Is Jesus Still Going? by Monica

IS JESUS STILL GOING?

THE EXPERIENCES OF A SUPPLY TEACHER.

PREFACE

It was a year 10 class of fifteen year olds and the girls shuffled in, bored expressions on their faces.
“Are we watchin’ a video, Miss?” demanded a pretty blonde girl as she made for the back of the room.
“No, you’ve been set some written work,” I replied and there was the expected storm of protest.
“It’s R.E. We never do nothin’ in this lesson.”
“We only watch videos: Sir said we could watch Matrix 2.”
They were all glaring at me, hoping to browbeat me, a mere supply teacher, into letting them have their way but I began to give the worksheets out, calmly picking them up again when their recipients flung them on the floor in disgust.
“We’ve done this. I’m not doin’ it again.”
“They give it us every year an ‘ave done since we were in the Infants.”
“Why do we ‘ave to keep doin’ it? Once is enough.”
I began to explain that this was the week coming up to Easter known as Holy Week so we must try to remember it every year but before I could get any further the door opened with a bang and a tall dark haired girl with a stud in her lip strode in.
The class forgot me at once. All eyes were focused on the newcomer.
“What did she say, Ally?”
“Did she make yer take ‘em out?”
“’Ave yer been suspended?”
The girl smiled and shook her head.
“Nah. Nothin’ like that.”
“Yer a case, you are, Ally.”
“Hello, there,” I said in an effort to take control again.
“Hiya, Miss,” she said to me. She picked up a worksheet and then looked at me in surprise.
“Jesus? Is ‘e still goin’?” she asked.

CHAPTER ONE

My professional life has been devoted to Religious Education, as a teacher, Adviser and writer and when I retired I decided it was time to do something different. It didn’t work out like that, though, because, two years later, I was invited to join one of the teaching agencies, since schools badly needed supply staff. Friends and ex colleagues of mine were doing it so I finally agreed, welcoming the idea that I would have opportunities to teach other subjects such as English and History for a change.
“Can you go to St Jude’s?” the girl from the teaching agency asked one morning. “It’s a day’s R.E cover. “
I sighed but experience had taught me there was no point in arguing, not when the agency believed they were doing me a favour by giving me my own subject. I didn’t mind St Jude’s, anyway. It was a large Roman Catholic Comprehensive school on the outskirts of Liverpool and I had been there many times before. The children were lively but not too difficult and I knew most of them.
As I entered the large fifties type building which had a huge statue of the Virgin Mary in its busy entrance hall I was spotted at once by the Deputy Head.
“Hello, Monica, back again I see.” He beamed at me. “You’ll be covering Rose Dawson today and she has cellotaped the work to her table in the R.E room so you’ll have plenty to do.” He nodded pleasantly and hurried away. I made my way to the staffroom, a large but untidy room where another member of the R.E department, Jo Connolly, hailed me at once.
“You’ve got Rose’s classes all day,” she told me. ”There’s only one lot to worry about and that’s 9L this afternoon. Don’t take any nonsense from them, they’re in disgrace and the whole class is on report.”
“Why?” I asked curiously. Even in the best schools there are classes, sometimes a whole year group, which cause problems and I remembered 9 L only too well from previous visits. Being on report meant that their behaviour was being monitored and subject teachers had to make written comments about the class’ behaviour after each lesson.
“They set fire to their desks in a supply teacher’s lesson yesterday,” Jo told me and my heart sank. “They probably won’t write much for you but they’ll discuss a topic like Love and Marriage well enough.” She pulled a face and I nodded. “I can imagine,” I replied feelingly.
“The other lessons should be O.K. The year seven class you’ve got first can be a pain but I’m sure you’ll handle them.”
Fifteen minutes later I met my first class of the day, a noisy group of eleven year olds who fought and argued as they lined up outside Rose’s door.
“Miss, ‘oo are yer?” demanded a belligerent eleven year old boy as he placed himself at the beginning of the line.
“I’ll tell you when we go inside,” I replied. This was a class I hadn’t met before.
“Miss, tell ‘im.” The girl behind him gave the boy a hefty kick in the shins and he staggered backwards, the line collapsing so that some children fell on the floor.
“You two - over here,” I ordered, pointing to the other side of the corridor and the offending boy and girl glared at me but did as I asked. Once we were all settled and I had the two offenders in and sitting in front of me I examined the work. Apparently they had been studying Moses and had just begun the Ten Commandments. I decided to ask them a few questions about Moses first.
“Put your hand up if you can tell me something about Moses,” I said after I had introduced myself and laid down a few rules. Several hands waved in the air and I chose a lively boy who was clearly bursting to give me an answer.
“Miss, ‘e gathered loads of animals together and put ‘em in the sea in a boat,” a boy on the back row informed me.
“That were someone else,” objected a small girl sitting next to him. ”Moses were a magician an’ ‘e lived in Egypt.”
“God spoke to ‘im in a burnin’ bus.” The girl who delivered this information looked round at the others for confirmation and many of them nodded their agreement.
“An ‘e got killed in the River Nile,” another girl said proudly.
’”Ow could ‘e get killed if ‘e brought them Israels out o’ slavery?” someone else demanded. “Yer talkin’ through yer backside, girl.”
“An’ ‘e were a murderer an’ all, Miss Dawson told us.” A boy got out of his seat and made swiping movements to demonstrate Moses’ killing of an Egyptian overseer. “We acted it out an’ I thumped Will in the eye.”
“Can we act it out again, Miss?”
“We’ll see,” I replied, hastily deciding to revise Moses as quickly as possible. Rose Dawson had left a note to say that the children had been asked to learn the Ten Commandments for homework and the moment I mentioned this I was besieged by offers from the class to hear them recite them.
“Just give me one each,” I decided because the whole lesson might well be over before I heard all the recitations if everyone gave me the whole ten. I chose one or two who were not shouting “Miss! Miss” at me.
“You mustn’t do no stealin’.
”Thou shall not cover thi’ neighbour’s wife.”
“The word is covet,” I said and explained its meaning.
“Thou mustn’t do addletry.”
“Addletery?” I was confused for a moment.
“Me Mam does it with ‘im up the road when me Dad’s at sea,” explained Terry, a dark haired boy helpfully. “An’ Freddie’s Mam does it an’ all.”
Freddie was already on his feet, glaring at him. Criticizing another boy’s mother is usually the prelude to a fight and although the word “addletery” meant nothing to Freddie he was determined that Terry wasn’t going to get away with it.
I didn’t know the class well enough to allow too much enlightenment on adultery and, also, I was aware that a fight was about to break out at any moment. I explained briefly, told Terry I had heard enough and Freddie, his expression still belligerent, sat down.
“Freddie, Terry said yer Ma’s an ‘oar,” Nathan Green said.
“What’s that?” Freddie was on his feet again.
“An oower, one o’ them women ‘oo --.”
“Enough!” I said sharply. “Nathan, stop trying to cause trouble.”
I chose a bright faced girl in the second row for the next commandment.
“Thou shalt not make me lie down in green water,” she said confidently and the class stared at her in outrage.
“Miss, she’s made that up.”
“That’s not one, is it, Miss?”
“Me Nan says it is,” the girl said as if that settled the matter. “An’ she knows, ‘cos she goes to Mass.”
“I think you might have been thinking of “The Lord’s My Shepherd,” I told her and after that I decided it was best if they wrote the Commandments down so that I could go through them without such creative interruptions.

