First floor. Room 107. A line of disorderly teenagers. My Year 7s, shoulders hunched under the weight of their schoolbags, had formed small army oiled with sebum ready to do battle with me. There they stood, grown-ups in-the-making – I could picture them, in ten or 15 years’ time, their shoulders even more stooped under the weight of worries.
I had already spotted two or three of them in the playground, watching me as I parked the car. Now, seeing the same kids whispering as I made my approach, I realised it was a bad idea to bring the Mercedes. It was Miloud who had insisted I borrow it.
Mourad, chill out, be zen, I told myself, trying to get a firm grip on my classroom keys. But they began dancing in my clammy hand, threatening to slip away at any second.
‘Good morning!’ I said opening the door and avoiding eye contact.
‘Morning, sir,’ a few replied.
Immodium. Immodium. Immodium. Immodium.
I pushed open the door, trying not to think about my laxophobia, and stared coldly at my students.
‘Come in!’ I said.
They filed calmly into the classroom, one behind another, in such orderly fashion it felt like I had won the lottery.
‘Sit down!’ I ordered, trying out the next intruction. 135
No sooner said than done. Holy shit, I recall thinking, they follow orders! This was deeply satisfying, but it was also as if I were watching myself in action. For someone who was meant to embody authority, I sensed I was an impostor.
I wrote my name on the board, making sure to curl the C of Chennoun nicely. I began by writing my name because, in all my classroom memories, the teachers began by writing their name in big letters on the blackboard. They stamped us with it for life, like livestock: Remember this name.
I asked my students to do the same thing on half sheets of paper. Some of the girls wrote in pink, and drew hearts where the dots should have been on their i’s, or added little flowers around their first names. Others, at the back, wrote in insect-sized handwriting and I couldn’t begin to make it out.
A girl in the front row was slouched at her desk, playing with her cornrows, as I tried to decipher her half-page.
‘Cassandra!’ I said in my newly-appointed-boss voice, “Sit up, please!”
It worked a treat, because Cassandra sat up straight for the rest of the lesson and, for all I know, will continue to do so for the rest of her life. ‘Have you noticed?’ she’ll ask her osteopath, when she’s 30. ‘My spine is flawless! It’s all thanks to my French teacher, who said to me one day…’
In that moment, I felt I could expect anything of them: rigour… excellence… the moon.
But I didn’t have a clue, so what I asked them was: “Right, what do you think we’re going to do this year?’
‘Reading and writing…! Spelling…! Grammar…!’ came a few answers fired from different parts of the classroom.
I responded by scribing their replies, to enjoy the feeling of chalk gliding across the board, ‘Reading and writing! Yes! 136 Spelling! Very good! And Grammar! Yes!’
This meant that the first interruption caught me off-guard, and with my back turned.
I could hear one of my female students acting the troublemaker. Or perhaps it was one of my male students; they can be hard to distinguish at that age.
The voice struck me in the back: shrill, sharp as an arrow and singing, ‘Shine bright liiiike a diamond!’
Laughter all round to the effect that this was the joke of the century. As well as being ugly, teenagers have a sense of humour that sucks.
For a split second I wondered what to do. This was their way of testing me. The famous test. How could I ever have thought I’d dodge it? I carried on staring at the board, playing the person who wouldn’t be knocked off balance, not even by an earthquake measuring eight on the Richter scale.
‘Grammar might come in handy for you too, Rihanna!’ I ventured.
It started up again, scattered laughter around the room, clinging to everything: walls, ceiling, blackboard. Acnepocked belly laughs.
‘Right, that’s enough!’ I said. Then I cleared my throat and tried again, even louder: ‘That’s enough!’
But they didn’t stop.
That’s when I realised dangling a carrot wasn’t going to work. And humour wasn’t the solution either. This was all-out war and my job was to become an armoured vehicle, a tank on auto-pilot. I didn’t have a choice, it was imperative. If tanks alone survive in war zones, it’s because they’re solid and they’re bombproof.
After a brief lull, I asked my students to fill out their ‘About Me’ sheets, which would provide a little more information: 137 parental occupations, siblings, hobbies.
I thought fondly back to Madame Mocca, my History and Geography teacher, who was close to retirement age when I started at secondary school. She was the proprietor of the establishment. You could tell from the way she had personalised her classroom. There were green plants dotted about and she had pinned photos of her grandchildren to the wall, as well as the inevitable relief maps of France.
We were chez-Madame Mocca, and, chez-Madame Mocca, she was the law. She was old and so slight that we were scared she might break a bone with each step she took. But it was a false impression of frailty. You could hear a pin drop in her lessons. Everything ran like clockwork. Madame Mocca was a rare kind of tank, embodying natural authority in all its splendour.
