E-Book, Englisch, 288 Seiten
Baker Outstanding
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-78583-754-8
Verlag: Crown House Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
E-Book, Englisch, 288 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-78583-754-8
Verlag: Crown House Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Steve Baker lives in Anglesey, North Wales with his wife Sian. After a long career in education, from which he is semi-retired, he wrote his highly acclaimed non-fiction title, That Behaviour Book, which won book of the year in the Teach Secondary awards in 2023. As a life-long comedy fan, he's now written his first hilarious novel, Outstanding!.
Autoren/Hrsg.
Weitere Infos & Material
14 days to go …
Crockenham was a surprising omission from the book of crap towns that infuriated the residents of Stockport and Skelmersdale. Was it too good to be included? Or too bad? Perhaps it was simply overlooked? The town possessed nothing much to speak of: no weekly market, no famous forebears, no monument to stir a sense of civic pride or purpose, only pawn shops, pound stores, and finger-lickin’ takeaways. The Old King’s Head, fenced off and boarded up, spewed weeds across its neighbours, though the Good Vibrations sex shop and the Pierced Off tattoo parlour seemed entirely unaware. Beyond the high street? Nothing much but half-dead starts and half-dead endings, grassy squares with ‘No Ball Games’ and rows of silent bungalows waiting for The End. A year ago, the last remaining bank had closed its doors and then the ATM clammed up, so finding legal tender now meant queuing for cash back at Norman Pott’s Post Office after rooting through his yellowing stock for something worth your purchase. After all, how many royal mugs and highlighters could one life accommodate?
Your best chance of employment lay at Farnley’s ice cream factory, a fifteen-acre compound of metal, stone, and glass that was prone to dazzle onlookers on sunny days, while a mile upwind stood Allsop’s pig farm, a rustic facility whose assault on the senses was every bit as crippling. Trapped between the two lay Palmer’s Inn Grammar school, a crumbling red-brick disappointment that somehow managed to embody Crockenham’s every failing. At one end of its staffroom on this warm September morning stood the perspiring figure of head teacher Harry Flanagan, a man for whom the word ‘failing’ might have been invented. Flanagan, in his mid-fifties, had been married to the job until he met and married Sheila Perkins. Life thereafter had temporarily brightened, but in recent years he found himself diminished. The school was drifting, and he was drifting with it, like a man on a thin ice-sheet, carrying him who knows where. Flanagan’s hair was long gone except for the tufts around each ear and his trouser size was the only statistic in his orbit that was moving in an upwards direction, except for his weight. His rosy cheeks and startled demeanour betrayed a man who had once been leading but felt increasingly out of breath in the effort to catch up. His relationship with Sheila had suffered accordingly and that was before his ‘little indiscretion’, as he had once dared to call it. Flattered by the attentions of another woman, he had strayed, and Sheila was as furious as she had every right to be. Harry Flanagan was in the doghouse – professionally and personally – and had only himself to blame.
‘Right everybody, er … shall we make a start?’ Flanagan was poised to pronounce his welcome on this first day of the new academic year, but the teaching staff were oblivious to his presence as they milled about, grabbing coffee jars from lockers and swapping stories about their summer respite. He raked a palm across his comb-over and attempted a smile.
The previous incarnation of Palmer’s Inn, built in 1927, with its gothic stone porticos and wood-panelled interiors, had possessed character in spades but admitted only boys and, subsequently, only those who passed the eleven-plus examination. This was in stark contrast to the current comprehensive Palmer’s Inn, a grammar school in name only, which cast its net blindly, accepting children of every possible background, ability, and temperament. Desperate to impose himself on this yawning canvas, Harry Flanagan had commissioned a huge piece of art overlooking the foyer, proclaiming the new school motto: Never Stop Flying. An airborne carpet soared skywards beneath a grinning, turbaned figure who bore a troubling resemblance to the head teacher. Last June, in Sheffield, a one-day course on character had fired Harry Flanagan’s imagination, so now this grotesque piece of ‘art’ was flanked by inspirational quotes from Mahatma Gandi, Michelle Obama, and Kirstie Allsopp.
Flanagan glanced down at the lectern. Where were his notes? He turned to Sheila Flanagan, his PA and life partner, who was busy pinning up the new timetable. ‘Sheila, love, can you go and get the notes for my welcome to the staff? I’ve left them in the office.’