That afternoon I watched the members of 9L enter the classroom in ones and twos, most of them heading for the back row.
“Hi, Miss.” Some of them greeted me politely enough but when a stocky boy with black hair handed me the report book I noticed there was a seating plan.
“Find your usual seats, please, I told them. “I’ve got the seating plan here and I intend to check it.”

With much muttering and grumbling they found their places and I ignored such comments as “Miss Dawson said I could sit near Derek today” and “She said we could watch a video.” The worksheets didn’t only cover Christian Love and Marriage, they included information about Hindu and Muslim arranged marriages as well, the latter bringing forth some forthright comments from the class
“Don’t agree with that,” Cilla, a thin blonde girl, who had her makeup bag on the desk in front of her, objected strongly to this. ”It’s not right, that, ‘avin yer parents choosin yer ‘usband.”
“Yeah.” There was a chorus from some of the other girls. ”Marriage is supposed to be about love an’ that.”
“Supposin you ‘ate the guy they’ve chosen.”
“I’d run away, I would.”
“If I couldn’t stand ‘im I’d be off.”
“She’d go ‘whorin’ round the town, Miss. She does already,” Benny, a big blond boy sniggered.
“Shut it, Benny, yer mong.” The last speaker, a pretty dark haired girl, who had answered to the name of “Josie” when I marked the register, made a rude sign at Benny and then turned to an Asian girl who had said nothing so far. “Latty, ’ave you got an ‘usband lined up ?”
Latifa, a Muslim, shook her head. “Not yet ,but my sister was married two years ago and she was introduced to seven young men before she made up her mind.”
The girls were impressed by this but the boys were not.
“Don’t the lads get to choose as well?” asked Tony from the back row.
“Yes, of course,” Latifa assured him but the boys were not convinced.
“I saw this film East is East and yer should ‘ave seen the two girls they dredged up for the lads,” Benny said. I’d run away meself if I got told I’d to marry one o’them.”
“As Latifa has explained most Asian parents do their best to find suitable marriage partners for their sons and daughters but there is still an element of choice,” I said.
“Miss, they don’t always because there’s this Indian family near us an’ they’re always sending their girls to India to get married. There’s not much choice there, is there?”
“An’ there was this girl in our other school an’ she was married off when she was a baby.”
A storm of protest greeted this remark.
“Miss, she’s just made that up. Miss, it’s evil, that.”
“No-one would do that.” Latifa said angrily.
“See, you’ve upset Latty now, Becky Wiltshire.”
“I don’t mean the baby got married, yer dick ‘eads,” Becky yelled.” I mean when the baby was born a marriage was arranged with this lad for when she was old enough.”

I steered them back to the worksheets, which stressed the differences between church and civil weddings, asking them for their opinions.
“I’m definitely ‘avin’ a church weddin’ an’ a white one,” announced Cilla amidst hoots of derision from the class.
“A white weddin’ after all you’ve done? It should be grey or black,” Benny yelled.
“You never even go to church,” objected the black haired boy who had brought in the worksheets earlier.
“So what? Churches are better for the photies,” Cilla replied.
“You can get married in a registry office or wherever you want an’ stand in the church garden for the photos afterwards,” Kate, who sat beside Cilla, informed us. “Our Mo did that last year.”
“That’s like using the church, though,” objected Billy, the boy with black hair.
“You only think that ‘cos you’re goin’ to be a priest, Billy Wheeler,” Becky told him.
“I agree with Billy,” Frances, a serious looking girl announced. “An’ whilst we’re on the subject, those of you who was comin’ to our Donna’s weddin’ at Christmas it’s been brought forward to September.”
“Why? Is she ‘avin’ a sprog?” asked a handsome boy from the back of the room.
“No, it’s not that,” Frances turned to him. “It’s because me Dad’s comin’ out of Parkhurst in July so we’ve got to have the weddin’ as soon as possible after that in case he goes in again an’ misses it.”
“What is Parkhurst?” asked Latifa.
“Prison - for Big timers,” replied Kate.