At parents’ evening, she had remarked to Big Baba, who was wearing his suit with the Bic biros clipped to his jacket pocket: ‘If I only had Mourads in my class, everything would be perfect.’
Big Baba had grinned from ear to ear. We could see all his fillings as a token of how proud he was.
‘Sir? If our parents aint working, isn’t it we put benefits?’ asked a student at the back, who hadn’t bothered to take off her coat before raising her hand.
I collected the ‘About Me’ sheets slowly, stringing things out, like an Italian football team leading in extra time.
Another student, who was leaning on the radiator, asked permission to speak.
‘Sir? Is it true you sell weed?’
‘I beg your pardon?!’
‘Word is, you’re dealin’ – that’s what a Year 9 told us this morning.’
138 Dozens of pairs of eyes were staring at me now, hanging on my answer as if I were about to utter words of prophesy.
‘So what kind of rumour is this?’
‘He said there’s a teacher, yeah, and we all know teachers aint zillionaires, but this one, he said, he’s driving a C-class Merc.’
‘So, in your view, if a teacher drives a nice car it automatically means they’re selling drugs?’
‘Nah, but you’re Arab innit?’
Bad idea, borrowing Miloud’s car. Very bad idea.
‘Would anyone like to tell us what a cliché is?’
The responses came quick as a flash:
‘A cliché? Isn’t that like a photo?’
‘Cliché-sous-Bois? That’s where my aunt lives!’
So I spent my first lesson explaining that clichés often reflect prejudices or snap judgements.
‘Is it like when people say gingers smell?’ asked Sylvestre, a short redhead in the front row.
‘Absolutely, Sylvestre!’
‘But that’s not a cliché, sir,’ piped up a voice from the southern border of the classroom, ‘it’s the truth. Carrot tops do smell – of wee!’
Everyone burst out laughing again.
‘Shhhhhhh!’ I hushed them, remembering my colleague Gérard, whose classroom was next door.
The bell rang. Everyone stood up at once. Proper little soldiers. Out they trooped, in tight formation. One, two, one, two, march. A few checked their mobiles, which wrong-footed me. A smartphone in Year 7? I’d never felt so prehistoric.
Next up was what teachers call a ‘window’. A free hour between two lessons. Time to revive my spirits. 139
A student returned shyly to the classroom.
‘Sorry, sir. I left my Ventolin on the table, and if I have an asthma attack I might die, that’s what my mum said.’
‘Right, come on in, then.’
Dodging between the desks, she picked up her inhaler and stuffed it into a pocket.
‘Sir, is this your first time as a teacher?
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Asma Zerdad. But everyone teases me about it.’
‘Why? Asma’s a pretty name.’
‘They still tease me, though. It’s because I’m asthmatic.’
‘I see.’
‘But I don’t care. They’re stupid. Is this your first time, sir, because the new teachers, well, none of them stay. I mean, they always leave at the end of the year. Or that’s what my big sister says.’
‘Is she a student here, your sister?’
‘Yeah, she’s in Year 9. She’s called Sarah.’
‘Well, here’s hoping everything goes to plan and I can stay.’
‘Insha’Allah, sir. Good luck. I’d better go, I’ll be late.’
Her schoolbag was so wide she could barely squeeze through the door, and then Asma was gone. A little girl whose mother probably still brushed her hair (the brightly coloured scrunchies in the long plait she wore to one side were a giveaway). She reminded me of my sister Mina, when she was younger.
Prior to my first day, I’d been worrying about the verdict of the inspector who, at the end of my teacher-training year, would randomly decide whether I deserved to qualify or not.
Now, my only question was whether or not I’d make it through ’til the end of the school year. 140
Following a succession of Year 7s, all exhibiting varying degrees of restlessness or enthusiasm, the morning was finally over.
I began to create a character for myself: Vladimir, a man with no pity or remorse, raised in the tundra by a pack of wolves.
The teachers had their own area in the cafeteria. A sort of bunker, arrived by braving hordes of starving teenagers and crossing a fanfare of clinking knives and forks.
All those emotions had made me hungry, and I piled my tray with a meal fit for a pregnant woman at full term. Potato, I insisted on plenty of potato, I wanted heaps of the stuff. I had a plate filled with enough starch to last me through war.
I headed for Hélène, seeking out her vanilla scent and compassionate smile as my antidote. The seat next to her was taken by Gérard. Elbows bolted to the table, he was chewing on his spaghetti bolognaise and smearing it all over his moustache.
He shot me one of his sardonic looks.
‘Still alive?’
‘Yes, as you can see.’
‘They were running riot with you, hey? You do realise I’m in the next door classroom and I can hear everything?’
Yes, you blockhead with the disgusting salt-and-pepper hair, I do realise! was the answer I wanted to give.
