Page 50 of A Class Act

I knew, following my visit to Hudson House care home, I was going to have to bite the bullet and take up Mason Donoghue’s teaching job offer.

Having spent most of the day with Jess at the home, I was now utterly in awe of care workers, of their commitment, professionalism and hard work. And itwashard work for Jess: back-breaking stuff, always on call, helping, soothing, advising, sorting medication, while constantly accompanying the elderly, often incontinent, men and women both to the loo and the shower, at the same time as keeping an eye on her team of new-to-the-job care assistants. I’d shadowed Jess as she did all the usual hands-on stuff such as providing personal care, including showering, bathing and shaving the whiskery old men while persuading them to clean their teeth. Apart from the shaving, the ritual reminded me of dealing with kids. Was it any wonder that Jess was so good, not only with ten-year-old Lola, but with Sorrel as well? Although, when I was chatting to Jess as she went about these tasks, she admitted she’d come to a standstill with our little sister, intimating that Mum had ended up backin hospital because of Sorrel and she, herself, was almost at her wits’ end with her.

While carefully, almost lovingly, combing and tying back with a pink ribbon the thin hair of ninety-five-year-old Sara, Jess had turned to me, looking me determinedly in the eye, and said, ‘I need help, Robyn. Not sure I can cope with Sorrel any more. Please stay up here with us and take up Mason’s offer.’

And then she was off once more, with me trailing after her, helping Desmond with his mobility issues and Basil with his lost spectacles before setting off down to the kitchen to check on the preparation of lunches. Then, once she’d found Annie, who’d gone AWOL, she had commenced the twice-daily monitoring of the blood pressure and heart rate before making sure she was on hand to support with feeding and hydration.

Even while taking her half-hour lunch break, Jess continued working, jumping up with a smile on her face to chat to a worried family to update them on their relative’s progress. I was exhausted and all I’d done was trail after Jess, sitting, chatting and patting (as Jess called it) lonely men and women, some simply counting the days and hours until relatives were free – and willing – to visit them once more.

If they ever did.

I messaged Mason Donoghue but when after an hour there was no reply, rang him on the number he’d given me. Still no response, so I found and rang the St Mede’s reception number, which was answered immediately.

‘Could I speak to Mr Donoghue?’

‘I’m sorry, he’s not actually in today. Can I take a message?’

‘It’s Robyn Allen. Could you tell Mr Donoghue I’d like to take up both his offers?’

‘His offers?’

I hesitated. ‘Both myself and my sister, Sorrel Allen, will be in school in the morning.’

‘Oh, that’s in the diary. Mason has already confirmed you’ll both be joining us. No problem at all. See you in the morning.’

And with that she rang off, leaving me looking at my phone like the second-rate actor I now apparently was.

‘Oh, Mr Mason Donoghue! Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you, you full-of-yourself bloody headmaster?’

Ninety-eight-year-old Beryl, who’d stuck to my side most of the afternoon, cackled in delight, patting my arm in encouragement with a papery-skinned hand. ‘You tell the bastard,’ she whooped. ‘Never liked teachers or headmasters: I was slippered more times than I can remember when I were a lass…’

Wednesday morning and Sorrel and I duly presented ourselves at St Mede’s Reception, waiting a good twenty minutes until Mason Donoghue was free to see us. He immediately requested – ordered – that Sorrel accompany one of his members of staff to Lost Property where she’d be temporarily kitted out with the school blazer and tie, saying, when Sorrel started to demur: ‘My school, my rules, Sorrel. You’ll need to wear our stuff until you are able to buy the uniform yourself.’

‘I’m not a bloody charity case,’ she began.

‘And rule number one at St Mede’s is no swearing. Oh, and rule number two is no phones in class. You’ll be given a key to a locker where you can leave your personal things as well as your phone.’

‘Good luck with that.’ I smiled chummily towards this new boss of mine, but he didn’t respond.

‘Robyn, once Sorrel is settled can we have a meeting at some point?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Where I’ll get Petra to go through all the policies with you.’

‘Petra? Policies?’

‘Behaviour; Health and Safety; Safeguarding; Anti-bullying; First Aid…’ He narrowed his eyes slightly. ‘You know, the usual stuff?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘And you’ll want to see all my certification?’ I could be just as professional as Mason Donoghue if I needed to be. Although to be honest, once I’d left my last school, determined never again to darken the door of any educational establishment, I’d been about to make a bonfire of all my curriculum documents, teaching plans, files and everything else that goes hand in hand with being a teacher. But Mum, proud of my achievements, had rescued the lot from the bin, placing it neatly – reverentially – in the top two drawers of the chest in the box room. Thank goodness she had: I’d spent the previous evening going through it all, my pulse racing with anxiety at the thought of standing once again in front of a class of kids, but also reminding myself of some of the lessons that, not only had been successful, but I’d actually sometimes quite enjoyed teaching.

‘Ah, Petra?’ Mason was making his way back to his office, but turned and called over his shoulder to a pretty blonde sporting a tracksuit who’d just made her way into Reception. ‘Have you time now? This is Robyn who I was telling you about yesterday. She’s joining us on supply, covering English, dance and drama and some PSHE.’

‘Got everything you’ll need, Robyn.’ She waved a pile of stuff in my direction. ‘Do you want to come down to my office and we can crack on like a pit pony?’

‘Sorry?’ I stared at her.

‘There’s a lot to get through,’ she amended, obviously realising I had a deficient sense of humour as well as, when she caught sight of the brace on my knee, a knackered left leg.

‘I’m not sure I can do this,’ I said as I limped after this little firecracker of a woman, who was probably not much older than me, panic threatening to engulf me as I sped up in her wake. My pulse was racing and I actually felt physically sick. Sick with longing for my old life and for Fabian.

‘Tie,’ Petra barked at some little dot of a lad who obviously hadn’t yet learned how to manoeuvre the stiff fabric hanging round his neck. She bent, flinging the material deftly round itself before adjusting the knot and sending him on his way. ‘Monday’s homework?’ she demanded of a tall, neatly dressed girl with a headful of braids, but Petra accelerated, without waiting for any response or excuse on said homework. ‘Sorry, Robyn, you were saying?’ She turned to speak as we moved along corridor after gloomy corridor. ‘Your leg bothering you? ACL?’ she asked knowingly.

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