Underground Rivers by Mike French Page B

posed in front of the class like a svelte Goddess. Betty was born in Jamaica and was fond of her grandmother who raised her to the age of eleven. She had to leave her grandmother to join her mum and step-father in England. Her biggest dream had been to become a primary school teacher.
    Betty was educated from a young age in a private school in Jamaica. She loved to use her imagination in a creative way and enjoyed displaying her knowledge and skills in front of others.
    Notwithstanding, it follows that, many teachers often asked her to model by showing them the best way for teaching a rap poem and other creative tasks. Two of Betty’s friends sat at the back of the class observing her to get some good tips to use in their class.
    Betty could hear a faint voice. Gingerly, she moved towards the windows and could smell the strong fragrance of perfume. It reminded her of the fresh herbs in her grandmother’s garden. It was at that moment the classroom door opened and BANG, BANG, BANG books from a green box scattered on the floor. Most of the children scampered to help retrieve them. There were library books scattered everywhere. “Wow! Wow! He is one of my favourite authors. Look Michael Morpurgo - Private Peaceful”, said Meghan.
    Meghan walked past the notice board, sat within the reading area with her reading group against the author’s wall used to post children’s writing. The reading area had three lower shelves on wheels and two taller shelves against the wall next to the bookshelf where she began humming as she gazed at the books: Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clements, You owe me five farthings, say the bells of St. Martins . Suddenly, there was a hushed embarrassment that filled the classroom. The children looked at her as if captured by her melodic antics. Every so often Meghan would look at Betty with her inquisitive puppy dog eyes. Her beautiful chocolate colour shone brightly under the light as she chose her books.
    Shemi, Betty’s teaching assistant who was pushing her pierced tongue against her teeth, wore a short red top and on her right hand there was a tattoo showing two snakes. She sat next to Meghan’s group and was encouraging them to use more expression especially at the appropriate punctuation marks.
    Although Betty was trying to focus on her teaching, butterflies were playing somersaults in her stomach. She was getting nervous and was thinking about what the other teachers told her. They said the head teacher and his team were trying to get rid of people if their faces didn’t fit in their scheme of working.
    It so happened that one miserable cold morning, she had a routine observation. It was carried out by the deputy head teacher called Thur and the assistant head teacher, Tac. Towards the end of teaching her lively mixed ability class, Betty felt as though it was the worst lesson she had ever taught. She wanted to concentrate on her guided group, but forgot to do so. For anxiety took over. Her disappointed gaze caught the attention of the class assistant, but she too could not turn the clock back. Betty was upset with herself. Her tongue felt like lead and the tip was tingly, her lips were drying out as though she needed some artificial saliva to moisten them.
    Both observers left her classroom without saying ‘thank you’. She was at a loose end. Eventually, Betty dismissed her class for morning break. As the last child scurried along the corridor Betty turned to Shemi for reassurance, “I really don’t want to have my feedback, because that was one of my worst lessons, I just did not stretch the SEN, I wanted them to label the teeth.”
    â€œOh, it was alright, we worked well as a team,” beamed Shemi. They looked at each other then Shemi spoke quietly almost at a whisper, “Betty, whilst I was in the cupboard trying to get stuff the door was shut. Thur and Tac walked in then closed the classroom door and were sniggering. They