Parents gather at the edge of the playground, not sure how close they should get to us – the teachers – as if we are strange beings from another time and place. Fathers send their children from the railings to the middle of the playground, ready to line up. Mothers get a little closer, teary, seeking reassurance from the eyes of others. A boy in Year 3, who reminds me of my Rhys, runs around the playground chasing the girls.
‘I’m on cree-ee. You can’t tag me,’ one shouts.
Cree – the pre-determined safe place; the place where you can’t get tagged – is, today, according to the children, the small patch of tarmac on the playground that’s slightly lighter than the rest. When you are on cree, no one can get you. You are safe. You are home.
Year 6 stand on benches, carried out to the playground from the hall. The photographer’s assistant shuffles and draws children, while the teachers take the seats at the front. John, the headmaster, surveys us, then joins the photograph. Deborah, the deputy, sits by his side.
‘Knees together, ladies,’ says the photographer.
Obediently, we snap our legs closed. The men are asked to sit with their legs apart, to make fists and place them on their knees. We smile, in unison say, ‘Caerphilly cheese,’ but in my head, I’m sayingjust take the bloody picture.
Later, I hand out exercise books, and tell the children to turn to the first page.
‘Feel that paper with your hands,’ I say. ‘It’s lovely and smooth, isn’t it? I always think a fresh page is like a fresh start.’
The children look up at me. Waiting.
‘Our theme for this year, Year 6, is The Future. We will be looking ahead to the Year 2000 and beyond – considering issues like science, technology, the environment, travel, and of course, any ideas you may have. Copy the date down neatly,’ I say, tapping onSeptember, the fourth with my whiteboard pen. ‘Notice how we spell fourth. Remember the ‘u’.’
There’s too much noise coming from the classroom opposite: raised voices, laughter, the sound of chairs scraping across linoleum. I put my head around the door to find out what is going on. Sheets of newspaper, pots of glue and packets of straws are strewn over the tables.
‘We are building bridges,’ Emily, the new teacher, giggles. ‘Literally and metaphorically.’
I smile, nod, and close the door.
‘What are they doing?’ asks Charlotte Evans, now out of her seat.
‘Shhh.’ I hold my finger to my lips.
The familiar feeling of pain behind my eyes.
John has set up a flipchart in front of the stage. He invites us to sit in a half circle, to peel a pink Post-it from the pack.
‘What are we meant to be doing?’ I ask Mari.
‘We are writing down key words for the school’s new mission statement.’
‘Why can’t we just say them out loud?’
‘I think he’s been on another course,’ Mari whispers.
He invites us, one by one, to place our Post-its on the flipchart, to explain our chosen word to the room.
‘Freedom,’ I say. ‘I don’t think I need to explain that, do I?’
Emily’s word is ‘progress’.
John’s word is ‘standards’.
I have misunderstood the task.
‘Deborah will gather all of the Post-its, collate the information, and get it typed up,’ says John.
Deborah clicks her pen, writes in her new notebook.
‘Number 2 on the agenda: the Christmas concert… I’ve been thinking,’ John says, ‘it’s time for something new, something modern.’
‘But… we always do the nativity… always,’ I say, aware that I’m interrupting, aware that my voice is higher than it usually is.
‘Last year, when training, I…’ Emily begins.
‘It’s time for a change, Meryl. If you keep doing what you’ve always done, you’ll keep getting what you’ve always got.’
‘But the parents enjoy it,’ I say.
‘I’m sure the parents are just as bored as we are, Meryl.’ He holds his pale hand to his mouth, performs an exaggerated yawn.
‘But it’s what Christmas is!’
‘Deborah, if you could oversee the concert, please?’
Deborah nods, makes amm-hm noise, and writes down John’s instruction.
‘Number 3 on the agenda: the inspection. We haven’t had the exact dates yet, but we think it will be at the beginning of the spring term. Deborah has been in touch with a school in Gwynedd – inspected last March – and has learned that inspectors like to see original takes on theme work. Our themes are: Year 3 – Wales, Year 4 – Heroes and Villains, Year 5 – Animals, Year 6 – The Future. Creative ideas, please?’
‘I thought we could dress up as dragons,’ says Mel, ‘for Wales.’
‘Excellent,’ says Deborah, repeating Mel’s words slowly, before writing them down.
‘What about Year 6?’ I ask. ‘The Future? They are a bit too old to dress up?’
‘You could build a time machine,’ suggests Emily.
‘Yes,’ everyone agrees. ‘Great idea, Emily.’
I say nothing. I’m thinking of the mess, the time that constructing such a thing will take. But later, driving home, queueing at the Piccadilly lights, I realise that it is a good idea; it could elicit some wonderful writing from the children.
Rhys’s halls are clean and modern, not like the digs I had in my first year at Aber. An en suite! I nod politely at other parents as we pass on the stairs with boxes. So much stuff piled up in the boot, but it doesn’t look like a lot once we’ve unpacked and arranged his new life on the narrow shelves above the desk.
‘If you get homesick, I will come to get you. I will pick you up,’ I say. ‘You know that.’
‘He can get theTrawscambria,’ says Bill.
‘I will be fine, Mam.’
I want us to walk along the promenade, like Bill and I used to, but Rhys’s new flatmates have asked him to drinks, and Bill isn’t keen – ‘The clouds are thick. Full of something,’ he says, staring up at the darkening sky.
Bill drives his route home – short cuts, weak bridges, single lanes. The rain is heavy on the windscreen, becoming sleet. It’s not at all like the October Dad drove me to Aber. Dry. Cool. Still. 1965. A blue and green checked coat, a knotted navy scarf flung freely over my shoulder.
Bill is singing. He’s tapping out a rhythm on his knee.
I am shrieking. I am reaching for Bill’s arm, telling him to brake.
There is a lamb lying in the middle of the road, a ewe nursing it.
‘Do something!’
‘Like what?’
The lamb is bleeding from its side, and the ewe is licking it. I try to guide the ewe to the side of the road, but it’s bleating protectively, and won’t leave its child. I pull up the hood of my raincoat to stop the rain getting in, but the wind keeps tugging it back down.
‘Come on, Meryl. Leave it.’
I run around the side of the car, and take out the picnic blanket from the boot. I am trying to say, ‘We can’t leave it here,’ but my throat can only make noises, noises that come from the deep of my belly.
I wrap the blanket around the lamb, and Bill helps me carry it to the side of the road. Neither of us speaks for the rest of the journey home, but he must know that I’m crying.I sound like an animal, I think.I sound like the ewe.
The children and I compile a list: broken watches and clocks, buttons, yogurt pots, tins, egg cartons, bubble wrap. We plan different designs for the time machine, and at the end of the session the new child, Ben, brings me a wonderfully ambitious diagram – neatly labelled. I’m not sure the end result will meet his vision, but I will endeavour.
I begin the work of assembling a frame out of cardboard boxes and old wood. I use the glue gun to fix all of the sections together; then, putting down newspaper to catch the drips, I promise the children I will paint it during dinner time.
They unpack their sandwich boxes, collect coats from their hooks, but Ben stays behind.
‘May I help you paint, Mrs Williams?’ he...
