Читать книгу Zero Per Cent - Mark Swallow - Страница 11

Others flourished in different spheres. Michael scored an early success when the Music teacher gave him an hour, for gobbing into Razza’s cornet during ‘orchestra’.

“A hour? A hour? You can’t do that!”

“I can,” he said, uneasy with the challenge.

“Not without twenty-four hours’ notice you can’t. What if I’m not home when I’m expected? Eh?”

Michael has always been good on his rights and others’ wrongs.

“Your mother will be relieved.”

This teacher couldn’t even do sarcasm.

“Nah, nah, nah, that ain’t funny. You can’t do it, mister. Twenty minutes, innit, twenty minutes max or Denny’ll come and explain matters t’ya.”

There were other coups. Stacey Timms claimed to have done it in the toilets with a Year Nine protected by a salt and vinegar crisp bag. Razza, the son of the caretaker, told a teacher to kiss his arse. Clearly I was needed to raise the tone.

The following week the school secretary came to pull me out of a lively Music lesson.

“Sorry to, er, interrupt – but could I borrow Jack for a moment? There’s a visitor for him.”

I didn’t know what model I had demanded: anything so long as she was drop-head gorgeous and red. I wasn’t disappointed and, if my man was, he didn’t show it.

“Don’t worry, sir. You did write a remarkably good letter. Fooled us fair and square. This is the least we can do – and perhaps in a few years’ time our indulgence will pay off in terms of brand loyalty. The horn is in the usual place. One blast should do the trick.”

I climbed inside to hit the horn, which made such a very horny sound that the music-room windows filled with kids – and other windows too. After smearing the mahogany veneer with my sticky fingers, I got slowly back out, pacing around her and leaning into gales of envy. I shot a few questions at the man, cocking my head in interest at his replies. I took the odd note in my homework diary before languidly checking my phone for messages: too many to cope with now. Might have to get a school secretary myself.

I eased back inside and, to grateful cheers, sent the roof up and back, retracting sexily into its slot. I nodded to the school’s façade which now included a lifelike bust of Bumcheeks. The bust sprouted a quick finger and bellowed, “My study, now!”

“I have meant to make your acquaintance earlier, young man. Of course I have spoken to your mother once or twice. I spent a good deal of time at the start of the year apologising for you to the airport authority and now I dare say a car manufacturer will be in touch. This is not going to become a craze, do you understand?”

“Yes sir.” I knew Razza had written to a Chinese company about a clever-looking military vehicle which could fire bridges across raging rivers.

“And I think you would do well from now on to restrict your activities to the school. Stop getting muddled up with the outside world.”

“You mean lower my horizons, sir? I have always tried to aim high…”

“I mean, Jack Curling, focus your energies where they count, which is in the classroom.”

Before taking this advice, I couldn’t resist writing to the photocopier company and getting a manual which I learnt off by heart. Schuman was much impressed by my enlarging, my stapling and my shrinking. He gave me increasing access to what I now saw as key school power node.

“I’ve never really understood any of the buttons but you seem to realise it has been underachieving,” he moaned. “Like so much round here…”

There were delicious dividends. Teachers, stressed and confused, so often left behind on the glass what they had been copying. Salary statements, pages of their own boring stories, an invitation to a taster bell-ringing evening in Feltham. Nothing, however, on Miss Price, whom I was looking forward to introducing to Mum and Dad at parents’ evening.

The atmosphere was good. The teachers looked a bit knackered but the really mad kids never come to these dos, their madder folks refusing to be bollocked by smarmy young graduates – so there was little for anyone to worry about on such a beautiful sunny evening.

I had left Miss Price to last on the bookings sheet. I told Mum even as I saw the Science teacher setting out his table that he had said he was unable to make it.

“Family matters, I think.”

This avoided a difficult meeting for me and gave Dad the chance to moan about the school (“We’ve come all this way and he can’t be bothered to stay. Think of the holidays they all get…”) which improved his mood. History, Maths, English and ICT passed OK except Mum thought the English teacher was a bit snobby.

“Always were,” said Dad.

Bumcheeks breezed by and greeted us civilly which did no harm. Ronaldson let me down a little by saying I wasn’t trying hard enough and called me a “great asset”, which sounded rude. Miss Price alone remained, in the still sunny Modern Languages room.

