twenties. I left school when I was eighteen. Hugo read English at Durham. He loves socialising and has many friends, but unlike me he has never enjoyed the party scene because he feels vulnerable in crowds or dark nightclubs. ‘If I go to the loo and people move to the dance floor, I can’t find them again,’ he says. ‘If it’s a place I’ve never been before it’s even worse, Polly, especially if they’ve had a few drinks and forget about me.’
After mixing the paints and setting the tables up in the classroom, I apply some make-up to try and look half decent.
Believe it or not, I love my job. I teach a class of eighteen two- to three-year-olds. The one thing I have always enjoyed is playing with children. Mum says I have a real gift with them. ‘Probably because you haven’t grown up yourself,’ she adds. Typical Mum. Can’t give a compliment without a put-down too. Anyway, I don’t want my own children just yet. I don’t want any responsibility beyond helping them learn their alphabet, add and subtract and blow their noses.
As I brush my long dark hair and pin it back at both sides,I think back to my own schooldays. I left with three underwhelming A levels: two Ds and an E. Mum insisted I retake them, Dad paid for a tutor over the next year and I did surprisingly well (three Bs) when they suggested that if I did better the second time round, I could go to Paris for a year to learn French. Paris seemed so glamorous. It reminded me of Aunt Viv’s comment about going to Paris to run a patisserie. Well, I didn’t cook so much these days but I could stroll along the Champs-Elysées and have a Parisian affair.
I was twenty when I returned, broken-hearted. The French had been fine; I’d passed both the oral and written exams but my love life had taken a battering. I’d met someone called Adrien who worked at the Rodin Museum and modelled part time. I can see us now, running down the streets in the pouring rain, laughing, kissing and holding hands. One time we were so stoned that we’d gone into a church, I can’t even remember where now, and had grabbed the priest saying, ‘We’re in love. Marry us!’ When he’d asked if my parents knew what I was up to, I had replied, as if acting on a climatic scene of
Romeo and Juliet
, ‘My parents won’t understand! They’ll think I’m too young!’
Adrien left me a few months later. ‘I have met someone else,’ he’d said nonchalantly. Looking back now, I have no regrets. It was innocent love and inevitably it had to come to an end. When I returned home, I wanted to be in London. I found work ushering at
Les Misérables
. I moved flats constantly, kipped on floors to save cash, until finally I’d savedup enough to move in with Hugo. We’d always wanted to live together, since we were young.
I wipe away a glob of mascara before glancing at my watch and making a run for the classroom.
*
I stand at the front of the class. ‘And what noise does a dog make?’
‘Woof woof!’ they all reply, a few of them laughing.
‘And can we say PIG?’
‘P …’ they pronounce, ‘I-G.’
‘And what noise does a pig make?’
‘Oink oink!’
I glance out of the window; it’s a glorious winter’s day, the sky a clear blue. ‘Right. Tell you what. It’s too nice to be stuck in here,’ I say, thinking the fresh air will be good for all of us. I help them pop on their coats and scarves. Some of them have brought woolly hats. There’s lots of buzz and laughter as I lead them out into the playground, the sun beaming on our faces. ‘Life is about being outside four walls,’ I tell them.
I could do this for hours, I think to myself as we sit down in a circle and sing the curly caterpillar song. At the end of our song Lottie, one of my favourites, throws her arms around me, saying, ‘I love you, Miss Polly. Can we sing song again?’
During playtime, I head to my usual quiet spot where no one can find me, at the back entrance to the school. Ireach for
After mixing the paints and setting the tables up in the classroom, I apply some make-up to try and look half decent.
Believe it or not, I love my job. I teach a class of eighteen two- to three-year-olds. The one thing I have always enjoyed is playing with children. Mum says I have a real gift with them. ‘Probably because you haven’t grown up yourself,’ she adds. Typical Mum. Can’t give a compliment without a put-down too. Anyway, I don’t want my own children just yet. I don’t want any responsibility beyond helping them learn their alphabet, add and subtract and blow their noses.
As I brush my long dark hair and pin it back at both sides,I think back to my own schooldays. I left with three underwhelming A levels: two Ds and an E. Mum insisted I retake them, Dad paid for a tutor over the next year and I did surprisingly well (three Bs) when they suggested that if I did better the second time round, I could go to Paris for a year to learn French. Paris seemed so glamorous. It reminded me of Aunt Viv’s comment about going to Paris to run a patisserie. Well, I didn’t cook so much these days but I could stroll along the Champs-Elysées and have a Parisian affair.
I was twenty when I returned, broken-hearted. The French had been fine; I’d passed both the oral and written exams but my love life had taken a battering. I’d met someone called Adrien who worked at the Rodin Museum and modelled part time. I can see us now, running down the streets in the pouring rain, laughing, kissing and holding hands. One time we were so stoned that we’d gone into a church, I can’t even remember where now, and had grabbed the priest saying, ‘We’re in love. Marry us!’ When he’d asked if my parents knew what I was up to, I had replied, as if acting on a climatic scene of
Romeo and Juliet
, ‘My parents won’t understand! They’ll think I’m too young!’
Adrien left me a few months later. ‘I have met someone else,’ he’d said nonchalantly. Looking back now, I have no regrets. It was innocent love and inevitably it had to come to an end. When I returned home, I wanted to be in London. I found work ushering at
Les Misérables
. I moved flats constantly, kipped on floors to save cash, until finally I’d savedup enough to move in with Hugo. We’d always wanted to live together, since we were young.
I wipe away a glob of mascara before glancing at my watch and making a run for the classroom.
*
I stand at the front of the class. ‘And what noise does a dog make?’
‘Woof woof!’ they all reply, a few of them laughing.
‘And can we say PIG?’
‘P …’ they pronounce, ‘I-G.’
‘And what noise does a pig make?’
‘Oink oink!’
I glance out of the window; it’s a glorious winter’s day, the sky a clear blue. ‘Right. Tell you what. It’s too nice to be stuck in here,’ I say, thinking the fresh air will be good for all of us. I help them pop on their coats and scarves. Some of them have brought woolly hats. There’s lots of buzz and laughter as I lead them out into the playground, the sun beaming on our faces. ‘Life is about being outside four walls,’ I tell them.
I could do this for hours, I think to myself as we sit down in a circle and sing the curly caterpillar song. At the end of our song Lottie, one of my favourites, throws her arms around me, saying, ‘I love you, Miss Polly. Can we sing song again?’
During playtime, I head to my usual quiet spot where no one can find me, at the back entrance to the school. Ireach for
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