02 Mister Teacher Read Free Page A

ice-cream scoop to release a hemispherical dollop of mashed potato on to Heathcliffe Earnshaw’s tray.
    Heathcliffe was queuing up with his little five-year-old brother, Terry.
    ‘Ah don’t like greens,’ said Heathcliffe, looking dubiously at the cabbage.
    ‘There’s children starvin’ in Africa,’ growled Mrs Critchley.
    ‘They can ’ave my cabbage, Miss,’ said Heathcliffe cheerfully.
    Mrs Critchley defiantly slapped a large portion of cabbage on his tray.
    ‘Gerrit eaten,’ she said.
    Mrs Critchley did not take prisoners, as Mr Critchley would no doubt confirm on the very rare occasions she allowed him to visit The Royal Oak. With a flick of her other wrist, a slice of meat pie landed on little Terry’s tray.
    Terry looked closely at the pie, wiped the snot from his nose on the back of his sleeve and looked up at his big brother for support.
    ‘’E won’t be able t’chew that, Miss,’ said Heathcliffe, ever protective of his little brother.
    ‘Why not?’ snapped Mrs Critchley.
    ‘’E’s no teeth, Miss,’ explained Heathcliffe. ‘Show ’er, Terry.’
    Little Terry smiled shyly at the fierce dinner lady. All his front teeth were missing.
    ‘Well, ’e can suck it, then,’ retorted Mrs Critchley.
    It occurred to me that a future in the diplomatic corps for Mrs Critchley was unlikely. Meanwhile, her magnificent biceps rippled once again, as she gave the rice pudding a quick stir.
    Anne was sitting with the six new starters, so I lowered myself onto a tiny plastic chair and placed my tray of rapidly cooling food on the octagonal Formica-topped table. Next to me, Damian Brown was putting spoonfuls of gravy onto his rice pudding and stirring it to make a muddy brown paste.
    ‘Don’t do that, please, Damian,’ said Anne Grainger.
    Anne was showing her usual patience, as all the children seemed to be speaking at once.
    ‘Please may I have a napkin?’ asked Victoria Alice Dudley-Palmer.
    ‘We don’t use napkins, dear,’ said Anne.
    ‘My cat was sick this morning, Mrs Grainger,’ said Charlotte Ackroyd.
    ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Charlotte.’
    Damian looked up from his rice-gravy compote. ‘That’s nowt: our cat bit ’ead off a mouse las’ night, Missus,’ said Damian, not to be outdone.
    The appeal of the steak-and-kidney pie was fast fading.
    ‘Eat your dinner, please, Damian,’ said Anne.
    ‘My mummy’s coming to look at our nits,’ said Dawn Phillips cheerfully. ‘She says they come from little white grubs.’
    My rice pudding had also lost its appeal.
    Opposite me, the Buttle twins were sharing their dinner, while scratching each other’s hair. They were the youngest members of a local farming family and they obviously enjoyed their food. Rowena was eating Katrina’s cabbage and Katrina was eating Rowena’s rice pudding. In seconds both trays were spotless.
    ‘Please can we have …?’ said Rowena.
    ‘… Some more?’ said Katrina.
    Victoria Alice was still waiting to begin. ‘Mummy says I must never eat without a napkin.’
    I looked across at Anne Grainger and thought to myself that infant teachers were definitely a breed apart.
    In the office, Vera was typing a letter on her huge old-fashioned Royal typewriter. She swept the chromium arm of the carriage return for the final line of a note to parents entitled ‘Skateboards Banned in School’. Then she wound out the Gestetner master sheet from the typewriter , smoothed it carefully onto the inky drum of the duplicating machine, peeled off the backing sheet, and began the laborious process of winding the handle to produce the copies of her letter.
    ‘Pity we haven’t got one of those fancy photocopying machines, like they have in my husband’s office,’ said Sally, as she scanned the first, slightly smudged copy of the letter.
    ‘Twenty-seven … twenty-eight … twenty-nine … Schools will never afford them until Mrs Thatcher takes charge … Thirty … thirty-one,’ said Vera, as she steadily wound the