I always knew it was my vocation, you see. From the start. I’d be in English class with Mr Ralf wanging on about the importance of Shakespeare and the poetry, oh, the poetry. His eyes would get all big, bless him and his eyebrows would wriggle like they were possessed. I used to worry for him. I used to think ‘Take a drink of water, or at least let yourself blink. It can’t be good for you, all that eager staring, and think of the wrinkles.’ And I’d sit there thinking ‘Bugger Shakespeare, bugger the lot of them. I know what I’m going to be doing and preschool children do not need Romeo kacking on about Tybalt thank you very much, or Juliet panting sweet nothings off a balcony.’ Lord of the Flies was a bit more like it. Any of those boys had tried anything unsavoury in my classroom, they wouldn’t know what’d hit them. Not on my watch. You’ve got to teach them to respect you, trust you, love you, even. They need to know who’s boss. Get that in hand from day one and you’ve got them. They’ll do anything for you. Anything.
I was only 17 when I had my first reception class. I was supposed to be 18 and have done another year in college, but I’d been volunteering since year 7. And then Mrs Butterley had that unfortunate run-in with the revolving doors and that was it. My own class, my own 23 soft little heads and open little faces looking to me to be their everything. I did my best.
I’ll still remember them, every single one. There was Barry, one of the youngest, just turned four. His parents were academics and thought he was super bright, but really I think they just needed childcare, so there he was. Very serious, for four. Very concerned with what his mum and dad would say if he did anything wrong. I had him sussed from the start. And Sally, his little girlfriend. They’d give each other a kiss in the cloakroom when they came in of a morning. Cute, those two were. Inseparable. Always holding hands. 'That'll come in useful,' I thought. And it did.
There was Tilly. She was a ringleader. Spirited little firebrand with a mouth on her like a machine. She could talk for Britain and she soaked up everything in like a sponge and wrung herself out at every opportunity, spilling up information to whoever’d listen. I put a stop to that. Her twin brother was in the class too, Gordon. Poor Gordon. For all her verbosity, he was quiet like a monk and for all her confidence, he was terrified. Very protective of Gordon, was our Tilly. Didn’t like anything to happen to him. I knew she’d see sense pretty quickly.
Anthea and Turner, another set of twins. Bland children, those two, not much to recommend them. Well, their mum and dad were Blue Peter fans, so what would you expect? And brave little Jenny. What’s that they call the smallest dog? The runt. It’s good to know who the runt is. They actually get more attention than a lot of the others, so in a way they’ve got a kind of status, but not in a good way. I knew from the start she’d never amount to much, that one. She’d never stick her head above the parapet.
That was my first class. I had many, many more. Reception is my favourite. They’re so soft at that age, so malleable. They drink in what you tell them like it was Coca Cola when their mum’s not looking and they believe anything! Everything. Well, they’re five, aren’t they. They still believe a fat man comes down their chimney on Christmas Eve and they’re not even scared. Yes, the really small ones are easy. They’ve such wide little eyes and such soft little faces and they’ll turn themselves inside out to do things right, even if they don’t like it. Like brave little soldiers going into battle. Bless them.
And whatever you say to them, whatever you get them to do, it’s normal to them if you do it enough. And all you need to know is one thing. One thing about each of them that’s the most important to them, and that’s it. That’s your key.
I made it into a game, the finding out. Special themed days about nightmares, an afternoon on ‘what I love the most’ and just asking them what they did at the weekend gives you a clue for most of them. And once you’ve got your key, they’re all yours. There wasn’t one of them in all those years that breathed a word of it to their mum and dad. Not one.
It was different back then. It was the Seventies. If you said you were doing an after-school club, that’s what you were doing. Nobody did too much checking. People had no money, and they were grateful just to have someone looking after their kids so they could stay at work, get a bit of overtime. And they had fun. We did crafts and drama and choir and once in a while I’d make sure they had something to take home with them. Something to tell. And I only ever took one or two out at a time. And it’s not as if I didn’t have rules. No marks. Nothing that would make them cry. No evidence. Not that I could police it, but I made it clear it was for their own safety as much as mine, and that I’d be checking. They paid me well, those men, and they kept quiet. Couldn’t believe their luck. I was quite the businesswoman. I worked hard for nigh on 20 years, saved myself a tidy little pension. No harm in that.
