Sign of the Times by Susan Buchanan

her, already knowing the answer.
    “No,” the girl admitted.
    “Well then.   That’s settled.   Your mum and dad have no reason to be upset and you can always back it up by saying you’re dropping Art next year.   Anyway, aren’t you really good at Music?”
    “Well, not good, but I play piano and a little clarinet and oboe.
    “You’ve nothing to worry about then,” Maggie finished.   “Not only are you the top student in your year, but you have a creative gift too.   Do you know how many people I know who can play piano, oboe and clarinet?”
    The girl shook her head and Maggie replied, “One.”
    “Oh,” the girl said, “Who?”
    “She’s sitting right in front of me,” Maggie smiled and the girl smiled and she knew the girl was going to be all right.
    It was a shame Maggie had blown it, not long after.   His name was Paul.   He was thirteen, always trying to play the big man and had no interest in any class, never mind Art, which he proclaimed was for poofs.   Initially it irked her that he just wouldn’t try, as he obviously had an aptitude for art and indeed was an intelligent boy, but just didn’t want to let it show.   She had spoken to other teachers and they had all given her the same story.   Undoubtedly bright, he just didn’t want to apply himself.
    However, as time passed and he didn’t respond to any stimulus, she gave up.   She had to concentrate on the rest of the class.   Her priority became to ensure Paul caused as little disruption as possible.   So, she ignored him.   Then he started getting personal and several times, she had to consult the headmaster.   Paul’s taunts ranged from, ‘you need a good shag’ , to ‘nobody would want to shag you’, to the last straw, one day Maggie had kept him behind after class. ‘You think you’re something, don’t you?   What do you know about kids? You haven’t got any.   Thank fuck you aren’t my mother.   Thank fuck you aren’t anybody’s mother.’
    Maggie, who had returned three weeks previously from recuperating after her hysterectomy, snapped.   She slapped Paul hard across the face.   They looked at each other in shock.
    “You bitch!” he lunged at her, but Maggie grabbed his wrists, unable to believe she had struck a pupil.   Unfortunately for Maggie, at that moment, the headmaster walked in,took in the situation and assumed Paul had tried to strike her.   She released him and Paul started yelling at the Head, “That mad bitch hit me!   She hit me!   Look at my face!”
    The headmaster, appalled by the boy’s outburst peered at him closely and saw the tell-tale marks of Maggie’s slap.
    “Paul.   Go to my office.   Talk to no-one.   Understood?”
    Astonishingly the boy acquiesced and throwing a look of contempt at Maggie, left the classroom.
    For the first few seconds neither said a word.   Then, calmly, the headmaster said, “Maggie, what happened?” and out poured the whole sorry tale.
    “I see.   Maggie. I know you’ve been under a lot of stress recently.” Maggie raised her eyes to meet his gaze.   “However, much as sometimes we may want to thump the little darlings and God knows you wouldn’t be the first to want to take a swipe at Paul, we can’t.   Ever.   Perhaps if he’d held a knife to your throat, you could get away with it, but not otherwise.”
    Maggie had looked at him, fearful of what was coming next.
    “Maggie.   You know what to expect.”
    Her superiorhad looked at her with genuine sympathy and said “Maggie, I’m sorry, I really am,” before heading off to deal with Paul.
    The hearing had been brief. It was an open and shut case.   Representatives from the school had tried to paint Maggie in a better light, had talked of how she motivated the pupils.   They explained about Maggie’s delicate problem.   The headmaster blamed himself, said perhaps they had let her come back too soon.   But it was all to no avail.   Her suspension officially became a