Mary Parry knew
immediately she walked into the classroom it was going to be a difficult day.
The beginning of a new school year was always tricky. This was especially true
of the eleventh grade. Public examinations loomed on the horizon. Tension was
bound to be in the academic air.
The class shuffled
in and the usual suspects dashed for the seats furthest from the teacher. ‘As
we have a number of new students, I’d like to re-arrange the seating. Perhaps
one or two of you at the back could give me a hand?’
Reluctantly, the
‘back row boys’ began moving the tables and chairs. Eventually Mary had the
classroom she’d planned. Tables were now in groups of five pupils and the class
had agreed to pull numbers out of a box to determine the seating plan. She
smiled with satisfaction, whether by luck or fate, the class was well mixed up.
As the bell rang
for the first break, Mary called one of the new students to wait behind for a
few moments. The girl stood awkwardly, staring at her feet and fiddling
nervously with her elaborately braided hair. Mary looked at the register, ‘Now
you must be Chika? ‘The girl nodded silently and then whispered, ‘Yes, Miss.’
‘You weren’t in school last year it seems, looking at this
report. Was that because you were moving about or perhaps you were ill?’
‘I couldn’t get on the bus, Miss.’
Mary had expected a
variety of responses, but not that particular answer. She glanced at Chika who
was staring, trance-like out of the window. ‘Well, we will talk about that
another day. It’s almost time for Chemistry now. Come with me and I’ll
introduce you to Mr Bryant.’
That evening Mary
was reading through the various reports on new students in the class. She left
Chika till last. It seemed her father was from Sierra Leone and her mother’s
family from Nigeria. Chika herself had been in the Care of the local authority
since early childhood. She seemed to have been in at least eight different
foster homes. As she was nearlyeighteen, she now lived in a council apartment with the
support and guidance of a social worker. Her father had apparently died some
years before but Chika still had some contact with her mother. Mary worried
that she was going to find Year 11 very tough going with a barrage of exams in
the summer.
Next morning Year
11 were huddled together on the playing field complaining of the cold nip in
the air and moaning about taking off their sweaters. ‘Bloody freezing. It’s
against human rights, Sir’. ‘Why do we have to have sport so early in the
morning, Sir?’ ‘Can’t we go into the gym, Sir?’. So, the complaints continued.
The girls were playing netball and were in an equally
recalcitrant mood. They had picked their teams and predictably Chika was the one
left out. Mary, taking a short cut across the playing fields, saw her standing
shivering at the side of the courts.‘Hello, Chika. You need to keep moving.
It’s a bit nippy this morning.’
Just at this point one of the shooters fell and grazed her
knee. Chika was called as a substitute; the whistle blew to re-start the game.
Mary was about to walk back to school when she was stopped in her tracks. Chika
had shot a goal from just inside the circle. Shouts of ‘Good shot!’ and ‘Well
done!’ echoed round the court. Well, that’s something to build on, mused
Mary.
As she walked into
her office, one of the canteen staff was waiting to speak to her. ‘Sorry to
bother you Mrs Parry but I’m worried about one of the girls, a new student,
Chika ‘s her name, or something like that.’
‘Yes, I’m a bit concerned myself.’
‘She didn’t touch anything yesterday, not even the fries.’
‘Thanks for telling me, Jan. I’ll speak to her before
lunch.’
As the bell rang for the morning break, Mary stood outside
the Maths class. Chika came out at the back of the class, looking dazed and
generally lost.
‘Just come to my office, Chika. Nothing to worry about’, she added, noting
the panic on the
girl’s face.
She sat down opposite Mary but avoided looking her in the
eye.
‘Well, how did your first day go? Do you feel you’re
settling in? Any problems you want to
talk about?’
‘No, Miss.’ Chika barely looked up as she spoke.
‘Well, I was a little concerned to hear that you hardly ate
anything for lunch. You know you
can always have a salad if you don’t like the main course.’
To Mary’s surprise a tear began to
roll slowly down Chika’s face.
‘I did like the food, Miss but I couldn’t eat it.’
‘Ok, were you feeling ill or something?’
‘No but they were all there eating and …’ her eyes filled with tears.
Mary handed Chika a tissue, adding quietly, ‘Take your time.
You don’t have to explain it.’
‘I can’t eat with other people. It’s since a foster home I
was in. They said I was a freak and I had to eat on my own- after the others
finished.’
‘Well, you don’t have to here, Chika. How would you feel
about eating lunch, in my office.
I’m never here at lunch time. You could just take your plate
to the canteen when you’ve finished.’
‘Yes, if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not. You look like a future star on the netball
court, but you have to keep your strength up.’
By the end of the
Christmas term, Chika certainly seemed to be growing in confidence. Mary felt
her English was improving. She was naturally creative and her general knowledge
had surprised many of the staff.
