My Secret Lover

Christmas
Fayre that was stuck too high up for the caretaker to get down without a
ladder. All eyes watch the silver fronds dancing in the warm air current above
the only working radiator. For a moment, the Year Three whispering ceases.
There’s an almost celestial feeling as Miss Goodman thumps out the first few
bars of ‘Sing Hosannah!’
     
    ‘Did anyone do anything they’d like
to tell us about over the holidays?’ The usual hands shoot into the air as if
they’re straining to reach something on the ceiling. If we sent them up the
caretaker’s ladder, the tinsel would be down in no time.
    ‘I helped my brothers, Miss.’
    ‘Very good, Dane. What did you help
them doing?’
    ‘Selling things,’ he says darkly.
‘And, by the way, my name’s Dean.’
    It’s the ‘by the way’ which is
chilling in a six year old.
    I have taught both his brothers,
Shane and Wayne. Shane was the Santino of the family. Wayne was the Fredo and
Dean is going to be Michael Corleone. I have an idea what they were selling,
and I don’t think the class needs to know.
    ‘Anyone make any New Year’s
Resolutions? Ethan?’
    ‘I’m going to learn to fly.’
    His resemblance to Harry Potter has
had a marvellous effect on his confidence, but unfortunately it’s made him
think he has supernatural powers.
    ‘Good. Nicole?’
    ‘We’re not going to let any bloody
man fut up our lives again.’
    ‘Robbie?’
    ‘She means fuck up, Miss.’
    ‘Thank you, Robbie, remember we don’t
use the F-word in school, because it’s very rude. Now what was your
resolution?’
    ‘Not to use the F-word in school,
Miss?’
    ‘Good, excellent.’
    Robbie smiles. He’s less than four
feet tall with hair shaved to his skull and no front teeth.
    ‘What’s the F-word?’ asks Nikita.
    ‘Never mind about that. What is your
resolution?’
    ‘What’s a resolution?’
    They’re just six years old but some
of them are still babies and some could order double vodkas in a pub and get
away with it.
    ‘Who can tell Nikita what a New
Year’s Resolution is? Day... ean?’
    ‘It’s when you stop smoking, Miss.’
    ‘Yes, some people decide to give up
something they do which is bad for them, like smoking. Some people make New
Year’s Resolutions not to kick people, Robbie,’ Extremely unamused look. ‘But
it doesn’t have to be about giving up. Some people might decide that they’re
going to try very hard to learn their spellings...’
     
    Mr Batty is leaning out of the window
of the staffroom.
    The three witches are muttering round
the biscuit canister.
    ‘It’s freezing cold in here and the
smoke’s blowing back in...’ says Mrs Vane.
    ‘I asked him to stand outside last
term . .says Mrs Wates.
    ‘Apparently, someone called the
police about a suspicious man pacing up and down outside school gates…' says
Miss Goodman.
    Witchy hilarity.
    ‘How long did you last?’ I say.
    Richard bumps his head on the bottom
of the window as he turns.
    ‘Twenty-eight hours,’ he says,
earnestly, as if I’m going to award him a sticker with a cartoon tiger saying
‘Grrrreat!’.
    ‘What about you?’ Richard asks.
    ‘I don’t smoke.’
    Richard smiles. I do like Richard. If
only his skin wasn’t so bad.
    ‘Resolution?’
    ‘To be kind and work harder,’ I say
in a sing-song voice. ‘And no alcohol.’ I add quietly.
    The witches rip the paper off a
packet of biscuits.
    ‘Have one,’ says Mrs Vane.
    ‘No, thanks,’ says Mrs Wates, pulling
in her tummy.
    ‘They’re Go Aheads.’
    ‘None at all?’ says Richard.
    I’m trying to read the biscuit packet
at a disinterested distance. I wonder whether ‘not more than 5% fat’ means that
there actually is 5% fat, which seems quite a lot of fat for a slimming biscuit.
    ‘Biscuits?’
    Quite a disgusting amount if you
imagine a solid chunk of lard shaded onto the Fat column of a Biscuit Contents
bar chart.
    ‘Alcohol,’ whispers Richard.
    ‘None at all,’ I say, trying to do a
contented little smile of self-denial.
    (The Baileys with my mother yesterday
did not count, because it was really a sauce for the ice cream. I did have a
little bit more afterwards, but from a spoon, so more like that vitamin tonic
she used to give me when I got my periods, except that tasted more like
Campari, as far as I can remember.)
    ‘Good Christmas?’ Richard asks.
    ‘Fine.’
    I’d like to tell him everything
because I know it would make him laugh, but not in an unkind way. Everyone gets
pissed