At an unusual harvest assembly, a hat breaks and another letter is received.
The school hall was packed – packed and fiercely overheated.
With arms akimbo and bright showbiz smiles, the girls of Rowan Class kicked out their legs in time to explosive, pumping music accompanied by discreet miming directions from a bony woman in a bright turquoise leotard, presumably the choreographer. In their yellow and orange T-shirts, the girls were, thought Thelma, more like Pan’s People than any part of a primary school harvest assembly. Even so … She regarded the girls who were now doing a series of leapfrog – it was hard to work out just how all this was connected with harvest.
Suddenly she was assailed by a sharp, sweet memory: Topsy grimly bashing out ‘Look for signs that summer’s done’ on the old North Riding County Council piano, various PE benches stacked with produce from allotments and back gardens and, centre stage, mounted on the old vaulting horse, a magnificent varnished brown loaf in the shape of a wheatsheaf. Tommy Wheatcroft, who’d had the bakery down Kirkgate, had done it for them year on year. Then all the produce would be lovingly divvied up by Topsy and taken round by the Year Six class to the local sheltered housing.
Now, so Thelma understood, it all went straight to the Foodbank.
She looked to the back of the hall. No sign, as yet, of Kayleigh Brittain. She’d arrived early at school specifically to speak to her, only to be informed she wasn’t available – whatever that meant. How was she feeling after last night’s events? A few people – Terry, Nicole, herself – had wanted Kayleigh to call the police, but she’d been adamant her insurance would sort it and she just wanted to get home. Thelma again pictured that scratch in the caramel-coloured paintwork – bright, shiny, malicious … Despite the warmth of the hall, she shivered. It had been in this very hall she’d seen that look on Kayleigh Brittain’s face. What had she seen? Or who?
Sitting next to her, Liz was also thinking about damage to a car.
‘Go away!!! I don’t want to talk to you!’ A face distorted in anger … ‘I’m not surprised after what you’ve done, you mad bitch!’
Come on, Liz, get a grip. Paint stripper was not the same as a scratch, not at all. She looked across to where Jan was crouched with Elm Class, a fixed, almost manic grin on her face. One or two of the class waved at her, making the leaves on their hats shake, but Jan was definitely avoiding meeting her eyes. Probably annoyed with her for not coming in. As she looked, Elijah held up his hat, which had yet again come unstapled. With an almost furtive glance round, Jan got up and left the hall.
The thought hit her like a brick to the head.
Whoever was leaving letters needed to do so at a time when everyone was otherwise occupied. Like assemblies!
Another crescendo of pulsing music exploded to one last climax, and the hall erupted into whoops and cheers from the parents, who had been filming everything on their mobile phones.
‘Way to go, Kelsey!’
The voice sounded familiar to Thelma, yet she couldn’t quite place it. Turning, she saw the woman she’d been on the stall with at the summer fayre. Izzy, wasn’t it? Izzy Trewin. She was sitting two seats down from her – well, not exactly sitting, she was stood waving energetically. Thelma wished she would sit down; she was sure she could feel heat radiating off her. More than one person in the hall was fanning themselves with the leaflets that had been put out on the chairs.
‘Thank you, Year Six girls!’ It was Ian Berryman, thankfully in flannel trousers, not trackie bottoms. ‘Thank you for “Strictly come harvest!” More cheers. Both Liz and Thelma noted the dark stains under the arms of his Lodestone Academy polo shirt. ‘And also, a big thank you to Roz from Dance-tastic Academy for her hard work with the group.’
The bony woman sprung up, a freakishly Botoxed mouth smiling a frankly terrifying grin. ‘I teach several children’s classes,’ she announced. ‘All the details can be found on the leaflets on your seats.’ Which explained the origin of said glossy leaflets. Thelma skimmed the print, eyebrows raising slightly at the price.
‘Now before we go on to Year One …’ Ian’s voice rose ineffectively above the murmur in the hall. ‘Before we go on, I’ve an announcement to make … I’ve a message from Mrs Brittain. She’s very sorry but she’s been “unavoidably detained”!’ His heavily humorous inverted commas drew no reaction, except from Claire, who giggled. ‘But she wants all you guys to know—’ he inclined his head at the children ‘—you’ve all done a brilliant job!’ His voice went up again, obviously hoping to provoke a supportive cheer but there was only a subdued murmur.
