The Secondary Life of Mr Davies: Episode 1

The pale morning sun glinted through the crack of that blind that didn’t work, no matter how hard you tug at it. A dagger of sunlight illuminated the bottom right hand corner of the interactive whiteboard, ready to track its journey across the face of the screen during lessons one and two. A battered filing cabinet stood proudly at the back of the room, the top drawer slightly open because it didn’t close properly. It was flanked by two sturdy bookcases, made in the 80’s from thick pine and ornately carved by students throughout the decades to inform future generations that “Callum is a Twat” or that “Courtney loves Andrew My Dick.”

The classroom was silent. Stacks of clean, crisp, exercise books stood regimently on a desk at the front of the class. The corners of the books were perpendicular and the edges were level. They were blue this year.

Mr Davies stood, glaring anxiously at his classroom. 'Rows' he thought. 'Yes rows. Definitely rows.' He knew groups of four were better. Groups of four allowed the pupils to discuss ideas and learn in a "Zone of Proximal Development." But groups of four also allowed pupils to talk to each other. If they started talking to each other that was it. Oh sure, he could calmly say “Nikita,” to get her attention without being confrontational. But Nikita would just pretend she hadn’t heard him so she could carry on her conversation about what Aaron Jenkins had done in the park on Friday. No. Much better in rows where they could see him slowly lose his patience and sanity.

He had year nine first lesson. He’d checked the class list to see what manner of horrors would walk through his door when the bell rang at 9 AM. It was not pretty. He was still teaching Ebony Merchant. The stroppy year eight girl who’d called him “a bellend” on the first day. She was a gifted child. Gifted at ruining every lesson he’d been excited to teach and spent three hours the night before preparing for. Year nine was the worst. They’d been here just long enough to think they owned the place but not quite long enough to be coerced by the threat of exams. And to make matters worse, more than half of the pupils would be dropping geography in June; so what's the point in doing any work? At least after this year Ebony would be out of his hair!

The distant shout of a child echoed through the yard and in through the window signaling the start of the September migration. The new school year had started. In less than an hour the peace and calm of the summer would be done and the turmoil of the academic tornado season would rip through the school. Mr Davies was prepared. He had to be prepared. Preparation was his safety blanket. If he wasn’t prepared he wouldn’t survive. He was so prepared that he still hadn’t finished writing the novel he’d planned to write every summer for the last four years. He knew it didn’t really matter how many hours he’d spent tweaking his lessons over the summer, because Connor Charvis would still sit on the window ledge and chuck pencil sharpeners at other pupils. It just made him feel less ill at ease.

The creepy kid from his form walked in. Without acknowledging Mr. Davies he strolled to the back of the class and sat down on a green plastic chair and lifted his leg up on another.

“Morning, Stuart.” Mr Davies said. There was no reply. Stuart had headphones in. He couldn’t hear a word that was being said to him. The child sat broodingly, glaring into middle distance. Mr Davies hesitantly started towards him, but then thought better of it. ‘Pick your battles,’ he thought. A foot on a chair was a long way from the worst infringement he would experience today.

Another pupil entered the room. Then another. And another. An army of adolescent antagonists marched into his classroom with a confidence Mr. Davies could only dream of.

“Ollie! Sit down,” he called.

“I am sitting down,” Ollie replied with a cheeky grin, perching himself on the edge of a desk.

“On a chair, Ollie,” Mr. Davies replied witheringly.

“Jess,” Mr Davies called, “Hoodie off.”

“What for?!” cried Jess, as if after four years in the school she’d never heard that rule before.

Mr Davies didn’t really know. It was the uniform policy. Just a rule you had to stick to. He didn’t imagine his GCSE class would magically become A+ students just because they took their contraband clothing off in his lessons. The uniform policy was more a stick to beat the mules than something that actually made any difference to learning.

“Because I said so,” came his somewhat unconvincing explanation. “You know the rules,” he added. This was apparently enough for Jess. She shrugged with a grimace, turned around and promptly did as she was told.

Registration was over before it had begun. The 15 minutes it took to load SIMS was barely enough time to get the pupils registered and no sooner than they had arrived, they were leaving again for lesson one. Mr. Davies was thankful for a year 11 form group. A few of them were a bit more mature and most would get better by Christmas. Next year it would be different. Next year would be year seven. They would start off quieter and gradually get more unruly until by Christmas he would be more ineffectual than Gilderoy Lockhart in a room full of pixies. The new year had started. It was almost like summer had never happened.

Mr. Davies stood outside his door as his year nine class lined up neatly in bunches along the corridor. Gradually he allowed them into his room greeting each as they crossed the threshold.

“Oh my Gohhhd,” came an abrasive wail, from up the corridor. “We’ve got mister bellend!”

“Morning Ebony,” Mister Bellend replied, “Did you have a nice summer?”