More Than Just Mum

‘He’s a friend of a friend and he’s not fifty-six, Mum. He’s sixteen and he lives in the Czech Republic and he’s totally fine.’

I frown. ‘And you know this how?’

Scarlet sighs dramatically. ‘Because I’ve seen photos of him and he’s a teenager, not a pervy old man.’

‘What does “pervy” mean?’ asks Benji.

‘She said nervy,’ I tell him. ‘Pervy’ does not feel like a word that should be in a ten-year-old’s vocabulary and the last thing I want is a phone call from the school, complaining about his language. ‘Go on, Scarlet.’

‘I’ll show you his photo,’ she says. ‘Then you can chill.’

‘I want to see your conversations. So that I know he isn’t being inappropriate.’

And also, so that I know that you aren’t engaging in sexting or nudes or anything else terrifying.

Scarlet’s face wrinkles up. ‘That’s an invasion of my privacy,’ she complains. ‘Those conversations are private.’

I eyeball her. ‘There’s no such thing as private on the Internet, you know that. The government can read anything you write online.’

‘God,’ she groans. ‘No wonder our country is in such a mess, if politicians are spending all their time snooping at my emails and messages instead of actually doing stuff.’

‘We’ll discuss this again later,’ I assure her, gathering up the plates. ‘Now, who wants some pudding? We’ve got apples and bananas.’

‘An apple is not a pudding,’ complains Dylan. ‘I need more than that if I’m going to keep my energy up.’

‘And he does need a lot of energy,’ Scarlet agrees. ‘If he’s going to be pursuing the lovely Zoe.’

It never ceases, their enthusiasm for winding each other up.

I think about the worries that are stacking up in my brain, like jumbo jets circling to land at Heathrow airport. Dylan and his potential girlfriend. Scarlet’s online liaison with a stranger. Benji’s insistence that he won’t ever be having children, which makes me question whether Nick and I have done such a terrible job of parenting that it’s the last thing that they want to do with their lives.

I think about all the conversations that I need to have with my offspring and I bitterly regret my decision to be self-righteous and virtuous and not drink during the school week.

Chapter 3

I gaze out across the classroom, looking at the twenty-six faces that are staring back at me. Elise has just asked me a question and I absolutely know the answer. Of course I do. I am a teacher, and therefore I possess all knowledge.

‘So is it true then, miss? Did Shakespeare steal all of his good ideas from someone else?’ she asks again, leaning forward and fixing me with a steely glare. ‘Because that’s called plagiarism, that is.’

‘It’s called cheating actually,’ Brody informs her haughtily, before turning back to look at me. ‘Why do we have to read his stuff, if he’s a cheating scumbag?’

‘I’m sure that William Shakespeare wrote all of his own works,’ I say, trying to sound authoritative. I hold up a copy of Romeo and Juliet. ‘His name is on the front, after all!’

‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ calls Vincent from the back row. ‘I once got Wayne to do my Maths homework and then put my name on the top and Mr Jenkins didn’t suspect a thing.’

We all turn to look at Wayne, who is inspecting the contents of his nose. Vincent’s life choices clearly leave something to be desired.

‘That was stupid,’ states Elise. ‘There’s a girl in Year Eleven who’ll do your homework for five pounds and she puts load of mistakes in so that it doesn’t look too suspicious.’

‘Anyway,’ I say, attempting to regain control of the lesson. ‘As I was saying, Romeo and Juliet is a tragedy, and—’

‘The tragedy is that we have to read it,’ interjects Brody, earning a laugh from the rest of the class. ‘I don’t know why you can’t just let us watch the film. That’s what Miss Wallace did last year when we had to study Macbeth.’

A mutter of agreement spreads throughout the room and I resist the urge to groan. Not this again. I’ve spent the last five months hearing about what Miriam Wallace got them to do in their English lessons last year – the conclusion being that she didn’t actually get them to do very much. Which means that I now have the thankless task of attempting to teach them everything that they should have learnt in Years Seven and Eight.

This is not the job I signed up for.

‘I want you to get into pairs and make a mind map showing how the theme of love is portrayed in the play,’ I tell the class. ‘Think about Romeo first. Who is he?’

