Supply Teacher

by

Cynthia Allen

cyn_allen@yahoo.co.uk

“What do you think she’ll be like?” said Arnold , rubbing his knee. It still felt tender from yesterday’s fall in the playground.

“Probably old and hideous,” said Michael.

“What makes you think it’ll be a ‘she’?” asked Ellie. “And will you stop scratching yourself, Arn, it’s not nice.”

“Of course it’ll be a woman,” Michael insisted. “They always are.”

“I wasn’t scratching myself . I was rubbing my knee ‘cos it’s sore,” Arnold protested, moving the offending hand into full view.

“You’re always poking and prodding yourself,” said Ellie. “It’s repulsive. Have you got fleas or something?”

“No, I haven’t. I’ve never had fleas.”

“We haven’t had a supply teacher for ages,” said John. “Not since that old biddy with the smelly armpits and the bald patch.”

“Who was that?” asked Michael. “I don’t remember her.”

“You weren’t here,” said Ellie. “It was when you went to Turkey with your mum.”

“That was ages ago,” said Michael. “My dad’s left Mum twice since then.”

“That’s what I just said,” John declared. “Ages ago.  I said that.”

“He’s back now, though, ain’t he,” said Arnold, “your dad?”

“I think we’ve got her for a whole week,” Ellie grumbled. “All the while Old

Bagbones is away.”

“I wish I could have gone on the school journey,” complained Arnold . “I hate being stuck here while everyone else is off.”

“Not everyone,” said Ellie. “We’re here.”

“Who wants to go to Romney Marsh, anyway?” said Michael. “It’s a dump.”

“Better than being here,” Arnold whined, “with you lot.”

“Charming!” said Ellie, echoing her mother, who always said this whenever Ellie’s father dared to make a comment about her housewifely skills that was anything less than overstated approbation.

“Here she comes!  Here she comes!” shrieked Sandra, who until that point had been hiding behind an out-of-date atlas.

The door opened and in walked the tallest woman the children had ever seen. 

“Blimey!” said Arnold , his left hand returning to its position under the desk so that he could continue to rub his sore knee. 

“Good morning,” announced the lofty one in subterranean tones. “Please stand.”  She glared at Arnold .  “All of you.”

Arnold jumped to his feet, yanking at the seat of his trousers, which had somehow bonded to the chair.

The newcomer had a crepuscular air, with vampiric canines and long, black hair that snaked in spirals about her shadowy, sunken cheeks.  And she was very, very large.  Michael shuddered, an involuntary reflex in response to her disquieting appearance.

“She looks like a man,” he whispered to Ellie.

“Don’t be horrible.”

“Well, she does. Look at that nose. And her feet. They’re bigger than my dad’s, and he takes a ten.”

“Shush,” Ellie hissed. “Listen.  Miss is speaking.”

“Miss is indeed speaking,” said Big Foot.

“Blimey,” muttered Arnold again, “she’s got good hearing.”

“Now, I shall introduce myself.  My name is Vivienne Kinsolver and I shall be your teacher for the day.  Please, do sit down.  And  -  what is your name?”  She glared at Arnold, who blushed and scratched and shuffled his feet.

“He’s Arnold, Miss,” said Sandra. “ Arnold Hennessey.”

“I am sure that Arnold Hennessey is able to speak for himself, young lady.  Aren’t you, Arnold Hennessey?”

“Miss?”

“Able to speak for yourself?  Well, perhaps not.  Now, sit down, and I shall peruse the timetable that your headmaster has so kindly given to me.”

Miss Kinsolver took a deformed notebook from a voluminous, bright yellow handbag that clashed unpleasantly with her purple dress and emerald green eye-shadow.

“Aah, yes,” she smirked. “This morning we have . . .  from now until ten . . .  Chemistry.  Now that is a little unfortunate, as I know no Chemistry whatsoever.  Still, we could always spend the time investigating the works of Primo Levi.  He was a chemist, you know.”  She mused. “‘The Periodic Table’, I think.”

“Oh, good,” said Sandra, who loved Science lessons. “We’ve already started that. We’ve done the first five elements and  . . .”

“‘The Periodic Table’ is an autobiography,” said the teacher. “It’s about the War.”

“Oh,” said Sandra weakly.

“And then we have Geography, about which I know . . .  not very much.  We shall spend the time reading Thomas Hardy – Tess of the D’Urbervilles.  Lots of excellent descriptions of the countryside.  This afternoon is Mathematics.  Not one of my best subjects, I’m afraid, so instead we shall look at . . .”  She considered. “I know, we shall look at Marquez.  One Hundred Years of Solitude.  And perhaps, if we have time, we shall take a quick peep at Henry IV - Part II.”

“She’s mad,” said John to the girl next to him, a dainty creature with dazzling, carroty ringlets, and freckles that covered her nose and explored her cheeks in burnished patches. The creature blushed, succeeding in uniting all her freckles into one large pink smudge. 

“Miss, why aren’t we doing Maths? We were supposed to carry on with simultaneous equations today,” said John.

“Indeed?  Well, why don’t you see if you can manage to perform them simultaneously to listening to me. I shall be reading extracts from the Marquez.”

“But that’s . . .” John began.

“Ah, no,” said Miss Kinsolver, “I was forgetting. You are a boy, and males are not able to multi-task.”