Then came the millennium and things suddenly got stricter. Everyone had to have a certificate and they stopped strangers going in and out of schools. It was getting dangerous, and I was tired. It’s not an easy path, the one I’d chosen. Lots to juggle, lots at stake. It’s not for the faint-hearted.
So I wasn’t heartbroken when it stopped. I didn’t really need to work. I’d been squirrelling away all that time, saving for a rainy day and all of that, so when it was time, off I went to ‘pastures new’. It was very sad. Three year-groups made me cards and there were gifts. The children cried, of course. And some of the parents. It was quite touching. I moved. Retired, officially, but I got myself on the board of governors at a school in Havant, just in case.
I set myself up nicely in a cottage in Denvilles, and I'd been there a good five years when I got the call. There’d been an investigation going on into a number of schools, apparently, and would I mind coming in for a chat. They thought I might be able to shed some light – thought I’d remember some of the teaching staff at the time. They mentioned a few of my male colleagues. I could have fobbed them off and left the country, but I don’t know – maybe it was arrogance. I mean, throughout the years, I’d worked it well. I knew every child and every weak spot and there wasn’t one who, even so long after, would break. And I’d left trails that would lead to one or two of the less well kempt male staff. None of whom was actually involved, of course. I’m not stupid. I know my work. I’ve said it before, it’s my vocation, it’s what I was born to do.
So in I went willingly, and that’s the last I saw of my cosy little cottage. Innocent until proven guilty and all that, but they’d a strong case against me already and I was a flight risk, according to the prosecution. Too bloody right, I was.
It had started with one report from one pupil, but she'd then contacted everyone in her class. Everyone. And some of them had siblings a few years behind, and others still had friendships, and oh Facebook, you fickle mistress. You can plan for the future you know, but who could possibly have anticipated something that would make it so easy to find people.
It had started with one report from one pupil, but she'd then contacted everyone in her class. Everyone. And some of them had siblings a few years behind, and others still had friendships, and oh Facebook, you fickle mistress. You can plan for the future you know, but who could possibly have anticipated something that would make it so easy to find people.
There was a trial. You’ll have seen it in the papers, I’d imagine. A number of my clients were in the dock, but there was some damage limitation. Clever lying, a stroke of luck. There were a lot of witnesses for the prosecution. Most of them did video-link into the court, so I could see them on the screens, but they didn't have to face me. Most of them. All but one, the ringleader.
No, not Tilly. She was bold and mouthy, but Gordon made her weak. No backbone to speak of, easily swayed and way too quick to please. No... the runt - Jenny - still runty like a little weasel, or a dormouse, but something about her was ten feet tall as she took the stand. She talked in a small voice, but calm. Answered clearly. Didn’t let herself be bamboozled by my lawyer, who cared about nothing but another win under her belt. Well, Jenny had the jury eating out of her hand, and me over a barrel. There were so many of them, you see. She’d found them, and persuaded so many of them to speak. They made an example of me. 25 years, no parole. If I make it that long.
It’s not so bad here. I mean, I’m lonely. They can’t let me in the main part of the block ‘for my own safety’. The demographic that makes it in here have mostly had children by the time they’re old enough to drink and they’re volatile. Protective. You think men in this profession have it bad. You should see the way they look at a woman in my shoes. The weaker sex, are we? Ha. We always take the brunt. I mean, I never touched a hair on any of their soft little heads. I never made them do anything. I was their commander, if you like, their Brown Owl. A leader and a matriarch. I loved them, in my way. You can’t help it.
And that scruffy little Jenny – always dirty, always followed by a smell of unwashed poverty and piss. I saw the little girl in that defiant, quiet woman. Beautifully turned out, she was now, clean and neat and very self-contained.
Look at what you did, Jenny. All this is down to you, my brave little soldier. I got you wrong. The only one. My downfall.
You make me almost proud.
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