20 Minutes til Hometime
AUTUMN TERM
MAN WITH A PLAN
2.40pm. All the mums were there again, waiting to collect their offspring. Desperate for some adult conversation and a man whose pants they didn’t have to wash. Aiming for willing and able, not trousers around ankles, Matt Thorpe opened the door on to the playground and arranged himself against the frame. His emergence elicited a flurry of smiling and waving, he responded with a mock salute.
Shielding his eyes from the mid September sun, Matt surveyed the home time scene. Only two men were waiting today, visible as ketchup on a white shirt. Yesterday there had been three, but the police had made it clear to Jake’s dad he needed to adhere to the court order and stay away.
According to the timetable Matt should have been delivering a creative writing lesson, but a late night had got the better of him. Yawning, he’d told his class of nine and ten year olds to invent an animal and describe it using ‘wow’ words.
‘Mrs Knight is in charge guys, so I don’t want any messing about. That means you Jakey.’
He’d pointed a wagging finger at Jake.
‘You don’t mind, do you Jane?’
Saying no to Mr Thorpe felt like refusing calorie free chocolate, especially when he did that smile. Middle aged, with an unadventurous husband, teaching assistant Mrs Knight loved working alongside Matt and embraced his unconventional way of teaching. A well-judged compliment and a bag of fresh doughnuts went a long way with her.
Unwrapping a Snickers, Matt shifted position and gazed upon the pattern which had emerged over the past couple of weeks. Waiting parents and carers had shuffled themselves around, seeking out others who could serve as school run salve. Aside from those unwilling or unable to engage in small talk, alliances had formed. Gym blondes with half marathon brunettes. Dishevelled with the plain. Perfect manicures with full make ups. Grandparents flitted from group to group, welcomed by all, respected for their assumed expertise.
Eyes closed, Matt tried to block out the sound of their voices rattling around, marbles in a washing machine. A warm breeze distributed the smell of the ring road across the playground. Hundreds of these afternoon pick-ups lay ahead. Motorway service stops punctuating the route from childhood to puberty.
Inside the classroom, the stench of the African land snails’ tank had robbed children of the ability to use capital letters and full stops. Pencil cases were being fiddled with, hair was being pushed away from tired eyes. Curtis – bordering on sensory overload – was chewing his sweatshirt sleeve. Jay, the class clown, was using his ruler to flick rolled up paper at Imogen. Macy was adjusting her hair clips and Gabrielle was drawing a six-winged unicorn. At the helm, fending off a hot flush, stood Mrs Knight. Writing ‘wow’ words on the white board, sweating like a manual labourer and counting the minutes until home time.
Yesterday at pick up, Tom’s mum had asked Matt about the trip to Avon Valley Country Park the following week. Hair needing a brush, wearing a faded t-shirt and jeans, she had rushed over to him, almost colliding with a toddler.
‘Mr Thorpe, can I have a word please?’
‘You can have several as long as I can have them back if I ever run out.’
Head cocked to one side, hands pushed deep into his trouser pockets, Matt was drawn to the off-white bra straps that had slipped from her shoulders, touching suntanned skin. Despite her lack of grooming, there was something appealing about her. Untapped. Stifled. The way she often sought him out yet struggled to look him in the eye suggested an attraction. Being head of the PTA, involved in the running of the school, she wouldn’t mind him calling her Sarah. Familiarity would ease his path.
‘It’s just that I lost the slip and I can’t remember if they need a packed lunch or not? I was going to ask in the office but no one was there.’
‘Ah, no problem Sarah. Yep, they need a packed lunch and a pound to buy an ice cream if they want. Should be a good day out. Think I’ll be going down that death slide more than once though.’
Bell for home time rang, rousing Matt from his thoughts. Sarah was crossing the playground at speed. Same jeans on. What excuse would she use to speak to him again today. How best to make his move.
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