“What, Miss?” said a bemused John.

“Performing more than one action at a time,” she replied, smirking unpleasantly.

“What, Miss?”

“As I read snippets of the text, you listen, and at the same time you execute your . . .  equations.”  She spat out the word as if its very mention would defile her lips.

“What, Miss?”

“Let us press on.  We have Art, I see.  The Woman in White, I suggest. Wilkie Collins.  I believe I have a copy with me.”

“Excuse me, Miss,” said Sandra diffidently, “but what has that got to do with Art?”

“White, my dear, white: the source of all colour.  Or so scientists tell us.  Or would you prefer Tennessee Williams?  A little risqué, I should have thought, for your age, but nothing ventured . . .”

“ Tennessee ?  Isn’t that a place?” said Ellie, waving her hand in the air to attract attention.

“Tennessee Williams, child. The Rose Tattoo.  Would that satisfy your artistic pretensions?  And after Art, we are timetabled for . . .  English.  How exciting – my own subject!  We shall then have the opportunity to discover Henry James’ The Turn of the Screw.  Most enjoyable.  In fact, I think we might even act it out.  A little drama is good for the soul, don’t you find?”

“What’s Turn of the Screw, Miss?” asked Ellie.

“Bloomin’ swot,” growled Arnold .

“It is, my dear, a novel.  It is about children, and ghosts, and a deranged governess. And abuse of the worst possible kind.”

“Great!” said Arnold .

“Undeniably,” the teacher agreed. “Henry James is acknowledged to be one of the greatest novelists in the English speaking world.  And now, the register.”

In place of Games, Miss Kinsolver read extracts from The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner.  She continued this throughout break.  The children, each one secretly intimidated by their supply teacher, refused to be the first to protest. When Miss Kinsolver finally paused for breath, with a flourish of her huge, red-taloned hands that indicated that she might, indeed, have finished, Ellie quietly ventured, “Miss . . .”

“Yes?”

“Why are we doing all this English?”

“For your erudition, my dear. To improve your intellect.  Advance your knowledge.”

“But shouldn’t we be doing other subjects, as well?”

“I,” said Miss Kinsolver, “am an English teacher.  It is that for which I trained.  That is what I expected to teach today. The Agency said so. Therefore, I shall teach English.”

“But all day?” asked John.

“Open your books,” said the teacher. “Your note books.  Be ready to annotate.  And open your minds, young people, be prepared to learn!”

The next hour was spent listening to Miss Kinsolver reading aloud from Hardy’s Jude the Obscure.  She gave no explanation for this abrupt change, simply read long passages from the text, flouncing about the classroom as she did so, periodically gesturing at one or other of the pupils to supply an observation.  Few were forthcoming.

At one o’clock, Miss K. unexpectedly stopped reading.  She ran a hefty hand over her chin, swooped upon the nearest pupil, the hapless John.

“What time is lunch time in this school?” she barked.

“L-l-lunch time?” he stuttered. “That was . . .  it started fifteen minutes ago.”

“Note books away!” she shrieked. “Off, off with you.  Back at one thirty sharp.  Sharp, mind!”

With that, she swept from the room.

“She’s a man,” announced Michael.

“Don’t be daft,” said Arnold . “How can she be a man?  She’s wearing a dress and lipstick.  And she’s got a handbag.”

“’Course she can’t be a man,” said John. “She’s got  . . . you know.”

“Got what?” said Ellie.

“Boobs,” whispered John, reddening.

Ellie squinted.  “Eh?”

“Boobs!” yelled Arnold .

“So what?” said an unembarrassed Ellie. “They could be fake.  She – he – might just stuff his bra.  With cotton wool.”

“Or hankies,” said the petite, freckled girl.

“Or those rubbery, chicken thingies,” pointed out the erudite Sandra. “My sister’s got some.”

“See,” said Michael, “she could be a man.”

“Rubbish!” said Arnold .

“Yeah, rubbish,” added John. “She’d need more than Sandra’s sister’s chicken thingies to get boobs like hers.”

“Shush,” said Ellie, “Miss is back.”

As suddenly as she had left, Miss Kinsolver reappeared.

 “What does your sister have, young lady?”

“Chicken,” Ellie interposed. “Her sister likes chicken.”

“I am not convinced that this was the theme of your conversation.  However, I shall be unable to pursue it, as I have bad news for the class. I have to go. The remainder of today’s lessons will be conducted by the Head.”

She began to cram her books into the ample yellow bag.

“Miss,” said Freckles.

“And you are?”

“Felicity Fanshaw, Miss.”

“And what do you require, Felicity Fanshaw?”

“Will you be back tomorrow?”

“I fear not. Now, time to leave. Farewell!”

And with that, she was gone.

“You know why she had to leave, don’t you?” said Michael.

“’Cos all she knew was English?” answered John.

“Well, that was better than the last one. She didn’t know anything at all,” Sandra complained.

“Yeah,” said Arnold, “and she stunk, like something that had died.”

“Did you see Miss Kinsolver’s chin?” said Michael.

“What about it?” asked Ellie.

“It’s why she was in a rush, when she knew what time it was. She was too late.”

“Too late? Too late for what?”

“She was getting designer stubble,” said Michael. “She needed a shave.”

“I said she was a man,” said Arnold .

“It was obvious,” agreed John.

©2009 Cynthia Allen

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