Something Old, Something New

I run my hand down to my belly and feel its slightly squidgy flesh. Anabelle is four now and I haven’t exactly done what I could have to improve my body, but who has time for all that unless they’re a celeb? I’d love to be able to fit in more time for me but I can’t see how I can do it. There’s always so much else to do.

‘Mumma?’

I jump and look at the bunched up quilt next to me. I dig through the mound to find little Anabelle smiling up at me.

‘Morning Mumma.’

Her cute blonde head tugs at my heartstrings. My baby.

My poor baby… from a broken home.

‘Hey sweetie… when did you come in?’

‘In the dark. I was scared.’

‘Oh angel, there’s nothing to be scared of.’ I tell the age-old lie. There’s everything to be scared of in this life. Everything. Getting older, getting cancer, losing the person you love, getting divorced, losing your job, having no security…

I lean forwards and kiss her forehead. She smells vanilla sweet as always. She still has that baby aroma of custard and almonds. It probably has something to do with the fact that I still use baby shampoo on her but then it’s not worth using anything else because if it gets in her eyes… well, let’s just say that I don’t want passers-by calling the police again because they thought that we were all being murdered. That was an evening I never want to repeat. And that handsome young policeman turned up and caught me in my threadbare pyjamas with greasy hair and not a scrap of make-up. Just typical.

But this morning, underneath Anabelle’s sweetness, is a metallic tang that catches in my throat and stings my eyes. It’s not unlike ammonia.

I sit up and push my hair behind my ears; I mean business.

‘Anabelle… do you have something you want to tell me?’

‘No, Mumma.’ Oh that face and that cute little voice. Those big blue eyes so innocent and adoring. I would do anything for this child.

‘Are you sure, Anabelle?’

‘Mother!’ The scream shatters the silence of the morning like a china teacup hitting a tiled kitchen floor. No, make that ten china teacups. The dogs start to bark downstairs. I hear feet pounding across the landing and Janis appears in my doorway, holding her bedsheet aloft.

I look at my daughters. Thirteen years between them. One dark, the other fair. The older one clad in her fleecy pyjamas, the younger one dressed as a fairy princess. (Anabelle often swaps her wet pyjamas for costumes – she’d dress as a fairy or a princess every day if I let her.) Both beautiful, both highly intelligent. Both manipulative; competitive; mutually adoring; keepers of my heart. Behind Janis, Henry appears in a superhero onesie with the top pulled down so that the sleeves hang down around his waist. No doubt he’ll have been too hot during the night; he’s constantly like a little furnace. He rubs his eyes. ‘What’s going on?’

I shrug, accepting that another Monday morning of mayhem has begun. No chance of another ten minutes under the duvet now. ‘It appears that Anabelle has performed a nightly bed hop… again,’ I tell my son.

Anabelle crawls onto my lap, the comfort of her petite warmth marred by the nostril-stinging pungency of urine. I resist the urge to cover my nose and instead sniff her hair.

Henry sighs like an old man then heads for the bathroom, while Janis throws her sheet onto my bedroom floor, harrumphs, and stomps away. I hold my baby to my chest and sigh. Anabelle is having some trouble with staying dry at night. I, obviously, blame myself. My youngest also likes to cuddle all of her family in turn during the small hours. Since I got Henry a cabin bed, he’s been relatively safe, but Janis and I are often targeted. Trouble is, Anabelle invariably has an accident then moves on to the next dry bed. Last night, she must have wet her own then moved into Janis’ before a repeat performance, then finally ended up in mine. I took Anabelle out of those pyjama pants you can get—kind of a nappy for bedwetters that’s meant to seem like underwear—because I thought she might be relying on them, which in turn wouldn’t help her to stay dry. Anabelle does have a plastic mattress protector on her bed, but it’s not exactly fair to ask Janis to have one too. I just keep hoping that Anabelle will grow out of this and that it’s a phase all children go through, but I’m sure that my other two didn’t take this long. Yet as I keep telling myself; they’re all different.

