Friday, 2nd March 2007

It’s difficult being a primary school teacher nowadays. No, don’t laugh: it is. We’re now in an age where being able to tick the right boxes is more important than actual teaching. Gone are the days when you could sit the children down and tell them to turn to page 25, or put the one who isn’t listening on the spot to recite their three-times-table. Everything now must be done with the most copious amount of fuss. Developing a close relationship with my little wards is becoming more and more difficult. I am an enigma to them – this person who throws computers and trumpets and interactive whiteboards at them in hope that they’ll learn something.

When I was a child, education was all about being able to read aloud a passage without stuttering or winning a big sparkly sticker for solving a maths puzzle. I was not very intelligent, still am not, and I hated the odious years of high school so much that I vowed to spend the rest of my life in primary. So, I graduated Uni as soon as I could and applied for a job in a school with the same brightly-coloured playground and cantankerous old dinnerladies that I so adored when I was a quiet little boy.

Of course, very little here actually matches up to my Big Ideal. That is, besides one element: the children. Kids are kids, after all, and you still have the butter-wouldn’t-melts, the chavs-to-be and the shy wee things that blush when I ask them a question. I was expecting the parents to be totally bewildered and got few disappointments there. Nowadays, you can’t just say that their kid is a cheeky runt who needs to learn some manners; instead, you must be diplomatic and explain how he has some ‘behavioural problems’, specifically his relationship with his elders, and explain to them how a specialist support teacher may come in and assist him with this. To be honest, this new system doesn’t work. It clashes with common sense.

These are my usual complaints, though, and I should honestly stop rambling about them. They have very little to do with my present worries. The worries I have regard a ten-year-old girl who joined Class Six at the beginning of this term. Her name is Estela. She is a skinny wee thing from Portugal, though for the past three years she has been shifted from one British foster home to another. Her history is shady. Her mother is a fickle young woman who abandoned her not long after her birth, whilst her father is older, an alcoholic who dragged her to England with the hope of gaining a job. After a confrontation with a bouncer in Sheffield, he managed to get himself five years for GBH. The girl is petrified that he’ll be released on good behaviour soon, though so far he’s had no such luck.

Estela never settles in a home, so the social services are constantly moving her. Her most recent foster parents, Mr and Mrs Briggs, are a gentle couple who find her stubborn temperament and sudden outbursts too difficult to cope with. But it isn’t the tantrums that upset them, apparently; it is what happens during the tantrums. Mysterious things, Mrs Briggs told me at a special meeting we had today about Estela’s progress; things that almost seem supernatural. When I asked Mrs Briggs what she meant, she became shy and dismissed it as just her imagination. Her husband went tight-lipped and shifted his eyes to the Star Wars figurine on my desk. Afterwards, I didn’t really think about it much. She is just a highly-strung lass who is having trouble settling down. It can only be expected.

But it’s a humid night and every time I try to sleep I see Mrs Briggs’ nervous face before me. Supernatural, she said, shuddering. She’s a bit of a trickster, this Estela; I’ve seen it in class. But scaring her classmates isn’t like scaring adults, is it? And they’re are such a down-to-earth couple. I don’t know. Something has me troubled. But there is no use keeping myself awake about it.



Monday, 24th March 200


It is now three weeks since I last wrote about Estela, and something has happened that has me almost believing the impossible.

We were using the school field to do boomerang throwing: a fun but educational activity that teaches about the culture of the Australian aborigines (in other words, another break time for them and extra work for me, as I had to keep my eyes in nearly thirty places at once). I had all the kids standing in a line. Each student slung his or her boomerang one after another, everyone impressed by how far it swung before whipping around in our direction. Most attempts didn’t return properly, least of all mine. No matter what happened, the kids still found it fascinating, none more so than Estela who watched each throw with an eager determination in her chocolate button eyes.

When it came to Estela’s turn, I passed her the boomerang and overhead Kevin Jones next to her growl, “I bet you can’t do as good as me!� He pointed to where his boomerang lay after a rather impressive throw.

She shrugged, and I was proud of her for not rising to the bait. Then she threw the boomerang, her dark eyes fixed upon the piece of wood. At first it looked to be losing speed, but then, as if by magic, it span around and headed with great velocity towards her. She raised a small hand to catch it – everyone now poised in anticipation – and it slowed down to rest in her clutch.

“Wow, that puts us all to shame!� I said after a moment of forced silence.

