Potter and the Wig
The shone weakly through a haze of September cloud cover. The engine of my utterly ancient mini-cooper, or bottom-dragger as I liked to call it, still rumbled as it idled motionless in its parking space. I sat with my hands still on the steering wheel and stared at the school building in front of me. With its red brick exterior and large windows, it was both inviting and foreboding. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves…I was only observing after all; no need to get in a dither.
I turned off the ignition on the bottom-dragger, picked up my purse and book-bag, and readied myself for the approach towards Little Whinging Primary School. As I made my way towards the front double-doors, I became aware how stifling my turtleneck jumper suddenly became, and how I should have worn the black pumps instead of the brown high-heeled boots. My ankles could give out any moment. At least it wasn’t raining. The hem on my trousers will stay clean.
I rolled my eyes at myself. For heaven’s sake, woman, get a hold of yourself. You’re only observing a class, you don’t begin teaching for another semester! I took another deep breath, straightened my posture, and ran through a quick mental list of do’s and dont’s from my college professors as I opened the front door.
The secretary behind the front desk was applying lipstick and picking at her teeth. Her frizzy hair framed her circular face and her glasses were slipping down her nose. I cleared my throat to make myself known. She looked up unabashedly, still holding her lipstick tube.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“I’m here to observe Mrs. Dwiggins’ class this morning,” I said.
“You’d be Miss Clough, then?” the secretary said, putting away her lipstick and smacking her lips together.
“Yes, but it is pronounced cluff,” I corrected. The secretary swung herself out of her desk chair and disappeared through a hallway to her right. While she was gone, I surveyed the office. The walls were white and bare, with the exception of a large notice board on the left wall. Brightly colored notices and posters crowded the board, displaying things such as the names of top students, upcoming holidays, and other assorted information.
At the left corner, on the other side of the notice board, the office adjoined a school hallway by an open double-doorway. One lone student came into view through the open doors. He walked slowly down the corridor, looking into the office as he passed. He was thin and small, with black hair and round glasses. His navy blue and khaki school uniforms looked old and were far too big for him. I felt my heart swell with pity. He was out of sight before I could note anything more.
After waiting a few more minutes came the sound of footsteps from the right-hand corridor. The secretary was followed by the headmistress: a tall, rather angular woman, wearing a smart black suit and skirt with her dark hair drawn tightly to a bun. She held out her hand for me to shake it as she approached.
“Headmistress Covington,” she said without smiling. Her face was rather droopy.
“Lydia Clough, Headmistress,” I replied.
“Come with me.” She began walking with a brisk pace down the hallway to the left of the office. I hurried to keep up, gazing at the artwork and finger paintings posted in the hallways of the school. “Here at Little Whinging Primary, we pride ourselves on the excellence of our teaching methods and scholarship. Many of our students have gone on to the most renowned preparatory schools and universities.” The headmistress’s voice was low and droning, as though she had given this information so many times it was now a bore.
“I can see by the displayed artwork…” I said, trying to sound impressed with the headmistress’s lukewarm boasting.
“Here we are then, Miss Clough. Mrs. Dwiggins’ class. The children are about ten years of age. I think you will find it most…informative.” The headmistress turned on her heel and bustled back down the hallway. I was left facing a classroom door alone with my heart thudding heavily in my chest. Wasn’t she going to introduce me or something? I put my trembling hand on the knob, closed my eyes, and opened the door.
“…which therefore implies that the sum would be greater than…” the woman standing at the blackboard, whom I could only assume was Mrs. Dwiggins, stopped and stared at me. She was a stout woman wearing a dull, flowery dress. Her hair was silver-grey and stiffly curled to her scalp, quite like a wig. She wrinkled her nose.
I saw the faces and felt the eyes of every pupil upon me. My face grew warm. I straightened up a bit.
“Mrs. Dwiggins? Lydia Clough…I’m the student teacher coming to observe, I assume Headmistress Covington informed you?” I said, trying with everything I had not to let my voice quiver.
