TWO-AND-A-HALF WEEKS EARLIER
It began on a Wednesday. Though not any old Wednesday. A Wednesday when someone did something.
And it was BAD.
And they did it to Mrs Martin.
I am going to repeat that.
They did it to Mrs Martin, who is, in my opinion, the best teacher ever to exist apart perhaps from Socrates, who our teacher, Miss Phillips, told us about last week. Socrates was really clever and taught this other guy, Plato, in ancient Greece. He’s a teacher legend, though Miss Phillips also told us that he drank poison and died, which must really have upset Plato’s learning pathway. Plato would also have got a supply teacher, wouldn’t he, and if he was an old horror like Mr Gorton (who we get) Plato would have been IN for it.
It happened after PE. We were up on the heath doing athletics (even though it was fr-e-e-e-e-zing). Mrs Martin does it with us because long before she was an AMAZING teacher she ran for Botswana. She even went to the Olympics, which Lance did too when they were in London (though he was only five). His dad took him but he got so excited he wet himself. By the time they got back from the loos, Usain Bolt had already finished.
‘Two hundred pounds,’ his dad says, nearly every time I go round. ‘Each, Cymbeline. To see a man jogging round a track with a flag round his shoulders.’
I’d laugh but I can’t talk, actually, because when my Uncle Bill took me to the fair once I wet myself on the Ferris wheel. It went down on the man below, who shouted up that he was going to punch Uncle Bill’s lights out. When we got off, we had to leg it (as fast as Usain Bolt, actually).
Anyway, our class was up on the heath doing running trials with Mrs Martin to pick who would be on the athletics team. I came third, after Billy Lee and Daisy Blake, though she’s so tall I really don’t think it’s fair. Each one of her legs contains about five of mine. Afterwards, we came back down to school and followed Mrs Martin towards our classroom.
We were just approaching the stairs, and Marcus Breen was doing these incredibly realistic sounds with his armpits (you know what I mean). Mrs Martin wasn’t telling Marcus off – she was trying to do even better ones. THAT’s how cool she is. She was still trying when we all got to the stairs, where she’d left her normal shoes next to one of the drip buckets which catch leaks. Our school’s really old and these buckets are dotted about here and there, and now every class has a Drip Monitor who rushes out when it starts raining and makes sure the buckets are in place. There used only to be one or two leaks, but it’s been getting worse and there are about ten buckets now.
Anyway, Mrs Martin’s shoes were open-top ones, with no straps. We all stopped as she did this little hop thing to get out of her trainers. We watched as she reached out her big toe, using it to slide her right shoe towards her. And it happened, something I need to prepare you for in case you faint, or scream, or simply drop down DEAD when you find out what someone had done.
So here goes—
Brace yourself …
I’m going to say it.
No, I really am this time …
Actually, I don’t think I can say it.
Okay, here goes, really—
They’d put jelly in her shoes.
Actually, that doesn’t sound too bad, does it?
Jelly, in her shoes? Even BLUE jelly?
It was almost funny.
The problem was, this was Mrs Martin, the most totally superb teacher in the WHOLE world, and she didn’t seem to see it as funny – and neither did some of the other kids. Vi Delap gasped. Elizabeth Fisher’s mouth shot open in amazement, though probably just because she’s never done ANYTHING bad in her WHOLE life. Other kids were shocked too – because of WHO this had been done to. You see, it’s not just me who thinks Mrs Martin is AMAZING. On our first day in Year 3 she told us all to line up. We were nervous and didn’t know what she wanted. Vi was first, all shy and worried, until Mrs Martin grinned at her.
‘What’s your favourite hobby?’ she asked, her voice all soft.
‘Football,’ Vi said, because she’s really good (and no, not just for a girl – sexist!).
Without even thinking, Mrs Martin sang:
When you’re in goal and the ball flies by,
Who d’you think kicked it? Must be Vi!
Then she did a double high-five with Vi followed by a toe touch and then another toe touch. Vi went bright red and beamed, and then it was Lance’s turn. He said cycling, of course (that’s his thing), and in a flash Mrs Martin sang:
In front of me is my main man Lance.
He’s going to win the Tour de France –
Legally.
She gave Lance a low-five followed by a high-five and then they both pretended they were cycling really fast. Lance grinned like a two-year-old in Santa’s grotto, and then it was Marcus Breen. He said sleeping, because, well, he’s Marcus Breen. We all groaned but Mrs Martin laughed.
Think you’re good at snoozing, meet Mr Breen.
This boy’s gonna show you how to dream.
She gave Marcus a double cross high-ten and then pretended to sleep. And she did this with everyone. EVERY person in our class got their own instant song and their own greeting, though some were harder than others.
‘Cymbeline Igloo,’ I said.
Mrs Martin drew her hand across her forehead. ‘Phew.’
‘And I like football but I also like art.’
‘DOUBLE phew. But here goes.’ And she sang:
If you need to get a penalty, don’t throw in the towel –
Cymbeline Igloo can draw a foul.
I got a double high fist bump after which I got a double toe touch like Vi, but with Mrs Martin and me both doing air drawing at the same time. And I felt this warmth beginning to grow in the middle of my chest, like there was a radiator in there, until it had reached all the way to my ears. It made me feel special, it made us all feel special – and every single morning began like that! This sunny sort of warmth came to us from Mrs Martin and stayed for the whole day. She gave us our own individual greeting with our own rhyme and she NEVER got anyone’s wrong. It was amazing, and I can tell you this: nowhere on the entire Internet does it say that Socrates