Kevin Jones snarled at her with resentment. When I noticed and frowned, he smiled widely and asked, “Can I have another go, Mr White?�

“There are others who haven’t yet had a turn,� I said firmly, passing it to Emily who stood patiently to Estela’s left.

The little girl was unable to give the boomerang a proper throw and so it veered off to the right. Then, it swerved back on itself and headed straight for Kevin Jones’ head. A sudden premonition came over me: the child knocked over by this wild boomerang, bruised and bleeding; parents yelling; school governors questioning; headmaster frowning …

I dived forward and pushed Kevin out of the way. The boomerang barely missed my head as we fell onto the damp grass. Everyone laughed, and for a moment I was too flustered to realise that what I had predicted would have happened. Once composed, I turned instinctively to Estela. She noticed me, a blush rose to her cheeks, and then she turned away as if embarrassed. Losing my spirits, I sent the kids back inside once each had had his or her go and watched Estela with a careful eye for the rest of the day.

I have begun to watch her every break duty and P.E lesson for a repeat performance. There has only been one suspicious incidents: Kevin’s mate Steven is sporting a large bruise on his forehead. He claims ‘she dunnit’, though he isn’t able to explain how she threw him on the ground, nor has he found a single witness to explain it, either.

Estela excels at sports. She is the Goal Shooter of the netball team and Mr Wellton actually confessed she’d make a good forward striker (Mr Wellton – the chauvanist!) Yet, she’s not the most agile of things, all spindly legs and untied shoelaces. I’ve often wondered how she manages to get the ball through the netball hoop without any apparent regard to aim or technique. All she does is stare at the net very, very intently. It’s as if he believes that her will alone can make the ball move.

It’s probably all very explainable. Some kids are innately cunning and sly and intelligent. She is one of them. As for the sports, maybe she’s just talented? Shouldn’t her teacher – shouldn’t I - be pleased?




Wednesday, 11th April


I cannot believe I am about to write this. Really, in the entirety of my mundane life, there has been nothing that has compared to this. My natural cynicism has been shattered in the course of forty-eight hours.

We broke up for the Easter holidays (a time I fill by visiting my parents twice, my grandma once, and The Snooty Fox daily) and thought little about any of my kids, even Estela. I woke up yesterday morning, my head still re-sorting its brain cells after the previous night’s Strongbow binge, and picked up the newspaper at the doorstep. Lumbering over to the kitchen unit, I read through wearied eyes about an explosive car accident that occurred during the early hours of yesterday morning. A picture of a car burnt to cinders surrounded by police cars and ambulances filled most of the front page. I wiped the sleep out of my eyes and read the accompanying article.

Three seconds in, I spurted out my morning coffee and gagged. Mr and Mrs Briggs were in hospital, having suffered bad burns and some broken bones. The amazing thing was that Estela had survived unharmed. I read on to discover that no other cars had been involved, nor was there any visible obstruction on the quiet country road where it had happened. The most expert mechanics that Renault could summon were investigating the shell of a vehicle to discover why this Clio, that had only passed its M.O.T four months ago, had suddenly exploded. When I turned the page, a picture of Estela with her chocolate button eyes stared out at me. Underneath it was the caption: The luckiest girl in England! Lucky, my arse, I thought, as I swished the rest of my coffee down the sink.

I picked up the phone and called Greg Thornton, the school headmaster, at his home. He is a new appointment to the school, one of these sycophants to the new regime that disfavours the direct approach to going through a ton of paperwork and systems first. He’s not the most approachable person in the world, but he would have to do.

“Greg,� I said as he answered the phone, “it’s Chris here. Look, do you know where little Estela Gomes is staying at the moment? She must be really upset and I thought a visit from a familiar face would -�

“You can’t just ring me up at stupid o’clock in the morning and demand that! You forget your place, Mr White. The social services have placed her into the care of a temporary foster family until they can find her a new, more permanent family.�

“More permanent? She’s been in three homes this past year! How is the kid ever going to settle down! What is the family’s address? I think it would be good for her to see a friendly face right now,� I begged, sounding angry but really just very anxious.

Greg became more hostile. “The social services say it is best she is not disrupted anymore than she has been this Easter.�

“Stuff the social services.� I really shouldn’t have said that.

He slammed the phone down. It took some carefully thought out excuses and several phone calls to procure the address, and even when I had it, I wasn’t sure whether I should use it. It would be deliberately defying orders and, when inevitably discovered, would go down on file and remain there forever more.

