Some of the children will drain the very life out of me.
It will be the most rewarding thing I’ll ever do.
‘Oh, and you need to get used to National Curriculum as your bedtime reading.’
‘I started reading it over summer. It’s denser than the Bible.’
‘Your university tutor will be a great support. All the ones I’ve met have been excellent. Strict, but excellent. Their goal this year is the same as mine: to develop your practice.’
‘Got it.’
‘So many people describe this first year as a juggling act of three hats: teacher, student and teaching assistant. You must keep on top of things from the start. Getting into a routine early will make it feel far less stressful later in the game.’
I ate the rest of my cake in silence, as I contemplated the immense amount of work ahead of me.
‘Let’s try to be as open and transparent with each other as we can,’ he said.
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘We’ll get on like a house on fire. I’m sure of it.’
‘Me too. Thank you.’
‘Stop saying thank you, Ivy.’
We spent the next hour walking the length and breadth of the school, with me typing non-stop on my phone, trying to take note of everything.
At 2 p.m., he said we could call it a day. ‘You need to preserve some energy for tomorrow.’
‘I’d like to come in as early as possible, if that’s OK?’
‘How does seven thirty sound? That should give us plenty of time to get our heads together before the chaos commences.’
‘That sounds great, thank you.’
‘Well done for today. I know it’s a lot to take in.’
‘Thank you for talking me through everything, Mr Reid. It’s been great. Thank you.’
He laughed. ‘Mr Reid it is then.’
‘Sorry, I’ll get the hang of this at some point.’
‘I think we’re going to make a great team, Ivy.’
‘Me too.’
We shook hands and I walked back down the hall, saying goodbye to Mary on my way out.
‘How was it?’ she asked.
‘I loved every minute.’
15
After barely getting through ten pages of The Evolution of the English Education System, I closed the
book and decided to make a gluten-free cake.
Three disappointing trial rounds later, and several hours wasted on baking sites clearly composed by three-year-olds, I gave in to a dry, dense, carrot cake. By the time I got to bed, it was after one, and I had stomach cramp from eating all the excess cream-cheese icing. I went into a deep slumber until about 5 a.m., when I woke mid-nightmare, having dreamt that I’d poisoned my entire class and was on trial for manslaughter. It was exactly how I’d hoped to start my official first day on the job.
I left the house just after six and rang Mam on the walk to school. She wouldn’t usually be up at that time, but Olga, her cleaner/assistant/life coach, was coming over to look at mood boards for the spare room, which was, finally, to become my official bedroom.
‘How’s my precious baby lamb feeling?’ she asked.
‘Good, tired. I stayed up late baking. I’m trying to win this teacher over. She’s intolerant—’
‘Darling, you don’t want to befriend racists.’
‘She’s gluten-free.’
‘Maybe you should go GF, I heard it helps you lose weight.’
I was so used to comments like these that they barely even registered with me any more.
‘I remember my first day of work,’ she said. ‘I told myself, I said Mags, you go in there and you show them who’s boss. So, I put on some rouge and your grandmother’s perfume, and off I went. And you know what? I bloody showed them.’
‘What job was this?’
‘At the post office, when I was sixteen. I was up against it all back then, Ivy. The pressure, the workload – God, those were the days.’
‘I thought you only worked a couple of hours on a Saturday?’
‘I had to be confident, command respect.’
‘When are you ever lacking in confidence?’
‘I taught myself to be resilient. It’ll be the exact same with you now, and your teaching. Oh, before I forget! I’ve been looking at your grandfather’s notebook and I’ve learnt what teacher is! It’s athrawes. Isn’t that great?’
‘I’m sure that’ll come in handy during this morning’s carpet discussion.’
‘Do you remember Linda’s friend, Carys? She had a mental breakdown and fled to India for six months?’
‘Isn’t she in an institution?’
‘She’s out now. Anyway, we had an S and M about the importance of authenticity last night, and it made me think of you.’
‘Do you mean D and M? As in deep and meaningful?’
‘Ah, yes. That makes more sense.’
‘Where are you going with this?’
‘It’s important to go in there today and be you. The real you. Not the you you think you should be. Be our Ivy Edwards. The one everyone loves.’
‘Thanks, Mam. I’ll do my best.’
‘How’s the sweating?’
‘Better.’
‘Trust you to time your period to your first week at work.’
‘How did I time it?’
‘And you’ve got your new satchel? I can’t believe Mia and Dan trumped my gift.’
‘You didn’t get me a gift.’
‘Well, exactly.’
‘I’ve got to go; can I ring you later?’
‘Not until after lunch. Olga and I need complete quiet so that our creativity can thrive.’
‘I can’t ring before lunch anyway, I’ll be in class.’
‘But you can send a little text, can’t you? Tell me you’re OK, that people are being nice to you.’
‘We can’t use our phones in class.’
‘That’s absurd. How are people supposed to check in with their mothers?’
‘Mam, I’m hanging up now. Speak to you later.’
‘Pob lwc, Ivy!’
I put my phone away and decided to keep it off for the whole day.
Mary was standing by the entrance of the school, staring out into the playground, holding a mug that read, ‘I love gardening from my head tomatoes’ across it.
‘Good morning, Ivy! You’re nice and early.’
‘I couldn’t sleep. I dreamt that I killed all the children.’
