Writing for Fun
October 2021
Deadication - Lynn Gale
Twice she told Jimmy Watkins to stop running.
Twice he ignored her.
Her voice rose to a shout.
He turned then, freckles standing out across his nose as his face paled. His forgotten gym bag gripped tightly in his hand.
'No running in the corridor,' she told him sternly.
Eyes wide, he bolted to the main door heading out to his waiting friends.
She shook her head. 'Last day of school, the children excited about the prospect of endless summer days and no homework.'
For Flora Smith, that sense of dread every time the holidays came around.
The thought of going home to her quiet bedsit was the reason she spent long hours at the school preparing lessons. For thirty years she had taught art and crafts at St Mary's infant and primary school, and had loved every single minute of it.
Tucking in a strand of grey hair, she gazed around the bright but tatty room. 'Could do with a spruce up,' she mused.
The walls, once covered with Children's artwork, now appeared sad and bare.
Transported home to busy parents, who with magnetic dinosaurs attached them to fridge-freezers – pride of place for their budding artists.
Stained aprons hanging on hooks, empty paint pots and worn brushes on the shelves gave the room a desolate feel.
But today, something felt different, a premonition that something was not right.
A commotion outside jolted her out of her daydream.
Mr Campbell, the school caretaker, came grumbling through the door, an oversized tool box in hand.
He sneezed twice before pulling out a handkerchief and blowing his nose loudly.
'How uncouth,' she mumbled, she had never taken to the man.
'I suppose you have come to repair that broken cupboard?' she enquired.
He turned towards her; a suspicion flitted across his worn, tired face.
He nodded, then proceeded to select tools from his box and lay them on a nearby desk.
Leaving Mr Campbell banging and whistling, she wandered down the corridor.
Mr Colridge, the headmaster, was in his office with the rest of the staff.
'Why had I not been informed about this meeting.' She bristled with indignation, creeping into the room, she stood at the back.
Mr Coleridge cleared his throat.
Everyone turned to face him.
'Before you leave for your very deserved break,' he began. I want to thank you all for the professionalism you have shown after such a distressing year.'
The gathered teachers nodded sadly; Miss Rowe, the young English teacher, stifled a sob. The others gathered around her and made soothing sounds. Someone handed her a tissue to dab at her eyes.
'Let me introduce you to Jane Kennedy,' Mr Colridge interrupted, 'our new art teacher who will join us next term. I am sure you will all make her welcome.'
The young woman gave them a self-conscious wave as they smiled encouragingly at her.
'What!' Flora Smith's breath caught in her throat, 'They are replacing me.'
She stormed out of the room, rushing back to the familiar comfort of her art room.
The plaque on the door read 'Miss Smith, Art Room,' surrounded by small painted flowers. 'Still my name on the door,' she bristled, entering the room and drifting over to the window to stare out at the now empty playground.
The door opened, and Mr Henry, the assistant head, stepped aside to allow Jane to enter the room.
'This will be your room,' he ran his finger through the layer of dust on the desk. 'It will be redecorated before the start of the new term.'
'How exactly did it happen?' Jane stared at an unpainted gap on the back wall.
'Apparently, she climbed up the shelves to collect something from the top,' he replied. 'It toppled over, pinning her to the floor. She was always the last to leave, so was not found until the next morning.'
Flora sighed as she gazed out of the window as the setting sun cast long shadows across the school grounds.