The Classroom Read online

  But labels alone do nothing. Particularly ones Miriam creates in her head. She’d be the worst sort of teacher if she didn’t do something with them. She doesn’t just mean communicate them. Sure, she’s told the headmistress her concerns. Written them in a report, ready for escalation if need be. That official approach only takes things so far, though. Doesn’t do much for the child, if they end up in care.

  What they need is someone else to look after them. Someone else to care for them.

  Miriam takes out the heart-shaped cutter and presses it into the pile of toast. Perfect little hearts are broken out of the toast. Miriam bites into one; they are too tempting to wait until her charges arrive. She regrets it instantly, though – she’s being just as bad as Kirsten, putting herself first.

  Everything should be pristine, fresh, waiting for the first little child whose parents ascribe skewed values to money vs. physical presence. Get a job that enables you to actually see your child! she always wants to scream. Miriam would.

  And then, they’re off. The first child, for the first breakfast club St. Anthony’s has ever held. Little Leo Holmes. Dropped off by a woman too young and delicate to be his real mother. Unless she has reversed the ageing process through focused yoga and cleansing chakras. Or CBT, or whatever mindfulness shit perfectly well people with merely an interest in safeguarding their mental health are allowed to choose. No compulsion for them. No labels.

  Miriam holds out a hand to Leo Holmes.

  ‘Morning, sweetheart. Do you want some breakfast?’

  He looks up at her wide-eyed, clutching one of those ‘kiddy-safe’ tablet computers in his right hand, the other hand exploring his nose. Jesus, he’s six. What kind of parenting is this? Miriam’s surprised he’s even out of nappies.

  Leo looks round the empty school cafeteria.

  ‘Am I the only one?’ he asks.

  ‘No,’ Miriam reassures him. ‘More of your friends will be here soon. Make the most of the food before they get here.’

  So he tucks in. Miriam chatters to him, trying to warm up for the day, but he has an eye on his tablet the whole time.

  More children come in. Some still rubbing their eyes, others bounding around in glee at extra time with their friends. Some dropped off by au pairs, others by not-the-worst mothers.

  Then, finally, Harriet. Kirsten couldn’t even get her here in time for the start of breakfast club.

  Harriet’s eyes are not swollen with tiredness. But Kirsten’s are.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ Kirsten says, practically flinging Harriet at Miriam. ‘You don’t know how much of a lifesaver you are!’

  Miriam does know. It’s just that it’s not Kirsten’s life she cares about saving. It’s Harriet’s.

  Miriam smiles at Kirsten – don’t aggravate the wild animals – and takes Harriet’s hand. Just like she did little Leo’s earlier. But also nothing like. She feels the thrill of belonging with another human being. So Miriam leads Harriet over to the toast and jam, still holding her hand. Then she sits down in front of her, and gives Harriet her full attention while the little girl eats. Harriet needs to know, if she doesn’t learn anything else today, that she matters. That Miriam sees her, gives her time, permission to exist, and for her existence to fill Miriam’s world.

  ‘What do you usually have for breakfast?’ she asks Harriet. It’s good to know if you’re giving them something they’re used to, or if it’s a treat.

  ‘Crisps,’ Harriet chirps.

  Miriam tries not to let her lips set into a thin teacherly line. Instead, she fetches her some Weetabix, a banana, brown toast and peanut butter. Get some nutrition into her, if her parents won’t bother.

  Once all the children have finished their breakfast, Miriam sits them down in a circle.

  ‘Welcome to breakfast club,’ she tells them. ‘An exclusive club for all the coolest kids in the school.’

  ‘I thought that was drama club,’ one of the Year Six children – a leading little thesp, so Miriam’s told – pipes up, giggling. Miriam feels herself blushing.

  ‘Cooler even than that,’ she manages to retort. The girl will be awful when she gets to secondary school. Even worse than Miriam’s ‘friends’ were, at answering back, crossing the line of what’s appropriate.

  ‘We’re going to run it as a sort of extra-friends club. I’d like you all to feel like you can say anything to me or your fellow breakfasters. OK?’

  Mostly Miriam is met with blank faces. A couple of shy smiles. Harriet’s face is impossible to read.