The joys of motherhood…

But as Anabelle wraps her arms around my neck and plants a big kiss on my chin, I just don’t care. Sheets will wash. Beds will dry. The mattresses will just be a bit smelly until I attack them with a freshening spray.

And that will have to wait until this evening, because right now, hugs with my own little princess are more important.

Chapter Three (#ulink_34e40271-7b44-53c9-a137-303479916ab6)

A Lesson Learned

I shiver as I enter the chilly staffroom. It’s always dark and dank following the holidays, especially the Christmas break. The caretaker will only have turned the ancient heating back on this morning – about two hours before staff started arriving. I swear it takes a whole month to warm the school up and by the time the temperature’s just right, half-term rolls around again.

I check my pigeonhole and flick through the same old junk mail as always. Courses, form group attendance tracking sheets, meeting agendas from as far back as 2010 and a nice big sticky cobweb. I am flicking my hand back and fore, trying to dislodge the cobweb, when a warm hand lands on my shoulder.

‘Hello, sweetheart. How was your Christmas?’

I turn to face Laura, my port in the storm known as work, and throw myself into her arms. We rarely get together outside of school because neither of us has time but in work we’re as thick as thieves.

‘So good to see you! I relaxed… a bit,’ I say as I breathe in her distinctive and expensive perfume and admire her golden skin and glamorous highlighted hair. ‘But you look fabulous! How was your holiday?’

She waves a hand dramatically, ‘Oh you know darling. Hot and sultry, just how I like my men.’

We giggle like schoolgirls even though I’m almost forty and she’s in her mid-fifties. It’s also funny because Laura is happily married to Dean, and has been for the past ten years, so he’s the only man she has eyes for. They live comfortably, as she teaches and he has a successful career with a retail chain, and they’re devoted to each other.

‘Great to be back, eh?’ She gestures at the staffroom and I wrinkle my nose. It’s never great to be back, especially in January, but at least I get to catch up with her.

We make coffees and find seats then exchange the usual pleasantries with other teachers and support staff. I like seeing how much healthier teachers are following a break but I also know you can guarantee that within two weeks, maximum, the rosy cheeks will have been replaced with pale gaunt ones and the sparkly eyes will be dull and dark-shadowed. It’s one of the saddest things about this profession. These apparently normal people can be reduced to ghoul-like creatures within just fourteen days because of the workload, the pressure to get that all-important C grade out of every pupil, and the daily grind of the job. No wonder recent trade union surveys claim that many teachers are thinking of leaving the job within the next few years.

Just then, a loud throat clearing interrupts the murmur of sixty voices. All eyes turn to the towering form of our leader and we wait in silent, if slightly resentful, anticipation. I make an effort to unclench my teeth. It is too early in the term to be so tense.

‘Good morning everyone!’ she announces as she eyeballs us, checking that we are suitably attired, suitably awake and suitably humble. ‘Welcome back.’

There are a few hesitant replies, so she tries again. ‘I said… Good morning, everyone!’ She flashes large, white teeth in an attempt at a smile and I know that if I was standing, I would have to fight the urge to take a step backwards. Grudgingly, like grumpy teenagers, we reply with forced gusto. ‘I hope that you all enjoyed Christmas and that you are ready to commence the spring term refreshed and raring to go.’ She grins again at the staff, daring anyone to show an ounce of dissension. We plaster on fake smiles and I even find myself nodding. I hate this side of me. I’m not a sycophant but I just want to stay below the radar. I have no desire to invite more scrutiny into my life, thank you very much, so going with the flow is much easier than trying to fight it. I guess I’ve always tried to stay below the radar, although not always successfully. After losing my father, I became an instant target for the school bullies and it took a lot of effort to keep my head down and my mouth shut. There were a few occasions when I almost lashed out and attacked my tormentors, but the thought of what my mother was going through always helped me to keep myself in check. The bullies soon tired of trying to get a rise out of me and found another more volatile target for their cruelty. I used to wonder if my dad was actually there somewhere, looking down at me, feeling guilty about what he’d done and about the after-effects of his actions. Would he have worried about what I’d have to go through, would it have changed what he did? I shake my head to dispel the unsettling thoughts.

