Head Start

by Judith Cutler

  ‘We had an intruder last night.’

  ‘Here? My God!’

  ‘I didn’t see him or her properly. Not well enough to identify them. I dare say it was only a youngster seeing if he could nick a football.’

  ‘Even so! It must have scared you to death!’

  ‘Nearly. Anyway, I thought we should tighten things up a bit. In my old place we had a lot of trouble with ex-pupils, one of whom attempted arson – we ended up with security lights and CCTV cameras recording everything going on inside and outside. But in a nice little village like this?’

  Her face closed. ‘It’s not always perfect.’ She busied herself with a loose-leaf folder. ‘A is which door?’

  ‘The sports rubbish.’

  ‘So B is the other rubbish. Fire hazards the pair of them, if you ask me.’ Her look was challenging. ‘Ofsted or no Ofsted.’

  ‘No Ofsted,’ I admitted.

  My reward was a complicitous grin. ‘Mrs Gough used that excuse once when she banned mobile phones. Kids, not staff. She said they were an invention of the devil. She wasn’t the type to be … rigorous … but she was absolutely firm about that one. And she made us promise to continue with the ban when she left.’

  ‘I’ll make sure I do too. Meanwhile, getting everyone to help tidy them up is towards the top of my To-Do list. Actually, I’ve been trying to work out the best time for a staff meeting,’ I said, registering that her cupboard contained both a kettle and a toaster. Breakfast was a long time ago. ‘But the staff are so busy with after-school activities, not to mention deputising for the lunchtime supervisors, who seem to be perennially sick, I’ve no idea what would be the best time to schedule it.’

  ‘Early morning’s no good,’ Melanie said, standing and easing her back with an audible crunch. She allowed herself to wince, her almost unlined face suddenly middle-aged. ‘Both Tom and Liz have to do the school run for their own families.’

  ‘I should imagine they have to collect them too – right? Or can they be popped in their own after-school clubs as a one-off?’

  Her silence told me there was a problem. She didn’t need to spell it out, anyway. It was Tom Mason. A tall, broad-shouldered man in his thirties, he’d completely shaved what was obviously a balding head and looked as if he should have a commanding presence in the classroom. He’d wanted my job – and why not? One of his children was in the preschool group, which acted as a feeder to the reception class; two much older ones went to the comp in the nearest town. His wife was a practice nurse in the local surgery. He hadn’t been very gracious in defeat. Yesterday, each time we met in a corridor, he nearly but not quite jostled. He looked as if he might be a fully signed up member of the Awkward Squad.

  ‘When did Mrs Gough hold her staff meetings?’

  ‘Fridays, three-thirty till five. So everyone will be bracing themselves for one at the end of the week.’

  ‘My goodness! Did anyone ever turn up? Quite. Well, let’s try Mondays, three-thirty till four-thirty, with a timed agenda.’

  ‘Monday is Chess Club.’ She pulled a face.

  ‘Actually, every day has an after-school club, doesn’t it?’ Unlike in many schools, catering for early-starting and late-working parents, this one could only deal with children till four-thirty. ‘How many children actually attend, as a matter of interest? We need to choose a day that will minimise parent complaints.’

  ‘Monday, Chess; Tuesday, Ball Skills, very popular, except that Helen’s still on crutches, remember, after her skiing accident; Wednesday, Music and Movement – the girls like that, but there are no boys at all; Thursday, about twenty go to Choir, which segues into Drama when there’s a play in rehearsal.’

  ‘Like now.’ Someone had already started painting a backdrop for the temporary stage. ‘So Thursday’s sacrosanct. And every child needs more running around and letting off steam than they get in the average school week … Tell you what, I’ll take over ball skills myself until Helen’s recovered.’

  ‘I’ll let everyone know it’s running again from next week.’ She made a note. Looking up with a sardonic grin, she added, ‘Every pushy parent will be frog-marching their kid into it now.’

  ‘Did I ever say I objected to frog-marching? That leaves Monday, but chess is so good for the kids’ brains. If they play, that is,’ I added, in the face of Melanie’s pointed silence.

  ‘You’d have to ask Tom.’

  I wouldn’t swear aloud on school premises. But I could expel my breath very expressively. ‘I’d rather ask you.’

