Robin Jarvis - Dancing Jax

Emma and her cronies pulled faces at Sandra’s back and Ashleigh scrunched up a scrap of paper to lob at her head.

“You just dare!” Martin growled at her. “You’ll be in the Head’s office so fast, your shoes will leave skid marks on the corridor floor.”

“Skid marks!” Kevin guffawed.

Just then the door opened and a tall, fair-haired lad with a sports bag slung over his shoulder came ambling in. Without so much as a glance at Martin Baxter, he headed for his empty seat. Keeley and Ashleigh whistled through their teeth at him. They had recently decided his was the best bottom in the school.

“Conor!” Martin said. “Where’ve you been? Why are you drifting in here so late?”

The boy looked at him insolently. “I was helping Mr Hitchin, Sir,” he said.

“Then you’ll have a note from him for me to that effect.”

“No, Sir.”

“OK, you’ve just earned yourself some extra time here tonight.”

“Can’t do that, I’ve got football.”

“Conor, you’ve been here long enough to know how this place works. If you come to my lesson late, without a valid reason, then it’s automatic detention.”

“But there’s a match on!”

“If that was so important to you, you’d have made sure you were here on time and not get detention.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Excuse me, do I know you? Now sit down.”

Conor slumped in his seat and mouthed an obscenity when Mr Baxter wasn’t looking. Then he glanced round to see if any of his classmates had seen him do it. Sandra Dixon’s disgusted eyes met his and he mimed a kiss at her. Sandra turned away.

Martin Baxter looked up just in time to catch that exchange. He felt sorry for students like Sandra, the ones who enjoyed their lessons and worked hard. Even the ones who weren’t as capable but tried their best were a pleasure to teach, but the number of wasters and wilfully ignorant, disruptive kids was growing every year and the government’s policy of inclusion meant that they dragged everyone else in the class down to their level and held them back. As teachers, they weren’t even allowed to use the word “fail” any more; they were now instructed to adopt the phrase “deferred success”. Martin had to laugh at that; some of these kids would be deferring success for the rest of their lives.

The profession was not the same as when he first started, over twenty years ago. Now he was also expected to be a policeman and a social worker, but he absolutely refused to be a clownish entertainer like some of his colleagues. They had lost the respect of their pupils and now had to perform every lesson in order to engage and keep their attention. Consequently very little proper teaching was done. As far as Martin was concerned, the kids were here to learn and, for him, that meant the old-fashioned way of drilling it into them. He didn’t care if they found it repetitive; this method worked – or at least it did for those who listened and were prepared to apply themselves.

“OK, open your books!” he told them. “We’re going to find the area of triangles today – you lucky lot.”

He was deaf to the expected groans from the usual quarters.

“I haven’t got a pen, Sir,” Keeley drawled.

“I hear what you’re saying,” he answered, with his broadest smile yet, “and I’m filing it away under ‘Not My Problem’.”

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Two periods with Years 8 and 7 went by smoothly. They were usually the best years – the bored cynicism and slouching indifference hadn’t taken control yet – but even so, kids just weren’t the same as they used to be. Teachers were constantly being told to be mindful of attention-deficit syndromes, a condition which Martin always relabelled ‘bone-idle’. Those pupils with supposed limited attention spans were more than capable of spending hours on their PlayStations without any problem. They wouldn’t have been able to get away with that excuse thirty years ago, but now they were aware of it and played up to it – though not in his classes.

After detention, Martin Baxter walked down the polished corridor to the staffroom to make a much-needed coffee before heading home. For the umpteenth time that day he wished he could change jobs and do something else entirely, but at the age of forty-three that really wasn’t a viable option.

Entering the deserted staffroom, he deposited his briefcase on the nearest chair and rinsed a mug in the sink. The view from the window showed the staff car park and the school gates. A few of the older kids were still lingering beyond them. He recognised Emma and the other two members of her coven leaning against the railings, no longer practising their tuneless singing. He knew they’d never stick at it. Like so many other people nowadays, they expected wealth and celebrity without having to do anything to earn it. They saw other people becoming famous for having no discernible talent or having to work hard, so why should they? Role models now were celebrated, even idolised, for their stupidity; no wonder it was such a fight to get some of the kids to understand why an education was important.

“Can I have a word, Martin?”

A broad, big-shouldered man with a paunch and a florid face had popped his head around the door. Martin Baxter always thought the Headteacher looked like an actor who only ever played snarling detective superintendents on television. Maybe that was why he was such an effective Head. Most of the kids held him in awe. The good ones respected him and the rest instinctively recognised his innate authority. Barry Milligan tolerated no nonsense from anyone and even intimidated some of his staff.

He didn’t intimidate Martin. They’d both been at this school too long for that. They were the longest serving members of staff. Martin often reflected that if they’d committed murder instead of starting work here, their prison sentences wouldn’t have lasted so long and they’d be free by now.

“What can I do for you?” the maths teacher asked. “I can offer you a very horrible coffee, but I’m afraid all the Hobnobs have been pinched.”

Barry wandered over. He always looked like he was going to arrest you and yell, “You’re nicked, you slaaag!” right in your face. Martin suppressed a smile.

“I’ve had Douggy Wynn griping about some lad you kept in detention instead of letting him play football,” the Head explained.

“Conor Westlake?”

“That’s the toerag. Our Mr Wynn isn’t happy that his best striker didn’t get to the match till half-time.”

“Are you having a go?”

Barry patted his old friend on the back. “Douggy never sees the bigger picture,” he said. “He only thinks about his own subject and winning trophies.”

“Well, he hasn’t won any in the two years he’s been teaching here,” Martin replied. “If that gymnasty has got a problem with me enforcing some kind of discipline on the mouthy Conors of this place then he can come say it to my face instead of moaning to you.”

Barry raised his hands. “Only passing it on,” he declared. “Mind you, if we played rugby at this school instead of football…”

“I wouldn’t dare spoil your favourite game!” Martin laughed.

“Game?” Barry gasped, looking mortified. “Don’t blaspheme, Martin! That’s my religion you’re talking about and I’ll be worshipping at the blessed temple of my beloved Saxons again tomorrow.”

Martin shook his head and chuckled. Barry’s main love had always been rugby. He had even played for Felixstowe in his youth. In their early years at the school, he would often appear on Monday morning with a curious, curler-shaped bandage in his hair or a black eye or scabby, scraped forehead where a boot had trodden on him. That was another reason the kids respected him, that and the way he used to fling wooden-backed board rubbers at the heads of the lads who weren’t paying attention in his classes. Yes, you could actually do that sort of thing back then and not be sacked or put on some sort of register – and so his legend had grown. Nowadays though, Barry Milligan was resembling the shape of the ball more and more.