“Hello, miss,” I beamed at her, eagerly pulling up a chair and letting Mum and Dad find their own. “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you, Jack. Hello, Mr Curling, Mrs Curling.” She’d done her research and knew there were no carers, guardians or steps for me.

“Really, I have nothing but praise for Jack. He has been a wonderful student all year and he has improved a great deal.”

“In what way, Miss Price? Can you give us some specifics?”

She looked at Dad and entered into some curriculum detail and the way I’d been handling it.

“… Furthermore he has also been a tremendous help to other less talented students in class, especially in group work. He’s even helped with some of their homework.”

“I can’t see what good can come of that,” sniffed Dad. “That was called plain cheating in my day.”

But he and I both knew Mum would love it. She squeezed my shoulder.

“It’s really nice to hear about you helping – poor Michael, was it?”

I remembered my cheeky little comments in his margins, ‘Bon soir, Madame, je suis partout!’ and ‘Ici aussi!’ and I beamed too.

On the way to the car, Dad put his arm lightly round me and said, “Well, they seem to like you, Jack.”

“Yeah, it’s all right there, isn’t it, Dad?”

“Your tutor is a funny looking man though.”

“Oh I do like Mr Ronaldson!” chimed Mum. “He’s got such a nice way with you all. And he really does care.”

“Yes, Mum, I suppose he does.”

“Oh definitely, Jack. You are lucky to have him.”

I asked her quietly the meaning of ‘asset’ and she didn’t hear.

“No, Martin, we’ll walk thank you.”

“I came across a stall trying to sell the Business Studies department, Jack,” said Dad as he unlocked the car. “Very enthusiastic teacher actually. You might like to find out some more about that…”

“Jack seems to be doing the business anyway, don’t you think, Martin?” Mum hugged me and laughed. Suddenly I wished I were alone with Dad again, eating caviar and hearing about how he really thought I was doing on the survival front.

He drove home, and Mum and I meandered back past the familiar premises of Nobbi, our neighbourhood greengrocer, who was just throwing down his metal casements.

“How’s it going, with big school?” he called.

“Fine thanks, Nob.”

“One to be proud of, eh, Mrs C?”

Mum laughed and patted my head.

“I really am proud of you,” she said as we walked on. “You’ve settled in so brilliantly. Even Dad has to admit it.”

“Do you think he does? Thanks. Did you like Miss Price?”

“Well she certainly seems to like you.”

“Do you think so?”

“Nice girl. Horrid perfume though.”

It sometimes seemed to me that the school tried to lay on events to distract us from our work. How else can you interpret the arrival of student teachers? Certainly it is open season if you’re lucky enough to get one. Which we were – in place of the History teacher. Clean-cut and youthful, Mr Carew was very friendly. So we took the piss immediately.

“How long are you with us, Mr Caroooo?” I felt obliged to open the hostilities.

“Oh, for a good long while. You must think of me as your permanent teacher now, Jake.”

“It’s Jack actually.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s all right, Mr Caroooo, but don’t you return to the institute soon – for feedback? Stress counselling?”

“What? Look, why don’t you just get on with the task?”

“Only if you tell us your Aims for the lesson.”

“My aims?”

“And afterwards your Objectives. They should be written in your lesson plan.”

“You cheeky little—”

“In fact, Mr Caroooo, I wouldn’t half mind seeing your entire Scheme of Work. Michael’s Uncle Denny takes a lively interest in modern approaches to the subject, when he’s not pumping iron down at the gym…”

This got reported to Bumcheeks, who gave me a two-hour though he could hardly deny I’d been concentrating my energies in the classroom – and specifically on the teacher.

The next few History lessons went better – from Carew’s point of view – largely because the Head himself was ‘observing’. Nevertheless, Razza couldn’t resist again asking our trainee when he was going to let our ‘proper’ teacher back in and soon there was a general chorus of “How do you do, Mr Caroooo?” going down.

In the photocopy room one lunchtime Miss Price said Mr Carew was having a tough time with some of his classes.

“Does he teach you, Jack?”