“Well you don’t have to proclaim your life story in front of every pupil in here. If you have something to say, you must say it in private!” Mrs. Dwiggins said harshly. The students giggled. I felt a surge of anger…how was I suppose to know?
“I’ll just…sit back here then.” I took a chair in the back of the room. The students still had their eyes on me. There were about twenty of them. One, I noticed, was the small, black-haired boy from before. I managed a weak smile before Mrs. Dwiggins rapped her ruler on the blackboard.
“Attention up here now please, class!” The little boy turned with the rest of his classmates.
I had never attended a worse class in my life.
Mrs. Dwiggins lectured to the ten-year-olds in a voice so monotone, I felt myself sink into a stupor that not even my college professors could accomplish. I tried my best to look interested, but I doubt Mrs. Dwiggins would notice my vacant expression any more than she would notice the snoring of the blond and very overweight boy in the back.
When the bell rang for lunch, I couldn’t quite remember the lesson, nor did I care to. The class was a brilliant display on what not to do.
“You’re dismissed, class. Polkiss, Dursley, don’t let me catch you nicking anybody’s lunch money again.” The fat little boy sneered at his friend as he waddled out the door. The students began their mild chatter and departed the room with their friends. The skinny, black-haired boy walked out last, by himself. I felt another pang of sympathy.
“Mrs. Dwiggins, might I go observe the children?” I asked.
“Very well then,” she grunted, sitting down at her desk and pulling out a pen. I picked up my notes and exited the classroom, following the sea of heads and navy blue blazers down the corridors.
Soon I was seated in a chair apart from the long tables where hung the steady murmur of students talking and eating. I saw the little black-haired boy sitting by himself, though he looked quite content. The fat blond boy was sniggering loudly and pointing at the lone boy with a group of his fat little friends. My curiosity overwhelmed me.
I noticed a caretaker of the school sweeping the floor nearby. He had white hair and a shiny bald patch on the back of his head. With notepad in hand, I approached, hoping I looked observatory and official rather than nosy and impertinent.
“Excuse me sir,” I said to him. He looked up and smiled politely”the first smile I had seen on a person since I arrived at Little Whinging Primary. His eyes were cloudy, but full of kindness.
“Yes, ma’am? What can I do for you?”
“How long have you worked here?” I asked, my pen poised over my notepad, all anxiety gone.
“Oh, about eleven years, I’d wager.” He continued sweeping.
“Could you tell me about the children?” I asked. He stopped sweeping and leaned his elbow on the top of the handle.
“Oh, they’re pretty well behaved, I’d say. Some are a nasty piece of work, but there’s a few in every school, ain’t there?” He began sweeping again.
“What do you know about that child?” I ventured, pointing to the little black-haired boy. The caretaker smiled.
“Well now, that’s the Potter boy. I see him ever so often. Poor little bloke, always bullied by that overgrown lump of a cousin he’s got.”
“His cousin?” I asked. My notepad lowered.
“That big one over there, name of Dursley.” The caretaker gestured to the fat little boys, who were apparently negotiating some sort of bet. Five pound notes were being traded back and forth. I shuddered inside…the great big snoring blond boy was the little Potter boy’s cousin.
“At least he only has to deal with him at school, right?” I said. The caretaker shook his head.
“Parents are dead, he lives with the aunt and uncle. He’s a good lad though, that Potter boy. I keep a watch on him. His neighbor, Mrs. Figg, is a friend of mine, see. She asked me to look after him here till he goes to his secondary school.”
“That’s very kind of you,” I said. My eyes roved back to the Potter boy. He tugged at my heart. An orphan, alone, with that horrible cousin…
My legs began carrying me to where the Potter boy sat. He was eating a sandwich quietly, looking unconcerned and unbothered.
“Alright there?” I asked him. He looked up at me. His eyes behind the round glasses were a vivid green and he had a curiously shaped scar on his forehead; like a bolt of lightening. He raised his eyebrows at me.