‘Sure, they’re upbeat students. I like it that way, it keeps things lively!’
‘Lively? Ha-ha!’
He carried on slurping his spaghetti.
Gérard was assuming the role of the threatened elder, keen to outsmart me. Let him mock me all he liked, he had yet to meet Vladimir, my steely double, who would have opted for 141 raw bear meat at the cafeteria.
Hélène smiled and raised a cherry tomato to her mouth, pointing to the empty chair opposite Gérard. ‘Have a seat there, Mourad!’
She looks nice with her hair down, I thought as I slid my tray onto the table.
There was also a new face, a young guy in his thirties with an unruly lock of hair that he kept blowing out of the way. This was something I could only do in my dreams, but, given the texture of my hair, I’d shaved off those dreams with a pair of clippers.
‘Hi, I’m Wilfried,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I’m the long-term supply teacher.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Wilfried.’
‘First day not proving too painful?’
‘Could be worse,’ I ventured, remembering the expression ‘glass half-full’.
‘So what does long-term supply teaching involve?’
Wilfried smiled and performed that trick again with his slick lock of hair.
‘It’s means I’m of no-fixed-abode in the education system. I’ve been here for a year and a half now, filling in for the librarian. It’s the first time I’ve stayed so long in one place.’
‘What happened to the librarian?’ I asked, shovelling down the potatoes.
Hélène and Gérard exchanged a knowing look.
Wilfried smirked and cut up his steak carefully.
‘You’re sure you want to know?’
‘Why? Am I not meant to?’
‘She got it in the face with a fire extinguisher – big gash above the eyes. You can still see the bloodstain on the learning resources centre carpet. Nothing life-threatening, 142 but she’s been deeply traumatised.’
‘You don’t say…?!’
‘Extended sick leave…you see where I’m coming from…’
‘Stop it! You’ll frighten him!’ Hélène remonstrated. I love dusting down the verb ‘to remonstrate’. Not that I often get the chance.
‘Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.’
‘Trouble is, she really was a piece of work…!’
‘Nobody deserves to be hit with a fire extinguisher,’ added Gérard, with a spurt of tomato sauce. ‘Nobody.’
‘Sure, but she pushed her luck.… Anyway, it’s not like Wilfried has any worries in that department, all the girls are head-over-heels in love with him. He’s a catch!’
‘You’re exaggerating, Hélène!’
‘No I’m not! They’re all crazy for you!’
‘Rubbish! He he he. Stop it, you’ll make me blush! Right, I’m off to find some dessert!’
Wilfried covered his embarrassment by standing up and loping aimably towards the dessert section.
‘What those girls don’t realise,’ added Gérard, unable to resist as he mopped up the remains of his sauce with some bread, ‘is that, however crazy they are for him, he’ll always be the ‘craziest girl’ of all!’
He guffawed and his moustache quivered like a row of sardines.
Hélène’s disapproving expression made her look extra cute.
‘Keep your homophobic jokes to yourself, Gérard.’
I reckon I’d have figured out sooner or later that the L-T-S teacher was a bit G-A-Y.
‘So tell me, new-kid-on-the-block,’ said Gérard, standing up, ‘what’s your union status?’
‘Because,’ said Hélène, raising one eyebrow irresistibly, 143‘Gérard is the union rep around here…’
‘So if you decide to join up, kiddo, come and see me. We’re CGT at Gustave Courbert.’
Would that be CGT, as in the General Workers’ Union? Or CGT as in Cretin with Grey Tufts?
Gérard the salt-and-pepper union rep, with his bolognese-spattered moustache, suddenly started talking more softly.
‘You haven’t given me an answer about Thursday evening, Hélène…’
‘Thursday evening? What’s happening on Thursday evening?’
‘Hey, come on, it’s the preview of my friend’s photography exhibition, remember, at the mairie de Montreuil…’
‘Oh yeah, of course… Look, I don’t know yet, Gérard, I’ll keep you posted. I’ve got no idea what I’m doing on Thursday evening, it’s a long way off…’
‘A long way off? It’s in three days’ time…’
‘I’ll let you know, okay?’
The union rep recused himself, wiping his moustache with the back of his hand. Thwarted and revolting.
‘Between you and me, Mourad, Gérard’s a bit heavy-going. He doesn’t mean any harm, but he’s heavy-duty.’
You don’t say? I didn’t say.
Gérard had lost his first match. I experienced a rush of pleasure, heightened by the warm spuds I was wolfing down.
Wilfried, the long-term supply teacher, was on his way back to our table when he noticed our salt-and-pepper rep stomping out of the canteen.
‘So what’s up with Gérard? Why’s he in a huff?’
At least Wilfried could distinguish between ‘normal’ Gérard and Gérard ‘in a huff’.
Because I couldn’t see any difference.