SearchDear Mr Fordham,
I am sorry that Robert was absent this morning, but we had a sort of family crisis - well, not exactly a crisis - I don’t like to say just now but you will hear about it soon enough.
Yours sincerely,
Mrs Trubb
Mr Fordham scowled at the note as though it was something he had just picked up out of the gutter. “Very mysterious, Robert. What does your mother mean about a family crisis?”
“Well, sir,” said Robert, “It’s not exactly a crisis - that is - it’s a good crisis, if you know what I mean.”
“No, Robert, I haven’t the faintest idea. Tell me more.”
Robert wanted to tell Mr Fordham the whole story, but he remembered his dad’s warning not to say anything to anybody until they had sorted out some important details. “I can’t tell you just now, sir.”
“Very well, I suppose this note will have to do, though what Ms Sharpe will make of it I dread to think.”
“Yes, sir,” said Robert, winking at his friend Ryan. They knew that he was afraid that the new headmistress, Ms Sharpe, might block his plans for early retirement.
Mr Fordham placed the note in the register and gave it to Billy to take to the office. Then he walked round to the front of his desk to begin the first lesson, as, as well as being 9F’s form teacher he was also their English teacher.
“Right, Class 9F,” he said, “We need to start work on the Key Stage 3 Anthology in preparation for the Key Stage 3 tests...”
A groan, as of a hundred galley slaves chained to their oars, rose from the class.
“...but, we’ll fit in a few more chapter of “Barry Blotter and the Secret Chamber Pot first.”
Murmurs of: “Great!”, “I like the Barry Blotter books,” and so on. Billy: “Can we watch a video instead?”
Kirsty’s hand shot up.
“Yes, Kirsty?”
“Ms Sharpe says that Barry Blotter isn’t proper literature!”
“No, it’s not boring enough!” whispered Ryan.
“What do you suggest we should read, Kirsty?”
Those who knew Mr Fordham noticed an ironic note in his voice and looked forward to the fun.
“Well, we should one of the poems in the anthology like Wordsworth’s “Daffodils” poem, then we should break into groups and write about it and then we should have a Plenary.”
“Very good, Kirsty. I think you know more about literature than I do. Now, 9F, put your hands up if you would prefer to read ‘Daffodils’.”
Only one hand went up. It was Kirsty’s.
“That’s settled then. Thirty years of teaching experience beats the The Key Stage 3 Strategy! Kirsty and Karen, give out the books.”
Murmurs of: “Thirty years!” “He must be ancient!” “No wonder he knows so much about all those old poems!” and so on.
“Right. I’ll start reading, and then we’ll read around the class.”
Kirsty’s hand shot up, but Mr Fordham waved it down and started reading:
BARRY’S FIRST TERM
Barry was not looking forward to going to Dogwood. Dogwood School was a special school for bullies. He had heard about such schools. They were run like Boot Camps. Fierce instructors got you up at 6.00 am and made you have a cold shower. Then you had to go for a cross-country run or do some other form of strenuous exercise. Lessons were drills in basic skills presided over by the same fierce instructor. Even the slightest misbehaviour was punished by extra duties such as peeling potatoes or cleaning the lavatories.
His social worker picked him up at eight o’clock. He was expecting to be taken to a prison-like building in the city centre, but instead, they drove out into the country. After about an hour, they turned down a long tree-lined drive and pulled up outside an ivy covered country house.
“This is it,” said the social worker. “Get your stuff and I’ll take you in - and try to behave yourself.”
The entrance hall was decorated in a subtle shade of peach and there was a large sofa for the use of waiting guests. Pictures of landscapes and potted plants gave a soft, welcoming feeling.
“Er, I think this must be the wrong place, Mr Davies” he said hesitantly.
“Oh no, it’s definitely the right place, Barry,” said Mr Davies. “You see, at Dogwood, they’re trying a new, experimental approach to bullying - the gentle touch, you might say.”
“Oh no,” said Barry, “I can’t stand that!”
“Look, there’s the school timetable. That will give you an idea of what you’re in for.”
10.00 Breakfast in bed
11.00 Aroma Therapy
12.00 Poetry
13.00 Lunch at MacBurger’s
14.00 Yoga and Meditation
15.00 Flower Arranging
16.00 Ballet Lessons
“But what about all the school subjects?” protested Barry.
“I thought you hated school subjects.”
“I do, but...well, you have to have them to get a job.”
“But you were doing so badly in them, you’d never get a job.”
“But...”
Barry was stuck for words. There was a lot of truth in what Mr Davies said. He did hate English, maths, history, geography and all that other stuff, and because he hated it, he didn’t try, and because he didn’t try, he got low marks, and the low marks meant he would never get much of a job. Still, he did feel somehow cheated in not having “proper” school subjects. Then he caught sight of the “Sanctions” list (he knew that “sanctions” was edu-speak for “punishments”. Ah, he thought, that will tell me what the place is really like! But he was even more surprised to read:
Minor offences, e.g., chewing, forgetting homework, etc: one hour surfing the internet
Major offences, especially fighting and bullying: weekend in Disneyland Paris
Serious offences, e.g., things punished by suspension in a normal school - cannot be listed here.