“Alright,” he replied.
“What’s your name?”
“Potter. Harry Potter.”
“And how old are you Harry?”
“Ten just this July.”
“How do you like your term?” I asked pleasantly. He shrugged.
“Alright.” He went back to his sandwich.
“Do you look forward to secondary school next fall?”
“Yes,” he answered without hesitation. I smiled.
“I’m studying to be a teacher myself. Perhaps one day I’ll teach you.”
“Er, that would be nice,” he said politely. I couldn’t think of much else to say that wouldn’t sound stupid, or like some worrisome mother. So I merely smiled again.
“Good to meet you, Harry.” I retreated. I still needed to eat my own lunch. As I passed the table where the fat little boys were sitting, I heard them whisper to one another.
“She went to talk to the freak.”
“Maybe she’s here to take him away to the zoo!”
“Or the loony bin!” They erupted into laughter. I ignored them.
When I had finished my lunch and went back to the classroom, the children hadn’t returned yet. Mrs. Dwiggins wasn’t there either, so I simply sat down and waited. Slowly, each student filed in, along with their teacher, who took no notice of me whatsoever. I resigned myself to a tedious afternoon full of Mrs. Dwiggins’ pointless lectures…little did I know.
It wasn’t until the lesson began that I realized Harry hadn’t returned. I felt a little concerned, but a few minutes into the class, the door to the room swung open and Harry scurried to his seat. His glasses were broken and had been taped together.
“Potter!” Mrs. Dwiggins said, her hands on her beefy hips.
“Sorry Mrs. Dwiggins,” he mumbled.
“Don’t you ‘sorry’ me, Potter, you’re late again!”
“It wasn’t my fault, I””
“Don’t argue with me, boy, you should have returned ten minutes ago!”
“But it was Dud””
“Do not blame others for your lack of punctuality! You are responsible for you, Potter! That’s another demerit and I believe that will make five!” Mrs. Dwiggins’ face began to flush. The Dursley boy was choking on repressed laughter, as was his friend called Polkiss.
“But my glasses””
“That’s enough, Potter.” Mrs. Dwiggins moved to stand in front of his desk. “I’ve had enough of your excuses and enough of your lateness! If you cannot be…what are you staring at?”
My heart dropped to my feet and my hand flew to cover my mouth. Mrs. Dwiggin’s wig… the rigid silver curls…were now rigid blue curls! How it happened I had no idea; one second the wig was white and the next it was unmistakably forget-me-not blue. I glanced at Harry. His eyes had widened behind his taped glasses and his face had paled.
“Mrs. Dwiggins, perhaps you should nip up to the lavatory,” I said quickly. The class’s laughter began to get progressively louder. I had a small inclination to join them but fought against it.
“Quiet, you.” She stomped over to her desk and took out a mirror. She shrieked and clutched her hand to her wig. The class roared with laughter. Mrs. Dwiggin’s face twisted in a mixture of rage and embarrassment. She placed both hands on her head and hurried out of the room. As astonished as I was at the incredible spectacle, I didn’t feel sorry in the least for old Mrs. Dwiggins.
I saw the Potter boy a few more times after the incident with the wig when I had gone back to Little Whinging Primary for more observation. Though he seemed outwardly similar to his fellow classmates, I could sense there was something special about him. The look in his eye, the scar on his head, the mysterious wig episode; well of course there was a rational explanation for that one, but all the same…I knew there would be great things ahead for Harry Potter.
When I finally got my first teaching job that next year at Stonewall High in Surrey, I was delighted to see Harry Potter’s name on the roster. But he never showed. It disappointed me greatly. My only assumption was that his family moved…or perhaps, as I like to think, the great things in store for Harry Potter were already unfolding.
Potter and the Wig by Hero London
Chapter Notes: The main character, Miss Lydia Clough, was named after my two Maries. Miss Lydia Marie Hatch and Miss Rogue Marie Cluff (American spelling).