she didn’t even have to fight for this
she’s lucky to have him
classroom walls are decorated with flow charts and diagrams, anatomy drawings, planets orbiting the sun, posters of extinct mammals and a map of the world that makes Britain rival Africa in size, testament to the colonial cartographers who got away with it for centuries, even now, it seems, as she approaches her very own classroom on the second floor, the obligatory line-up of the kings and queens of England on its walls
as well as a poster of Tutankhamun’s golden death mask from the British Museum exhibition she’d queued for hours to attend with her school
the beautiful boy Pharaoh who lived thirteen hundred years before Christ
whom every girl in her class fell in love with, swooning over their ancient Egyptian crush
there’s also a poster of the monoliths of Stonehenge, mysterious against the Wiltshire plains as the sun goes down in the background, another unforgettable school trip
while between the lofty windows looking out on to the playing fields, Neil Armstrong walks on the moon with the caption: one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind
like her
every step she takes will raise these children up, she will leave no child behind
as she smooths down her skirt, fluffs up her neck-tie and curly perm, wooden desks lined up, blackboard wiped clean, white chalk on its wooden tray ready for her to inspire the mixed-ability classes of this comprehensive in this multicultural neighbourhood
as the little angels pour into the sunny classroom on the first day of the new school year, their babbling-stream voices full of excitement at meeting their new history teacher, not much older than them, who in that moment feels her heart burst with joy
as the sun emerges from the clouds to hit her in the face and powers her up with its energy and goodness
as she calls out the register when each class comes into her room that day, determined to quickly memorize their names, knowing the importance of a teacher’s personal touch to establish rapport
Danny, Dawna, Decima, Devonne, Doreene, David
Janet, Jenny, Jackie, Jazil, Chris, Mark, Monica, Matthew
Rosemary, Lenny, Lloyd, Keith, Kevin, Helen, Ian
Sharon, Yasmin, Jasmine, Jasvin, Marlene, Merline, Ekow
Glenford, Garry, Gerry, Tim, Tom, Trevor, Tony, Terry
Kweku, Kwaku, Kwame, Winston, Smita, Leah, Akua
Julia, Jules, Julie, Juliette, Beverley, Brenda, Chaz, Maz, Rory
Remi, Yemi, Abi, Aarti, Eddie, Carlton, Kingley, Shabnam
God bless them all, her mission has begun – to make history fun and relevant because we need to avoid repeating the mistakes of the past and to deepen our understanding of who we are as the human race, don’t we, class?
sit quietly, don’t fidget now, we don’t exist in a vacuum, children, no talking at the back, please, thank you, we are all part of a continuum, repeat after me, the future is in the past and the past is in the present
their bright, shining faces looking up at her, a bit spotty, a bit greasy, way too much forbidden make-up on some of the older girls, yet they’re obedient, doing as instructed, encouraged, no doubt, by her passion and relatable personality
even little blighters like Kevin, Keith and Terry who turned up with swastika motifs stuck on to their pencil cases and National Front badges brazenly brandished on their blazers
which she deals with by educating them about Hitler’s Final Solution, shows them photos of the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp when the Americans liberated it at the end of the war
the shock of it triggering a hundred questions
miss! miss! miss!
no, they are not walking skeletons, but prisoners of war and they are alive, just, and these were the gas chambers, and this here is a mass burial pit full of real skeletons, and this is a drawing of women worked so hard in the camps their wombs fell out, as you can see
pass them around and take a good look
or when race wars broke out in the classroom
look at this photograph of a lynching in Mississippi in 1965, yes, those children are indeed clapping and cheering as this black man hangs dead from a tree, his neck broken, his crime was to apparently stare suggestively at a white woman
miss! miss! miss!
no, there were never any trials, suspects were grabbed off the street and hung, shot, beaten or burnt to death
this, class, is what happens when prejudice gets out of hand
she had their attention and by the end of each term, their devotion, expressed through so many gifts of homemade cards and cakes, chocolate Easter eggs, Christmas presents and baskets of fruit that she was embarrassed to carry them over-spilling her arms into the crowded staff room (a sure way to make enemies) and took them directly to the boot of her car instead
Shirley
was praised by the headmaster, Mr Waverly, as a natural teacher, with an easy rapport with the children, who goes above and beyond the call of duty, achieves excellent exam results with her exemplary teaching skills and who is a credit to her people
in her first annual job assessment
Shirley felt the pressure was now on to be a great teacher and an ambassador
for every black person in the world.
2
The staff room is stuffed with sofas, tables, armchairs, coat racks and cork noticeboards studded with rotas for monitoring the breaks, postcards, fire evacuation instructions and a poster of a topless girl, barely sixteen, if that
teachers are coming and going, children are knocking on the door for this or that, answered by one or other annoyed member of staff, what is it now, Moira-Billy-Mona-Ruthine-Leroy?
can’t we have our lunch in peace for once?
Shirley endures the fug of foul-smelling smoke without complaint, even though her eyes smart and her hair stinks so badly she has to wash it every night
such a scruffy lot, these teachers, she thinks, sitting neatly in her prim skirts and court shoes, watching them eat their cheese and tomato sandwiches or pork pies or Cornish pasties, instead of the disgusting slush served up in the school canteen
while she eats her salt-fish, sliced plantain and sourdough bun concoctions
hoping no one will notice, hates having to explain herself
to her left is Margo (Geography) who wears flowery-flowing dresses and her hippy hair long with two thin plaits wrapped halo-like around her forehead
she’s teaching for as long as it takes to fund an overland spiritual voyage to an ashram in Goa, where she’s going to find herself (first) and a husband (second) and leave this, this, she gesticulates
they started together, were allies against the Oldies, most of whom don’t even know what pedagogical means
Shirley likes Margo because Flower-Power Margo likes and accepts her
on Shirley’s other side is Kate (English Literature), her other friend, determined to make headmistress before she turns thirty-five, delivered with such conviction, both Shirley and Margo can only nod their heads, of course Kate is going make head teacher, having been raised by politician parents who said everything with conviction, according to Kate, who either had to match their confidence or be crushed by it
the bear-like John Clayton (Maths) sits opposite, sporting a beard that could house a legion of lice, a dirty-looking denim jacket, threadbare corduroy trousers and scuffed Jesus-creepers on his enormous feet
hardly setting an example to the kids, although she does like him – shambolic, apologetic, nice to her, which, she admits, is all it takes
he’s reading a newspaper, its front page emblazoned with a police mug-shot of a black youth looking wild-eyed and menacing from across the ashtrays and tea-stained mugs on the coffee table