My Secret Lover

smiling?’
    ‘Because I’m happy.’
    ‘Are you going to write your name in
the Happy Book?’
    ‘Yes, I think I am. In fact, since
it’s our last day in this class together, why don’t we all write our names in
the Happy Book?’
    A cheer goes up.
    I love my job. I love the innocence
of children aged six.
    And I am a secret weapon.
    Which sounds exciting.
    The omens are looking very good for
the summer.
     
    *
     
    The three witches stare at me as I
walk into the staffroom at break, and then simultaneously look away.
    ‘Biscuit?’ says Mrs Vane. ‘It is the
last day of term.’
    ‘I need a bit of a pick-me-up after
last night,’ says Mrs Wates.
    I’ve got my back to them, but I know
they’ve all exchanged looks at her unintentional pun.
    ‘I think the parents are more
exhausting than the children,’ says Miss Goodman.
    Now they’re all pulling very serious
faces to stop themselves laughing.
    I turn round quickly. They all look
down.
    ‘Are there rules about relationships
with parents?’ I ask Richard Batty, who’s always good for a bit of protocol.
    ‘There are no rules, but obviously
there’s a potential conflict of interest,’ he says.
    Splosh!
    A wet sponge hits him full on in the
face, which makes me laugh, although I know I shouldn’t, partly because it’s
cruel, and partly because it means I’ve got my mouth open when the next wet
sponge hits me.
    I don’t think either the water or the
bucket the sponges are in is very clean.
    I wonder what the chances are of
suing the Local Education Authority if we catch Legionnaires’ disease, or
cholera?
    ‘Why are we doing this?’ asks New
Andy.
    The three of us are kneeling in a
row, our heads and hands are peeping through a set of stocks one of the
Suburban Martyrs’ husbands who’s keen on DIY rigged up out of hardboard a
couple of years back. It’s considered part of the younger teachers’ duties to
volunteer for half-hour shifts on the last afternoon of term. Actually, I’m
probably old enough to get out of it now, but I think I’d rather suffer the
indignity than admit that.
    The kids have to donate lOp for each
sponge thrown.
    It’s cheap revenge for the Year Six
boys who bear a grudge and won’t suffer the consequences next term, but a
charity benefits.
    ‘I’m doing it out of guilt for my
negative feelings towards the people who work so tirelessly to make the Summer
Fun Afternoon a success,’ I tell New Andy. ‘But I have no idea why you or
Richard are.’
     
    ‘I’m doing it because I’m a prat,’
says Richard Batty. ‘I forgot I didn’t have to do it any more.’
    He waggles his left wrist around in
an attempt to show the Martyr in charge that our time’s up, but she pretends
not to see.
    Splosh!
    ‘I’m doing it because I am on the
staff from next year,’ says New Andy. ‘I got Richard’s job,’ he says.
    ‘Hooray!’ I shout.
    Splosh!
    All the sponges seem to just miss New
Andy. I think it’s something to do with his great beauty.
    ‘Has anyone seen Fern today?’ I ask.
    Splosh!
    ‘She’s broken her leg,’ says Richard
Batty. ‘Fell off the stage at some audition or other. Rotten luck just before
her holiday.’
     
    The hall is filled with sunlight and
the smell of the Year Six boys’ feet. The headmaster has chosen the parable of
the Good Samaritan to send the children home with for the summer.
    ‘Can any of you think of someone who
has unexpectedly helped you, or your friends, or family?’ he says.
    I hate it when the headmaster tries
to elicit responses during assembly. Most of the kids sit there trying not to
catch his eye, and he invariably fails to get the answer he wants from the ones
who do put their hands up.
    ‘Yes, Nikita?’
    Silence.
    ‘Have you forgotten?’
    A nod.
    ‘Luke?’
    The head chooses a Year Six boy whose
last day it is at the school.
    Doesn’t he have any idea?
    ‘My girlfriend unexpectedly helped me
wank—’
    ‘Go and stand outside my office!’
    There’s a buzz of whispering. All the
older ones want to know which girl it is, while the younger ones are learning a
new word that’s not strictly on the common words list for Key Stage 1 or 2.
    ‘Would anyone like to make a sensible
contribution?’ says the headmaster.
    You’d think he’d learn.
    ‘Yes, Dean?’
    ‘Miss Blane, sir.’
    ‘A very good suggestion, Dean. Tell
us what Miss Blane’s done that makes her a good Samaritan?’
    All eyes turn on me.
    The witches can barely contain their
envy that