219. Back to school (1)

     The sky is grey and I am feeling blue. There is no possible escape. I know it. I have to face the truth: holidays are over and I have to go to work. So I call my usual helpline.

‘It’s only for seven weeks ... And I’m home this weekend so you can moan and grumble as much as you want. I’ll listen, promise!’

This is not really what I was expecting from my husband. I turn to my help group and here everywhere is in the same boat so I get proper support.

‘I’ll knock on your door and we can have a chat on the way ... We’ll go for 9 o’clock.’

Perfect. That’ll keep me on my toes. On top of that who needs to hang around in the hall to drink tepid coffee and eat stale croissants? And who likes to be told to stand in line small ones at the front and big ones at the back for the staff photo? Not us. Because we have decided that this year we will do away with worldly matters and strive for efficiency. We will get there for 9, just in time for the grand meeting. This plan is so perfect I am almost looking forward to going back to work.

When we meet outside my front door I have forgotten about the grey skies. I hear a loud cheery ‘hello’ from down the street and I shout back. We hug and kiss and talk and laugh and I think neighbours are going to open their windows to tell us to keep quiet! They are probably envying us teachers: thrilled to go back to work, laughing out loud in the street early in the morning, happy to meet up again after a very long summer break. 

We walk and talk all the way but the silence of the school yard when we get there brings us back to the real world. The tall iron gates suddenly look taller and stronger than they did before the summer. We would have felt a lot more welcome if the gates had been thrown open and a huge banner hung across with colourful letters saying ‘welcome back’ and maybe some bunting too. I make a mental note to suggest this to the head at some point. 

‘I don’t have my badge.’

‘I don’t either.’

I press the bell. No answer. I press it again. Still no answer. The place is eerily quiet and I think maybe we got the wrong day or the wrong time. There is still a possibility that we are early. 

‘There’s no-one about, this is weird ...’

‘Do you think the grand meeting has started?’

‘They’ll be having coffee in the hall ... Try ringing again.’

Still no answer. We need a plan B. A tourist passes by and laughs at the two members of staff desperately trying to get to work. We ring the bell but again no one answers. We hold the bars with both hands and stare across the empty yard.

‘Hello!’

‘Hello!’

Our calls reach the high stone walls, bounce up against them and get back to us to stress the fact that we are alone. That everyone is attending the grand meeting and getting all the vital pieces of information. Everyone except us.

We have to get inside. We have a brief discussion and consider our options: walk round the building to the other side, kick the gate until it opens, climb over the top, text someone, call the police, go home, ... In the end we decide to act calmly and to follow the most logical course of action. 

One: ring again to wake the person at reception.

Two: text the friend who is the most likely to be on her phone during the grand meeting. She will see our message and signal to the head that two essential members of staff are being denied access to the grand meeting hall.

Three: shout. Someone is bound to hear us.