Diary of an Assistant Mistress (5 page)

Thursday 11th February

Today was dominated by the shadow which the third year parents evening casts before it. I teach two third year sets which could be classified as the "Nobody else wants them but I'm sure Teri won't make too much fuss" set and the "you thought the other third years were bad" group.

This evening was not as bad as I anticipated although, as I had assumed, the parents were all trying to get me to make predictions of what GCSE grade their offspring would receive in two years time and I spent the evening evading their questions. I am tired of taking responsibility for the results which some children get by not doing any work in the fourth year - it is not as if we got any credit for their good results.

However, none of the parents was really awkward. It makes one wonder about heredity - the most awkward children and - by and large - the least awkward parents. This is partly because the parents of the most awkward children simply do not come.

There was just the one - there is always one - who wanted to know why I didn't do more Kipling in my lessons. I was on the tip of my tongue to suggest that as one of the "lesser breeds without the law" it was hardly my place to teach his poetry, but I restrained myself.

I was a bit too tired to respond to James' advances. He suggested I lay back and think of England. I said I would lay back and think of India and crossed my legs. Then of course he wanted oral sex and what could I say? My mother taught me never to speak with my mouth full.

Thursday 18th February

Dear Diary, #

How many strange things have taken place since I last sat before this keyboard? As the lesbian said to the transvestite, I hardly know where to start.

It was a normal IT lesson: some information, some technology and a bit of personal abuse - this time about Clare getting her cat drunk and torturing it, a story I half believe.

Then I noticed that Clare was playing with something. When I looked more carefully I found it was a pen-knife. My colleagues have been kind enough to say that I was extremely cool and brave. In point of fact I was simply slow on the uptake. I was hit on the arm. It was only when I actually saw the blood that I realised I had been stabbed.

Reconstructing the incident - and trying to account for Clare's atypical behaviour (after all, I am not a cat) - I think that she pretended to throw the knife at me and it slipped from her grasp. Her "friends" have been quick to tell her that she will be imprisoned for ABH or GBH. The police at the hospital were urging me to press charges and talking about Clare's criminal record (stealing videos from Poundland!) but I am running ahead of myself.

I sat down and remained extremely calm - again I was really just dazed. I sent Malcolm and Gary to get the school nurse. Two of the girls practised first aid on me, removing the knife; wiping off the fingerprints I noticed; producing a none-too-clean handkerchief and inexpertly tying it round my arm.

Someone mentioned a tourniquet and I muttered something about "over my dead body" and they laughed. That is my last memory inside the classroom. I have been told that they became hysterical when I passed out - someone suggested loosening my clothing and James stepped forward to volunteer. Fortunately the school nurse arrived before he had a chance to act out his fantasy, or anyone had a chance to put a tourniquet wherever they would have put it - round the neck?

I woke up in the casualty department and I can only say that it is not like the TV series. There are dedicated nurses and hardworking doctors somewhere but I was damned if I could find one. I lay there quietly bleeding into Melitta's hanky for two hours. The distinctive hospital aroma of vomit, disinfectant and burning (what are they burning?) and the distinctive grey hospital ceiling were my only companions.

Now the pain had really started and if they had run to a carpet I would have been chewing it. "Painkillers? What do you think this is, a hospital?"

Anyway, James arrived in the end and started sending for the manager and generally making of himself a pain in the posterior region and they decided the best thing to do was to send me off to have an x-ray. It was actually one a.m. when I had the x-ray and they had de facto decided to keep me in overnight - not in a bed, you understand, but on a trolley in the wretched corridor.

By now the usual quota of drunks and semiprofessional # nuisances had arrived. There was Eric who was singing because he thought it was the only way to keep himself sane, while a doctor was desperately trying to find some pretext for getting him out of the hospital and back into the caring community. There was also a second man who thought that threats of violence against Eric would be the best way of pacifying him and helping his wife who had considerably worse injuries than mine.