  Melanie looked around conspiratorially, then formed her hands into a pretty round zero.

  ‘So he gets the brownie points for being a good little volunteer and does his marking and lesson prep at the same time. Hmmm. OK, we’ll go for a short meeting this coming Friday, and make Monday the official day in future. Do you usually deal with notices of meetings and agendas?’

  She looked puzzled. ‘Mrs Gough believed in word of mouth.’

  ‘Ofsted are sticklers for the written word. Think of their last report.’ Our mutual grin acknowledged my earlier fib. ‘So every last sneeze will have to be minuted. Problem?’

  ‘Actually, I never had to stay. Not unless anything directly involved me. It was a bit of a perk, you see.’

  ‘A well-deserved perk. We’ll have to find you another one: in fact coming in at this hour you’ve already earned two at least. Hey, I should have asked if a late finish on Monday is all right for you.’

  ‘Better than Friday. But I’ll be here this week if you need me.’

  ‘No way. I’ve been known to take the odd set of minutes myself,’ I said.

  But Melanie was looking very embarrassed, trying not to look at her watch. ‘I’m sorry – I know the children haven’t even arrived yet, but today I really need to get away for an hour. I’ve got to take my father to the doctor. It’s urgent or—’

  ‘Fine. Absolutely no problem.’

  ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can. And I’ll make up the time.’

  The hands of her old-fashioned wall clock told me it was not yet eight. ‘You’ve already made it up. Off you go. Actually, I’ll take your place for a bit – it could be quite an education.’

  My own office door had a big brass plate screwed onto it: HEADMISTRESS. Much as I’d like to replace it with one saying HEAD TEACHER, I could imagine the ramifications of getting a different sized plate and rubbing down and repainting the door. No, I’d have to put up with it for a while. I was housed in an imposing, high-ceilinged and very cold room with, if I stood, a superb view of the old, unused bike sheds at the back of the building. Melanie’s, however, was right at the front, a plus in itself, and very much warmer, the radiator twice the size of mine in a room half the size. That was a real bonus. So was the much lower window. If I adjusted the vertical blinds a little, I could see the road outside without moving from Melanie’s desk. So I was treated to an unparalleled parade of expensive cars, mostly 4x4s, all of which decanted children right by the gate. To do so just there, of course, meant the driver stopping on the yellow zigzag lines you see outside every school. They’re there for a reason. Child safety. Here any children arriving on foot had to weave their way between these monsters, some so high off the ground that I doubted if the drivers could even see people less than a metre tall. I’d have liked to go out and smash windscreens and kick in lights. Instead I made plans:

  Cones.

  The police.

  Myself as temporary crossing warden? It might lack dignity but could be very effective.

  A walking bus: it would take time to sell the idea but would tick a lot of boxes, including health.

  Staring out of the window, I bit the end of my pen: any or all of these would raise my wretched profile.

  But that was nothing compared with the children’s safety. Heavens! Wasn’t that a governor, no less, a guy who’d quizzed me on the interview panel, dropping off what must be the granddaughter he’d spoken of with such pride? Tomorrow I’d be unofficial Loll
ipop Lady come what may. Tomorrow? At the end of school today!

  I was still at Melanie’s desk, typing a notice of meeting and asking for agenda items for Friday’s meeting, when a tall woman materialised in front of me. She had a shock of greying red hair, as if that Victorian artist’s model Lizzie Siddall had lived into her late sixties, and looked bemused at my obvious shock.

  ‘I was completely engrossed,’ I explained. ‘I never noticed you come in.’

  She pointed at a side door, which I had last registered as being bolted on this side. ‘Melanie always leaves this open on Tuesdays. So I can sign in our team.’

  ‘Team?’ I repeated stupidly: I had a weird vision of elderly footballers taking on five-year-olds. Trying to get a firmer grip, I added more coolly, ‘I understood that everyone who wanted to come into school had to be buzzed in through the main door. I’m Jane Cowan, by the way.’ I stood, extending my right hand.

  Although she shook it, it was her turn to look puzzled. ‘You’re never Mrs Gough’s replacement? Goodness me! Just sitting here? I thought you must be standing in for poor Melanie.’