Further discussion was interrupted by a powerfully built man in a dark suit who entered the room at that moment. I recognised him as Terry Williams, the Head of year Nine.
“Excuse me, Miss, I’d like a word with this class, please,” he said grimly.
“What ‘ave we done now?” demanded Cilla, who had been admiring her nail varnish when he came in.
“We’ve done good for Miss,” Benny said indignantly.
“Yes, well, I’m glad to hear it.” Terry stared grimly at the class. “I want to remind you yet again that the ceremony of Confirmation will take place at St Hugh’s Church in three weeks’ time. You had all the acceptance forms over a month ago and only Billy Wheeler has returned one. All the other year Nines have brought their forms back but not 9 L, which I should have expected, I suppose” He placed a sheaf of papers on my table. There are new forms here and I want them filled in and handed to Miss by the end of the lesson.”
“Sir, what’s Confirmation?” Cilla dared to ask and received a glare that would have quelled many young people but had little effect on her.
“See what you can do, Miss,” Terry whispered as he left the room.
“What IS Conferwhatsit?” demanded Cilla again.
“Sir told us all in Assembly,” Billy said.
“Yeah, well, I’ve forgotten, ‘aven’t I? Anyway, I’m not doin’ it.” Cilla took her nail varnish out of her bag, caught my eye and put it back.
Billy sighed. “When you get christened – “
“I’ ve never been christened,” Cilla announced and the class stared at her as if she were a rare species.
“Course you ‘ave.”
“You must ‘ave or you’d be an ‘eathen.”
“No wonder yer so wicked. The devil’s still in yer.”
“That’s enough!” I interrupted sternly. “Billy has kindly offered to explain what Confirmation is, so please let him do it.”

I nodded at Billy, who began again. “When we get christened our godparents promise to bring us up in the Roman Catholic Faith,” he said. “At Confirmation we make those promises for ourselves.”
“Oh.” Cilla yawned and turned to the others. “Are yer all getting’ done, then?”
“Nah,” said Benny.
“No way,” Becky shook her head and most of the others did the same.
“Sorry, Billy,” added Kate kindly. “Billy’s going to be a priest, Miss, so he’s no choice.”
“Well, the new forms are here if you change your minds,” was all I could think to say.
“There’s money in it,” Billy said slyly.
There was a short silence.
“Money?” They all stared at him.
“You mean you get paid fer doin’ it?”
“Yes, in a way, well,, not officially you don’t but your Nan an’ your godparents an’ all your relations are so pleased with you they give you money as a reward. Our Jackie got two hundred smackers last year.”
“Put me name down.”
“Give us one o’ them forms.”
“I’ll ‘ave a go if there’s dosh in it.” Cilla announced.
“Yer can’t, Cilla, yer’ve not been christened.” Becky said.
“Watch me.” She came to the front of the class, collected the forms and gave them out speedily to the class.
“Can’t Latty go in fer it?” she asked when she reached the Asian girl.
“I’m afraid not. Sorry, Latifa,” I said gravely.
When I handed the forms back to Terry Williams he was delighted.
“Oh, well done, Miss. A full house! How did you manage it?” he asked.
“I had nothing to do with it,” I replied. “Billy made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.”
“Well, good for Billy. We’ll make a priest of him yet.” Highly delighted, Terry bore the forms away chuckling to himself.

CHAPTER TWO

When I first saw thirteen year old Annie Sumner she was piling Bibles up against the classroom window and throwing them into the street one by one. Although the classrooms at Cherwell Street, a Liverpool inner city school where I was doing two terms’ supply, were only two floors up the Bibles were hard backed and heavy: one flung at speed could easily injure someone passing by in the street below and could even knock them out. I was free that lesson, had gone to the room to look at the resources in the stock room there and Annie’s presence took me by surprise. I rushed to the window but, before I could close it, one of the Bibles hit a man passing by on the shoulder and he yelled in pain and fright, clutching at a lamp post to steady himself. Annie gave a scream of delight and as I banged the window shut her victim looked up and saw me.

