Page 55 of A Class Act

‘Right, give me five minutes. Wait there.’

Joel Sinclair, I found out later, was the Cock of St Mede’s. You didn’t mess with Joel and live. Watching, as I gave Joel the requested five minutes, I saw the class of thirteen-year-olds brought to heel. It was like watching an intelligent but ruthless collie dog rounding up recalcitrant sheep. His back to me, he directed a low, calm voice towards the group so I couldn’t catch what he was saying, but his intention was obvious. He finished by turning to me, pointing a neat navy-blazered arm in my direction, his fabulous corn-rowed hairdo moving only slightly as he did so.

‘Ms Allen, here, is a top dancer. A West End professional who has been onStrictly…’

Sorry?

‘…who has taken the lead part inMatilda…’

Hang on!

‘…and you lot are so fucking lucky to have her here to teach you…’

Hmm, that bit’s all right.

‘Why’s she here, then? In this dump? If she’s so famous?’ Whippety Snicket sneered and the rest of the group turned for clarification in my direction.

I stepped forwards. ‘As you can see, I injured my knee as I executed atour jeté…’

‘She’skilledsomeone?’ I heard a thrilled whisper.

‘Killed someone?’

‘She just said she’d executed somebody called Atour Jettay!’

‘I was on stage in London less than a week ago,’ I went on. (If I couldn’t get this lot on board by my teaching methods, I’d have to try pulling the alleged fame card.) ‘Unfortunately, as you see, I have a knee injury. No professional dancer, like a professional footballer, can carry on with an injury. As a result, I’m having to take a break, and Mr Donoghue asked if I would come and teach you what goes on in London’s West End. In Covent Garden. On New York’s Broadway.’

‘I’mgoing to be a dancer, miss.’

‘I’m going to be a film star, miss. Going to be famous, make loads of money and get off with Taylor Swift…’ the kid paused and then went on ‘…and buy me mam a house instead of the council flat we have to live in.’

‘Yah.’ Whippety Snicket sneered. ‘Dancing? Who wants to fucking dance but sissies and girls? I’m going to be a footballer. Take over from Messi at Barcelona.’

‘He’s not at Barcelona any more, you thicko.’

‘Hang on, hang on.’ Joel Sinclair put up a hand and addressed Whippety. ‘How do you think Messi learned to move across the pitch so gracefully? He had dance lessons…’

Hang on, kid: do not tell this lot I taught Messi all he knows.

‘Did he?’ There was silence as the kids in front of me digested this unexpected nugget of information. ‘Nah, he didn’t…’

‘So, you think only girls and sissies dance?’ Joel raised an eyebrow and then, bending, slowly removed his black brogues and socks before steadying himself, taking several steps and leaping away towards the back of the room, performing a series of totally professionaljetés.

Well, that shut them up, as nothing else had done!

20

With a quarter of an hour of the fifty-minute lesson already gone, I gave the kids instructions and, under Joel’s watchful eye, the group gathered in front of me. I took them through a series of drama warm-ups with the intention of at least wearing some of them out physically, if not mentally.

For Year 9, the drama lesson should have focus on melodrama, comedy and exaggeration. My lesson plan had been to focus on these elements but I knew, jumping straight into this work, I was on a hiding to nothing and, instead, did the sort of stuff I’d used previously with much younger children.

Some of these kids were so unfit: mums or dads driving them to school; their breakfast, if any, a Mars bar and a bottle of pop consumed in the car while plugged into iPhones and iPads. Most of the St Mede’s playing fields had been sold off decades ago, and persuading the pupils into the regulation games kit and onto what bit of grass was left was, according to Petra, a constant battle.

So in the time I had left, I introduced name games and team-building games and kept the fitness required to a minimum. I think we were all surprised when the bell for the end of thesession sounded and we’d made some progress. This was not going to be easy, but at least the kids thought I was somebody famous and I’d managed to survive a lesson with the worst class in the school.

My knee was beginning to give me gyp, but I gathered my things and made my way to the staffroom for coffee.

‘Have you survived?’ Petra asked, eyebrow raised as I fell into a chair and she passed me a mug of coffee and a Twix.

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