I’d been quick to do just that while we were still in the meeting room, obviously, going as far as to suggest I grab the key to the lost property cupboard, just in case there was anything in there that would fit him, while someone – me, for preference – rinsed his trousers.
He’d declined, but, looking at him now, it seemed he was having something of a rethink. ‘Given the colour of them, I thought they’d dry without staining,’ he explained, gesturing towards the dark bloom that now spread even further than I remembered. ‘But when you look at this bit’ – he then gestured to a separate patch that had already dried – ‘I figured I was just going to end up with a big, obvious ring, so I doused them with water, as you can see –’
I nodded. ‘I sure can.’
‘And then tried to use the hand-dryer in the gents’ toilets – which was worse than useless – and then I remembered.’ He crossed his fingers. ‘Do you still have your hairdryer by any chance?’
In other circumstances I’d be hooting with laughter at the state of him, but not today. ‘I am so sorry, Gary,’ I told him, for the umpteenth time. ‘Really. Look at you. Such a clumsy thing for me to do – I’ve had a crappy morning, and my nerves must have been on edge. And then that bloody ringtone …’
‘On edge?’ Gary said with feeling. ‘Trust me, you and me both!’
‘You too?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘Nerves-wise, absolutely.’
‘Why? What’s up?’ I asked, concerned at his suddenly vexed expression.
‘How long have you got?’ he said. ‘No, no. Bell’s going to go at any moment. Hairdryer first, explanations after.’
I did indeed have my hairdryer; in fact, I had what was called my ‘beauty cabinet’ – in reality a large plastic crate stashed on a shelf under my desk, which housed all manner of girly indispensables. It had grown almost organically; I had so many girls come to the Unit who’d not even had the time to run a brush through their hair in the morning that I had built up a supply of essentials. It was also a valuable icebreaker.
But right now, it had a different sort of job to attend to. Plugging it in, I gave it a blast in Gary’s general direction. ‘All sounds very mysterious,’ I said. ‘Spill, or the crotch gets it!’
Needless to say, he took it from me and attended to his wet patch, and so it was that the tableau presented moments later was of me looking on, grinning, while Mr Clark, his back to the door, was busy blasting his lower torso with hot air. At least, that was how Tommy Robinson found us.
I heard him before I saw him, even over the blast of my high-wattage hairdryer. Owner of an unmistakable Cockney accent – unmistakable in our school, anyway – Tommy was a year 9 pupil who’d been with me the previous term. A pupil I had a great deal of affection for.
‘Well, I ain’t gonna keep this quiet,’ he said, a smile widening on his astonished face. ‘This looks well sus, this does. Miss, what’s going on?’
There was no doubt about it; the sight of the school’s child protection officer blow-drying the band of his underpants – as he was by now – wasn’t one you saw every day. Gary took it as only he could, grinning ruefully at Tommy as he switched off the hairdryer, before touching his nose. ‘I’m saying nothing, kiddo,’ he told Tommy, ‘except do not get on the wrong side of Mrs Watson while holding a cup of tea, okay? Lethal, she is!’
Tommy nodded, grinning toothily, and I’m sure he believed it too. Which didn’t mean it wouldn’t be all round the school by the end of the morning.
Well, so be it. Nothing to be done. ‘Hi, Tommy,’ I said. ‘How are you?’
‘Cushty, Miss,’ he said. ‘I just thought I’d bob in and say hello, like, as I was passing. Though I can’t stop,’ he added. ‘Bell’s about to ring.’
‘Indeed it is, Tommy,’ Gary said, picking up the papers he’d been carrying. ‘I’ll walk with you.’
I smiled. No doubt to impress upon him the wisdom of keeping his intelligence to himself.
‘Hang on!’ I called as he went to follow Tommy through the door. ‘You haven’t told me yet. Why is today such a bad day to get tea on your pants?’
Gary smiled. ‘That will have to wait now, oh, impatient one. Though, seriously,’ he added, ‘I really would value your input. Tell you what, my office for lunch? Then I’ll tell you all about it. It’s juicy gossip, so make sure you bring biscuits!’
With that he rushed off, to avoid the inevitable gridlock on the corridors, leaving me open-mouthed and wondering what on earth he was going on about, my domestic worries happily now forgotten.
Alone again, I did a three hundred and sixty degree turn, taking in the evidence of the previous term’s industry, which, bar the odd precious thing that the odd pupil went away with, was still displayed in glorious technicolour around the walls. And all of which now had to come down. It was one of the worst parts of the year for me. Sort of like January at home, when the Christmas tree and decorations had to be taken down and put away, leaving the rooms they’d adorned looking all bare and forlorn, echoes of happinesses past.
It was the same in my classroom, which by the end of the academic year was positively bristling with art and design work. And not just that; all the little things that naturally started amassing on odd bits of wall space – a poem about one thing, a diagram about another; even the random instructions I had the kids render in felt pen on fluorescent card. All had become part of the fabric of the classroom, all contributing to its sense of light and energy.
And the feel of the environment I created really mattered. I don’t think it really hit me quite how much it mattered till I started the job. It soon did, though, and now it was super-important to me that we had a bright, comfortable room in which to work – and the less like a regular classroom it was, the better. Inevitably the kids that came to me, for one reason or another, needed the Unit to be a happy place – a calm, nurturing and peaceful place where they could feel safe enough to open up and – hopefully – blossom a bit. And I strived to provide that above anything else.
Still, I had the luxury of two whole days in which to do it, since I wasn’t getting my ‘newbies’ till Wednesday, so if I cracked on now I’d have the luxury of a good day and a half in which to plan the first week or so’s lessons.
I was standing high on a wooden ledge, trying to reach the end of a poster to tug down, when I heard Kelly Vickers come into the room.
‘Whoah! Casey, don’t do it! It’s not worth it!’ she cried dramatically. ‘And besides,’ she added, plonking her bag down on my desk, ‘jumping from that height would only get you a sprained ankle.’
I climbed down and added the poster, minus a corner, to the pile I’d been amassing. ‘Just in time,’ I said. ‘Perfect. You’re a few inches taller than me, so you can grab that bit for me.’
Kelly grinned as she climbed up to take my place on the top of the line of cupboards that housed art materials and stationery, and the kids’ individual work trays. ‘Everyone is a few inches taller than you, Casey,’ she said as she pulled down the piece I’d failed to reach. ‘Anyway,’ she said, jumping down again, ‘I need to hear what’s happening. What on earth is going on with Gary?’
‘Going on?’ I asked. ‘Why, what’s he up to now, then?’
‘Something,’ she said, nodding as I gestured with the coffee jar. ‘Something fishy, if you ask me. I’ve just walked past his office and, no word of a lie – it smells like the perfume counter at Boots in there. You should have seen him – gurning at his reflection