“I’ll do for you, you murderin’ cow,” he roared and I watched him stagger to the school entrance.
“Now look what you’ve done –,” I began but Annie had disappeared and a few moments later I heard hurrying feet. The injured man stormed in, still clutching his shoulder, and behind him raced the caretaker, Colin Forbes, and Miss Withers, the most senior of the Deputy Heads.
“There she is, the bleedin’ cow,” he yelled and if the caretaker hadn’t grabbed him he would have launched himself on to me at once.
“That bleeder ‘as just lobbed a book at me,” the man shouted rubbing his shoulder. “She’s been throwin’ big ‘eavy books all over the street an’ when one ‘it me I ‘eard ‘er laughin’. I could’ve been killed an’ I’m gonna ‘ave the school up in court, I am.”
“I’m afraid it wasn’t me,” I protested somewhat lamely and he laughed derisively. “’Oo were it, then? I saw yer meself an’ I’ve the bruises ter prove it.”
“I hardly think any member of staff would hurl books down at people in the street --,” began Miss Withers.
“It were the good book an’ all. Fine way to treat that, I must say.”
Miss Withers stared at him. “What do you mean it was the good book?”
“It were’t’ Bible,” he said angrily. “I’m not from round ‘ere, I’m from Lancashire, tha’ knows an’ they treat it with respect there. I think th’Archbishop o’ Canterbury should be told an’ the Pope an’ all.”
Miss Withers was looking at me oddly.
“Oh, dear. You came with such good references,” she said. “I must say I am surprised, Miss Price.”
I felt sick. “Surely you don’t think me capable of such a thing --,” I began.
“Who else was in here?” asked Colin, the caretaker suddenly.
“There was a girl here” I said somewhat lamely because, considering there was no sign of one this seemed to be a poor excuse.
“I wanna go to th’ospital,” the victim said. “Can’t expect childer to know right from wrong when teachers go off their ‘eads an’ start firin’ Bibles at innocent folk.”
A snorting sound came from the stockroom and Colin dashed across and flung the door open. Annie Sumner was laughing hysterically as she staggered out.
“Here’s your culprit,” Colin said grimly and he grabbed the man’s arm as the latter made a grab for the laughing girl.
“Get down to my office, Annie,” snapped Miss Withers and, with a rude sign at the man she had injured Annie skipped out.
“Well, all I can say is youse lot isn’t fit ter be teachers if yer can’t control the kids. Yer’ll be ‘earin’ from me solicitor.”
Colin took the man’s arm. “Come on, mate,” he soothed. “I’ll make you a brew and someone ‘ll see to your arm.” He led the victim out and Miss Withers and I were left alone.
“Who is that girl?” I demanded.
“Annie Sumner. She’s been expelled from a convent school for – er- swearing at the Reverend Mother,” replied Miss Withers bleakly. “The Education Office say we have to take her because she’s staying in our area but she wasn’t supposed to start until next week.” She sighed. “I didn’t see any point in alarming the staff until absolutely necessary but, obviously, it’s too late now. I’m afraid Annie has a grievance against religion so you might have some difficult times with her.”


Chapter Three

It was by no means my only meeting with Annie Sumner at Cherwell Street. In R.E lessons she caused as much havoc as she could and all the teachers were at their wits’ end with her. The other girls’ responses were mixed, ranging from those who considered her to be a nuisance to many who tried to copy Annie’s disruptive behaviour.
Helen Baker approached me shortly after the Bible incident to ask if I would help with the Christmas play, a tradition at Cherwell Street.
“We hold it in the school hall, usually during the last week of term,” Helen explained. “It’s always in the evening and girls can attend with their parents if they wish. The governors like to come and I always invite inspectors from the Education office. I’ll tutor them in voice projection if you’ll hold the auditions and hold rehearsals for me. I’ll give you a copy of the play to read and you can tell me what you think.”
Supply teachers are not usually asked to do anything after school but I liked Helen and had been well used to organising Christmas plays during my regular career. The play is a modern version of the Nativity called The Three Roses, a story of a group of disillusioned adults who don’t want to celebrate Christmas and meet every year in a village guest house to grumble about everything. One year the landlady’s young granddaughter is staying there and she decorates the house and is obviously looking forward to Christmas. On Christmas Eve, in pouring rain, a young couple arrive at the Guest House with a young baby. They are on their way to the nearest city but the train taking them there can’t go any further so they are stranded and urgently need accommodation. Although the landlady does have an empty room she doesn’t want to upset her regular guests so she refuses the little family.
The little girl runs after the couple and takes them to her grandmother’s shed, where an old mattress is stored. She runs to neighbouring houses to tell people that Mary and Joseph have arrived with the baby and need food and blankets. The neighbours respond at once and the shed becomes a centre of activity, on in which the landlady and her guests participate eventually.
I held the auditions in the school hall at the end of each day and Annie Sumner arrived at the first one.
“I wanna be the Virgin Mary an’ I’m bein’ er,” she announced as she marched into the hall.
“I’m afraid there isn’t a Virgin Mary in it,” I told her.
“Put one in, then,” she snapped.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” I replied. “I didn’t write the play so I can’t change it. There is a young mother with a baby, though.”
“I’ll be ‘er, then.”
“You’ll have to audition for the part like everyone else,” I said. “Now sit down, please, Annie and wait your turn.”
“I don’t need to audition, I’m bein ‘er an’ if any of you says different yer know what to expect.” Annie glared at the large crowd of girls waiting to be auditioned for the various parts and yelled to one already on stage.
“Gerroff there NOW!”
“Miss, send ‘er out or we’ll never get nothin’ done,” yelled Jessie Owen, a girl from Annie’s form, who was already an arch enemy of the new girl.
“Shut yer trap, Jessie Owen or I’ll burst yer.”
“Be quiet, both of you,” I ordered. “Annie, if you’re staying sit down. Jessie, don’t you dare,” I added as Jessie showed signs of getting up.
“She shouldn’t be in no play. Miss. She told the Reverend Mother at ‘er other school to eff off.”
“She shouldn’t ‘ave known what it meant,” yelled Annie. Oh, sod the lot of youse.” She slammed the door as she stormed out and I was relieved that Annie had given up so easily. I would have been only too glad to have given Annie a part if she’d gone about it in the proper way.
Annie didn’t give up, though. She yelled obscenities through the door at rehearsals and terrorised the younger girls taking part in the play. In the end there had to be a “Sumner Watch” with members of staff and the caretaker taking it in turns to chase Annie away from the hall on rehearsal nights.
The Head attended all the rehearsals in the last week and, much to everyone’s relief, Annie kept away.
“I don’t think it’s because of me,” Helen told us one morning at Staff Briefing, the daily interchange of news before school begins. “Annie has been causing so much trouble in the flats where she lives that the Sumners are sending her to Wales to live with her grandmother for a while.”
“WHAT a relief!” Miss Withers echoed all the staff’s feelings at this news.
“Yes, but I think it’s a great pity we couldn’t do anything with the girl because she’s actually quite bright, you know.” Helen sighed. She always tried to find something good about all her pupils but those of us who had to put up with Annie on a regular basis couldn’t agree with her this time. Cherwell Street girls were challenging enough as it was without Annie’s confrontational imput.

