Page 59 of A Class Act

I had, it seemed, survived the first morning in my new job.

By the end of the school day, I felt I’d never been away from teaching. You’re not a probationary teacher, I constantly reminded myself, and, gaining confidence with each class, I went for it, keeping order as much as I could. In a Year 11 GCSE English class studying Mary Shelley’sFrankenstein, I finally felt I’d found my feet. I decided we’d spend the last half-hour of the lesson changing one of the pertinent chapter’s narrative into script, letting the main characters act out the story.

I’d been surprised to see Joel Sinclair sitting at the back of the room – I hadn’t expected the alleged gang member to have any interest in studying the nineteenth-century English novel – but, giving no indication we’d met earlier in the day in very different circumstances, he joined in fully with the discussion, contributing sensible answers and taking the part of Captain Robert Walton with aplomb.

As the class made their way out, I called Joel back, wanting both to thank him for his intervention with the awful Year 9 drama group, and to find out where he’d learned to dance, but, with a wave of his hand, he was out of the classroom without a backward glance.

Thank God for Jess and her love of cooking: the thought of getting back to Mum’s place and having to start preparing something for Sorrel and myself to eat had been filling me with almost as much dread as taking Year 9 again. But Jess had come up trumps, messaging me to say she was more than happy to cook, and for Sorrel and me to go round there every evening she wasn’t working. We’d have a kitty, share the shopping and, in return, maybe I could do some babysitting of Lola?

Sorrel hadn’t hung around for a lift home and wasn’t answering her phone. I did the day’s marking, not wanting to take it home with me, and was just about to leave the classroom when Mason appeared in the doorway.

‘Knackered?’ he asked, grinning.

‘Something like that.’ I managed a weary smile.

‘I knew you’d be OK.’

‘You knew nothing of the sort.’ I sniffed. ‘You didn’t see my drama session with the notorious Year 9 class this morning.’ I glared up at him. ‘And I see you’ve put me down for every single Year 9 drama class next week?’

‘You’re the expert.’ He smiled winningly. ‘You’re the drama professional. And,’ he went on, ‘I did see what you were up to this morning. I came down to see if you were OK in the drama studio. You were totally engrossed, as were the kids. You’d got them moving, talking, doing what you wanted.’

‘I’d had some help.’

‘Oh?’

‘Joel Sinclair?’

‘Really?’ Mason frowned.

‘That was exactly Petra’s reaction when I told her.’

‘Let’s just say he’s not always as accommodating.’

‘He’s been nothing but accommodating with me today.’

‘Good, that’s good. Is there anything I can support you with? Anything you want to ask?’ I glanced up at Mason Donoghue, thinking, not for the first time, what a lovely face he had. If my head hadn’t been stuffed to the gills with Fabian, I knew I’d have fancied this man. ‘Look,’ he now said, ‘I don’t suppose you could get your dad in?’

‘In?’ I pulled a face. ‘In where?’

Mason indicated with his hands. ‘Here. Into school.’

‘My dad?’ I stared. ‘Jayden, you mean?’

‘Of course, I mean Jayden. Jayden Allen? It would be great if he could come and give us a talk about the history of black music. Of the roots of reggae.’

‘Great for whom?’ I smiled. ‘The kids? Or for you?’

‘For the kids, of course.’ He had the grace to look slightly abashed. ‘I think it would be brilliant for our students to learn how reggae music emerged in the sixties, from Jamaican ska and rocksteady, how it was influenced by social, political and cultural factors, including the Rastafarian movement.’

‘You seem to know quite a bit about it already.’ I smiled. ‘Just do an assembly and play some Bob Marley. Getting hold of my dad, never mind pinning him down to anything, is virtually impossible.’

So it was something of a surprise to see Jayden’s car pulled up on Mum’s drive. He was sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea and eating toast and Marmite.

‘Where’s Sorrel?’

‘What areyoudoing here?’

‘I’ve been worried about you all.’

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