Page 90 of A Class Act

We spent the next couple of hours with notebooks and pens, outlining our ideas as I took Mason through the steps we’d have to take.

‘I’m not convinced we’re going to be able to do all this by Easter,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you aim for the summer term, you know, an end-of-year thing?’

‘With Year 11 already left by May to revise for the GCSEs? And half the kids being taken off for the bargain weeks in Benidorm and Turkey that their parents can’t afford during the school holidays?’

‘So, you’ve six months,’ I said with raised eyebrows, while simultaneously counting on my fingers.

‘Need to crack on, then.’

‘Like a pit pony.’ I smiled, thinking how much I’d like Mason to kiss me again.

‘Look, Robyn.’ Mason put down his pen and half-drunk cup of coffee. ‘Last night…’

Oh, hell, was this the brush-off coming? Just when I didn’t think I could cope with any more rejection?

‘…was really wonderful…’

‘But?’

‘But?’ Mason reached for my hand. ‘And, actually.’

‘And?’

‘And I’d quite like to do it all over again.’ He grinned across at me and, not for the first time, I was getting the sense that Mason Donoghue didn’t really give a fig for protocol, for the rules of the game, about his having a relationship with the lowly supply teacher.

This wasn’t going to be easy. I’d been so hurt by Fabian, I didn’t know if I could ever really feel anything more than this passing frisson of lust. It had only been, what? Two months? Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea? Maybe it really was too soon to get back on my bike, as it were. And riding pillion with my boss into the bargain?Riding?Oh, hell! And Petra wouldn’t be happy. Mind you, Jess would. And Mum: Mum had really taken to him when he was round yesterday.

‘Sorry,’ I said, in an attempt to push away these conflicting thoughts that were buzzing round my head like an out-of-control mosquito. ‘Could you repeat that?’

‘Which bit?’

‘Something about wanting to do it all again?’

‘Last night was really wonderful, and I’d quite like to do it all over again? That bit?’

‘On a school night?’ I asked primly.

‘Especially on a school night,’ he replied, leaning in.

PART III

30

The autumn term rolled on. More than rolled on, really: in fact, it galloped on.

By the time I’d been teaching at St Mede’s for three months, I was gaining in confidence and actually beginning to enjoy my days at the chalkface. Year 9 still had the ability to wind me up, and that little sod, Whippety Snicket, took great pleasure in goading me into losing my temper whenever he could. But now I was able to see him for the unhappy, unloved, immature adolescent he unfortunately was and, instead of being confrontational with him, I either ignored him or rang for the senior leadership team to remove him from my lessons.

And I now had a secret weapon with these kids.

Two, actually.

With my knee much improved I’d started both lunchtime and after-school dance sessions, which could only be attended when accompanied by good reports from class teachers.Anythingless than a clean sheet for behaviour – and that included C1: shouting out in class – and they’d forfeit that week’s chance to join in.

‘Yah, you’re all big sissies,’ I heard various kids mock those who were up for it. ‘Who wants to be a fucking ballet dancer?’

‘Oh, grow up,’ one tiny Year 7 lad had the temerity to come back at a much bigger, extremely truculent Year 8 girl. ‘It’s hip hop.’

Well, some of it was. I’d started with easy dance routines, stepping, pivoting and shimmying to tracks such as Taylor Swift’s ‘Shake It Off’, and when the kids were able to cope with those, we were soon into working to the tracks of Swedish House Mafia, Illenium and Teddy Swims.

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