around with the kids; he wore chinos instead of ancient Marks and Spencer’s trousers that disappeared under a middle-aged gut. He would be interested when you had something to say and he could talk about whether Manchester United were going to win the treble and sing along to Fatboy Slim’s ‘Praise You’ without ever embarrassing himself.
Ellie was only vaguely aware of Mr James as she’d not had any interaction with him yet. Towards the middle of the summer term, however, he was tasked with talking to each of the Year Eight pupils about their options, with a view to helping them decide which subjects to study for their GCSEs to help them get on the right road for their career interests. Ellie didn’t yet know what she wanted to do when she left school and, in any event, she already had a resigned sense of pessimism for what she might be able to achieve. It was hard to believe in yourself when you were in the bottom set for every subject. Ellie had no illusion about how the teachers perceived her and the other kids in her set: the staff were only interested in getting them over the very minimal line to keep the school numbers from alerting Ofsted.
She knocked on Mr James’s door with little enthusiasm.
‘Come!’ was the cheery instruction from inside and she walked into his room, instantly noticing the scent of aftershave, something that evoked crashing waves on a deserted beach. Mr James smiled his twinkly smile and indicated she should sit in the chair on the other side of the desk to him. He leaned over and held out his hand.
‘We haven’t met yet,’ he said. ‘Mr James.’
‘Ellie Spencer,’ she said, unsure of quite how to take this new-style friendly teacher who oozed positivity.
‘I’ve heard about you,’ said Mr James. Ellie’s smile dropped. Heavy-hearted, she prepared herself for the conversation about the importance of focusing on maths and English and gaining a pass in at least these two subjects.
But Mr James was still buoyant. ‘Yes, a number of teachers have been singing your praises.’
Have they? thought Ellie, puzzled.
‘So, any thoughts on your GCSE options? You should be thinking ahead to your A Levels, university – maybe Oxbridge. From what I hear, you’re already on that track. I’m going to start up a new scheme here,’ continued Mr James, ‘for those who show potential for Oxbridge. There are lots of hoops to jump through to get somewhere so prestigious and I want to be able to prepare students as much as possible.’ He smiled at her. ‘So, what are your thoughts?’
For a brief, magical moment, Ellie felt as if Mr James was her fairy godfather. This teacher, who exuded passion, was interested in her and was waving a wand and promising to send her to the ball. For a brief, magical moment she believed what he was saying, that she was special, she was capable, she was bright.
‘What does Mr Cummins say about you choosing history?’ asked Mr James.
‘I don’t have Mr Cummins, I have Miss Short.’
Ellie watched as Mr James’s face began to deflate, like a balloon with a leak, its air slowly dissipating. He knew Miss Short took the lower sets.
‘Sorry . . . I don’t understand.’ He looked down at his desk and then he found her file. He froze as his eyes scanned over it and a red blush crept up his neck.
‘I . . . er . . . I think I might have got the wrong end of the stick.’ He pushed his hand through his hair, looked back up at her, tried to regain his composure. ‘I had a conversation this morning, with the deputy . . . I think I may have got my names mixed up.’ He shook his head, perplexed. ‘Although I was sure she said Spencer.’
The poisonous snake uncurled itself from the stones in the pit of her stomach. It reminded her it was there every so often. It was a snake whose venom was inferiority and bitterness. Ellie wondered whether to put Mr James out of his misery.
‘She was probably talking about Abby Spencer,’ she said.
Mr James lit up, as the light bulb switched on. ‘Abby. Yes, that was it. Sorry.’
‘It’s all right. You’re new.’
‘Not sure who Abby is,’ joked Mr James, waving a hand in pretend dismissal.
‘She’s my sister,’ said Ellie, looking him right in the eye. ‘She’s in Year Eleven.’
This time the blush flooded his entire face.
At the end of the day, after