There seemed to be at least six dignitaries from the Education Offices mingling with governors and Staff in the Head’s study on the night of the play. I remarked on this to Jane Weaver and Phil Donohue, two colleagues helping to dress the cast in a room next to the Hall.
“That’s because Helen always puts on an interesting show,” Jane told me as she attached angels’ wings to a Year Seven child.
“It’s just a straightforward play, really,” I said as I applied stage makeup to Yvonne Carter, the twelve year old who was to play the part of the landlady’s granddaughter.
“Yes, well, our girls are great characters and they’re inclined to add interesting comments of their own,” Phil told me. There. We’re about ready and, judging by the noise the hall’s filling up.”
It was an unexpectedly large audience. Although many parents were never seen in school during term time (especially if they were contacted because their daughters were in trouble) they turned out in full force for the Christmas play and clapped and shouted encouragement to the actors on stage. It was a happy and successful evening. No-one forgot her lines and the children sang Silent Night with enthusiasm as they crowded round the couple and the “baby” during the last scene. It was as the young mother moved forward to accept a gift from one of the adult characters that it happened. Naturally, everyone knew about the trapdoor in the centre of the stage: it was only ever opened if the school caretaker wanted to bring some heavy item from the cellar and was always carefully locked afterwards – or so we thought. Suddenly, there was a shrill scream and the “mother” and “child” disappeared through the trap door. A majestic blue gowned figure rose up in her place.
“Told yer I’d play the Virgin Mary,” Annie Sumner shouted triumphantly. She began to dance a jig, her eyes fixed on the dignitaries in the front row.
“I’m leavin’ this school, thank fuck,” she said.

SUPPLY ON DEMAND

CHAPTER FOUR

The corridor was dark and it was difficult to see what the tall girl was holding, though the short middle aged man knew because he began to run. The girl swung the object high above her head and I then saw it was a dead rat attached to a board. She took long strides after her human target and then, with a quick twist, she released the rat, which missed her intended victim and slid neatly down the neck of a girl walking towards her. The girl’s screams were horrific and the students in Lab. Seven streamed out yelling at the tops of their voices. I started towards the hysterical girl but a white coated technician dashed out of one of the preparation rooms and half carried her back inside, slamming the door behind him. The tall girl had disappeared but the excited children in the corridor continued to shout and squeal, making no effort to move.
The little man rushed back, breathless and angry and he came to me at once.
“Are you the supply teacher?” he gasped.
“Yes, I am,” I said. “Are you all right?”
“No, I’m not, thanks to that bitch, Winsome Muller,” he said bitterly. ”You were a witness, you saw her.” He was breathing more easily now but was, understandably, still agitated. “I was looking after that class until you arrived and Winsome Muller marched in with that rat and chased me out with it.”
Some of the students, who, since they were in Year Eight, were aged between twelve and thirteen, were listening and began to snigger. I decided it was time for action so I walked to the door of the lab and opened it decisively.