In the end I discharged myself after being duly warned by a doctor (how did they manage to produce a doctor so quickly?) that I would be responsible for the consequences. By now I was too tired to argue the toss.

It was of course my dominant left arm which has been incapacitated. Now I know the meaning of the phrase, "I'd give my right arm to be ambidextrous."

I visited the GP on Saturday and he suggested I should take a few days off work and lay off the judo (he is a blue belt in the local club) for a few weeks. He quoted John Wayne, "It's only a flesh wound." Yes, but it isn't his flesh!

James did the shopping. It took him an hour to go round Sainsbury's: his explanation was that as a socialist I should go to the Co-op - there is a non-sequitur here somewhere.

I spent Sunday in bed with the Ibuprofen - my uncle once described this sort of pain eloquently as toothache in the arm. George and Edie came round to be sympathetic. Edie's sympathy took # the form of offering to annihilate the girl responsible: George's consisted of a box of Black Magic which he then proceeded to eat.

On Monday I was up and pottering around in my dressing gown [it is a fairly roomy dressing gown] when there came a ring on the bell. When I opened the door I was a little surprised to see Torquemada and a bunch of flowers. He was obviously rather surprised to see my dressing-gown as he fixed his eyes on my cleavage and there they remained.

Obviously Heads of Divinity have little work to do because he sat down and accepted a total of three cups of coffee without taking his eyes off my tits - except, one assumed, when I turned round. I think he left after that.

ƒb My next recollection takes place in the bedroom. My dressing-gown and nightie seem to have disappeared. Torquemada is holding my injured arm in a strong grip. His face is so close to mine that I can smell his breath and feel the heat of it. He is verbally abusing me. "Red whore of Babylon" is among his more picturesque phrases - the rest are just racist filth, almost entirely devoid of literary allusions.

His other hand gropes at my naked body in a fairly inept fashion and he forces what could be called his attentions on me. Worse still his attentions are unprotected by a condom.

Then I woke up and found it had not all been a dream.

I was indeed stark naked on the bed and my nightgown, when I found it, turned out to be ripped, though not substantially. There # were flowers which I had failed to put in water and a coffee cup which I had failed to wash up. Had I really been raped by a mad Methodist or was I exercising some deeply suppressed wish fulfillment?

With both of these thoughts in mind I had a very thorough bath. It was only then that I realised I was probably destroying evidence by so doing. At this, I laughed and the whole fantasy dissolved.

On Tuesday I was up and dressed when there came a ring on the bell. This time I used my spyhole (which I am supposed to use at all times according to the Crimewatch leaflet, they are not much use if you don't use them). It was Torquemada.

Three thoughts struck me at this point. The first was that he ought to be thoroughly ashamed of himself, coming back after his disgraceful behaviour yesterday. The second was that he ought not if the whole incident was a result of an aspirin-induced hallucination, which seemed likely given that he was coming to see me again. The third was that I didn't want to see him anyway.

Then of course I had the fourth thought which was that I could hardly pretend to be out if I was claiming to be off sick. I let him in (and did I surprise a look of disappointment when he saw how I was attired?)

Torquemada is extremely old - at least 40 (I am 39), probably much older. As I looked at him I noticed for the first time the wrinkles which he seemed to have in all the most unlikely places. # "And how are we today, my dear?" (Is he taking the suffering of the world on himself? Has he no classes?)

"I have brought you this." (His breath smells in a way that only a non-smoking teetotaler's breath can smell).

He started fumbling about in his trousers (!) recollected himself and produced a get-well-soon card from his jacket pocket. It had been signed by about twenty two members of staff. There are one hundred in all. I wonder what the other 78 want me to do.

He remained standing until I had made the coffee and then sat uncomfortably close on the sofa. He sat on my right hand - as it were - thus effectively blocking my good arm.

"You seemed a little feverish yesterday." he said, ƒ*putting his hand on my forehead*.

I moved away. His hand fell accidentally on to my leg, just brushing against my breasts on the way down.