  ‘I’d like to start today with a little confessional, and a big toast to Roald Dahl. He’s the reason I’m teaching today.’

  ‘What, you got the golden ticket?’ Same girl. Miriam ignores her.

  ‘Put your hands up if you have read Matilda,’ Miriam says to the group.

  It’s about half and half. And of those, Miriam suspects that many are equating ‘read’ with having watched the musical. Harriet doesn’t put up her hand.

  ‘Well, for those of you who haven’t read it,’ Miriam continues, ‘there’s a teacher in it called Miss Honey, who does a really good turn to a talented little girl named Matilda. Her parents are truly awful to little Matilda. They don’t care about her at all, and she hates them. Nothing like all your lovely parents at all, I’m sure!’ Miriam adds, smiling around, looking to Harriet for signs of upset. Nothing obvious. Miriam continues. ‘She provides somewhere safe and happy for little Matilda to go after school. Even though Miss Honey is very poor, she is rich in her heart through her love of the children. In the end – well, no, I won’t spoil it for you in case you haven’t read it.’

  ‘They all live happily ever after,’ pipes up one of the children in a sing-song voice. Maybe they shouldn’t serve jam next time. Far too much sugar in it – the kids are getting rebellious and cocky.

  ‘Yes, they do. But what I wanted to explain was, that’s what opened my eyes to teaching as a vocation, a way of being who I wanted to be, and helping children who needed me. I’ve known some real-life teachers who’ve had a profound impact on me, just like Miss Honey. And I always keep a copy of Matilda next to my bed, to this day.’

  Miriam scans the faces again. A few more responsive now. They are more awake, which is something. And Harriet is gazing at her from those big hazel eyes.

  ‘Now, children, it’s time for your lessons. For the next couple of weeks we’ll take it in turns for you to “show and tell” books that have inspired you, OK?’

  From the older kids there are groans of ‘More homework.’

  ‘It’s not homework,’ Miriam says. ‘It’s sharing. There’s no writing, no presentations – you can just mention a book you like. If it’s a secret, you don’t even need to say why. But if I haven’t read it, I might just do so. OK?’

  ‘Ms Robertson, can I bring in Fireman Sam?’

  ‘Of course you can,’ she says, only hoping it’s not the sticker book version. ‘Whatever book you want. Now, off you go. Have a good day, for those of you I don’t teach. See some of you later.’

  So as not to freak them out, Miriam doesn’t stare at them as they leave. She turns her attention to the breakfast things and makes a vague pretence of helping clear some away.

  She had to stop herself giving away too much of Matilda. For people who haven’t read it, understood that joy between Miss Honey and Matilda, the ending might sound a little sinister. A bit like kidnapping. And why would any of them want to live with their teacher, rather than their parents? Even Miriam doesn’t want that. Not if they’re happy at home – it’s always best for children to stay with their parents if they can. Social work 101.

  * * *

  At lunchtime, Miriam pops out of the staffroom, up the road to the shops.

  ‘Hey!’ she hears a voice after her. She turns. It’s Ted, another of the teachers. Half-cute, half-nerdy. She’s done the polite nodding and smiling at him in the staffroom, but they’ve not spoken properly. Perhaps he thinks this is his opportunity.


  ‘Hey,’ she calls back, not really slowing. She has some important shopping to do.

  ‘Wait up,’ he says.

  Miriam tells herself not to look weird, so she waits, looking at her watch while she does so.

  ‘You grabbing some lunch?’ Ted asks her, catching up.

  Miriam knows he wants her to say yes, to suggest that they go together, for it to lead on to a proper date.

  ‘’Fraid not,’ she tells him. ‘I have to run an errand.’

  ‘Ah, woman of mystery.’ He smiles. ‘My favourite kind.’

  She smiles back, despite herself, despite her rush. Aren’t there rules against these kinds of workplace flirtations these days?

  ‘Another time we’ll have a not-so-mysterious lunch at The Wok Factory,’ she says, nodding her head at the cheap-and-cheerful Chinese across the road. ‘But now I must run, OK?’

  He smiles again. ‘OK. Would just be good to get to know the new staffroom face.’

  She starts walking up the street, faster than him. ‘Of course. Let me know when works for you. See you!’

