“She’s coming! Here’s granny!”
The lookout's voice drifted down to Harriet Martin as she took a deep breath and forced herself to climb the stairs for her encounter with 5 French F. Twelve stone steps. She couldn't remember the first time she had started counting them. Small landing, pause to collect her breath, twelve more. There was a lot of flu about. With any luck the numbers would be reduced – perhaps even Sharleen would be absent.
No such luck. She faced the class. Sharleen was leaning back on her chair, her feet on the desk, her skirt slipping to reveal an impressive length of firm young thigh above a black-stockinged leg. Why couldn't she wear tights like all the other girls? But Harriet knew the answer to that one. Sharleen and school uniform did not go together. “Ready, Sharleen,” she said brightly.
“Who me?” Sharleen stroked her lacquered curls with a languid gesture.
“You are the only Sharleen in this room, I believe,” to which Harriet added silently, “thank the Lord!”
“So?” Sharleen’s eyes narrowed in the challenge that Harriet knew only too well. She sighed. When would she learn never to tangle with Sharleen.
“Feet off the desk, please, Sharleen. I’d like to start the lesson now.” And please forgive the lie, Lord. She would LIKE to do anything other than be here, confronting 5 French F on a Friday, last lesson on a Friday. And yet, at first, she had been quite inspired by the challenge when the Head, addressing the parents on Speech Day, spoke with passion of their new membership of the European Economic Community, and the opportunities that lay ahead for their offspring. He had promised the gift of languages to every child. Every child? Even 5 French F? Even Sharleen?
Harriet Martin, trusty workhorse of the Languages Department, had been the chosen one. Grammar out! Literature out! Engage their interest. What were their interests? She was fifty-seven. At present, her life beyond the classroom was caring for her aged mother and visiting her grandchildren, whose interests were currently Postman Pat and Thomas the Tank Engine. That was it. Magazines! She scoured French teenage magazines. Pop stars for the girls, motorbikes for the boys, agony columns for both. What eagerly learned vocabulary would spring from such sources! “J’aime un garçon, mais il ne m’aime pas."
In a pioneering spirit she had faced her first encounter with 5 French F. They had charged into the room - isolated at the top of that long flight of chipped stone steps - fought for the back seats as she recovered her breath, and chattered like long lost friends with a lifetime of experiences to exchange. She coughed loudly, forcing herself to stand, silent, until they became aware of her presence – a technique that usually served her well. This time it failed. Then a voice cut through the buzz. “Shut up, you lot. Can’t you see she wants to say something.” Instant silence!
In the back row, right corner seat, the girl smiled benevolently. Her authority had been established. She was a striking girl. Her white school blouse was fetchingly unbuttoned low. Her dark eyes peeped through a tumble of black curls. The blemishes of an acned face were concealed under a thick layer of against-the-rules pancake makeup, her violet eyes ringed with purple shadow.
What to do? Say thank you for restoring order. Ridiculous! Pretend nothing unusual had happened. Taking a deep breath she had prepared to become Madame Martin, the bringer of the gift of tongues.
“Bonjour. Je m’appelle Madame Martin – the most common French surname incidentally – not Dupont, as most people think.” She smiled brightly at the rows of reactionless faces. A muttered,
“Big deal,” was heard from the back row. “We’ll do the register,” she said hastily. “I shall call the names – and you answer, ‘Oui, Madame.’ . . . Jason Adams!”
“Oui, oui, Madame,” he shouted, leaping up and clutching at his crotch, his expression agonized. Catcalls and hoots gradually gave way to sniggers as she progressed doggedly through the alphabet. It wasn’t till she got to Dean Zegart that the noise began to subside.
“Just the girls now. “SHARleen Atkins.”
“It’s SharLEEN, actually,” came the drawled reply from the back row, right corner seat where she was busy filing her nails.
“Why that’s just the way the French would pronounce it,” gushed Madame Martin, hearing herself gush and hating it. “SharLEEN.” She gave the ‘R’ her best rolling trill.
“Pierre used to say it properly," said Sharleen scornfully. “Met him in Boulogne, didn’t I.”
All were hushed, sensing a story from their idol, their princess. No one could break the rules like Sharleen. No one could cheek the teachers like Sharleen. There was a glamour about her that aroused envy in the girls and aroused the boys.
“One of them booze cruises with me Dad. Mad about me, that Pierre. Got a job on the ferry - came over every week, just to see me. Only wanted me to go over there for the whole summer, didn’t he.”
Madame Martin had brightened at this unexpected Anglo-French connection. “He must have taught you a bit of French, then, Sharleen.”
Sharleen smiled, a slow, languorous smile, hinting at experiences beyond the ken of a French-teaching granny. “He taught me a lot – didn’t learn much French, though.” Round one to Sharleen amid the noisy acclaim of her fellows.