ƒ*His hand was trembling.

I stood up, accidentally upsetting hot coffee all over his rising ardour. I was on the verge of saying that I was terribly sorry when I reflected that I was not sorry, terribly or otherwise. He might keep his wrinkly hands to himself in future.

Then he had to take off his trousers before his balls were boiled and on the whole I don't think the scene ended up as he had phantasized it. I sent him off with a pair of James' trousers and a flea in his ear.

Today I went back to work. It is easier than phoning in cover # every day. I took in Torquemada's trousers and gave them to him in the staffroom - just a little too ostentatiously perhaps.

Friday 19th February

Today I saw my IT class again for the first time since the incident. Clair is still "suspended" to use a phrase which suggests medieval punishments but actually means she is up the town with her boyfriend while her friends are allegedly learning about the flow of information through systems.

Oz brought in a bottle of Sainsbury's champagne at lunchtime which meant I was ready for anything - except to drive home afterwards. Just as well I've been walking.

Saturday 20th February

I thought it would be best if James did the shopping. Not only do I prefer not to jostle with my injured arm but I also think I would rather not run into Clare in town just now.

I stayed home and played Tetris on the computer one handed. This rather miffed James who is always giving me helpful advice and came home laden with shopping to find I'd beaten his best score. He started protesting that he just hadn't bothered to put his name on the score chart, realised he was being a prat and made me some tea instead. #

The flat is a tip. Someone will have to tidy it up. Either I can wait until I am better and tidy it up, leave it untidy until James notices and Hell freezes over (whichever comes first) or I could tell him - which constitutes nagging within the meaning of the Act.

Sunday 21st February

I have finally had time to read the National Cur for Key Stage 3. This is not because I have no marking but because I can't do it. Reading KS3 I know I can't do that either. It is not much consolation that nobody else can either.

James brought home one of his female nude mud wrestling videos and watched it on his own, poor thing. I managed to interject a fairly loud "tch tch" every time his hand strayed too close to his jeans and he seemed to be getting fairly irritated by the end.

I can't get up to anything with my arm in this state but he suggested various other parts of my anatomy that could be involved, by the time he had started praising the delights of my right armpit I told him to get back to his video.

Monday 22nd February

Today was the first day of half term. Unfortunately I had set the teasmade to go off at the usual time. (James had to go to work but half an hour later). At least this meant that I could gloat over the fact that I didn't have to go to work and he did. He didn't seem to find this amusing at all.

I do not intend to start work on lesson plans or reports until Friday.

Tuesday 23rd February

The flat is now spotless and I imagine I will start pacing up and down it if I don't start work. I drew up a list of what I will do - all the things I had put off "until half term".

James brought home a copy of "Sex, Lies and Videotape." I watched it on the sole understanding that there would be no hanky panky afterwards because my arm was aching. He offered to handle the hanky if I would fondle his panky but I declined the offer.

Wednesday 24th February

I actually found myself in the school this morning. The caretaker, Mr Sikes, does not like members of staff coming in during holidays (he does not like members of staff full stop) but he has come to tolerate this little foible because it is so commonplace. I know for a fact that Peter, the deputy head, comes in every Sunday morning for two hours to work.

Why are teachers like this? We can't bear term time and we can't tolerate the holidays. If we could afford to go right away it would be a different matter. If we could afford that it would be a different profession too.

Thursday 25th February

I met Pat in school this morning and he bought me lunch at the pub. After some time spent ogling my Levis, he rather half-heartedly invited me back to his place for coffee. I was so bored I nearly took him up on it. I wonder what would have happened if I had. He is old enough to know better but I'll bet he doesn't.

I have just remembered that his children must be on holiday as well which makes me really wonder what would have happened - a passionate afternoon of troilism with Pat and Mrs Pat while the Patettes watched the telly? Or would we have discussed quadratic equations or whatever it is turns mathematicians on. (Actually from college I know that what turns mathematicians on is much the same thing that turns other people on).