However, one of the Science teachers complained that Chika’s work was
smeared and smudged with a light brown substance of some sort. Several others
complained of the same problem. Mary broached the subject with her;
‘You know this could be a problem in the final exams. You
cannot use different coloured biros.’
‘Oh, it’s just make-up, Miss.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t be wearing make-up in school and it
certainly shouldn’t be smeared on your exercise books.’
Chika looked hesitant then the words suddenly rushed out-
‘It’s skin whitener and it starts
running down my face when I’m hot or upset. Sorry miss.’
Mary felt like bursting into tears. ‘I think you should be
careful, putting different chemicals on your face at your age. I was looking at
the portraits in the Art Room the other day. Who painted that portrait of you,
the one hanging on the back wall?’
‘John Kelly, Miss.’
‘I thought what a beautiful profile. He caught your
expression perfectly.’
‘Really? Thank you, Miss.’
In the first week of
the Spring term, Mary arrived to find two policemen outside the Head Master’s
room. She was busy that morning and thought no more about it. At break, she was
called to the head’s office.
‘I’m afraid, Mary this concerns 11A and it’s serious. We’ve
had our problems I’d be the first to admit, but never any problem of drugs, not
in the school I mean.’
‘You say it’s someone in my class who’s involved?
‘It seems to involve David Marshall. Rather quiet type,
keeps himself to himself, hard -working, good student. He’s coming in to talk
to me after school, so let’s give him a chance to give his side of the case,
eh?’
At the end of
school, Mary sat in the classroom marking books. She preferred to get this
finished in school so when she got home, she was free to chat to her own
children and have dinner with the family. Suddenly there was a loud knock on
the door. Before she could say anything, a tall figure in denim overalls with
splashes of white paint on the trousers, burst into the room
‘Mrs Parry, I’ve come to make a very serious complaint.’
Mary held out her hand but the man seemed far too angry to
respond. ‘Well, Mr . , I don’t
think we’ve met before.’
‘No, I leave David’s school matters to my wife but this has
gone too far. You have an immigrant in your class, a black girl I mean?’
‘I have thirty students in my class Mr Marshall and I
identify them by their names. Besides, I cannot discuss other students with
you.’
‘Not when they’re peddling drugs in school!’
‘That is a question for the Head and the Police which I
believe is already being investigated.’
‘Well, it f. . . ing better be or that black kid better
watch out,’ he gestured threateningly at
Mary, before storming out.
No longer able to
concentrate, Mary packed up her marking and headed down the corridor. The door
of the Head’s office suddenly opened and David Marshall walked out. She
instinctively stood back in the shadow of the passageway. The boy walked fast
towards the school gates as if he couldn’t get away quickly enough. Mary
followed at a distance, feeling rather like a female Hercule Poirot or a
Sherlock Holmes sidekick. At the bottom of the road, she could see a gang of
boys waiting. They were not students at the school but she’d seen them hanging
around the town centre. To her surprise David merged into the group and they
moved off towards the shopping arcade. Once they entered the main part of the
town, it was easier for Mary to follow unnoticed. The crowds of shoppers and
school children
made it possible to mingle, unseen.
After hanging
around the main arcade, the gang disappeared into a shabby, rundown coffee
shop. As Mary stared after them, David Marshall glanced back. His eyes for a
second met hers before he followed the rest through the café door.
Mary walked away as
quickly as possible but after a few moments found herself in a maze of
backstreets near the docks. She stopped to take out her phone and get her
bearings. A shadow fell over the screen. Looking up, Mary was faced by two tall
teenagers; both were masked and one of them was holding an open flick
knife.
‘Why’s a nice teacher like you hanging around in the docks?
Thinking of stowing away to somewhere exciting, eh? Not thinking of leaving
your pretty little girls, are you? Well,
we could always take care of them, eh?’ He slowly wiped the blade of the knife
across his jeans. Suddenly the other boy grabbed Mary’s wrist and twisted it.
She bit her lips tightly to stop herself screaming.
‘Just remember you didn’t see nothing, you don’t know
nothing. Stick to teaching and keep
your long nose out of our business.’
With a final, painful twist of her wrist, the two strolled
off towards the dock area.
Later that evening,
Mary found herself in the town police station with Jon. Her husband had
insisted that the only course of action was to report what she knew to the
police. As soon as David Marshall was questioned, he revealed all. He had
become involved with drugs and a London gang who pressurised and threatened him
into selling marijuana to school kids. His father had discovered a packet of
weed in his jacket and in a panic, David had blamed Chika. The police arrested
most of the gang. David Marshall got off with a caution but was forced to
change schools.
Mary hoped Chika
hadn’t heard the rumours swirling around her name. It was an all too familiar
story of blaming the perceived ‘outsider’. She took the opportunity, when
helping Chika with some extra English tuition, to raise the question of drugs.
‘Were there any problems of drugs in any of your previous schools, Chika?’
‘Yes, Miss but generally about a few boys smoking weed,
though I know there were gangs
outside selling hard drugs in the town.’