‘Leonardo DiCaprio!’ shouts Brandon Hopkins.

I ignore him. ‘Consider how Romeo professes to feel about Rosaline right at the start and how quickly he switches his affections to Juliet.’

‘Romeo is a proper lad,’ calls Brody. ‘Way to go, Ro-may-o!’

‘You have twenty-five minutes,’ I snap. ‘And anyone who doesn’t take this task seriously will be doing it as homework.’

This gets zero response. I can set as much homework as I like but I can’t make them do it. We all know that.

Year Nine start organising themselves into pairs. By ‘organising’ I mean that they squabble and bicker and barge around the room until at least half the girls are sulking and the boys are all crowded around the back desks in one messy group.

‘Ahem.’ I clear my throat to get their attention. ‘Brandon Hopkins! Can you please tell me how many people are in a pair?’

‘Depends how large the pair is, miss.’ He snorts and elbows the boy next to him who dutifully sniggers.

That literally makes no sense. These kids can make an innuendo out of absolutely anything. It is exhausting.

‘Very entertaining,’ I tell him, narrowing my eyes. ‘There are two people in a pair, Mr Hopkins, and if you can’t all sort yourselves into pairs in the next thirty seconds then I shall be forced to select your partnerships myself.’ I pause, looking around the room. ‘And they will be mixed gender.’

There is a horrified gasp and a flurry of movement as everyone scurries to find themselves a partner. I watch the clock, counting down the last ten seconds, and then, once everybody is seated, I walk around the room dispensing large sheets of paper and coloured pens.

‘Ooh, felt tips,’ coos Wayne. ‘Miss Wallace never trusted us with the felt tips.’

This statement fills me with joy. Finally, my teaching style is being compared favourably to hers.

‘Get started on your mind maps,’ I instruct. ‘I will be coming round in ten minutes to see how you’re getting on.’

The class start pulling the lids off the pens and I return to the front, sinking down into my chair. The chair is the only good part about this job. It used to belong to Miriam and she left it behind when she got promoted to Deputy Head. I spent the entire first term having to defend it from the other members of the English department who complained that, as a part-time member of staff, my needs were less important than theirs. I’m no fool though. I set out my terms and conditions at the start of January, making it clear that the chair is the bonus for teaching Year Nine, Class C and that anyone who wished to negotiate for its extra padding and swivel seat would be expected to take on the aforementioned class along with the chair.

Unsurprisingly, nobody has come after it since then.

A superior chair is, quite frankly, the least that I deserve. In my humble opinion, Miriam could have left me a sofa and a coffee maker and my own personal water fountain and it still wouldn’t have been enough to soften the blow of making me teach English.

Because I am not an English teacher. I am a Biology teacher. When I started at this school it was in the Science department, after I’d left university with a Biology degree but couldn’t get a job. The choice between teacher training or moving back in with my mother was an easy one to make and things kind of snowballed from there. Teaching wasn’t ever what I intended to spend my life doing but once Nick and I started having kids, the long school holidays and vaguely decent pay made it a no-brainer.

But then the inept government started making ludicrous cuts and our school became an academy and all the rules changed overnight. I didn’t even see it coming, that’s the humiliating part. I strutted into the Head’s office last July ready for my annual appraisal, wondering whether I’d have time to pop to the shops on my way home. If I was vaguely surprised to see Miriam in there then it wasn’t enough to register any thoughts of alarm. We all knew that she’d just been promoted to Deputy Head and it seemed obvious that she’d want to be involved in staff evaluations.

The panic bells only began when Miriam took the lead, telling me that sadly, financial cuts meant that the Biology department was being downsized but that I wasn’t to worry, they had found a new position for me. It would be fewer hours and less pay. Worst of all, it would be taking on her old post in the English department.

I had stutteringly queried my suitability for such a job, but Miriam had glossed over my concerns.

‘We’ve been looking back over your curriculum vitae,’ she told me, brandishing a file with my name on the front. ‘And it states quite clearly that you are an avid reader of books and an aspiring writer. If anything, you are overqualified to teach the students at this school.’