However, I woke up this morning in a ‘don’t give a toss’ mood; managed to get dressed with a reasonably clear head; revved up my old Ford Escort; and followed some sloppy directions I’d found on the internet. The house was in an aspiring-middle-class neighbourhood filled with happy housewives baking cakes from behind kitchen windows. I used the brass knocker of one of these tall, red-brick houses and waited in anticipation for the snooty owner.

What I received was a petulant glare from the snooty daughter of the snooty owner. “Who are you?� she said, her mouth full of chewing gum.

“I am Mr White, Estela’s teacher. I believe she is staying here for the Easter holidays.� I flashed my trustworthy smile.

“Mum!� the brat yelled, before speeding off up the stairs.

Her mother, a Mrs Barnaby, appeared, clutching mittens and wiping her soapy hands on her apron. “Sorry, I was just making an apple tart. Please come through. Estela!� She poked her head into the conservatory. “Your class teacher is here for you.�

The young girl was looking at the TV, but not watching it. I stepped into the humid conservatory and sat down on one of the plush sofas. She didn’t look at me, as she twisted a strand of dark hair around her finger and picked at the trimming of her chair instead.

“Good morning, Estela,� I began nervously, wishing I wasn’t too old to pick at the sofa.

“Good morning, Mr White,� she chanted as she would in the classroom.

I licked my lower lip, having no idea what to say next. Eventually, I said awkwardly, “I am sorry to hear about the accident. Mr and Mrs Briggs are recovering well. How are you feeling?�

“Fine.� Well, I should have expected this answer. She didn’t even turn to look at me.

I nudged towards her slightly, and watched the TV. It was one of my favourite Scooby Doo episodes, involving a witch, a zombie and two bank robbers. Suddenly, the witch cackled and pointed her wand at Daphne. A huge puff of smoke, and Daphne had disappeared.

“Do you believe in magic, Estela?�

The question slipped out, and oh God, do I wish it hadn’t! She sort of shuffled at first, then closed her eyes and bowed her head slowly to her chest. Feeling somewhat paternal, I moved forward and placed a hand on her back to comfort her. She began to sob, huge dollops of tears appearing in those chocolate button eyes.

“It’s okay. Nobody is accusing you of anything,� I blurted out unthinkingly.

Why did I say that? Why? So that it confirmed to her that I was suspicious, that I was accusing her of something? I felt like a Puritan of the seventeenth century, poised to cry "Witch!" She began to claw at her hair and scrunch tightly into a ball. I tried to console her but she shrugged me away.

“Leave. Me. Alone,� she growled, raising her head to look at me with those intent eyes. “I mean it. Go.�

“I want to help you,� I begged, kneeling down beside her and trying to touch her hand.

She gritted her teeth and scrunched up her eyes tightly. “No. No. No.�

“Please –�

“I said NO!�

Her eyes snapped open. Then, suddenly, I found myself falling back – like a huge whoosh of wind had hit my stomch and was thrusting me across the room. I slammed against the wall. Whilst I recovered, Estela fled the room. I could hear her footsteps disappear up the stairs.

Mrs Barnaby came in with a complacent smile on her face. “Oh, I am sorry, Love. She doesn’t really like talking at the moment.�

So, let us just say that I am a bit nervous about beginning summer term next week. I was bang out of order to do what I did, but worse – I think I’ve discovered a child with a problem that requires more than teaching assistants and counselling. She threw me across the room! I don’t care what anyone says, she did it. Is this what you call magic? I am not a boy anymore and shouldn’t really believe in such things, but how else can I explain it?

Despite all of this, I am worried about her. She’s not happy, that much is clear, and these unexplainable accidents happen when she’s in discomfort. I’ve been sitting in my flat for hours drinking cans of cider and watching meaningless programs, trying to figure something out. Stuff Thornton and social services; they’re not going to listen. Perhaps the only thing I can do is approach her again, only this time try to be somewhat more understanding.




Tuesday, 29th May 2007

I rarely say this, but I am quite pleased with myself today. It’s been a dreary day, even though this is supposed to be summer, and when the bell rang for playtime, none of the kids bounced out with their usual enthusiasm. Estela loitered behind, her nose buried in a book she’d brought, though I could tell she wasn’t reading it because her eyes were staring motionless at the page.

“Playtime, Estela,� I encouraged, then turned and made a clumsy effort at rubbing off the maths from the whiteboard.