‘Was it poisoning?’
‘Sort of. It was a very slow, dramatic death.’
‘We’ve all been there.’
As I walked past her, she patted me on the shoulder and reminded me to breathe. It would be the first of many times that day.
I walked to my classroom, where Mr Reid was waiting for me. He handed me a tote bag with ‘Be extraordinary’ written across it. There was a reusable coffee cup and a hefty jar of jam inside.
‘A little welcome to the school.’
‘This is so kind,’ I said, reading the label on the jam jar: Mel’s Marvellous Marmalade.
‘My wife Mel made the jam. That’s not false advertising – it genuinely is marvellous.’
‘Oh – I made a cake. It’s gluten-free, and rather bland. Maybe the jam would help?’
‘That’s an interesting combination, but let’s go for it. See, I told you we’d make a good team.’
We sat down and took one last look over the day’s lesson plan. At some point I was going to have to teach my own lesson, but, for now, I was to shadow Mr Reid and soak up as much as I could. After introductions, we were going to do literacy, then have an assembly, followed by a break, then expressive arts, then lunch, and maths in the afternoon. This was far more stimulating than my own experience at school – all we ever did was sit in a circle and drink milk.
‘This is it,’ he said. ‘This year will be the blueprint for their whole adult life.’
I felt a little faint all of a sudden.
‘Right then, shall we meet our new friends?’
I repeated, ‘You are a warrior, you can do this,’ in my head as we walked to the playground.
At 8.35 a.m., the little people descended upon us. There were apprehensive parents, consoling their children as they refused to let go of their hands; fake smiles and nervous laughs; children high with excitement and parents overcome with emotion. New parents tried to find allies whilst old acquaintances hugged and air-kissed, content in the knowledge that their first day was a distant memory. There was so much anticipation and expectation, it reminded me of the drama and apprehension of my first day at university. Though, instead of sexually ambiguous teenagers, there were hordes of snotty children with watery eyes and tiny, whimpering mouths.
Mr Reid and I greeted various parents as they lined up with their children, ready to be taken into class. I recognised Nancy right away. Her ringlets were tied up in a pigtail and her yellow raincoat was hanging out of her backpack, which was almost causing her to topple over. I approached her and her mother and said hello.
‘I remember you from the museum,’ I said. ‘You came in for storytime.’
Nancy ran between her mother’s legs to shield her face.
‘Isn’t it nice that the lady remembered you, Nancy?’ her mother said.
I crouched down so that I was at Nancy’s level.
‘You came in with your grandfather and we read The Snail and the Whale. You told me it was your second favourite book.’
‘Grandad stayed with us this summer,’ Nancy said.
‘That must have been lots of fun,’ I said.
‘Mummy told Daddy that four weeks was too long for him to stay—’
‘Nancy, don’t be silly, I said nothing of the sort,’ her mother said.
She picked Nancy up and kissed her. Nancy put her head to her mother’s shoulder and refused to look at me.
‘My name is Miss Edwards; I’ll be assisting in Mr Reid’s class this year.’
‘Nancy! Isn’t this exciting. This young woman is going to be in your classroom.’
Nancy lifted her head up and stared at me.
‘Do you like cats?’ she asked.
‘I do like cats and I remember you telling me that you did too.’
‘Ginger cats?’
‘Yes, especially ginger cats.’
�
�I like ginger cats the best because they have the same hair colour as me.’
‘How very observational of you, Nancy.’
Nancy smiled, and my shoulders relaxed. I had built this day up for so long and catastrophised every single situation, but there I was, winning pupils over with a shared affiliation for felines. The truth is, I’ve never liked cats; they’re bossy and demanding, and I don’t need that sort of negative energy in my life – I get enough of that from my mother.
After some more introductions and very tearful goodbyes, we followed Mr Reid into the classroom. Hakim screamed so much that his perfectly spherical face went flaming red. Amit banged his head on the floor and begged us to let him go home and Mabel refused to let go of my hand. It was 9.05 a.m.
After everyone calmed down, we finally got stuck into carpet time, where we talked about their summer holidays. Lots of children talked about their pets, their siblings, or their new toys. Then there was Kitty, who let us know that Mummy peed herself yesterday when they were shopping in Waitrose with her newborn sister.
I later told Anna this, and she said she probably had postpartum urinary incontinence. I was learning so much, not all of it useful.
‘We’re going to have fun with the Highgate set,’ Mr Reid said, in a very rare moment of peace.
‘Highgate?’
‘Primrose, Ophelia, Kitty, Tarquin, Horatio and Leopold. These aren’t your average working-class kids from Barking, are they?’
I looked out to the class. There were children whose parents were first-generation immigrants, children who lived with their grandparents, children who spent summers abroad and children who had never left London. It was a marvellous melting pot with one thing in common: Disney.
Just before lunch, we asked the children to draw a self-portrait. I went over to help Jamar, who was sitting in the corner of the room, tearing up pieces of A4 paper, which wasn’t quite the objective of the exercise.
‘How are things going, Jamar?’
‘I want to play football. Can you play with me at lunch?’
‘Of course I can. But, I must warn you, I’m not very good, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s OK, Miss. I can show you my football sticker book one time?’
‘I’d love that.’
‘Do you know Harry Kane?’
‘No. Who is he?’
He looked at me like I was a complete idiot.