And now, many rounds later, ”As I said, I’d like to start the lesson.” She looked round firmly, her gaze resting on Peter Pratt, an unfortunate name. He was usually docile, if uncomprehending. “Je m’appelle Madame Martin. Comment t’appelles-tu?"
“Yer what?"
“Tell me your name,” she encouraged.
“Go on, you know my name,” he smiled at her little joke.
“Peter Pratt – what a Pratt!” chorused the class. The volume grew, the unison was impressive, like the joyous roar of a football crowd. Rulers beat time on desks.
It was no good. She would have to scream. At least once a session, a full-blooded howl of “Silence!” was necessary. This time it was earlier than usual - a bad sign. The intensity of the released frustration seemed to communicate itself to her charges, and, for a time, there was quiet.
Into the silence spoke Jason Adams. “Why do you bother, Miss? It’s Friday afternoon. Nobody’s interested. Can’t we just sit and talk?” His tone was reasonable and almost concerned. So, treat his question seriously. It was one she asked herself quite frequently.
“Well, Jason, my boss, your headmaster, says teach French for one hour on a Friday, so I teach French for one hour on a Friday. That is my job. I’m doing my job. He wants you to be able to communicate with our nearest European neighbours.” She was pleased with the tone she had adopted – friendly, reasonable. Jason nodded as if he saw the point. He wasn't a bad kid, none of them were, really. She liked to think, hopefully, that there was a touch of liking in their nickname for her. Grannies were usually looked on favourably. It was just that they were, somehow, hard to reach, those teenagers.. She couldn't, just couldn't, adopt the matey, jokey first-name approach that the young teachers seemed to find natural. It used not to be like this, she thought. Face it, Harriet - you're passée. She had to keep going, though she was often, as Sharleen would have put it, knackered. She was a widow; a caring daughter with a conscience; a mother of a single mother with demanding offspring - she had her responsibilities.
Sharleen had been unnoticed for too long. “I never had no trouble communicating," she announced to the class. "You make a few signs – they get your meaning.” To emphasize her point, she made a gesture that had the boys hooting.
Be calm, Madame Martin. Bring reason to bear. “But Sharleen, we live in a channel port. We get a lot of French people here. Wouldn’t it be nice to be able to talk to them, to help them?”
“Can’t stand the French no more – not after what that Pierre did to me. Chucked me over for some French floozy. Whispering his stupid little French nothings into her big ears. And their faces when they talk. If they looked into a mirror while they were talking, they'd never open their silly mouths again. Can't stand them. Can't stand you neither, silly bitch!” The last sentence was delivered in a just-more-than whisper, designed either to be challenged or ignored. Cowardly, Madame Martin chose to add deafness to her granny defects. She busied herself distributing worksheets. They quite liked colouring and labelling, and decorating the margins. She was glad Sharleen always sat at the back. It took a time to reach her and when she got to the back row, right corner, Sharleen was peacefully filing her nails, once more. She seemed to have subsided.
“Like your shoes, Miss.” Sharleen’s moods changed as quickly as disco lights. Madame Martin smiled encouragingly at this sign of affability. Then Sharleen added loudly, “Oxfam – size nine ferryboats.”
Odious girl! The rage which seized Harriet Martin was frightening in its intensity. Years of cramming her feet into pointed fashion, years of standing for hours before a class, had made her settle finally for wide, ungainly comfort. But how she envied her younger colleagues elegance of foot.
What to do with Sharleen? Send her out? She’d refuse to go! Ask to see her parents. There was only Dad, and his Sharleen was the light of his drab life. Harriet wanted to hit out- to slap the coated face. She had to clench her fists. What weapon did she have? Words – only words. She breathed deeply until the blood stopped pounding in her head. She must not speak in anger.
“Sharleen,” she said quietly, “it isn’t very nice to make personal comments, is it, now? I mean, I wouldn’t dream of making nasty remarks about your poor, spotty face.”
Sharleen’s face seemed to crumble. She drew in a breath that sounded like a sob. She put her head down between her arms. Her shoulders shook. The class was shocked into silence.
“She’s made Sharleen cry!” gasped Jason Adams “The cow!”
“Vache!” shouted Peter Pratt suddenly, above the noise. “I know the French for that – la vache”. He beamed at his success in drawing from some hidden depths the correct item of vocabulary.
“La vache! La vache!” The cry was taken up in a menacing chant. Louder, louder, beyond control.
“They’ll be coming!” thought Madame Martin, in panic. What had she done? “They’ll say I can’t cope. They’ll get rid of me. How will we manage?”
Feverishly she seized a piece of chalk, and on the blackboard she drew a pin creature with udders. As the Euro-minded Head opened the door, she pointed with her ruler at the board, and chanted along with the class.
“Rather too much noise, 5 French F! But how good it is to see such enthusiasm – and on a Friday afternoon, too. Ah, the gift of tongues Madame Martin! The gift of tongues!” Beaming, he went out, closing the door behind him.
© Margaret Holden |
