Page 102 of A Class Act

What the hell did that mean anyway? I’d quickly scanned Sonya’s lesson plan, but it was written in such a user-unfriendly way and made little sense (to anyone, including, I suspected, Sonya herself) that I gave up on it and, instead, started a discussion on ‘Disability’, which, looking at the PSHE long-term planning, I’d spotted was on the following term’s curriculum. Tough, Sonya, I thought scathingly, when the kids, in January, all chorus, ‘We’ve already done this, miss.’

I’d started the lesson, and had reminded the kids that not all disabilities, particularly mental, are visible, when Sol Baxter, gazing out of the window, suddenly shouted, ‘Caretaker Ken is fighting with some nutter down there who’s offhisrocker, miss. Look, look!’

Twenty-four kids left their seats and rushed as one, stampeding across the floor to the classroom’s second-floor window, opening it as wide as Health and Safety allowed, to get a good look. Knowing it was pointless telling them to get back into their seats, I walked over to see what all the commotion was about – maybe I could use whatever was going on as a teaching aid.

Jobsworth Ken was losing his rag with some bloke – a drunk? A vagrant? – who’d seemingly wandered onto the school playing field and was now trying to make his way onto the paved area down below, Ken equally determined he should not. Ken had hold of the man by his arm, attempting some sort of military hold he’d obviously learned from his days in the 2nd Battalion, Yorkshire Regiment, but the intruderwas having none of it. With a couple of choice swear words that drifted up through the classroom’s open window, the man wrenched himself from Jobsworth’s grasp, smoothed himself down and stood looking up at the windows where myriad cheering kids were now applauding his bid for freedom.

At which point Mason Donoghue himself appeared on the scene accompanied by Sally, one of the school secretaries. As the bell rang out loudly for the start of lunch break, Mason looked up and, seeing me standing at the open window, shook his head slightly before shouting: ‘Ms Allen, would you join us in my office, please?’

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Racing out of the classroom, heart pounding and without dismissing the class first, I took the steps two at a time down to Reception and Mason’s office, scattering kids and staff as I went.

‘Oy, wotchitmiss, that’s me best Gucci,’ floated crossly in my wake as my shoulder separated an oversized bag full of books and papers from its owner.

‘He’s inthere, Robyn.’ Sally nodded in some excitement towards Mason’s open office door. ‘Is he really the bloke who’s defending the Soho Slasher?’ she added excitedly. ‘I saw him on TV. He’s?—’

‘Thanks, Sally.’ I cut her off and walked into the office, closing the door firmly behind me.

‘What the hell are youdoing?’ I asked, leaning against the door, my arms folded against my racing heart in a futile attempt to calm it down.

‘He wouldn’t let me see you.’ Fabian spoke calmly but his face was pale.

‘Who wouldn’t?’

‘This head teacher of yours.’

‘What do you mean?’ I stared at Fabian and then across at Mason, who was looking slightly sheepish, but came out fighting.

‘He was here last Thursday,’ Mason said indignantly. ‘Hanging around like some pathetic stalker, trying to see you.’ Mason sat back in his chair, somewhat portentously, looking down his nose at Fabian in the same way he addressed recalcitrant pupils. ‘Said he’d seen you onFocus North. I assumed he was just a random viewer at first, then I realised who he was, once he gave his name. I don’t know how he could have seen you onFocus Northwhen it’s our local TV programme and he’s living in London. Defending that bastard Henderson-Smith. Unbelievable.’ Mason was at his most righteous, lecturing the pair of us in the same tone he used at meetings when castigating the staff for the week’s misdemeanours that had come to his notice.

‘What? And you never told me?’

‘I think, Ms Allen, if you recall, you assured me there was no way you’d ever want to see this man again. I had only your interests… your mental health and well-being… at heart.’

‘My mental health? Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ I gave Mason my best withering glare. He was jealous! Despite all the conflicting emotions whizzing through my head, I could see clearly that he didn’t want me going off with anyone else.

I turned to Fabian. ‘So, what are you doing here? How can I help you?’

‘Robyn’ –he took my arm – ‘can we get out of here?’

‘She’s back teaching in’ – Mason glanced at his watch – ‘forty minutes.’

‘Robyn?’

Oh, but he was sublime. He’d lost weight, I saw, his dark hair even longer than before and his face pale, but he was stillconsummately glorious and just looking at him was enough to have my pulse racing like the winner of the 3.30 at Aintree.

‘I lost all my frees last week, Mr Donoghue,’ I said, turning to Mason. ‘I’m sure you won’t object to my taking the afternoon off to take care of my… mymental health? I’m sure you won’t mind covering the two Year 9 classes on my timetable?’

Fabian’s silver 911 was parked in the far corner of the staff car park, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the teachers’ Corsas, Minis and VWs and gathering a crowd of Year 7 petrolheads who were gazing upon it reverentially. We walked in silence towards it, the eleven-year-olds parting like the Red Sea at our approach.

‘Nice car, miss,’ Cameron Halliday called.

‘Nothing to do with me,’ I said, pulling a face but getting in nevertheless.

‘Where to?’ Fabian asked, leaning across as I fumbled with the seat belt, my fingers seemingly unable to undertake the simple task my brain was instructing them to do.

‘You appear to be takingmesomewhere,’ I snapped.

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