Page 54 of A Class Act

‘Fuckin’ hell, where does Old Hopalong think she is?’

I came back to the present, opening my eyes and turning to see a gaggle of sniggering kids, their noses pressed to the glass window of the door, elbowing each other out of the way to get a better view of this daft bint. I walked over to the door, opened it and was nearly flattened as kids and huge bags threatened to have me arse over tit.

Start as you mean to go on, Robyn, I warned myself, pulse racing.

‘OK, this is a drama studio.’

‘It’s an effing cold cellar, miss.’

‘And you will all go out, line up and come back in – without your bags – and sit down on the steps and await my instructions.’

No one moved.

‘Now,’ I said calmly.

No one moved.

‘Now,’ I yelled, all the anger and frustration of the past few days pouring out of me like venom.

‘No need to shout, miss.’ A small under-developed white whippety kid, obviously a ringleader, turned to the others. ‘Right, she wants us on the steps.’ He proceeded to jump into the lap of a well-built black girl, pulling another whippety kid onto his own knee, and the others soon got the message, pilingonto each other until there were four Leaning Towers of Pisa, each pillar in competition to see which could attain the greatest height without falling over.

Which each tower eventually did, spewing its giggling or expletive-bawling teenaged contents onto the dusty steps, and the floor below.

‘That were right good, miss, shall we do it again?’

‘Fuck off, you’ve broken me bloody neck.’

Oh, the shame of having to bring in the behaviour support staff in the very first five minutes of my first lesson. No one could hear me down here; no one could come down and rescue me. What was that immortal tagline fromAlien? ‘In space no one can hear you scream…’

I felt my pulse race and wanted to get out of there but, looking on the positive side – if I could manage to salvageanyiota of positivity – no one, apart from the twenty little sods in my care, knew what an utter dog’s dinner I was making of trying to teach drama. Taking a deep breath, I tried once more.

‘OK, you lot, the joke’s over.’ I managed to make myself heard over the chattering and giggling.

But it obviously wasn’t. Little Whippety Ringleader was off, racing round the room like a whirling dervish, his bag spinning over his head in the manner of a helicopter blade.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ one of the girls eventually said in disgust. ‘He’s like an effing five-year-old. Grow up, you pillock.’

‘He’s on something… again,’ her mate said, retrieving a copy ofGraziafrom her bag, and the pair of them settled down to peruse the contents together.

Fight or flight?

I fled.

Up the three wooden steps to the teacher’s tiny room, grabbed my phone and immediately rang Jess’s mobile.

‘Jess, I can’t do it. I can’tdoit. They’re mad. These kids areferal…’

‘Yes, you can,’ she replied calmly. ‘Youcando it. Think back to all your training. And if that doesn’t work, go and get the heavies in. Go on, Robyn. Go. You can do it.’

I ended the call, wiping away the tears of anger, frustration and utter sadness that this was where I’d ended up. But instead of making my way back to the tiered steps to face the horde once more, I dithered, uncertain what to do next.

‘Hey up, miss? You all right?’

A tall, well-muscled and exceptionally handsome kid stood at the bottom of the three wooden steps and I looked up at him, unable to speak.

‘You Sorrel’s big sister? I heard you were down here.’

I nodded.

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