  And then she breaks into a run. Let him think she has a doctor’s appointment or something. An emergency. But aren’t all plans an emergency, when you want something really badly?

  * * *

  After the last lesson of the day, Miriam calls Harriet to stay back.

  ‘I bought you something,’ Miriam says. She unveils the lunchtime purchase, and hands it to Harriet. Matilda. A brand-new copy.

  Harriet looks at the book, then at Miriam.

  ‘I couldn’t help noticing you hadn’t read it,’ Miriam tells her. ‘When we were doing the show of hands at breakfast club.’

  ‘Thank you, Ms Robertson,’ Harriet says. Maybe she’s not completely badly brought up.

  ‘I’ve put a message in the front,’ Miriam tells her. It was meant to be a surprise, but she can’t resist. Miriam turns her to the opening pages. ‘I’m your Miss Honey, whenever you need me,’ it says.

  Bit of a risk. What if Kirsten and Ian see, and they freak out? Sometimes kindness can be misinterpreted, and she doesn’t want to be sacked. But in another way, so what? Make them raise their game – realise they are parents first, individuals second. That’s the way it should be, shouldn’t it?

  Chapter 15

  KIRSTEN, OCTOBER 2018

  Kirsten lives for the weekends. Everyone does. Right?

  Perfect quality time with the family.

  Except, somehow, it never seems to live up to the promise. Kirsten wonders if that’s just her, or whether everyone feels like that. Tired, conflicted, stressed, like the rare beautiful happy moments are more staged than genuine?

  She remembers the old days, when they were first together, her and Ian. The hours they could pass in a pub – quite incredible to think of now. And of course, there were the climbing expeditions, their shared hobby. But then Ian had a fall, didn’t trust himself anymore, and the trips to the Peaks were off. The guide ropes and hooks packed away, growing dusty in the attic. Without that pursuit, she guessed they must have filled their time in other ways – slept, went to the gym, had unrushed ungrudging sex? Cooked, maybe? By which she means things other than chicken nuggets and meatballs. Yes, great elaborate meals, ingredients planned days in advance. Or they’d do something spontaneous, maybe, make up for the lost adrenaline of the climbs – a trip down the Thames in a speedboat, or the London Eye at night.

  Now, spontaneity is a trip to the faraway playground rather than the close one. Halcyon times, those weekends, before everything else. And yet, she thinks, she still managed to be sad. The sense of being incomplete as a twosome manifested early. Maybe what she’s thinking of is her pre-IVF self. The woman whose joy wasn’t sapped at every failed attempt. Before she became the woman who wouldn’t drink, ever, just in case they were pregnant. No wonder, maybe, that she has slipped so startlingly easily into the studied anxiety of motherhood.

  Regardless, these days, weekends are a bit, well, different …

  Right now, for instance, Kirsten is sitting on the sofa watching Ian and Yvette through the window. It looks like Yvette is in fact trying to wash their cars, or at least tell Ian he’s missed a bit. Ridiculous. She should just go out there and tell her to mind her own business. But she remembers what Ian said. That she means well, and they should accept her help. Fine. She’ll just rage inwardly then, rather than outwardly. And if she goes out and creates a scene, she won’t be there for Harriet, if she’s needed.

  Harriet is curled up on her bed upstairs reading Matilda, of all things. It’s far too old for her. Kirsten thinks she’s probably only looking at the pictures. She can’t be able to read much of it yet, surely. Kirsten asked if she’d like her to read it to aloud, or to read it page and page, but Harriet says she wants to read it alone. What happened to ‘Me and mummy do everything together’? So here Kirsten is, staring out of the window, alone. This is pathetic of her. She should go outside, be civil.

  So Kirsten ventures down the steps and approaches them. As she gets close, she catches the snippets of the conversation.

  ‘… really unfortunate …’ Yvette murmurs.

  ‘… so grateful …’ Ian mutters.

  Yvette puts her hand on Ian’s arm, lightly, so you almost wouldn’t notice. But of course, Kirsten does.

  ‘Well, this is quite the neighbourly catch-up, isn’t it?’ Kirsten says. It sounds catty, not breezy. Missed again.