“In here, please,” I ordered sternly. They ignored me so I roared at them and some of them began to shuffle in, pushing each other and talking loudly.
“I should come in and settle those bastards down for you but I can’t face it.,” the little man said with a shudder. “I’m Dennis Whiteley. I’ve been doing supply in Science here for two weeks but I ‘m not staying, can’t stand it. Don’t let them grind you down.” He shook his head and walked away. I followed the class into the laboratory, no more eager than he had been to spend time in their company. The teaching agency had told me it would be a day’s R.E cover here at Lingfield Road Sports College, a mixed Comprehensive school on the Liverpool and Knowsley borders. It was by no means unusual to arrive at a school believing it was to cover one subject and find one teaching something else entirely but it had been a late call that day as well and I felt at a disadvantage.
“Sit down, all of you, NOW,” I ordered but no-one took the slightest bit of notice. Boys and girls were running from seat to seat pushing each other, switching on gas taps and seizing books from cupboards and window sills to fling at each other. It took a full ten minutes to establish control and that was only because I made them all stand up, well away from the benches and cupboards, where too many objects could be used as missiles.
“’Oo are yer?” demanded a fair haired boy with an angelic face as he tried to hook a stool from under the nearest bench with his feet.
“Stop that!” I said sharply and told them my name. I daren’t write it on the board as I often did because that would have meant turning my back on them.
“Are yer a proper teacher?” asked a small dark haired girl who was chewing, her mouth wide open.
“Yes,” I told her. “Now, empty your mouth, please.”
She made no move to do so. “Yer only one o’ them substitute teachers. We don’t ‘ave to do what yer tell us,” she said pulling her chewing gum out of her mouth in a long string and examining it carefully.
“So don’t give us no work‘ cos we won’t do it,” This was from the boy sitting next to her.
“I’m afraid you do,” I replied, picking up a pack of worksheets from the teachers’ bench at the front of the Lab. I experienced a familiar feeling of frustration, one which many supply teachers know only too well. We have only as much authority as a school is prepared to give us. In this school work had been set but there was no accompanying handbook offering information about school procedures and sanctions. There wasn’t even a register of the children’s names.
“Anyway, yer too old. Me Great Nan’s ninety three an’ yer look well older than ‘er.”
I ignored this sally and gave out the sheets. They stared at them in disgust.
“We’ve done this an’ I’m not doin’ it again.” The girl with the chewing gum folded her arms in a forbidding manner.
“Yeah, we did Lechie last week.”
I examined the worksheets which were indeed about Electricity. Insisting they have done the work is often a delaying tactic but I wasn’t taking any chances.
“Where are your exercise books?” I asked.
“Sir took them ‘ome last week ter mark an’ then ‘e was off sick.”
“What did you do your work on last lesson?” I asked.
“On paper,” a chorus of voices informed me.
“So where is it now?”
“It got binned.
The noise was rising again and I rapped sharply on the desk.
“Yer givin’ me an ‘eadache,” said the girl with the chewing gum.
“Miss, we do have exercise books. They’re in the cupboard over there,” an Asian boy sitting on the first bench told me. “And we haven’t done this work before.”
“Shut it, Abde, ter murk,” yelled the angelic looking boy.
There was instant uproar.
“Miss, Mark Williams just called Abde a murk an’ he’s a Muslim.”
“We’re not allowed to insult Muslims.”
“Miss, write it down, it’s one o’them incidents.”
Abde grinned. “I, the great Abdullah have been insulted,” he said. “My father will be here to complain tomorrow.”
“Abde, give the exercise books out for me, please,” I said. The lesson was a disaster. Abde leaped from his seat and ran to do my bidding but the girl with the chewing gum stuck out her foot and he fell flat on his face. The class roared with laughter. Abde didn’t seem to be hurt and he scrambled quickly to his feet.
“What’s your name?” I asked the girl sternly.
She blew a bubble before she answered.
“Charlene,” she said with a yawn.
“Charlene What?”
“Just Charlene’ll do,” she said grandly.
“Put your chewing gum in the bin,” I said and she got up, strode to the bin and spat the gum into it.
There were cries of disgust from the others.
“Miss, Charlene Reynolds ‘as just spitted in the bin, the dirty get.”
“I’m tellin’ yer Ma, Charlene Reynolds.”
“I’ll burst yer, Carl Walters if yer do,” screamed Charlene.
I was not at all surprised their teacher was off sick. Abde was still handing out books but I demanded silence, got it briefly and began to explain the worksheet, being forced to stop several times because people were talking.
“We do it now or at Break,” I told them angrily and some of them laughed raucously.
“In yer dreams, man,” someone called out, a sally which caused even more amusement.
“You can begin the questions now,” I told them.
“ I ‘avent got a pen.”
“Me never.”
“I ‘ad one but Fenner et it.”
I found a few pens in a drawer and gave them out. To my surprise they actually opened their books and began to write. I sent a girl to the school office to collect a class register and was congratulating myself that the children were actually working when the door opened and the dead rat whizzed past my face. The class screamed in delight.
“That weren’t us, it were Winsome Muller,” Charlene informed me. “She must be bunkin’ off lessons.”
“She chased Whiteley all down the corridor, it were funny that.”
“Not so funny for that girl when the rat went down her neck,” I said as I picked up the rat in a piece of paper and put it in the bin.
“It were an accident, that. She was aimin’ for Whiteley.”
I went round the room to check that everyone was working. The girl I’d sent to the office returned to say there weren’t any registers, I’d to get the class to write their names on a sheet of paper. My heart sank because I knew I’d receive some creative responses. I had no choice but to comply, however.
For the last ten minutes we had peace and I breathed a sigh of relief. A boy brought the paper to me and I realised that everyone was watching me covertly. I looked at the list. Interspersed with the real names were George W Bush, Ben Dover, Seymore Butt, Phil McCracken, Ivor Biggun and Mike Hunt.
“Read it out, Miss,” someone shouted but he door opened and a sulky Winsome marched in followed by a tall well built man whose sudden appearance was obviously a shock for the class.
“I am Paul Higham, Head of Year Eight,” he told me. The break bell sounded and a few reached for their coats.
“Oh, no, you’re not leaving yet.” Mr Higham said pleasantly. “Winsome, sit down, you can start the work now. Is that the register, Miss?” I handed him the paper and he scanned it carefully, oblivious to the sounds of movement outside. “You go and have a cup of tea, Miss,” he said at last. “Abde, Lucy, collect the books and take them up to my office.”
I left him to it but saw him later and he was highly amused.
“It was easy to spot the ones who wrote those disgusting names,” Paul said. “They didn’t bother to write their own names as well, not clever enough, you see. They’ve each got two longish detentions, one for them in their own names and the other for the false ones. I’ve told them I’ll contact their parents and show them the list. I won’t, not this time but they think I will so they ‘re all outside my office now feeling pretty sorry for themselves, especially Carl Williams, whose Dad’s the local vicar.”
“What about Winsome Muller?” I asked. Paul Higham sighed.
`“If we suspend her she’ll come in anyway and her parents don’t want to know,” he said. “There’s no backing for schools with regard to disruptive pupils, you see. That other girl, the one who got the rat aimed for Dennis Whiteley had to be taken home so something must be done about Winsome. I just wish I knew what.”

“I wonder if you’d do me a big favour?” Annie Keating, Head of R.E at Grant’s Road Comprehensive School near Wigan in Lancashire was looking harassed. It was early December and I was halfway through a fortnight’s supply cover in her department.
“If I can, certainly.” I looked at her expectantly, imagining that she wanted me to do a Break duty for her.
“Will you see what you can do with 7H and their play? They’re little horrors they really are and with all the end of term Christmas events to arrange I just can’t manage it. I take them for R.E but Jessie Owen had promised to see to their play for me and, as you know only too well, since you’re covering for her she won’t be back until January.”