I tried to tell her that the phrase ‘aspiring writer’ referred to my one attempt at writing a collection of short stories, after I took a creative writing module as part of my teaching course. When I presented my efforts to the tutor, he informed me that my writing was too try-hard and that it lacked any sparkle. My CV was the last fictitious work that I ever wrote.

I also attempted to explain that my life has changed quite dramatically since then. Not least with the addition of three children, which hasn’t left me with a lot of spare time for pursuing my own hobbies and interests. But Miriam is like a very efficient bulldozer, and before I knew what had really happened I had agreed to a one-year temporary contract, teaching English, three days a week.

‘We will review your progress on a regular basis,’ Miriam assured me. It sounded like the threat that it was meant to be.

And so, for the last six months I have faked my way through agonising grammar lessons and un-creative writing lessons and lively debates where nobody says anything remotely linked to the topic at hand. I have diverted and distracted and downright lied when asked a question to which I do not know the answer and I have stood at the front of the class pretending that I am not an imposter, a charlatan and a complete and utter con artist.

It has been the most exhausting six months of my life and I have hated every single second of it. But I can’t afford to lose this job, and Miriam knows it. If we were playing a game of poker, she would have the entire royal family and I’d just be left with a few twos and a three, and maybe the joker.

The noise in the room has escalated to uncomfortable levels so I bang my hand on the desk.

‘All that talking had better be about the theme of love,’ I warn. ‘Vincent. What have you got so far?’

Before Vincent can reply, the door swings open and Miriam Wallace walks in, as if my thoughts have magically summoned her from whichever dark corner she’d been lurking in. She casts a beady glance around the desks, her eyes narrowing.

I stand to attention and resist the urge to curtsey. Or salute.

‘You’ve given them felt tips, Mrs Thompson?’ she asks, her voice frosty.

And that, Year Nine, Class C, is a perfect example of a rhetorical question. Beautifully executed with a hint of power play. Round One to Ms Wallace.

‘Yes.’ I attempt a smile. ‘I always find that mind maps are much more powerful if the words stand out in a vibrant colour.’

Round Two to me. I am taking control of my choices. This is my classroom now.

Miriam sneers at me. ‘It’s the “vibrant colours” that cause me concern,’ she says. ‘We are encouraging a professional, corporate look here at Westhill Academy and that includes crisp, white shirts that are unadorned with childish scribbles.’

‘Oh, I don’t think we need to worry about that,’ I laugh. ‘This is Year Nine, Ms Wallace. They’re quite capable of—’

‘It’s Year Nine, Class C, Mrs Thompson,’ she snaps back. ‘Wayne! Stand up!’

‘Honestly, Miriam,’ I murmur. ‘I’d have noticed if they were doing anything untoward. Look. His shirt is fine.’

Wayne is standing in the middle of the room, a large smirk on his face. I smile at him reassuringly and turn back to the Deputy Head.

‘We’ve been doing a lot of work on responsibility and appropriate behaviour,’ I tell her, not wanting to lose this opportunity to brag about my teaching. ‘I really do think that I’m getting somewhere with them. I’ve seen a real improvement in their levels of maturity and their ability to focus. For example, this lesson is all about identifying the way that the theme of love is addressed in Romeo and Juliet which, I think you’ll agree, is a complex and highly nuanced topic.’

Miriam ignores me, choosing instead to direct her full attention at Wayne.

‘Turn around!’ she barks. ‘Now!’

At the back of the room, I see Brody and Vincent start to laugh. An icy droplet of dread trickles down my spine, but I am powerless to do anything except watch as Wayne raises his hands in the air like he’s being arrested and slowly, slowly turn so that his back is facing towards us.

How did she know? She can’t possibly have known.

‘What do you have to say about that?’ Miriam enquires. There is silence for a moment before I realise that the question is aimed at me, not Wayne.

I stare at his shirt for a second and then I walk closer, weaving my way in between the desks until I’m standing right behind him, reading what is written in very bold and very permanent pen.

Love is beautiful like #nofilter.

Love is precious like an iPhone X.

Love is sex and drugs and rock and roll.

Love is chaos and death.

