School Days

So the holidays are finally here.

But, this year, they have not arrived with their normal fanfare and the breathless excitement of anticipation. At least not for me.

Some of the staff seemed to try to recreate the heart-lightening of a normal break but, to me, it seemed hollow and slightly silly. Many of those texting had not been in school at all since March and, for those of us who have, it still felt like a hollow victory.

Just before the end of term, I began teaching again. The year tens having all been interviewed, most of them opted to come back to school for the little we could offer. Each student was offered one morning a week for the last three weeks of term – an hour each of maths, English and science. The children were escorted into classes at different times and sat in the same places for the three hours they were taught while we circulated round the rooms.

It felt a little as I imagine teaching in a private school does. Only eight students, sitting in dazed silence, stared back at me.

The top set arrived on Tuesday. These normally confident children were shadows of their former selves. Not physically – quite a few had put on weight in lockdown – but mentally. They were not so much traumatised as stunned.

They had spent the last three months working on their GCSE poetry; so we had decided to teach creative writing, which is altogether worth half their language GCSE. Until we know exactly what next year’s exams hold, we can feel confident that they will always be called upon to write. While they might have forgotten the names of the parts of speech, we hope they can still write – something.

Their silence should have been conducive to creative writing but somehow it wasn’t. And even those who did write were unwilling to share their work. Within minutes, I was alas breaking all the rules – how could I not look at their efforts? Again and again, I found myself creeping away from my official place at the front of the class to stand behind them to read, comment and encourage.

Yes, I tried to hold my breath while I did so but, even so, I had to keep catching myself and moving back to the front of the room. We have been told not to mark work – but can the virus really be transmitted on a piece of paper? I told my students that I would mark anything they submitted – very few did.

With the mixed-ability classes (minus the cream), the sense was very similar. Children who normally cut up rough also sat in stunned silence but, without the encouraging pat on the shoulder, it was hard to get them writing. Or even thinking. I used all my tricks – energy, humour, anecdote and sternness – but it was like dealing with ghosts.

We long for perfect behaviour but, when I got it, I found that something was missing. At first, we congratulated ourselves – or the virus – on the new behaviour. One boy who has barely managed to sit through a whole lesson for the last year or so actually managed to sit through his allotted three. But the second week was not so positive; he stormed out halfway through his second lesson of the day.

So what are we going to face in September? In theory, we will have classes of 30, with one-metre distancing. I’m not sure we have the room for that.

We have been told that attendance will once again be compulsory but how will that be policed? We will be operating a one-way system, and altering the day’s timings so that breaks happen at different times for different groups.

All that can be managed – but it is, as ever, the children I worry about. Not about their (or my) becoming ill but about how they will react to being back in class. And how many of them will find it hard to think.