Page 91 of A Class Act

After a couple of weeks, when I found some of the young mums watching at the door, tapping their feet and dancing in the corridor, I invited them in as well and soon I had a class just for parents: all mums – there didn’t appear to be any dads interested. Maybe there just weren’t any dads around full stop?

And, of course, the other secret weapon was the production ofGrease. I’d been absolutely astonished when, after Mason had announced in assembly that St Mede’s was thinking of attempting this, and that anyone interested in taking part should meet with him, Mr Mallinson, in charge of English, and me that very lunchtime, we were absolutely inundated with kids. To be honest, it was jolly cold outside that day – an icy wind blowing across the playground from the Pennines – and it was a good opportunity to remain inside, but there was a genuine frisson of excitement in the ranks as Mason explained just what was entailed in their signing up.

There were some rumblings of disapproval from one quarter of the staffroom, particularly from those with responsibility for the summer GCSEs, but, on the whole, positive vibes weresoon winging around the school and the four of us, Mason, Petra, Dave Mallinson and myself, immediately got down to auditioning for parts.

By early December, parts had been allocated and rehearsals started. Sorrel was the obvious choice for Sandy, despite some backchat and downright badass comments from a couple of coteries of Year 9 and Year10 girls – as well as their mums – who complained of favouritism and actually bandied around the wordsbiasandnepotism(with which I was most impressed).

Joel would have nothing to do with the part of Danny Zuko or, indeed, the production itself, despite Sorrel, Mason and myself constantly haranguing him to change his mind.

‘Leave him,’ Sorrel advised. ‘He’s got enough on his plate at the moment.’ And, eventually, after much auditioning (some truly terrible, some rather surprisingly promising and some that had Mason, Petra and me in absolute hysterics) the part was given to a Year 10 lad – Seb Kingsley – who might not have been anywhere near Joel in the dance stakes, but could sing and act and was confident with his lines.

I’d called an after-school rehearsal for both the Pink Ladies and the T-Birds.

Mason had gone off to some meeting of head teachers and Petra had spent the afternoon at the hospital having a scan, so it was just Dave Mallinson and myself left to organise the kids. They were enthusiastic but over-excited, and after a couple of hours putting them through their paces I was shattered. It was going up to 6p.m. by the time Dave and I were satisfied we’d done enough, and all I wanted was to get off home and a soak in a hot bath.

Sorrel had missed the rehearsal, Jess picking her up to take her to the dentist for a filling. I went to retrieve marking I’d not got round to earlier and then, desperate for a pee, made a quick visit to the nearby girls’ toilet block rather than the staff facilities a good five minutes’ walk at the other end of the building. Humming along to ‘Look at me, I’m Sandra Dee’,I did what I’d come for and went to the basins to wash my hands. I was running a hand through my hair, belting out at the top of my voice the actual, more controversial, lyrics – about being lousy with virginity instead of the words appropriately doctored by Dave for our young performers – when a scuffling noise behind me stopped me in my tracks.

One of the cleaners had reported seeing a rat on the playground earlier in the week and I froze, poised to leg it out of there. The shuffling noise came again, but this time accompanied by sniffing. Sniffing rats?

‘Hello?’ I called, assuming it to be one of the girls from rehearsal and now utterly embarrassed I’d been overheard really going for it with the original words to the song. ‘Hello? You need to get off home before Caretaker Ken locks you in.’

Silence.

Then more sniffs.

I walked the length of the toilet block, bending to peer underneath cubicle doors. ‘You’ll be here until the morning,’ I warned once again. ‘You need to get off home.’

The end cubicle was closed and, when I put my hand to it, I found it was locked. I bent down once more but could see no telltale shoes or trainers.

‘Who’s in there?’

Silence.

I walked into the adjacent cubicle, stood on the toilet seat and, hoisting myself up, peered over into the locked one.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ I’d called the kid Whippety Snicket for so long that, for a second, I couldn’t remember his real handle. How awful of me. Blane, that was it. Blane Higson. ‘What are youdoing, Blane?’ I repeated. ‘This is the girls’ toilet.’ He was sitting on the closed toilet seat, his knees scrunched up to his scrawny chest, his head in his hands, and sniffing. ‘Have you found yourself locked in?’ I asked with a laugh. ‘Come for some tissue for your nose and got yourself locked in? Come on, open the door and go home.’

‘I’ve lost the bloody key,’ he muttered, and I realised he was crying.

‘You don’t need a key to get out, you daft thing,’ I encouraged. ‘Just turn the lock on the door.’

‘No. I’m staying here.’

‘Why?’

‘Just am.’

‘All night?’

Silence.

‘All night?’ I asked once again. ‘It’ll get cold. It’s December. Heating’ll go off.’

Silence.

‘Hang on, I’m coming over. Shift out of the way, Blane.’

Putting all the weight on my hands, I hoisted myself over, feeling for the toilet cistern with my feet before dropping down beside the boy.

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