Several weeks ago Phoenix writers enjoyed an excellent workshop on Memoir Writing by Anne Caldwell. We were asked to create a short scene of about 500 words in which conflict between two people formed the centre of the action. I wrote the following, inspired by my infant school in Chapel en Le frith and a good dollop of Dylan Thomas’ snow I think!
The morning it snowed the deepest, everybody arrived late. Mrs Coates praised the class for getting to school, and let us sit on the radiator pipes for five minutes of bliss. We sang. Compared gloves. Swapped balaclavas. Then Mrs Coates promised to let us act out another chapter of Treasure Island and life seemed the best it could possibly be, until a few moments later when Mrs Yates came to our door, unannounced.
“Year Six, I would like to hear your times table now, “she said. Anyone who fails to satisfy me must stand on their chair. ”
Mrs Yates had a very long shadow, carried a huge black handbag, and lived in High Lane not our Chapel-en-le-Frith.
Each morning she broke the ice in the school’s outside toilets. We never knew how.
The One times table was easy. The Two, the same. And then the three. Everyone sat safely in their chairs. listening to the snow. Mrs Coates stood stranded at the front, perfectly still.
I concentrated on sending Mrs Yates liquid hatred. Nobody risked a glance at our Head teacher prowling by our classroom door. As we feared, the four times table proved too much for Elaine Taylor. Too tricky once she laboured to seven times four. Elaine flushed, scraped back her chair and clambered on. Thankfully, our class hero Christopher managed his five times table perfectly.
Christopher was blonde and everyone liked him. He lived on Manchester road.
“Five is easy, Christopher. I’ll return to you shortly. Barbara recite for me, the six time’s table.”
Barbara was my best friend. If I could have saved her, I would. Poor Barbara managed to get to 7×6 = 42. Then at 8x 6= She faltered. Stared at her pencil case. Mrs Yates repeated the sum. Barbara looked down. Another scraping of a chair.
The dishonour went on.
I stumbled at 12x 9=. Deserted by my favourite numbers. But I didn’t give Mrs Yates the satisfaction of my shame. I shrugged. Climbed up quickly and folded my arms imagining an epic, arctic storm stirring up somewhere around High Lane.
Our best class reader, Damian Reynolds fell at 12 x 11. And Anthony -the- clever wavered at 12×12.
“You are top of the school year six. Yet you know, so very little. I shall return in three days to test you again. Thank you for your time, Mrs Coates. Good day. “
Mrs Coates didn’t reply.
Mrs Yates turned away. We listened to her heeled shoes descending the stairs.
Elaine started to cry.
‘‘I’m so so-rr- y’’ stuttered Anthony.
I kept my eyes closed, intent on the Arctic storm swirling about in High Lane, preparing to sweep away a stiff figure with a very polished black handbag.
I opened my eyes. Outside the snow grew heavier.
‘’You know class, I think we all need to climb back on that Pirate ship this morning,’ said Mrs Coates. ‘Who would like be Long John Silver for today?’’
Despite the storm, my hand went up first.
Paradise returned. Mrs Coates smiled again.