  ‘Maybe I can be both a replacement and a stand-in?’ I found the visitors’ signing-in book and some plastic IDs under the in tray.

  ‘Oh, we never use those. In any case, you wouldn’t see them under our costumes. I just tell Melanie how many of us there are, sign the book and that’s it.’

  And, as I recalled, it was one of the procedures that offended the inspectors. But I wasn’t about to throw my weight around just now; there were some battles I had to win myself, some I’d get Melanie to fight for me – like this one.

  I read, upside down, what she had written. Tamsin Powell and the OTB team (11).

  ‘OTB?’

  ‘Yes. Open the Book.’

  ‘Ah. Bible stories.’ Yes, I’d heard of that initiative.

  ‘That’s right. Old and New Testament. I’ve an idea Mrs Gough only invited us in to fill the odd half-hour a week, but she discovered that the kids enjoy watching us perform almost as much as we enjoy acting. Though acting might be too strong a term.’ She added anxiously, ‘We’re totally non-denominational – not at all preachy.’

  ‘Don’t worry – I’ve heard very good things from my colleagues of other Open the Book groups. Now, you mentioned costumes?’ I had a nasty feeling about the stockroom’s new locks.

  ‘We try to look a bit Biblical. But you’ll see in a few minutes, won’t you? When you attend assembly.’

  ‘Of course I meant to – but Melanie’s been called away urgently, and someone has to hold the fort. I’m trying to find someone else to take over even now.’

  ‘Good. Because the other thing I came for was to complain that someone’s locked up our things.’

  I handed over key B with a request that she make a point of returning it. But she was already halfway through the door and probably didn’t hear me.

  Leaving control of the office to a student teacher, a slender girl with bubbly blonde curls called Fearn, broke every rule in my book, let alone Ofsted’s, but that was the only option. Firstly I needed to make my peace with the team, who were decked out in those rags – they turned out to be home-made unisex tunics for disciples and villagers alike; red-and-white-check tea towels round their heads were held in place by what looked like twisted tights. Secondly, of course, I had to be present when guests gave up their time to educate the kids with stories they’d probably never hear otherwise. If I was disconcerted by seeing Tamsin as Jesus, I wouldn’t show it.

  One man, small, wiry, and in his late seventies, read the story with a decidedly Yorkshire accent. Similarly aged actors, books in hand, read the dialogue – but that would be to underestimate their fervour and commitment. Some people only had miming roles. But all acted their hearts out. Homespun it undoubtedly was, and probably not to the sophisticated tastes of city-dwelling inspectors, but every pair of eyes was glued to the players. Even the teachers were absorbed. Heavens, I was! The woman of Samaria had only done bad things, the embarrassing words sin and adultery soiling no one’s lips, but she sported lovely scarlet nails and a matching silk head covering as a possible hint. They concluded with a simple moral and an uncontroversial prayer. Everything was fine. Except that when, having sincerely thanked the group, I reminded Tamsin about returning the key when they’d stowed their gear, she looked at me as if I had two heads.

  ‘But we always have one. How else can we get everything we need?’

  ‘Melanie will kill me if it’s not back in its place when she gets back,’ I lied cheerfully but apparently convincingly. ‘In fact, there’s a new system I should have explained earlier. We lend you the key every time you sign in – you sign for the key too – and then you return it when you sign out.’ Clearly that concept was alien to her. But I was after a bigger fish: ‘Which reminds me, you never told me how you got into the building this morning.’

  ‘Through the kitchen, of course. To save using the entryphone and disturbing poor Melanie.’

  Elf and Safety! Food hygiene regulations! I had to stop this – but how could I without offending them?

  ‘In any case, Dougie – he was the narrator today – has a door key. He could let us directly into the hall.’

  Or anywhere else.

  He was a man who radiated honesty. But I’d have to get that key back. Or find a locksmith – our poor budget! – to change those locks a good deal sooner than later.

  ‘So Dougie is the team leader? I thought it was you.’

  ‘We’re all equal. He just gets here earlier than most of us. I suppose Belinda is the leader because she directs all our performances. She used to be on the stage, you know, but is happy to step out of the limelight and let us lesser mortals have a go. She writes plays for village hall fundraising evenings – so talented. Do you act, Jane?’