It was traditional for all the Year 7 classes to contribute something for the Christmas Assemblies which would take place every day in the last week of term. Some classes had elected to sing special carols and others had written Christmas poems. 7H had offered to present a Nativity play, which they had written themselves under the guidance of Jessie Owen, the teacher whose work I was covering.
“I’ve been hearing some lurid tales about their behaviour at rehearsals,” I said, “I believe they don’t get on with each other.”
“Oh, I’ve never known such a class for fighting, rowing and telling tales of each other,” Annie agreed with a sigh. “We keep telling Paul Abbott, their Head of Year, to split them up before they really damage each other but he thinks they’ll work through it. Last night I held a dress rehearsal because I thought they’d have a better sense of occasion if they wore their costumes. I had to abandon it, though.”
“What did they actually do?” I asked curiously.
Michael Kershaw – he plays Joseph – nipped Ruth Foster’s behind and Ruth –she’s Mary – threw the baby Jesus across the stage and marched off. Then the three Kings took such large steps in their procession that they ripped each other’s cloaks off. I’ve just had it with them.”
“I’ll have a go with them, of course.” I was trying not to laugh. “When do you have them?”
“Second lesson, when you have Year 10s. I’ll take them and you take 7H into the hall. Don’t stand any nonsense from them. If they start their silly behaviour tell them the play’s off and make them sit in silence.”
7H were rampaging outside the hall when I arrived and it took a few minutes to get them into line.

I opened the hall door and ushered them in, noting with relief that the chairs were still in place from that morning’s Assembly. They sat down and I introduced myself. I had the cast list for the play and I asked the actors to put up their hands as I read out their names. I noticed that the angelic looking boy was Michael, who played Joseph and that Ruth, a pretty girl with a determined expression, was Mary. I discovered that every child in the class would be doing something, painting scenery, opening and shutting curtains or prompting. I sent the cast in pairs to the prop cupboard to get their costumes and settled the rest of the class on the first row of seats facing the stage.
“I’d like those of you who haven’t got acting parts to be the audience today, please,” I told them and sent a few of them to various points of the hall to see if the actors’ voices could be heard.

The innkeepers got themselves into position behind imaginary doors on the stage and I signalled to Michael and Ruth to begin their walk to the first one. Michael was supporting Ruth and looking at her with a tender expression. When they stopped at the inn Joseph asked for rooms in a carrying voice.
“Excellent, Michael,” I told him but then I saw him aim a kick at the innkeeper, who was trying to say there was no room.
“Miss, ‘e’s started already,” yelled Tim, the boy playing the innkeeper. “’e’s just kicked me for nowt’.”
“Miss, ‘e called me an orror gob told me to piss off.” Michael was grinning at me.
“I never, Miss ‘e’s lyin’. I’m not doin’ it no more.” Rubbing his leg Tim began to walk off the stage.
“Go back to your place, please, Tim.” I told him. Michael, say you’re sorry to Tim or you’re out of the play.”
Michael muttered something which must have been an apology because Tim subsided and limped back to his place.
“We’ll try again.” I said.
This time the encounter with the first innkeeper was managed without further incident and they proceeded to the second and finally to the third, a red haired boy with a merry smile.
“I ‘avent got no room, neither,” he said.
“You ‘ave,” shouted a girl in the audience. “Wharrabout that stable?”
“Aye, thas getten a stable at back. Tek ‘em in there,” someone else yelled.
The third innkeeper ignored them and dragged a chair from the back of the stage.
“Sit thee down. Yer look as if yer goin’ to ‘ave a sprog any minute,” he advised. There were protests from the cast and the audience.
“Miss, ‘e’s not supposed to say that. I’m tellin’ Mr Abbott, Billy Anderson.”
“Miss, ‘e called Jesus a sprog an’ it’s not right, tha’ knows.
“I agree. Say it properly, please, Billy,” I said sternly.
Billy nodded and with exaggerated courtesy he turned to Ruth.” Yer look as if yer babby’ ‘ll be ‘ere soon. Gerrout of me way, yer silly sheep.” He pretended to trip and fell face down on the stage.
“Miss, ‘e’ s messin’.”
“Miss, it’s norra sheep, it’s a lamb an’ it’s not time for it yet.”
“Miss, ‘e’ s ruinin it. Send ‘im out.”
“The lambs come wiv the shepherds, Miss.”
“Last chance, Billy,” I told him. “Mess about again and you’ll spend Break writing out the correct words.”
This time he delivered his lines without any trouble and we moved on to the scene with the shepherds and the Angel Gabriel.
“We stand on chairs and tower over them,” Muhammed, a quiet Muslim boy who played the Angel Gabriel, told me.
“Take care, then, Muhammed,” I warned, imagining a host of angels biting the dust if they trod on their robes when they were getting on to their chairs.
The shepherds began their dialogue about the weather.
“Brrr, it’s parky tonight,” grumbled one of the shepherds shivering realistically and warming his hands in his long sleeves.
“Aye, we should be at ‘ome watchin’ telly,” agreed the second shepherd.
“We’ re missin’ t’match an all,” said the third shepherd. “T’aint right,”
“Is that in the script?” I asked as members of the audience leaped up in protest.
“No, Miss.”
“Do it again, please.”
“It’s friggin’ freezin’. We’ll ‘ave to jump up an’ down to keep warm.” They all proceeded to do this until one of them tripped over his robe and fell off the stage. The audience roared with laughter. The boy wasn’t hurt, luckily.
“Last chance for you, shepherds,” I told them. “Do it properly or you’ll go back to the classroom.”
“Yeah, stop yer messin,” someone yelled from the audience.
The shepherds repeated the jumping up and down, successfully this time and before they had finished Muhammed appeared with his angels and began to climb on the chairs.
“It’s too soon. Gerroff again,” the first shepherd roared.
“No. Continue now, Gabriel,” I said and Muhammed delivered his lines in a carrying voice, the shepherds obligingly falling on their faces and shading their eyes with their hands.
“Excellent, all of you,” I told them. “We’ll take that scene again, though, just to be sure.”