  ‘I was just talking to Ian about—’ Yvette starts.

  ‘Her taking Harriet into school the other day,’ Ian cuts her off. ‘How grateful we were.’

  Kirsten nods. ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Really grateful.’

  ‘Oh, any time. I know how hard it is to be a working parent.’

  ‘Do you?’ Kirsten asks, then regrets it. Time was, they swapped IVF stories, long after Yvette had given up hope. ‘I mean, I know you do,’ Kirsten says. ‘We appreciate your empathy.’

  Yvette lifts her chin, challenging. Kirsten sees Yvette knows the first comment was the one she really meant.

  ‘Of course,’ Yvette says, ‘if I was lucky enough to have my own little girl, I’d give up everything for her. Work, yoga, the lot. Just to be with her. It’s different for you though, isn’t it?’

  Kirsten’s not rising to the bait. ‘Every situation is different,’ she tells Yvette. ‘Besides, I want Harriet to have a role model.’

  ‘Hmm,’ says Yvette, thoughtfully. ‘Anyway, I must be getting on. I’ve a weekend consultation this morning. Only a couple of streets away but such a bore having to work on a Saturday. Good talk, Ian. Thank you.’ She puts a hand on his arm again, squeezes it, and looks deeply into his eyes. He does a sort of smirk. ‘Kirsten.’ And a curt nod is all Kirsten gets from Yvette.

  When Yvette’s gone, Ian puts away the chamois leathers.

  ‘What was that about?’ Kirsten asks him.

  ‘Harriet,’ he says.

  ‘Giving her views on our parenting, was she?’ she asks.

  ‘Of course, but don’t let it get to you. Like I said, Yvette is happy to take her in whenever we need her to.’

  ‘Why are you always so determined to see the good in people?’ she asks him.

  He shrugs. ‘I’m head of a failing school. My job and reputation are on the line. I need something to give me hope.’

  ‘Ah yes, the failing school. The reason why your own child never sees you.’

  Ian doesn’t reply, just finishes up with the car. He’s such a goody-two-shoes, avoiding conflict, when she’s spoiling for a pointless fight. Not pointless – there’s a lot of angry energy she wants to let out. About him, his fixation with that school, with his good name. But that doesn’t mean she should direct the anger at him. They should talk in a civil way, like grown-ups. Or not talk at all.

  While Ian finishes up, Kirsten goes back into the house and stands aimlessly in the kitchen. She meant to be good. She meant, for Harriet’s sake, not to fight with Ian at weekends (or indeed, at all
). If Harriet had a sibling, they could play together, ignore them. Kirsten’s not stupid – she knows that’s why she’s in her bedroom, too tired of walking on eggshells to come down to see her parents. Kirsten decides she’ll go up and check Harriet’s OK, maybe offer to plait her hair, or do some drawing. Show her she means more than anything in the world to her.

  But to Kirsten’s surprise, before she can do that, Ian follows her to the kitchen.

  He stands in the doorway, car-cleaning kit in hand. Kirsten can’t understand why he doesn’t just take the cars to a car wash like everyone else. False economies – it won’t be the cost of some soapsuds that ruins them.

  She tries to make her face look open, inviting.

  ‘Listen, Kirsten,’ Ian begins. ‘Talking to Yvette just now, it made me think.’

  ‘Go on,’ she says, being the model wife.

  ‘We should talk about it. The big one. Harriet.’

  All thoughts of being a model wife fall away.

  ‘Seriously?’ she dares him.

  ‘Kirsten, come on,’ he says. ‘Just think about it. It’s not right, otherwise. You know that.’

  ‘You do not get to lecture me about what’s right!’

  He glares at her. ‘This isn’t about us. It’s about her. You can’t play that historic card for the rest of our lives.’

  ‘Oh, it’s a “card” now, is it? The emotional torment, the uncertainty you put me through, the generosity I showed you?’ She knows what he means. Of course she does. But it’s a damn good card. And she’s going to keep on playing it.

  ‘Kirsten, you’re milking it. Every marriage has its ups and downs, its indiscretions, we—’

  She walks up close to him and puts her face right into his. Her voice low, she says: ‘Every marriage, maybe. But every career, Ian? Come on.’