‘Who was working with Wayne?’ My voice is quiet and nobody speaks. I do a slow one hundred and eighty degree turn, looking at every single member of the class. ‘Who was working with Wayne?’

Very slowly, three sets of hands rise into the air.

So much for working as a pair.

‘I said that we—’ starts Elise but Miriam sticks her hand out, palm towards the class. Elise wisely shuts up.

‘Stand up, all of you,’ I snap. Brody, Vincent and Elise all move to stand beside Wayne. ‘Whose idea was it to write on Wayne’s shirt?’

More silence, but I am not surprised. These kids would rather chop off their own arm than risk looking like a snitch; even Elise, who is currently chewing on her bottom lip and looking slightly pale.

‘If they aren’t prepared to tell the truth then they must all suffer the consequences,’ intones Miriam. ‘Destruction of property is a serious offence.’

I nod at the four delinquents to sit down and gesture Miriam to the side of the class.

‘Have you read their mind map, though?’ I whisper. ‘It’s actually pretty good. They’ve really considered the complexities of love as it’s portrayed in the play.’

She stares at me like I’ve just grown devil horns.

‘They drew on Wayne’s school shirt, Mrs Thompson. The quality of the work is absolutely irrelevant here.’

No. It isn’t. This is the first time that I have seen any member of Year Nine, Class C exhibit even a modicum of intelligence. I could give literally zero fucks about the method of display. They could have smeared it in lipstick across the wall for all I care – the entire point is that they have clearly, despite every single piece of evidence to the contrary, been listening to my lessons.

It is an actual miracle. I refuse to let Miriam Wallace and her stupid rules take this away from me.

‘I expect to see all four pupils in after-school detention for the rest of the week,’ she says, raising her voice. ‘You too, Mrs Thompson.’

‘You’re putting me in after-school detention?’ I say weakly.

She’s gone too far now. She might think that I’m doing a crappy job but she can’t treat me like one of the kids. I will not be sent to after-school detention – it’s a complete violation of my rights.

Miriam nods. ‘I’ve been revising the rota and you are now down to cover after-school detention duty today, tomorrow and Wednesday.’ She pinpoints her laser focus onto me. ‘Is that going to be a problem? It is part of your temporary contract.’

Of course it’s a problem. And it’s completely unfair. She’s punishing me and there’s nothing that I can do about it if I want to keep my job. The job that she takes great pleasure in reminding me is only guaranteed until the end of the year. I’m putting my foot down over this. She’s pushed the wrong woman this time. Brace yourself, Miriam, and prepare to witness my wrath.

‘No problem at all, Ms Wallace,’ I trill brightly, through gritted teeth. ‘I shall be there.’

Miriam nods at me and with a last glower at Year Nine, Class C, storms back out of the door.

I stagger to my desk and sink back into the chair. I am not living my best life right now. Not in the slightest.

‘We told you that she never let us use the felt tips, miss.’ Vincent’s voice rings out loud and clear. ‘She thinks we’re too thick to be let loose on anything permanent.’

‘You and me both, Vincent,’ I mutter under my breath. ‘You and me both.’

Chapter 4

There’s no questioning the facts. It is one hundred per cent there and I have one hundred per cent got to deal with this situation immediately. Part of me was hoping that it was a joke, but the more that I stare into the magnifying side of my mirror the more the evidence stares back at me.

Brandon Hopkins was correct, which must surely be the first time since I started teaching him that such an event has actually occurred. I would find this cause for celebration if it weren’t for the fact that on this particular occasion, I would be happy to prove him wrong.

But as he so accurately and loudly pointed out during period six on Wednesday afternoon, I have a lady-moustache.

And I am about to do something about it.

The instructions on the packet are pretty basic but the page of safety precautions goes on forever. I start to read, squinting to see the tiny words.

This product is suitable for upper lip, cheeks and chin.

Chin? Brandon Hopkins didn’t mention anything about me having a lady-beard, but I’d rather be safe than humiliated in front of Year Nine, Class C next week. Grabbing the mirror, I scrutinise the skin below my mouth, searching for errant hairs. Fortunately for me, the majority of my facial growth appears to be confined to the area between lips and nose; I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m pretty sure I didn’t buy enough product to deforest my entire face.