Sheila fixed him with a glare, before turning back and setting off through the crowd; more staff had arrived, and this annual event was now standing room only. Three weeks later, when the dust, both real and metaphorical, had died down, some swore they had heard Sheila mutter, ‘Call me love? You bastard!’ as she squeezed by them, though others heard only, ‘Can I get past?’ The truth may never be known, but there is one thing that everyone who was present that morning agrees upon: Sheila Flanagan did not look happy.
‘Please, colleagues, can we? Can we make a start?’ Flanagan’s plea for attention was inaudible over the chatter. A bead of sweat scurried down his arm, like a wet rat spilling down a drain. How had it come to this? Ofsted had not telephoned today to announce their imminent arrival – or, at any rate, not yet – but fear that they might would possess Flanagan’s mind until close of play on Wednesday, as it had every week since October half-term – when the school entered the window for inspection – and would continue so to do until an HMI finally made the call. Sheila might put them through at any moment. A dozen words declaring doom: ‘My colleagues and I will arrive tomorrow morning to commence our inspection.’
He might be reading a prayer in assembly or crossing the yard at break; he might be holding a meeting with the leadership team, or eating a sandwich, or wiping his backside. There was no way of knowing when, but one thing was certain: it was coming.
Just then, fettling about with loose change and car keys in his trouser pocket, Flanagan realised that he had left his reading glasses at home, and the knot in his stomach tightened. He peered about the staffroom: still heaving, still full of chatter. In a desk drawer in his office was a baton, a relic of his days as a music teacher and conductor of the Fakenham brass band. Perhaps he should wave it now?
‘Thank you, everyone. Everyone? Welcome back to Palmer’s Inn. I hope you’ve all had an enjoyable and restful break!’ Flanagan cleared his throat and tried again. ‘Thank you, colleagues!’
The last few chatterers fell reluctantly quiet. Someone sneezed, setting off a ripple of titters, which eddied and slowly died. At long last, the room was silent. Where was Sheila with those notes? Flanagan squinted at his lectern. Still empty. There was nothing for it but to improvise. A brief history lesson would do the trick, even if most had heard it all before. Flanagan gripped the lectern.
‘It seems appropriate, colleagues, as we face a new school year, to consider the legacy of our great benefactor, Ignatius Palmer. As many of you know, this school stands on the site of the original Palmer’s Inn, an eighteenth-century coaching house which, although frequented by all manner of rogues and reprobates, generated a substantial income that the heroic Mr Palmer used for the benefit of the poor and needy of the parish. It is our challenge, blessed as we are with our own rogues and reprobates,’ he paused for laughter, but none was forthcoming, ‘to – to live up to the passion and commitment of the great phil … um. Philan … er … philanderer? … No … philanthro … oh heck … philanthro—’
‘Pist!’
Heads turned.
Rob Jones, English teacher and self-appointed staffroom wit, looked very pleased with himself. Flanagan’s fondness for a tipple was no secret, and there were stifled sniggers from the back of the room.
‘Philanthro-pist, yes. Thank you, Robert.’ Flanagan forced a smile and made a mental note to watch the smug little bastard more carefully.
‘Ignatius Fortescue Palmer dedicated his good fortune to the destitute, the sick and—’
Sheila reached over and shoved a document under his nose.
‘Oh, thank you, that’s great. Now then, I had some words prepared to share with you.’ He blinked, adjusted a pair of spectacles that were not on his face, and lurched on. ‘Now then, we are joined by some new colleagues this year. Mr Lampeter will be teaching maths. Where is he? Stand up. Go on, take a bow. Thank you.’ He moved on. ‘And Miss Tempest … she’s hiding. Where is she? Oh, yes, Miss Tempest will be joining the PE department. Go on, stand up, love, thank you!’
Sally Mills, recently appointed Flanagan’s deputy head teacher, stood watching this horror show with eyes like saucers.
‘Now then, boys and girls, would you like the good news or the other news?’
Josie Charlesworth, head of RE, spoke up. ‘Give us the good news, for God’s sake, Harry.’
‘Right you are. The good news.’ Flanagan paused. ‘Ah yes....