“Er…”

“Well, if you do come across him just be helpful – as I know you can be.”

“How do you mean?”

“It’s a bit of a jungle, as we know. And his supervisor’s in next week.”

“Leave it with me, miss,” I said, flattered to have her go so unprofessional on me. “We’ll get Mr Carew through.”

Just for yoooou.

But here I made two fatal underestimations: of my classmates’ malice and of Carew’s teaching skills. For the lesson in question, with the geezer from the institute stroking his clipboard at the back of the room, Carew made a pig of a choice. Of course he had worked it down to the last minute. I could see the spindly writing of his lesson plan had dedicated the eleventh and the twelfth minute after ten to ‘greeting pupils and settling them’. He did the first and I just about managed the second though Michael, it so happened, was out for blood today.

“Fuck off, Jack,” he said, as I tried to hush him. When I gestured to the back of the class he elaborately turned in his chair and whistled salaciously at the grey-haired suit already scribbling on to his clipboard. We wet ourselves. Had to.

“Right, everyone,” Mr Carew started, “today we’ve got a lot to get through so I just want to explain a few things and then we’ll, er, get right into the fun stuff. OK?”

“We know you, Mr Caroooo!” had started up, though it mutated around Michael’s area into, “We’ll have you, Mr Caroooo!”

I had to break the destructive cycle – for Miss Price’s sake.

“Sir?”

“Yes, what is it, Jack?” He was wary.

“Can I just say something before the, er, fun stuff?”

“As long as it’s relevant. And quick.” He looked at his watch and I realised I was eating into his three minutes’ introduction so I just blurted it out.

“Can I just say I’ve never really seen the point of History…”

“What?”

“Up till now, I mean. Until you started taking us. You make it come alive. I think a lot of us feel the same way…”

I was just trying to help. But this was not the way to do it. Mr Carew smiled with gratitude for about a second but then the peers started burrowing noses into imaginary holes and making powerful sucking noises which darkened his brow.

“Let’s talk about your love for the subject after the lesson, shall we?” He then revealed his absurd plans for cutting out statements about Napoleon’s life, discarding the false ones and ordering the trues chronologically. On sugar paper, if you please. With scissors. And glue.

I tried to cheat the historical inevitability of Mr Carew turning to another profession. I still ask for forgiveness from time to time. Mr Caroooo, I did try but you were one of my failures, a campaign too far.

He was everywhere – and nowhere – that lesson. I still like Napoleon and firmly believe we should have buried him as he fancied in Westminster Abbey. He taught us a thing or two. Mr Carew, however, didn’t. And when, towards the end of that deciding battle he set about retrieving the weapons, seven pairs of scissors and seven glue sticks, he only got six scissors – and no glues.

“Come on, can we have the rest of the gear in? Quickly, shall we?”

Nothing more came forth. So Mr Carew panicked and shouted at us more desperately.

“Right! Open your bags! Come on! Everyone! Now! Open them!”

He moved through the desks, abusing our privacy with the bag search. Caroooo, Caroooo, now nothing can save you! Even quite harmless punters glared at him as he approached their bags with his rummaging adult touch. We don’t touch you, you don’t touch us. Or our bags. Ever.

“Don’t come any closer,” said Michael, his voice rich with warning.

“Come on then. Let’s see what you’ve got in there, Michael.”

Michael drew out his mobile and put it slowly on the desk.

“What else have you got? Come on…”

Another mobile. Laughter. And another and another. More and more, louder laughter. Michael stared at him as he put each one down on the desk.

“All right, all right, that’s enough. I won’t ask you how you come to have these in your bag.” But Michael, still staring, pulled out another three to massive approval.

“Stop it, stop it! What about the glue?”

Mr Carew backed away in despair. I raised my eyes to the ceiling where I knew they’d have been fired and his sad eyes came with me. There, that’s what you get for your practical History, seven stalactiting glue sticks.

The buzzer began and everyone had charged out of the door before the final clang.

“Carooo, Carooo, you’re through, you’re through!”

Mr Carew’s head was in his hands so he didn’t see Razza toss the missing pair of scissors into the bin and he didn’t see me shrug helplessly at his supervisor who was drawing a line across his clipboard, through Mr Carew.