She shrugged. “Let me finish this chapter, Mr White.�

I was surprised. She’d made a specific point of avoiding me this term, and the way she loitered with her book strategically poised before her made me believe she wanted to tell me something. I sat myself at the edge of her table with a meek smile on my face. Normally she’d find this intimidating, but she gave me a shy smile and then turned back to her book.

“Is everything going well with Mr and Mrs Barnaby?� I asked.

“Fine,� she muttered, her eyes intent upon the page.

“Would you like to spend playtime in here, seeing as we’re already five minutes in? I don’t mind. I have some coffee to drink,� I said, moving back to my desk and sipping on the coffee that Mrs Woodhouse had brought in for me. She wasn’t happy with this, and let out a frustrated grunt before pushing her face closer to the book.

“Then - Peter said to the ow-el, ‘Why - are you foll-ow-ang mey? You – will – may-ke me
- late,’� she said slowly in her fragmented reading voice. Because of her disrupted lifestyle, Estela was behind on her reading. Luckily, like many kids her age, she picked up speaking English reasonably well. I had given her a few books recommended for Class Four. She stopped a moment, stuttering over a word. “U-Un-Unfort-une-ate-lay, the owl wr-would not l-leave Pe-ter alone. He kept on fol-follorw- rwing he-im dor-wen the ror-roard.�

Like with most kids, one difficult word had broken her flow and she was now struggling on simple ones. Her face turned scarlet and she gripped the book even tighter, determined to grasp the words. Then, she let out a long sigh and stopped.

“You’re getting better at controlling your temper, I see,� I remarked once I was certain she wasn’t going to resume reading.

“Thank you, Mr White,� she replied, her cheeks still blushed. “I am sorry I can’t return the last book you gave me, but I did really like it.�

“The book?�

“The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Something happened to it.� Her voice became more timid and she picked up the book so that she could hide behind it again.

I smiled reassuringly. “What happened to it, Estela?�

She dropped the book down on the table, her chocolate button eyes welling up with tears. “I found it too hard and when I tried to concentrate, it exploded. But it was the last thing to go weird. I promise, Mr White, I really do!�

I sprang up from my strategic position and moved towards her. “That’s all right, Estela. That’s all right. Like I said, you’re learning to control your temper more. Have you told anyone else about this – these weird things?�

“No,� she said, burying her head into the shoulder pad of my blazer and clutching onto me. “Mrs Barnaby doesn’t understand why I’m not as cheerful as her daughter. Mrs Briggs couldn’t cope whenever something weird happened. She asked me to play snap with her in the car, but when I lost for the third time, I got all upset and then …� She burst into loud sobs of tears.

I absorbed myself with compassion for her, holding her tightly and reassuring her that everything would soon be well. The rain hammered loudly against the windows but I didn’t notice. It was only when the bell rang through our ears that the bubble around us popped and we realised that we had only moments before the class returned. Wiping away her tears, Estela straightened herself up in the chair and gave me a bright smile.

I winked at her and gave a pat on the shoulder. “You know to come to me now. I don’t mind. It’s why I am here.�

The door opened, and a stream of soaking wet kids trudged through, groaning and mumbling under their breath. Estela remained quiet for the rest of the day, whilst the other kids were fraught about the weather denying them their freedom.

So for now, I am pleased. I should be, shouldn’t I? Things are moving forward for Estela, and I am finally doing what I became a primary school teacher to do. I am actually helping one of my kids.


She’s to begin secondary school after this term; it’s unfortunate she’s an August girl. I’ve been worried about it up until today, seeing as she’s due to attend one of the roughest schools in the area. But now that she’s controlling her anger and coping with the school bullies without any accidents, I am beginning to feel hopeful that she will stand a fighting chance. Yes, the change will be difficult: the bullies will now tower above her and school pranks will be far more severe, but I think she will do it. I’ve decided to speak with Mrs Barnaby about keeping in touch with her through her first term, because I have something nobody else has. Her confidence.

Magic, if that is what I dare to call it, is still too incredible to believe. Is it only telekinesis, or do such things as telepathy and divination and alchemy exist also too? Of course, I shouldn’t assume they do exist. I should remain sensible and not get carried away, for Estela’s sake if not for my own. She seems to have a much greater understanding of it than me. Maybe it doesn’t seem supernatural to her, because it is part of her? Or maybe it’s because she is still at an age where magic is still very real in her mind? Yes, this must be true. I shall wear a child’s spectacles if I must, in order to understand better. I know I will get there, eventually.



