Читать книгу To See The Light Return - Sophie Galleymore Bird - Страница 8

Another chilly morning despite the season. Thick cloud obscured the sun and shielded Bodingleigh from its ferocious heat. Mrs Prendaghast applied a combined sunscreen and insect repellent procured from an itinerant hedgewitch, before dressing for warmth; but in layers, in case the sun emerged later. Once equipped for the vagaries of the day’s weather, she went downstairs to the kitchen.

The room lay in shadow, curtains drawn against the damp of the night before, but she didn’t bother opening them. If the sun did come out while she was in class, to beat through the single-paned and cracked glazing, the room would become uncomfortably warm. Neither did she begin the laborious process of lighting the stove to heat water. She hadn’t the energy to empty it out and the ash bucket was already full. She would need to ask one of the older children to take it across the village to the communal composting area; it was too much for her knees these days.

Besides, her wood store was low, and she wasn’t due another allocation for two weeks. Perhaps she could quietly borrow a few logs from the school’s well-stocked store, again with some help. Unless Spight Jr was in class, and snitched to his grandfather. If that happened her next allocation would be docked as punishment. Probably best not to risk it.

She sighed and, using one hand to prop her weight against her knees to support her back, stooped down to start laying kindling in the open fireplace. She’d light the fire tonight, unless the sun had warmed the stone of the cottage, and make do with a couple of slices of bread and butter and some milk for breakfast. At least the classroom would be warm. Mr Spight had increased the weekly ration of fuel that came to the school around the same time his grandson started there.

Hector Spight Jr was indeed in class that morning, though he was late. Mrs Prendaghast had already marked him as absent and was setting out the work for the morning on the chalkboard, when he announced his arrival by throwing his bag loudly down beside his desk. The bang it made was familiar, she didn’t jump or turn around but continued writing, the tiny nub of chalk squeaking and setting her teeth on edge. Her sleeve was falling away from her arm. She hoped now wouldn’t be one of those times Hector started making snide comments about the intricate but faded tattoos spiralling up from her wrist, her daily reminder of a life pre-Devolution.

‘Good morning, Hector, thank you for joining us. Please sit down and take out your notebook and pens so we can get started.’ She turned to face the class, wiping chalk dust from her hands, giving the children a pleasant smile dredged from somewhere deep.

Hector grunted and scraped his chair out from under the desk, slumping down into it and punching the younger boy next to him in the arm. Mrs Prendaghast pretended not to see. Some battles were not worth fighting, and it hadn’t been a hard punch. For Hector, it was almost friendly.

‘Now then class, this morning we will be working on arithmetic. Between morning break and lunch, we will work on your spelling. Those of you who don’t have to go home this afternoon can have some free time for reading or drawing. Your page assignments are written on the board.’ It would be only a handful of children staying after lunch, though the class was not large to begin with; only twenty-six children from the village and surrounding farms were of an age and aptitude that the Council – or rather Mayor Spight – considered likely to benefit from a formal education. Though what was formal about it Mrs Prendaghast was at a loss to say. There was no real curriculum, no measuring of achievement beyond the grades she gave them, and no qualifications at the end of it. They came to her from the ages of five to fourteen, and she did her best by them within the constraints set by her employer.

That meant no history unless it was about the Empire before it imploded, and with a heavy emphasis on World War II because, as the Mayor was keen on quoting, it had been Britain’s finest hour.

The running order of monarchs was acceptable up to and including the reign of Queen Elizabeth II – though the Battle of Hastings was a sore point – and there was absolutely nothing to be said about philosophy, creative writing, languages, alternative models of economics, or sciences beyond the proper application of agricultural chemicals. Nothing containing the C words of climate change. Preferably nothing written pre-twentieth century, when the rot set in with gender politics and uppity foreigners. No mention of any authors outside of the British Isles, as that would imply foreigners were on the same footing and of equal worth and intelligence.

Teaching a wide range of ages was challenging; she used to get around that by allowing the older and more able students to mentor the others, helping them to overcome their frustrations at the slow pace of learning, and encouraging them to study the school’s meagre library during the hours they weren’t out working for their families, the farms or the village.

But that had all changed. Though he had been a sweet little boy when he first arrived, since turning eight Spight’s grandson seemed to live to disrupt – she suspected it was the only reason he bothered to turn up. That or the possibility that, like everyone else, he was afraid of his grandfather.

Of course, she’d have more students if they didn’t keep getting sold off to the fat farm by their parents or called up to join the militia to fight the civil war rumbling along the county borders. Or else just disappearing, which happened from time to time. At least those who vanished might have made it out of Devon and be enjoying a happier life elsewhere. She sighed, watched the children’s heads bent over their ancient textbooks, and looked at the clock. Ten past nine. It would be a long morning.