Page 53 of A Class Act

‘OK.’

‘And I don’t get the maths. Never have. It’s a waste of effing time.’

‘Well, unfortunately, you’ll need it. Have to say, it wasn’t my strong point either, Sorrel. Jess is pretty good at maths. Much, much better than me.’

‘She’s always far too busy to help. And she might have been good at it at school, but it didn’t get her anywhere, did it?Ended up with that pillock Dean persuading her not to go to uni, pregnant at nineteen and working in the frozen-food factory as well as at that awful care home.’

‘To be fair, Sorrel, it’s not that bad. I mean, as care homes go. Not that I’ve been in many,’ I conceded. ‘I’ve said I’ll go out to Ilkley Moor on Saturday with Jess and some woman who wants to scatter her parents’ ashes over there.’

‘Have you? Why?’ Sorrel pulled a face of utter contempt.

‘You could come with us.’ I tried to jolly her along. ‘You know, make a family outing of it? Lunch, maybe in Ilkley? I’ll treat us all.’

The look on Sorrel’s face was so incredulous I nearly laughed. Nearly. Glancing at the kitchen clock, I knew we had to get off, and any further attempts at jollity went right out of my head.

Just an hour or so until kick off.

I’d tried to suss out the drama studio the previous afternoon but, finding it locked, I’d abandoned the quest, Mason promising he’d get the caretakers to have it unlocked and ready for me in the morning.

So now here I was, in a freezing-cold room in the bowels of the Victorian building. The walls and ceiling of the cellar – for that was what it was – had been painted entirely black but with a tiered and stepped area where the kids would gather at the start of a lesson and which would be used as a stage for performing. An attempt had been made to brighten the place with posters of Oscar-winning actors as well as some large stars painted onto the walls in luminous yellow paint. The effect was spoiled by every known swear word – as well as some new to me – felt-tipped onto each phosphorescent star. The posters themselveswere graffitied with moustaches, beards and cigarettes, as well as one particular national treasure, in the role of Lady Macbeth, being treated to an erect penis directed towards her open mouth as she spouted, presumably, immortal lines of the Bard. Those would be coming down straight away, and I immediately set to, tearing at the tattered posters that were only adding to the sense of despondency in what was supposed to be an area of dramatic creativity.

‘Ah, sorry, Robyn, I was on my way to do just that.’ Mason Donoghue had appeared at my side without my realising.

‘I’m amazed you’ve allowed it,’ I said irritably, cross that he’d not got round to removing the posters himself. ‘And the graffiti – there’s stuff here I’ve never heard of, let alone considered physically possible.’

‘At least the majority’s spelled correctly.’ Mason attempted humour but, when he saw my face, backtracked. ‘I set one of the caretakers to the task during the six-week break, but he left once a vacancy came up at the Frozenfactory. Said he’d rather be freezing peas than his “bloody backside off in t’bloody cellar…”’ Mason did his best, but failed, to speak the words in a Yorkshire accent and not for the first time I wondered where in the UK he’d originated.

‘And yet you expect me to teach down here? Kids to be educated down here?’

‘You’re a professional, Robyn,’ Mason soothed. ‘I have every faith you can sort it. No one’s been down here since the end of last winter when the boiler broke. We’re up and running again now – the heat’s been on all morning, not that we can afford it – and I’ll help you get these posters down. The kids will be raring to go – they’ve not had a drama lesson for… well, for a long time.’

‘Now I know why you avoided bringing me down to the “drama department”—’ I put air quotes round the words ‘—whenyou showed me round the other day. What do the parents think? And your governing body should be sacked.’

‘The majority of St Mede’s parents have enough problems simply getting through their day without being concerned about a drama room that needs a bit of TLC.’

‘A bit of TLC?’

‘And there’s a vacancy for a teacher rep on the governing body, if you want to put yourself forward?’

Before I could give Mason the short-shrift answer his question deserved, Petra stuck her head around the door.

‘Ah, sorry, Robyn,’ she apologised in turn. ‘I had every intention of staying behind yesterday afternoon to take down those posters and tidy the place up a bit. And then, you know…’ she trailed off when she saw my face ‘…stuff happens. Listen, you’re down to cover Year 7 until break.’ She turned to Mason. ‘Sonya Harrington’s just rung in, she’s not wellagain.’ She turned back to me. ‘I’ll cover instead and leave you to sort things down here. That OK with you?’

I was about to retort that, no, it was not OK. I could be visiting Mum instead, having some physio on my knee, going back to London and begging Fabian to abandon the madness of defending Rupert Henderson-Smith. But I was a professional; we needed the money; I needed to keep an eye on Sorrel, however covert a mission that turned out to be.

I could do this.

‘That’s fine.’ I nodded towards Mason and Petra. ‘That gives me some time to get this place ready.’

It was unfortunate that my very first lesson was going to be a drama session with a Year 9 group who, according to JohnVaughn, Head of Maths – aka Sandy Head – were the ‘worst set of wankers’ at St Mede’s. Ask any high school teacher and they’ll generally tell you Year 9 kids are the most obnoxious. They’ve got through Years 7 and 8 where, as the newest and youngest kids in school, they’ve been kept in their place by the older pupils. By Year 10, GCSEs are imminent, with all the work that goes with them being piled on, and pressure’s mounting. But Year 9 is an in-between phase when, with hormones raging, voices breaking and friendships dissolving, sex is calling, school and parents are being dissed and learning and co-operating are the last things on adolescent minds. John Vaughn had gleefully warned me that St Mede’s present Year 9, despite being only two weeks into the new academic year, were particularly obstructive characters.

‘Don’t listen to him,’ Petra had advised. ‘John just doesn’t know how to handle them. Think back to whenyouwere thirteen, going on fourteen and I betyouhated the world and his wife? I know I did. And kids today have all the extra complications of social media and cyber bullying at a time when their face is full of acne, they’re frightened they’re going to start their period in the middle of a maths lesson, lads terrified their willy will never be big enough and, when you’re not hungry for your tea, your mum is convinced you’re starting with an eating disorder. Which leads you to actuallyhavingan eating disorder, especially when Gran suggests you’ve put on a bit of weight…’

I got the picture.

I found the switches for the overhead lights – four out of the ten weren’t working, and neither were the footlights at the base of the tiered steps. The studio was beginning to warm up and,with as much preparation done as possible, I changed into black tights, little black skirt and ballet shoes – I didn’t trust what was on the floor to go barefoot – in the drama teacher’s tiny room before making my way back down to the studio.

I stretched, I loosened up, I moved and, using an old chair as a barre, went through a variety of routines trying to lose myself in simply becoming at one with my body. My knee hurt like hell, but it wasn’t as bad as I’d first thought and I closed my eyes, arms raised as I swayed to the music playing in my head…

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