Barry wondered what “cannot be listed here” meant - probably a cruise in the Caribbean...
There was a knock at the classroom door and Ms Sharpe walked in. Mr Fordham, pretending not to notice, switched smoothly from reading to Key Stage 3 Strategy jargon: “That’s our shared reading for today. Now we will have twenty minutes of Independent Group Work and after that we will have a Plenary Session - oh! Ms Sharpe, I didn’t see you there!”
Class 9F looked at him with admiration - Kirsty, because he obviously knew more about the Key Stage 3 Strategy than he admitted, and all the rest because of his brilliant acting. Catching on to the situation, they all slid their Barry Blotter books out of sight - all, that is, except Kirsty and Billy.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your leosson, Mr Fordham,” said Ms Sharpe, beaming with approval, “but I just wanted to have a word with Robert about his note.”
“Yes, of course, Ms Sharpe,” said Mr Fordham.
“Come with me, Robert,” said Ms Sharpe, “Carry on the good work, Mr Fordham.”
As soon as the door was closed, Mr Fordham said, “Kirsty and Karen, collect in the Barry Blotter books and give out the Key Stage 3 Anthology. When you get the books, read ‘Daffodils’ on page 27 and start discussing it.”
Murmurs of: “Oh no!” “I hate poetry,” and so on. Billy: “What are daffodils?”
Ten minutes later, Ms Sharpe reappeared with Robert. “Thank you, Mr Fordham...by the way, did I see a Barry Blotter book just now?”
Mr Fordham put on his best astonished look and held up ‘Delight in Verse’.
“Ah yes, an excellent anthology. Which poem are you studying, Ryan?”
“Daffodils,” said Ryan, spitting out the word as though a bug had got into his mouth.
“I wandered lonely as a cloud/When all at once I saw a crowd...” quoted Ms Sharpe, “A good choice, Mr Fordham.”
Kirsty started the discussion: “Why does he write ‘A crowd’. I thought it was daffodils he saw.”
“Well, perhaps he couldn’t find a rhyme for daffodils,” said Ryan.
Billy: “What’s she on about?”
“Before I go, Mr Fordham, I wanted to remind you that any absence other than on grounds of ill health should be recorded as an ‘Unauthorised Absence’.”
“Yes, Ms Sharpe.”
“Thank you. Carry on the good work.”
An audible sigh of relief echoed round the room as the door closed, and Mr Fordham could be heard to mutter under his breath: “Whew! that was close. Still, I think my early retirement is still safe.”
The children on the front table had no idea what “early retirement” was, but the way Mr Fordham said it made it sound like something very important and wonderful - like holidays or Christmas.
“Right, 9F, now that we’ve started ‘Daffodils’, we may as well continue with it.
Loud groans.
“Only joking! Kirsty and Karen, give out the Barry Blotter books.”
But Kirsty was puzzled about something. “Please, sir, why did Wordsworth write ‘crowds’ - I mean, it’s not a very good simile...”
“...collective noun,” corrected Mr Fordham.
“...collective noun for a bunch of daffodils, is it?”
“Well,” said Mr Fordham, stroking his chin thoughtfully, “perhaps Daffodils is not as good as its cracked up to be...” then adding as an afterthought, “...and perhaps the Barry Blotter books are not so bad as Ms Sharpe thinks they are.”
At last the bell went and Robert had a chance to tell Ryan his news.
“Listen, Ryan,” he said excitedly, “can you keep a secret?”
“Course I can,” replied Ryan.
“No you can’t. What about last week when you told old Fordham I put that spider in Karen’s bag.”
“Well, I didn’t want to get into trouble - he accused me of doing it.”
Robert thought for a moment, his dad’s warning ringing in his head, but the compulsion to share his good luck was too strong. “We won the lottery!”
“Won the lottery!” exclaimed Ryan.
“Ssshhh!!! I don’t want all the school to know!”
“How much?”
“Over a million.”
“A million!!!” (even louder).
“SSSHHH!!!”
But it was too late. Robert felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Billy. Billy was not very good at things like poetry and algebra but made up for it with anything physical - especially bullying. “Club money!” he said gruffly, his open palm outstretched. Membership of Billy’s “club” (which cost 50p per week) was compulsory for those who were too small or weak to fight back. Robert and Ryan meekly handed over their 50 pences.
“What’s all this I hear about a lottery win?” said Billy.
“N...nothing,” stuttered Robert.
Billy grabbed Robert by his shirt collar and twisted until he began to choke. “Tell!” he ordered.
“M...my dad won the lottery.”
“How much?”
“A million!”
“A million, hey. Well, your club money goes up to £5 from next week.”
A moment later, Billy was gone, no doubt to collect the rest of his club money.
“You and your loud mouth!” grumbled Robert.
“Sorry, Rob,” said Ryan, “but he’d have found out anyway.”
“It’s not fair,” said Robert, “my mum and dad have given up work, but I have to keep coming to this place.”
“So do I - so do all of us. It’s not so bad - despite Billy.”
“What do you mean, not bad, we’ve got French next, and I haven’t learned which verbs take avoir and which take etre!”
“Well, when your dad’s a millionaire, there must be a way out!”
© Kit. All rights reserved by the author.
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