In Loco Parentis by Nigel Bird Read Free Book Online Page B

the same.
    At least we’re in this together, I think, my classroom assistants and I.
    I lift up my shoulders, put a smile on my face and lift the latch.
    Like an actor appearing from behind the curtain, I beam at my audience and deliver my first lines. “Hello everyone. Nice to be back.”
    Come on in, the water’s fine.
    one cup of coffee and a cigarette
    Torn between getting to the front of the line for the kettle and my duty of care, it’s my conscience that wins out. I walk down the path holding the tiny hands of Aurora and Emily. The rest follow in a crocodile, making sure they keep their fingers on their lips like I’ve shown them. Give it a couple of weeks and they’ll be running out there as quickly as they can, but for now everything’s fresh, new and nerve-wracking.
    I show them where the lines are and where they’re not allowed to go and point out the tumbledown, Victorian shacks we call the toilets.
    I let them go and run up the back way to the staff-room. The queue’s already gone and everyone’s sitting around chatting musically about their holidays.
    â€œHiya,” I say pouring the granules into my mug.
    â€œNice holiday?” a couple of people ask.
    â€œGreat.”
    â€œYou?”
    â€œFabulous, thanks.”
    There’s just enough water in the kettle to give me half a cup. “Just going downstairs.”
    â€œWe thought you were giving up,” Mildred says, then laughs as if she knew I’d never make it.
    â€œI was doing OK until...” and I can’t remember what it was that mucked it up, “...I had a drink.” It’s the truth. I just don’t bother to mention when the first drink was.
    I make it out without being interrupted and beetle off down the stairs.
    Thank goodness the head-teacher smokes. Like a chimney, he is.
    We’re the only school in Camden with an allocated smoking room. Not that it doesn’t have other purposes - serves as the photocopying room, the kiln and stock-cupboard.
    I call it the Haven.
    It’s in the basement, where those of pure lung and heart feel it ought to be.
    Five minutes till the bell and I set to rolling like the world’s about to end.
    Sal laughs at me from her usual chair, the one in the corner. “Didn’t give up then?”
    â€œNah.”
    â€œMe neither.”
    Carol Carpenter’s standing talking to the boss. Something about how marvellous Italy was, how cultured, how utterly divine. “And the opera,” she says, “would melt your heart. If I’d died at that very moment,” and some of us might wish she had, “I’d have been the happiest soul at St Peter’s gates.” All this is said through a rasping throat that sounds like there’s phlegm in there that needs to get out.
    I pull over a chair. Take a puff and a swig.
    â€œNice break, Sal?” She’s one of the good guys. Straight down the line, dedicated and knows her stuff.
    â€œNot bad,” she says. “We were down in the Lakes.”
    â€œWhat a beautiful part of the world,” Carol says. “Did I ever tell you about the time Phil and I went to the commune there?”
    Did she ever. It’s my cue. Another puff and my craving’s gone. It’s either that or go through the whole nipple and nut thing again.
    While I stub the cigarette out, Alistair speaks. “How did the little ones go?”
    â€œGreat,” I say. “A couple of criers and one accident. We did the tour, had a couple of stories, circle time and a little bit of a play.”
    I can tell he’s not satisfied. Likes to feel he’s got his finger on the pulse, he does, but he wouldn’t know where to find it if you drew him a picture. “What are you working on next?”
    Working on? It’s the first day. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I’m mainly working on survival. “Milk first,” I tell him, “then we’re