I keep reading.

This item is NOT SUITABLE for the rest of the face, the head, the ears, or around the anus, genitals or nipples.

What now? Why would anyone in his or her right mind want to put wax there? What would be the purpose? Are there really people in the world who care about whether they have a hairless arse? And who would even know if they did have the odd hair or two in the vicinity of their rectal opening? I mean, I’ve never thought to check but now I’m wondering if I need to have a quick look.

Shuddering, I shove the instruction leaflet in the bin. It lost me at anus and I don’t care to read one more word. Not that I need instructions, anyway. The wax strips are laid out in front of me and it’s obvious what I need to do. I have two X chromosomes after all. The skills that I need to complete this task are inherent in my DNA. It’s genetic memory – I have inherited the knowledge that I need to remove my excessive and unwanted moustache from my mother, and her mother before her, and her mother before her, and – well, I’m not sure how long waxing your upper lip has been a thing, but it’s not as if candles are a new invention, so the craft probably goes back for many generations.

I pick up a strip and warm it between my hands before peeling off one side. Then I apply it to my skin, pressing it into place to make sure that it’s stuck down really firmly. And now it is the moment of reckoning. I’m quite looking forward to this bit. I’m not stupid – I’m aware that there may be a small degree of pain involved – but surely it won’t be worse than pulling off a plaster? And these things can often be quite satisfying, in their own way.

I take a deep breath and yank the wax away from my upper lip in one smooth movement.

‘Fuck it, that hurts!’

On the floor, Dogger gives me a baleful look. I ignore her and peer eagerly at the wax strip, keen to see how much hair I have managed to remove.

There is bugger all there. Not one single strand.

I am not feeling satisfied in the slightest.

I lean towards the mirror again, trying to ascertain the current status of my moustache, but the skin is tingling and slightly pink and I can’t tell if the hairs are still there. But it’s okay because this is my first go and sometimes it takes a while to get the knack of doing something technical like this. Otherwise, beauty technicians wouldn’t need to exist, would they? And I have loads more wax strips left. I’ll just keep going until I’ve got rid of them all.

The next fifteen minutes are not the best fifteen minutes of my life. On a scale from stubbing a toe to giving birth, I would say that the pain threshold hovers somewhere around the time I accidentally shaved off an entire strip of skin from my ankle to my knee. Both the bath and I looked like we’d been involved in a particularly gruesome episode of CSI: The Shires. At least this time there isn’t any blood.

Finally, when I have waxed over the same piece of upper lip with every wax strip that was in the box, I admit defeat. I haven’t seen a single hair come out and my lip is sore and suspiciously red.

There are worse things than a slight smattering of hair on my face, I tell myself. I am a grown-ass woman and I do not have to conform to the stereotypes imposed upon me by society. In fact, it is my duty as both a parent and a teacher to educate the next generation and show them, by my example, that it is possible to be successful and professional and intelligent and a worthwhile member of society while sporting a tiny lady-moustache. These things are not mutually exclusive.

Glancing at the time, I realise that unless I get moving then I’m going to be seriously late. I am experimenting with trying to keep as busy as humanly possible on Thursdays and Fridays, in a pathetic attempt to convince myself that not being at work is a treat and basically a good thing. My plan for today is to pamper myself. I have a lovely, relaxing appointment at the hair salon – which I probably can’t afford, hence the DIY hair removal, rather than paying an extortionate amount for someone else to get up close and personal with my lip-fringe.

Coaxing Dogger downstairs, I shoo her out into the back garden, so that she can take care of her own personal hygiene, before grabbing my coat. I call her back inside, give her a biscuit, dash out to the hall and pause briefly to appraise myself in the mirror. My face isn’t looking too exhausted, and while my hair is a bit of a state, that’s okay – it would be a complete waste of a salon trip if it weren’t.

The drive across town is slow due to it being market day. It’s freezing cold but the sun is shining; there is an optimistic sense of spring just around the corner. Despite this, as the minutes tick by, I become increasingly aware that something is wrong.