Last Days of School

Priscilla glared at her. ‘It’s Lady de Coercy, if you don’t mind!’

‘Well, in view of my PhD, I’m actually Doctor Parrish but in these meetings we tend to dispense with such formalities!’

Priscilla stared in astonishment at this confident, articulate woman.

‘As I was about to say,’ continued Rebecca, ‘my daughter, Katie, attends this school and I should like to thank all the staff for everything they do. I visit many schools in my role as a Lecturer in Education at the College in York and it is always a delight to see the good behaviour here.’

Lady de Coercy was not used to being contradicted and was keen to have the last word. ‘Sadly, there’s something much worse than all of this.’

We all stared at her.

‘And what might that be?’ asked Vera pointedly.

‘Children lack decorum these days.’

‘Such as?’ I [Jack] asked.

‘Eating in the street.’

There was a stunned silence.

[...next day and in sight of another school governor...]

[...] It was at that moment that Lady de Coercy emerged, a silk headscarf covering her heavily lacquered hair. She was oblivious to Anne who was just out of her eyeline as she stepped out on to the forecourt and rummaged in her handbag. With a satisfied smile she took out her bag of chocolate caramels, popped one in her mouth and, greedily, selected another.

‘Good afternoon, Priscilla,’ said Anne.

Priscilla stood transfixed. She had never read William Shakespeare’s Hamlet and would not have understood his phrase ‘hoist with his own petard’ but the meaning was there for all to see.

Poetic justice, thought Anne as the ironic reversal had played out before her.

Priscilla tried guiltily to replace the bag of sweets in her handbag but in her haste they scattered all over the forecourt and bounced on to the pavement.

‘Well, well,’ said Anne. ‘Eating in the street.’

‘It was only a sweet,’ spluttered Priscilla, almost choking.

‘As you were saying last night... no decorum.’

Lady de Coercy dashed to her Jaguar, jumped in and drove away.

Anne smiled. It had been a long time since she had felt as calm as this. Everything comes to she who waits, she thought.

I decided to walk down to the school gate and welcome some of the children. One of the new starters, Kevin Crapper, arrived holding his mother’s hand.

‘Mornin’, Mr Sheffield. ’Ere ’e is. ’E’s a star turn is our Kevin,’ she said, full of pride.

‘I’m sure he is,’ I said, more in hope than expectation.

Mrs Crapper looked down adoringly at her four-year-old son, who was picking his nose and then licking his fingers.

‘An’ tell yer ’eadmaster you’ll be five on Sat’day.’

‘Ah’ll be five on Sat’day,’ repeated Kevin with a glassy-eyed stare.

The little boy was wearing scruffy shorts and a Superman T-shirt.

‘Are you looking forward to school, Kevin?’ I asked.

‘No,’ was the blunt reply.

Mrs Crapper looked furious. ‘Don’t say that t’Mr Sheffield. Why don’t y’want t’come t’school?’

‘Y’said school were a piece o’ cake, Mam, but ah ’aven’t ’ad no cake.’

It was clear that Anne and Emma immediately held each other in mutual respect. Anne was the consummate professional and the children were busy producing colour wheels with pastel crayons. It was a hive of activity.

‘This is wonderful, Mrs Grainger,’ said Emma.

‘That’s kind of you to say. I love teaching this age group.’

‘I always found it the most demanding,’ said Emma.

Anne smiled. She was even more convinced she would enjoy working alongside this perceptive lady.

Emma crouched down next to five-year-old Chantal Higginbottom.

‘And what’s your favourite colour?’

‘Ice cream, Miss,’ said Chantal with utter conviction.

Emma looked up at Anne and they shared a conspiratorial smile.