elevation. Rushbrook had been built in the 1970s on the site of a former rubbish tip and sometimes, when the windows were opened in the summer term, I’d fancied I could catch a whiff of the original malodour rising from the foundations. In contrast, Elm Hill Prep had begun as an Edwardian vicarage, every subsequent extension either faithful to the original period or conceived in bold contrast, and its parkside location was idyllic. In the whole of my first year there’d been only one less-than-fragrant incident: when the florist was late in delivering the weekly bouquet for Reception and the previous week’s lilies were slightly on the turn. By break, they’d been removed, the air freshened with citrus and lavender.
My year-four classroom was on the second floor. With its polished parquet and shining, smear-free window panes, it was just the sort of classroom in which
A Little Princess
might have found herself, the kind in which we would all wish our children to learn their lessons. Most did not, of course, Molly included, what with the fees being five thousand pounds a term.
‘And
who can tell me what kinds of things were rationed?’ I asked my class, that Tuesday morning, half of whom were restless as lunchtime approached and half enfeebled by the heat. It was the warmest day of the year so far, the air entering the open windows too soupy to give any relief. We were in danger of being gelatinized. Indeed Sophia, leaning against Theo, had lost control of her eyelids and fallen asleep. I thought of the clean cool water of the lido across the park and wished I could break my class out and take them there. ‘I’ll give you a clue,’ I said. ‘It was all the fun things.’
Now they began to call out.
‘Toys!’
‘I Phones!’
‘Pokémon!’
‘They didn’t have mobile phones or computer games in the 1940s, did they? Think about what people like to eat and drink … Sophia?’
Her lids twitched, but I didn’t have the heart to insist.
‘Cakes!’ Theo suggested.
‘Good. Eggs and butter were rationed.’
‘Chips!’
‘Actually, potatoes weren’t rationed here, so you could still have your chips, so long as you had the fat to fry them in.’
‘Chocolate! Bread! Coffee!’
‘Coffee wasn’t actually rationed in Britain, but do you think it was always the nicest kind? Like the coffees your mums have in La Tasse or Carluccio’s?’
‘No,
it tasted disgusting!’
‘If they didn’t have real coffee, they drank ersatz,’ said Alfie Mellor, who, it was fair to assume, would one day appear on
University Challenge
, cutting in on starter questions with crisp, faultless answers.
‘What’s ersatz?’ the others wanted to know, and my unprepared definition made me feel like an ersatz teacher.
I was saved by the scheduled knock at the door: a tour for prospective parents hoping for a chance place. These occurred considerably more frequently than the places came up, but Mrs Godwin had never been known to burn a bridge and was scrupulously gracious to all-comers. This morning, there were two couples. One comprised the familiar pairing of mother in her thirties at the peak of her ambitions and father in his forties at the peak of his earning power, each as eager to give a good impression as to gain one. The other, unexpectedly, was Lara Channing and her husband, Miles.
My energies stirred at once. ‘We’ve got visitors, guys!’ I sang and, though the children were taught to proceed with lessons as if uninterrupted, their eyes settled immediately on Lara, who wore a thigh-skimming black sundress with heeled sandals laced to the knee. Over her shoulders was draped a fringed canary-yellow shawl.
‘Hello, Natalie,’ she called to me, and the use of my Christian name caused the children to snicker and me to redden under my make-up. ‘Sorry, I mean
Miss
. We know
each other from the lido,’ she told Mrs Godwin, as if confessing to a terrible indiscretion.
‘We’re great supporters of the lido
My year-four classroom was on the second floor. With its polished parquet and shining, smear-free window panes, it was just the sort of classroom in which
A Little Princess
might have found herself, the kind in which we would all wish our children to learn their lessons. Most did not, of course, Molly included, what with the fees being five thousand pounds a term.
‘And
who can tell me what kinds of things were rationed?’ I asked my class, that Tuesday morning, half of whom were restless as lunchtime approached and half enfeebled by the heat. It was the warmest day of the year so far, the air entering the open windows too soupy to give any relief. We were in danger of being gelatinized. Indeed Sophia, leaning against Theo, had lost control of her eyelids and fallen asleep. I thought of the clean cool water of the lido across the park and wished I could break my class out and take them there. ‘I’ll give you a clue,’ I said. ‘It was all the fun things.’
Now they began to call out.
‘Toys!’
‘I Phones!’
‘Pokémon!’
‘They didn’t have mobile phones or computer games in the 1940s, did they? Think about what people like to eat and drink … Sophia?’
Her lids twitched, but I didn’t have the heart to insist.
‘Cakes!’ Theo suggested.
‘Good. Eggs and butter were rationed.’
‘Chips!’
‘Actually, potatoes weren’t rationed here, so you could still have your chips, so long as you had the fat to fry them in.’
‘Chocolate! Bread! Coffee!’
‘Coffee wasn’t actually rationed in Britain, but do you think it was always the nicest kind? Like the coffees your mums have in La Tasse or Carluccio’s?’
‘No,
it tasted disgusting!’
‘If they didn’t have real coffee, they drank ersatz,’ said Alfie Mellor, who, it was fair to assume, would one day appear on
University Challenge
, cutting in on starter questions with crisp, faultless answers.
‘What’s ersatz?’ the others wanted to know, and my unprepared definition made me feel like an ersatz teacher.
I was saved by the scheduled knock at the door: a tour for prospective parents hoping for a chance place. These occurred considerably more frequently than the places came up, but Mrs Godwin had never been known to burn a bridge and was scrupulously gracious to all-comers. This morning, there were two couples. One comprised the familiar pairing of mother in her thirties at the peak of her ambitions and father in his forties at the peak of his earning power, each as eager to give a good impression as to gain one. The other, unexpectedly, was Lara Channing and her husband, Miles.
My energies stirred at once. ‘We’ve got visitors, guys!’ I sang and, though the children were taught to proceed with lessons as if uninterrupted, their eyes settled immediately on Lara, who wore a thigh-skimming black sundress with heeled sandals laced to the knee. Over her shoulders was draped a fringed canary-yellow shawl.
‘Hello, Natalie,’ she called to me, and the use of my Christian name caused the children to snicker and me to redden under my make-up. ‘Sorry, I mean
Miss
. We know
each other from the lido,’ she told Mrs Godwin, as if confessing to a terrible indiscretion.
‘We’re great supporters of the lido
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