‘How can she know they were brilliant if she’s not here?’ Thelma heard one parent say.
‘Never here that one,’ said another.
‘I’ve not seen her since the summer fayre,’ said Izzy Trewin.
Thelma frowned, concerned. In her experience it was one of the unwritten rules of a primary school that the head needed to be on display, beaming and smiling at each and every event: Christmas, harvest, sports day, parent evenings and assorted fundraisers.
Had what had happened shaken Kayleigh more than any of them realized? Maybe she should call her?
‘Now,’ said Ian. ‘We come to Year One and “Once Upon a Time in the Cabbage Patch”. Over to you, Mrs Starke!’ Without waiting to see what happened, he ducked out of the hall.
There was a faint but growing mutter as it dawned on everyone present that Mrs Starke was nowhere to be seen. Liz and Thelma exchanged glances.
‘I thought she was going out to mend Elijah’s hat,’ said Liz.
They both looked over to where the green and orange hats were beginning to stir and the Year One children knowing this was their time and that something was expected of them. Elijah stood, hatless, eyes wide with uncertainty. The staff were also stirring uneasily, unsure what to do.
Liz rose, looking anxiously at the door. Thelma put her hand on her arm. ‘I’ll go,’ she said. ‘You’re needed here.’
Liz nodded. There are some situations where a primary school teacher’s instincts kick in as powerfully as adrenalin, when uncertainty and embarrassment are replaced by iron-calm conviction and decisive action. This was one of them.
‘Now, boys and girls,’ said Liz in a quiet voice that could nevertheless be heard by everyone in the noisy hall. ‘Boys and girls, stand up and take your places, just like you did the other day for me and Mrs Stark.’ She sat (gingerly) down on the parquet floor in front of them, praying that when the time came, she’d be able to get back up again.
Thelma meanwhile negotiated her way out of the side door to the hall, into the (slightly) cooler corridor. As she headed down to the Key Stage One corridor, she was slightly surprised to see Ian Berryman walking in front of her. Was he too looking for Jan? Hearing her footsteps he turned, his expression surprised, almost shifty. ‘Is everything okay?’ he said.
‘I was just looking for Mrs Starke,’ said Thelma. ‘She’s not in the hall, and they’re ready to start.’
‘Isn’t she?’ He looked uncertainly back. ‘Right,’ he said, appearing to come to a decision. ‘I better just go …’ His words trailed away as he headed back towards the hall. He really needed to change his shirt.
Hurrying down towards Jan’s classroom, Thelma wondered just where he’d been going, but before she could consider the question, the stock cupboard door opposite the cloakrooms opened, and there stood Nicole, framed in front of the racks of paper and tubs of power paint. ‘Oh,’ she said in an affronted tone. ‘Aren’t you in the assembly?’
‘I’m looking for Mrs Starke,’ said Thelma again. ‘They’re waiting for her.’
‘Well, I was just checking the cupboard.’ Nicole sounded almost accusing. ‘I just wish people would clear up after themselves.’ She was sounding distinctly huffy. She locked the door and headed back up the corridor; Thelma looked after her.
Interesting.
From what she’d seen, the stock cupboard looked perfectly tidy.
Jan was in her classroom, sat in her teacher’s chair by the carpeted area, staring out of the window to where the coppery trees shifted in the sunny breeze. There was something utterly defeated and weary about her posture and tears glistened dully on her face, which was blotchy and puffy.
‘Jan,’ said Thelma. ‘Whatever is the matter?’
‘It’s all right, Thelma.’ Jan’s voice was harsh. ‘Now I finally know what people here really think of me.’ She flung a finger towards something lying on the carpet.
Typically dramatic, thought Thelma, and was immediately ashamed of the thought. She looked where Jan was pointing. On the carpet in front of her lay a torn-open white envelope and a folded rectangle of white paper. With a sinking feeling Thelma picked it up; the printed words leered out offensively.
CALL YOURSELF A TEACHER? DON’T MAKE
ME LAUGH! ALWAYS SHOUTING YOUR MOUTH
OFF! WHY DON’T YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP
FOR A CHANGE, YOU GOBBY COW, AND LET
THE REST OF US GET ON WITH THE JOB?