Shelter

The start of the new school year is heralded by the smell of varnish: the floor of the school hall is always resurfaced over the summer holidays, but it is scuffed and scratched within a week. I’m somewhat despondent about this, and wonder why a better varnish cannot be found so the shiny floor lasts longer. It’s the same with the blackboards. They are re-painted over the holidays, but after a few days they are washed with the ghosts of times tables and joined-up handwriting.

I have a new teacher. Having completed my stint with Mrs. P–– I’m now in Mrs. R––’s class. Mrs. R–– is a wonder. She’s wears outlandish, floaty clothes with strings of spangly beads and tippy-tappy shoes. She stands with her back impeccably straight, and her chin slightly raised. Her husband comes each afternoon to pick her up from school, accompanied by their white toy poodle. I am fascinated by her, and at the same time wary of her, since she can silence me with a raised eyebrow. 

The new school year also commences with new school photographs. They are taken by Mr. B––, a taciturn, unreadable man, whose day job is school caretaker. I do my best to look chirpy and bright, but I am disappointed by the result. My red-and-grey tie is frayed and my hair is newly cut - too short and too square. I’m smiling as best I can without showing my teeth: this is essential, since I have a sizeable gap between my two central incisors. My mum says, “You could drive a bus through that gap”, which makes me self-conscious when I speak, and my dad often complains that I mumble. We have recently been on a school day trip to London Zoo, where one of the keepers mistakes me for a boy. Mrs. R–– reminds me of this incident as she hands me my photo: “Ah, yes, the girl who looks like a boy!” I blush horribly and scuttle back to my seat. 

We are allowed to stay in our classroom for break time: fifteen minutes to chat before class begins again. Each morning we get our third-of-a-pint of milk, and paper straw. On the coldest days, the milk starts to freeze, and the foil tops pop up. I quite like the milk, but I wish I could get a Rich Tea or Ginger Nut biscuit as well. But, as my mum says, “If wishes were horses beggars would ride.” Sadly, the two girls charged with dispensing the biscuits and taking the money are very particular, and don’t hand out freebies. 

Our classroom is one of four that opens directly onto the school hall, so at least we no longer have to rush to assembly in the winter rain. We have a new Headmaster, Mr. S––. He’s an odd-looking man with a beard and glasses, who walks around with his hands behind his back or in his pockets. I’m convinced there is something wrong with this hands, but as yet I have no proof. He’s not as good-humoured as Mr. K—, and he definitely can’t play the piano. I’m not sure what to make of him, so I decide to stay under the radar, just in case. This plan is ruined when one of my class mates dobs me in for leaving my seat when Mrs. R–– is out of the room: a major infraction. Mrs. R–– charges Teacher’s Pet with keeping an eye on everyone, and to let her know if anyone disobeys her orders. I need a pencil sharpener, and get out of my seat without a second thought to borrow one. When Mrs. R–– returns, Teacher’s Pet gleefully informs her of my misdemeanour, and I am ordered to “stand under the clock” for twenty minutes. This involves standing, like a two penneth of tripe, beneath the clock in the school hall for the allotted period of time. Of course, during my punishment, Mr. S–– walks past and, of course, wants to know what I’m doing there. He’s not impressed with my feeble excuse, and, as he leaves, I feel as if my card has been marked.

After Christmas, we start a project about King Henry VIII and his six wives. The catalyst for this activity is a new TV series on BBC1, so we are now learning about all things Tudor in class. Miss. T–– does her best to teach us courtly dancing, but I am hopeless at it. I often confuse my right from my left, and skip off in the wrong direction from the rest of my quartet. We are also busy making Tudor clay tiles, from grey goopy clay. Evidently, the Tudors were quite partial to their tiles, and we are attempting to copy some of their designs. I’m dissatisfied with the simplicity of my design, and decide to embellish it with a few flowers. Mrs. R–– is surprised, but not too disheartened with he final result: “Oh! The flowers that bloom in the Spring, tra la!” she chirps.  I may have overdone it with the azaleas. Still, my tile is put on display for Parents’ Evening, so my efforts have not been entirely in vain.  

Most of the time, Mr. S–– gives the morning assembly. These are punctilious affairs: no-nonsense, get-to-the-point, get-back-to-work kind of assemblies. Occasionally we have an outside group come in and talk about their work. The charity, Shelter, that advocates on behalf of the homeless, has recently completed a survey of Britain’s housing conditions. They are touring around schools to explain their findings. At home, we have two coal fires, one in the dining room and one in the living room. We also have a heater upstairs on the landing for the coldest days. In the winter, I put my school clothes at the end of my bed at night, so I can dress quickly in the morning, especially when Jack Frost has painted his fronds and stars on the inside of our window panes. It doesn’t occur to me that we are especially well-off (or hard done by, for that matter). The people from Shelter show us photos that they have taken of children, around our own age, living in squalid, fetid housing. I’m appalled, but my sprits are lifted by the song that these kind people teach us. The words and music are easy to pick up and we sing along with them:

When I needed a neighbour,
Were you there, were you there?
When I needed a neighbour, were you there?
And the creed and the colour
And the name won't matter,
Were you there?

And wherever you travel,
I'll be there, I'll be there.
Wherever you travel, I'll be there.
And the creed and the colour
And the name won't matter,
I'll be there.

The song goes around and around in my thoughts, along with the accompanying black-and-white photos. I wonder what I can do about it. I feel the frustration of being a child faced with adult issues that I am powerless to affect.