Monday, 2nd July 2007

Today has been the most joyous since I began this profession! It started out normally, as most amazing days do, with the kids sitting down to maths puzzles and me drawing wobbly diagrams on the board.

Everyone was in high spirits. It has been a bright day for once: yes, an actual bright day in South Yorkshire! The flooding closed schools for half a week, completely submerging Sheffield and causing chaos where I live when the Don broke its banks. But the rainbow has appeared, and to celebrate, the kids have been allowed a playtime break. Mr Thornton apparently anguished over this decision all night, and it was only when Mrs Woodhouse said she’d send her kids out regardless that he relented. So, when the bell went, I didn’t get chance to finish drawing the graph on the board and tell everyone to stand up quietly. They rushed off like herds of buffalo, like they’d never been outside before.

Estela didn’t. At first I thought she wanted one of our usual chats; perhaps something had happened at home during our mandatory confinement by Mother Nature.

I sat down with a grave expression on my face, hiding my inner-glee, and said, “What’s wrong, Estela?�

She returned my morbid expression with one of the utmost pleasure. “Nothing, Mr White. I needed to show you this.�

Then she thrust a piece of paper in my hand. At first I thought she’d been playing with a wax seal set and tea bags – Mrs Barnaby has now taken to adorning her with gifts in an attempt to cheer her up – but then I read its very bizarre message.

“Hogwarts?� I said, befuddled. “A place for witches and wizards? You’re such a joker, Estela. The wittiest student I’ve ever taught, but a crafty little joker. Did Mrs Barnaby help you make this?�

She frowned slightly. “Don’t you believe it is real, Mr White? You know I can do magic. Look, there are others that can do magic, too.�

I read the letter for a second time. Funnily enough it seemed legitimate despite its obscurity. Reluctantly, I found myself nodding and saying, “Yes, I believe you.�

She gripped tightly onto my arm and bounced up and down in her chair. “Then you can be the one to come with me to London. I have this reading and equipment list -� she slammed down another letter on the desk, this one simply a list of two pages – “of things that need to be bought. See, there’s so much to do! You need to help me, Mr White. It says I must take my parents or guardians but I just can’t tell Mrs Barnaby.�

I picked up the list. It went way beyond anything a ten-year-old’s imagination could create. Apparently she had to buy one standard pewter cauldron, one copy of Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling, one copy of A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot, one wizarding wand from Ollivander’s Wandmakers, and was allowed to take with her a pet: an owl, a cat or a toad.

I admit to feeling a little bit overwhelmed. I mean, it’s one thing to just about accept that your pupil has supernatural power, but it’s another to admit there’s a whole community of like-minded souls hidden away in London somewhere. How come nobody knows about this? Still, I brushed the feeling aside and gave her a half-smile.

“Okay, I will take you to London to buy all your things. But we will give Mr and Mrs Barnaby and the people at social services a proper excuse as to why you’re boarding in this special school,� I explained carefully.

Her face blushed red and I could see the enthusiasm dwindle in her chocolate button eyes. “I really don’t know what to say, Mr White.�

“Then I will think of something.� I smiled confidently, despite not feeling at all confident. “Now, pop this in your schoolbag and enjoy the rest of playtime. Today may be the only sunny day of the year.�

Part of her wanted to stay, but I ushered her outside and watched her from the door. My head was still spinning – in fact, it is still spinning! – with this new revelation. Yet as I watched her approach shy little Emily and follow her down the painted hopscotch I realised that Estela wasn’t worrying about finer details. She’s finally come to terms with it all, in her own way, and now has she got a lot to look forward to.

I still haven’t the foggiest on what I am going to say to everyone. She doesn’t start until September so I am sure I will think of something by then. Perhaps this wonderful new world of hers will have a friendly fellow who can help us. Someone who knows a bit of hocus pocus mind-control or something? Actually, that might not be a good thing! I confess to having some niggling worries about this new world, seeing as I know very little about it and what I do know makes it seem more like Middle Earth than Earth. That’s why I am glad I volunteered to go with her. Surely by visiting this unknown corner of London I will be able to gage its suitability for Estela. Until then, I will have to hang tough and pray it works out well.

I will be optimistic. Because if Estela has taught me anything, it’s the power of having an open mind. If all else fails, and there is no secret world, we get a day trip to London. Who knows, we may even see the Queen!