School Days
Weeds have grown up between the courtyard paving stones, weeds that never had a chance when a thousand children trampled over the stones each day.
The benches, normally scattered randomly around for lunchtime conversations and whispered secrets, are now stretched shoulder to shoulder across the centre, cutting the courtyard in two. Tape is wrapped round trees and bins, turning the place into something resembling more a crime scene than a school.
On one side of the yard, the vulnerable children and children of key workers (more arriving daily now) play in their breaks; the other side is reserved for the returning Year 10s.
For they are beginning to come back in. Their uniforms are often too tight or too short. Their parents have rung ahead, asking permission for them to wear trainers or black jeans as they have grown so much.
Their hair has grown in pace with the weeds. Some of the boys hide miserably behind shiny curtains; others have been inexpertly clipped by older brothers or fathers and look like tufty lambs. Most of them wear pristine white shirts – alarm bells ring for the few whose uniforms have not been washed in 13 weeks.
So far, it is still a matter of choice whether they come back or not. Some of the parents continue to be anxious and want to keep their children at home. Others can’t wait to be shot of them.
Part of the point of the ‘reconnection’ meetings Year-10 tutors are holding for their students is to allay any fears.
Children who want to come back (and most of them do by now) can report back on the spaced desks, the sanitising gels by every door, the one-way system and the tape.
The tape is even more pervasive indoors than out. I am particularly sad to see the bookshelves criss-crossed with tape, but ignore it to lend students books because (and here’s a glimmer of light) in lockdown some of them have taken up reading.
One boy didn’t quite make it, though. He said, ‘I’m going to make you happy, Miss. I thought I’d try reading – so I picked up the Wimpy Kid books which I’d liked when I was younger. But then I thought it would be better to watch the films.’
I’ve been calling my tutees regularly during lockdown; seeing them in the flesh is somehow very moving. I want to hug them, which I wouldn’t be allowed to do in normal times, and certainly can’t now.
One by one, they come in, sit miles away from me and tell me their stories of lockdown. A bit of reading, a lot of cycling, too much Xbox and not enough football.
Some tell me downright lies about how much they have worked (they don’t seem to realise I have access to the online tool Show My Homework), while others worry that they’ve been late with one piece of work.
Languages and maths come out badly – children find those two subjects hard to understand without support – while English and science do well. Some of the children worked very hard at the beginning and have now lost heart. Others treated the beginning as a holiday but are now knuckling down.
And every single one smiles shyly when admitting to having missed school, their friends, their teachers and me; to realising how teachers are actually useful, needed and a positive part of their lives.
Some of their stories are sadder – job losses, deaths and domestic strife. They will talk to me face to face in a way they will not over the telephone, perhaps partly because we have now been together for four years and seeing me reminds them that they can trust me.
Right now, it feels that that is all we have. A sense of trust – and books to lend.