This time it went well also and we proceeded to the final scene. I asked the audience to sing We Three Kings, which they did loudly and raucously and the three kings behaved beautifully, delivering their gifts with dignity.
“Fantastic,” I said.
“We sing Away In A Manger round Mary and Joseph and the baby Jesus now,” Muhammed informed me.
They all gathered round but suddenly Ruth, who played Mary, gave a loud scream, flung down the doll and dashed off the stage crying loudly.
“Ruth, what is it?” I tried to stop her but she was too upset to heed me and she ran out of the hall.
“Run after her and see if she’s all right, please, Gemma,” I said to her friend, who hurried away at once. Then I turned to Michael, who was receiving accusing looks from the whole class.
“What did you do, Michael?” I demanded.
“I didn’t pinch ‘er bum, Miss,” He was so indignant I almost believed him.
“Miss, ‘e grabbed ‘er boob ‘ard. I saw ‘im.”
’’e did, Miss an ‘e ’s for it now.”
“Did you, Michael?” I asked. He had the grace to hang his head but I doubted he was sorry.
Gemma came back. “Mr Abbot wants Michael Kershaw this minute,” she said breathlessly. “You’re in big trouble, Mike,” she told him. “Mr Abbot’s fumin’.”
“Go on, Michael,” I ordered and he jumped down from the stage and began to walk slowly out of the hall.
“Is Ruth feeling any better?” I asked.
“No, Miss, she’s in the medical room an’ Mr Abbot says is it all right if I go an’ stay with ‘er.”
“Yes, of course and we’ll stop the rehearsal now.” I directed the class to return their costumes and the doll to the Props cupboard and we sat down to wait for the bell.
“That’s it, miss, isn’t it?” asked Muhammed sadly. “There’s no way we’ll be allowed to do our play now.”
“Let’s see if we can find a new Mary and Joseph,” I replied. “I’ll be sorry if you can’t do it, since most of you have worked so hard.”
“I know, I could kill Michael Kershaw,” Billy said.
“I don’t think you have any cause to blame others when you mess about so much yourself,” I snapped at him.

Mr Abbott, Head of Year Seven, saw me later. “Ruth’s in the medical room and her mother’s coming to collect her,” he told me.” I don’t know what’s to become of Michael, I really don’t, but I will say one thing in his favour.”
“What’s that?” I asked in surprise.
“Michael isn’t all that bad at heart. Oh, he’s naughty, thoroughly naughty but he pleaded with me not to stop the play even if he can’t be in it and he’s cried so much he ‘s made himself sick.”
“Yes, but he keeps on doing it. Rose warned him yesterday, apparently and so did I today.”
“I think we should let him find someone to replace Ruth,” Paul decided. “I’ve rung his mother and she says she’ll ground him for the weekend and take him to Ruth’s house at some point to say he’s sorry.”
The weekend followed and on Monday morning Michael arrived in school with his mother, an extremely tall lady who looked flustered. I saw them go to Mr Abbott’s room and was just beginning my first lesson when Annie came in.
“Paul wants you to go to his room so I’ll take over until you come back,” she said. She looked amused about something but I left the room and a few moments later I was facing Paul and Michael’s mother, who was, without doubt, the tallest lady I had ever seen.
“I’ve sent Michael to join his class,” Paul told me. “This is Miss Price, who has taken over the play,” he said to Michael’s mother. Mrs Kershaw wants to apologise,” he told me and it was obvious he was trying not to laugh.
“There’s really no need --.” I began, imagining she was apologising for Michael’s behaviour but she wasn’t, not directly, anyway.
“I’m ever so sorry, miss, but I can’t play Mary,” she said apologetically. ”Thanks for the thought but, I mean, what would it look like?”
“I understand, of course,” I murmured though hadn’t the faintest ides what she meant.
“You see, Mr Abbott rang me about our Michael’s bad behaviour and when he walked through the door I was about to bawl him out. I had the wind taken out of my sales because he said “Will you play Mary, Mum? There’s no-one else an’ Miss said to ask you. Please, Mum.” She looked as if she could cry. “I couldn’t, Miss, I really couldn’t, well, look at me. I’d be towering over them.”
I looked at Mr Abbott, who was openly laughing and he set me off. We had to explain to Mrs Kershaw that we were not laughing at her and that it had all been her son’s idea. She laughed with us and said she had already taken Michael to Ruth’s house and he had said he was sorry.
“I think she’ll play Mary again but I’ll come to school when she does and watch our Michael like a hawk,” she said.
7H did their play after all and there were no further incidents but the memory of Michael’s mother coming to apologise because she couldn’t play Mary was a memory the school and I would treasure.

Words, by Steve Moore

Words are the truest illusion I have ever known
and in a land in which nothing is real
they hold the darkness of thought at bay
and give silence to the ceaseless noise of emptiness.

Words are my only friend
when my friends seem like
something less than acquaintances.

Words are stranger than any fiction of the mind
and more factual than any numerical account of reality.

They give rise to what we can not spell out.

They are the last best hope
of finding the soul’s inner foreverhood.

Words are the doorway though which my mind lingers
and waits for some opening.

They tie me to the earth
and break apart metaphors
to reveal what was there all along.

Words stream into us
from where we do not know,
their source is hidden,
their true extent can not be lain onto paper.

They are the echo of the original impulse,
an anchor in an endless sea of particles,
pregnant with the truth of all things.

And when the night sun finally sets
on all the lands of perception,
then there will still stand the word,
a pale reflection of what has gone beyond
and of what is about to rise again.