‘Well, I guess you know why David has moved on to another
school?’
‘Yes- he accused me of peddling marijuana but I’m used to
that type of talk.’
‘What do you mean- ‘that sort of talk?’
‘Well, the weed-smoking Jamaican’s the usual suspect. I know
my family’s not from the
Caribbean but white kids don’t distinguish, we’re just
‘black’.
‘Next time ‘this type of talk’ occurs, I want you to let me
know.’
‘Thanks, but I have to fight my own battles.’
As Chika hurried off, Mary thought she’s right in a way,
but she’d never have said that at the
beginning, of the year.
Part of the
English examination was an oral. This involved giving a presentation to the
class and answering students’ questions. It was always possible, in special
circumstances, for a student to give this to the teacher and a limited
audience. Mary had contemplated making such an exception for Chika, considering
her long absence from school and mental health )issues.
To her surprise,
Chika politely refused to accept such a concession. She had prepared her
presentation, accompanied by a Power Point.
When Chika stood up
to begin her talk, Mary was nervous. Thinking back to September, she, knew this
student could not then have faced the class, let alone spoken to them! Yet
Chika looked quietly confident. She had chosen the notorious case of ‘The New
York Five’ and the shocking miscarriage of justice. Mary need not have worried.
Chika’s voice was full of real passion and anger as she explained how these
black teenagers, completely innocent of the rape and murder of a female jogger,
spent 8 to13 years wrongly imprisoned. The class listened in silence. All their
hands shot up to ask Chika questions about the terrible imprisonment of boys
not much older than most of the class. At the end of the session there was a
loud, sustained round of applause. Mary’s heart sang!
As the final
examinations approached, Chika’s mother suddenly re-entered her life. She’d
been living in Manchester but had apparently moved back to London. It became
obvious to Mary that this was having a detrimental effect on Chika’s school
work. Her attendance, which had been excellent, was becoming a problem,
especially as the preparation for the exams intensified.
One afternoon, at
the end of school which, Mary was helping Chika draw up a revision plan when
her mobile suddenly rang. It was her mother, obviously in an angry or
distressed state. Chika unexpectedly handed her phone to Mary with the comment,
‘You try speaking to her, Miss.’
Mary started to introduce herself but all she could do was
listen to a hysterical stream of abuse and expletives which were addressed to
Chika or anyone else who was listening. Mary realised that the woman was
probably high on drugs, alcohol, or possibly both. She certainly sounded
mentally ill. Quietly, Mary ended the call. Chika looked close to tears.
‘Chika, your mother is obviously ill. I am sure she is
unaware of what she’s saying. Just until you have finished your exams, I think
it would be better if you didn’t communicate with her.’
‘People tell me that but she’s my mother, the only close
relation I have. I can’t just abandon her.’
‘Of course, I can understand that. My mother was a very
difficult person; Mary remembered a cold, beautiful face which had rarely
smiled and a sharp voice which had rarely shown love or compassion. I’m not,
suggesting a complete break but just avoiding such upsetting phone calls when
you are under a lot of pressure. Is there anyone else your mother could turn to
for support?’
‘Yes, my aunt might help- just till I finish the exams.’
Results day had
arrived. The school Assembly Hall was full of students, excited, surprised,
disappointed, euphoric, despondent and every mood in between these extremes.
Mary had been there to celebrate, reassure, support her Class 11 in any way she
could. She saw Chika coming in, looking very uncertain, rather as she had on
the first day of the school year. She was nervously holding and twisting the
unopened envelope which would determine her future.
‘Oh, Miss, should I open it?’
‘Well, unopened envelopes are not much use. Don’t forget there are lots of opportunities
for you, whatever the results!’
Chika slowly slit open the envelope and slowly read the
results sheet. She looked slightly puzzled- ‘I don’t know if it’s good or not.’
She handed the paper to Mary.
By this time nervous herself, Mary’s hand shook slightly as
she held the paper. ‘You’ve done very well, young lady.’ Mary put an arm round
Chika’s shaking shoulders. ‘Good passes in Maths and English. Excellent result
in Art and Physical Education. Creditable passes in every subject except
Physics which you can re-sit next year in the Sixth Form.
‘I can’t believe it Miss. Thank you for believing in me. Do
you mind if I go and see my friends? Then I’m going to tell Mum. By the way
Miss, do you remember I told you I couldn’t get on the bus last year? Well, it was true. I stood at the bus stop
for over an hour but I just couldn’t walk onto the bus. I sort of froze – silly
really.’
ChIka ran off to join a group of excited girls who had been
calling out to her. Mary got out a tissue. Silly really- she seemed to have
something in her eye!
about the author
Sarah Das Gupta is an ex- teacher, who worked in UK, India, Africa. Her work has been published in over 25 different countries in anthollogie and magazines. She is a nominee for the Pushcart, Best of the Net and a Dwarf Star.
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