The head teacher seems placated and she launches into a monologue about termly plans, meetings, book scrutinies, lesson observations and pupil trails. It’s the same old story that every new term brings and I try to quell the fear that rises in my throat and threatens to choke me, or even worse, to draw attention to me by forcing me to projectile vomit across the staffroom. I can just picture the effect that would have on morning briefing; it would probably make the newsletter. English teacher Annie Thomas fired for defying the head! Because I do not doubt that this head teacher would see it as an act of defiance rather than as a bodily function that occurred as a result of work-related stress.

I have to make an effort to stay upright in my seat as I listen to it all. I am so tired of the doubt, exhausted by the scrutiny of books, of lessons, of planning, and of me. I came into this job fifteen years ago and in that time it has changed so dramatically that I barely even recognise it any more. It was meant to be a stable job that I could fit around my child, then my children, one that would provide a good income and a pension whilst being sufficiently stimulating to maintain my enthusiasm.

It has not been that for some years.

The English syllabus, my own subject, changes almost annually as different levels of the educational hierarchy decide that specifications need tweaking and pupils need more – or less – challenge, but the end result is always the same. Teachers are to blame for our illiterate young. Teachers are to blame for our ill-mannered young. And teachers are to blame for… well… just about everything that can’t be blamed on doctors, nurses and the police. Perhaps the most bewildering thought is that I’m supposed to work until I’m sixty-eight if I want to get my full pension. I mean, that’s almost another thirty years! I’m burning out now and wonder how I’ll ever make it that far.

As the head rounds up her speech, Laura gently pats my hand, dragging me back from my thoughts. ‘Ready?’

I nod reluctantly. But as I am about to rise from my chair, the head teacher holds up a hand. ‘And finally… I would like to welcome two new members of staff who are joining us today. The first is Melody Cromwell. She is our new second in Mathematics. And the second is Phillip Brown, who is here to cover Miss Hillman’s long-term sick leave.’ She grimaces at the word sick and my stomach clenches. This senior manager, just three years older than me, who spent a mere six years in the classroom before beginning her ascent to the leadership team, loathes sickness. I fear for poor Miss Hillman, I really do, should she ever return.

The new teachers, fresh meat for the predatory system, smile around at everyone with the confidence of the young and reckless. They do not yet know the truth about this world of red and green pens, this autocracy of deadlines, sleepless nights, irritable bowels and stomach ulcers. This is a world where frailty will lead to your destruction. The worst movie villain has nothing on our senior leadership team, where the trade union has been crushed and no one dares try to revive it.

But the new teachers will know the truth… very soon…

As I drain my coffee and place the mug next to the sink, the music from a well-known TV show plays through my head, and I almost laugh – almost – as I make my way to registration, imagining a giant finger jabbing at the newly qualified teachers. You’re hired… or… you’re fired…

I wonder which is worse.

****

The week passes in the usual blur of trying to pack too much in to too short a time and before I know it, Friday is upon me and I am teaching the last lesson. In spite of the exhaustion, I am always filled with jubilance during this lesson because it is the end of the week and the chance to breathe and relax, if just for a few hours, is in sight. This is week one of the timetable, so I have Year Ten, Set Three – persuasive writing. I have more chance of teaching Dragon how to bark I will survive in Spanish than I do of educating these teenagers about forms of writing, but I will try regardless.

‘So…’ I eye the young people – our future, our pride and our joy – as they sit facing me. Which is a good start. At least they’re actually sitting down and looking my way. I wonder if some of them are conserving energy before their Friday night drinking binge at the local park. I’m not being cynical, they openly brag about their plans to seek inebriation on Friday evenings—and sometimes during the week. One of the girls blows a pink bubble that pops and sticks to her lips and chin. I look away as she half-heartedly picks at the tacky mess, knowing that reprimanding her for chewing will only result in a debate I cannot win. ‘What makes a good piece of persuasive writing?’