  Only every hour of every day. ‘Not really. Time, of course.’ I spread my hands. ‘It’s been lovely to meet such a generous and talented group, Tamsin, and thank you again. Now, I’ve left a student teacher in charge of the office, and I’d better take over before she panics.’

  ‘Young Fearn? You’ll be fine with her. She’s got a good head on her shoulders. Elaine’s niece, you see. One of the gossiping women by the well,’ she added by way of explanation.

  The moment she’d gone I popped into the kitchen. The cook in charge, a tiny woman called Adele – ‘the kids call me Addle!’ – seemed quite pleased her lovely clean floors were no longer going to be walked over by all and sundry. She was more than happy to keep the outer door locked. So I had one ally.

  It was a good job Melanie kept a kettle. I was in need of a very strong coffee.

  So was Melanie by the look of it, arriving just as I switched the kettle on. She produced crumpets, kept with individual butter pats, from a tin next to the toaster.

  She threw off her coat, dumped her bag and settled at her desk in one not entirely fluid movement. ‘Oh, Jane, you are a star: just what I needed. But you’re the boss: I should have made it for you.’ She eased off her boots, replacing them with neat, wholesome loafers. ‘You have children and look after them and they leave home and you heave a sigh of relief, to be honest. And then you find you’re supposed to do childcare for them, which would be lovely except your parents are turning into children and you have to look after them too!’ The angry buzzing of the entryphone interrupted her. ‘Heavens, don’t be so impatient! OK, OK!’ She pressed a button, without checking who the visitor might be.

  ‘Fred the Fiddle,’ she explained tersely. Was she psychic? ‘He’ll need a hand.’

  I was nearer the door than she. I opened it to receive a violin case and something that might have been a junior cello.

  ‘Some bloody idiot locked the back door,’ our visitor said. In his forties, with his hangdog face and heavy posture, he might have doubled for Eeyore. ‘Whoever it was should try carrying this lot from halfway down the street. More outside,’ he said, ducking back to retrieve another couple of instrument
cases – flute? Clarinet? Surely the poor man didn’t have to carry all those around with him?

  ‘The same idiot who locked your music stands in the stockroom, I daresay,’ I said, passing him the coffee I’d made for myself.

  ‘No. I bring my own. They’re in this bag.’ He dropped it, the contents clattering appropriately.

  ‘You mean the school doesn’t supply them?’

  ‘Used to, but they disappeared.’

  No comment. ‘Instruments? You bring them in each week? Shouldn’t the children have them full-time so that they can practise at home?’

  ‘You think they’d bother?’

  ‘There’s no point in learning if they don’t, surely! Half an hour a week? You don’t get to be Nicola Benedetti like that. Nor even play well enough to get any simple pleasure.’

  He put down the mug and pointed. ‘See that – it’s a pig flying across the road. Time you got real, sweetheart.’

  My put-down expression had been perfected over many years. It worked now. He gobbled like a turkey.

  ‘To think I was on your side till ten seconds ago.’ I looked him up and down. ‘But I’d better not hold your petty misogyny against you. If you think the kids need their own instruments, I’ll move heaven and earth to get them. Now, the Ofsted inspectors say anyone entering the building needs to sign in, yes, each and every time. And has to wear ID. So that’s the way it’s going to be. But at least next time you come, you’ll know there’s one thing you don’t have to carry – music stands.’

  I didn’t warm to the man. But at least he’d provided me with the excuse I needed to mobilise the staff to sort out those stockrooms.

  Or, given that someone wanted something badly enough to flee as soon as I turned up, wouldn’t I prefer to do it myself?

  I’d prepared and personally signed notes for every parent and carer reminding them that parking directly outside the school was illegal. However, as thickening sleet slashed across the village, it struck me that handing them out in person was pretty quixotic – particularly as in this weather I might well have done as they did. At least the governor, Richard Morris, parked fifty metres away when he saw what I was up to, and, to do him justice, came and helped me – after all, as he pointed out, he could address people by name. Since he was six foot tall and broad with it, to say nothing of tending the gardens of half the villagers, people neither answered back nor balled the notes into the overflowing gutters. Not that they did with the ones I handed out, after they’d seen me shove the sopping wet paper back though the open car window of the first mother to try it.