1 Shirley (not yet Mrs King) arrives at Peckham School for Boys and Girls a former Victorian workhouse with two rectangular blocks of concrete attached incongruously to both ends of it approached by what was once called the Paupers' Path leading up to its castle-sized doors she's wearing a light grey pencil skirt and jacket, powder-blue blouse, grey neck-tie, black patent leather court shoes, and her pride as she passes through the formidable doors into the wood-panelled entrance wide staircases sweep up either side of the lobby ascending to the upper floors long corridors extend in two directions either side of her she's way too early, wanders through the empty school, explores its light- filled classrooms, imagines its essence pouring into her soul, yes, her very soul she isn't going to be a good teacher but a great one one who'll be remembered by generations of working-class children as the person who made them feel capable of achieving anything in life a local girl made good, come back to generously pass on her parents, Winsome and Clovis, are proud of her for making it to university to read History and thereafter gaining a Certificate in Education she's the one who's made it, not her older brothers who didn't have to do any housework or even wash their own clothes, whereas she had to spend her Saturdays mornings doing both
who were given first helpings at meals they never had to cook, and extra portions because they were growing lads, including mega-helpings of the most desirable desserts who weren't punished for speaking their mind, whereas she was sent to her room at the slightest sign of insurrection, keep your thoughts to yourself, Shirl and while it's true they got the strap and she didn't – for going out without permission or not coming home on time from school – it was only because she never broke the rules everyone thought Tony and Errol were destined to be football stars, Pelés in the making, one step away from World Cup glory until they reached sixteen and their early talent didn't burgeon into a professional one, and their junior club memberships were terminated they left secondary school early, became clerks pushing pens instead of kicking a ball around Wembley she's the Family Success Story Shirley walks past laboratories filled with petri dishes and desiccators, microscopes and pipettes she walks past colourful art rooms with a few quite good paintings and an airy woodworking studio with work benches (for boys only) past a Domestic Science classroom with steel preparation counters and gas cookers, ready to nurture the next generation of housewives, full-time housewife and full-time job, a downside of the Women's Liberation Movement it won't be the case for her once she marries Lennox, they've agreed he'll do the cooking, she'll do the cleaning, he'll do the shopping, she'll do the ironing she didn't even have to fight for this she's lucky to have him classroom walls are decorated with flow charts and diagrams, anatomy drawings, planets orbiting the sun, posters of extinct mammals and a map of the world that makes Britain rival Africa in size, testament to the colonial cartographers who got away with it for centuries, even now, it seems, as she approaches her very own classroom on the second floor, the obligatory line- up of the kings and queens of England on its walls
as well as a poster of Tutankhamun's golden death mask from the British Museum exhibition she'd queued for hours to attend with her school the beautiful boy Pharaoh who lived thirteen hundred years before Christ whom every girl in her class fell in love with, swooning over their ancient Egyptian crush there's also a poster of the monoliths of Stonehenge, mysterious against the Wiltshire plains as the sun goes down in the background, another unforgettable school trip while between the lofty windows looking out on to the playing fields, Neil Armstrong walks on the moon with the caption: one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind like her every step she takes will raise these children up, she will leave no child behind as she smooths down her skirt, fluffs up her neck-tie and curly perm, wooden desks lined up, blackboard wiped clean, white chalk on its wooden tray ready for her to inspire the mixed-ability classes of this comprehensive in this multicultural neighbourhood as the little angels pour into the sunny classroom on the first day of the new school year, their babbling-stream voices full of excitement at meeting their new history teacher, not much older than them, who in that moment feels her heart burst with joy as the sun emerges from the clouds to hit her in the face and powers her up with its energy and goodness as she calls out the register when each class comes into her room that day, determined to quickly memorize their names, knowing the importance of a teacher's personal touch to establish rapport Danny, Dawna, Decima, Devonne, Doreene, David Janet, Jenny, Jackie, Jazil, Chris, Mark, Monica, Matthew Rosemary, Lenny, Lloyd, Keith, Kevin, Helen, Ian Sharon, Yasmin, Jasmine, Jasvin, Marlene, Merline, Ekow Glenford, Garry, Gerry, Tim, Tom, Trevor, Tony, Terry Kweku, Kwaku, Kwame, Winston, Smita, Leah, Akua Julia, Jules, Julie, Juliette, Beverley, Brenda, Chaz, Maz, Rory Remi, Yemi, Abi, Aarti, Eddie, Carlton, Kingley, Shabnam
God bless them all, her mission has begun – to make history fun and relevant because we need to avoid repeating the mistakes of the past and to deepen our understanding of who we are as the human race, don't we, class? sit quietly, don't fidget now, we don't exist in a vacuum, children, no talking at the back, please, thank you, we are all part of a continuum, repeat after me, the future is in the past and the past is in the present their bright, shining faces looking up at her, a bit spotty, a bit greasy, way too much forbidden make-up on some of the older girls, yet they're obedient, doing as instructed, encouraged, no doubt, by her passion and relatable personality even little blighters like Kevin, Keith and Terry who turned up with swastika motifs stuck on to their pencil cases and National Front badges brazenly brandished on their blazers which she deals with by educating them about Hitler's Final Solution, shows them photos of the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp when the Americans liberated it at the end of the war the shock of it triggering a hundred questions miss! miss! miss! no, they are not walking skeletons, but prisoners of war and they are alive, just, and these were the gas chambers, and this here is a mass burial pit full of real skeletons, and this is a drawing of women worked so hard in the camps their wombs fell out, as you can see pass them around and take a good look or when race wars broke out in the classroom look at this photograph of a lynching in Mississippi in 1965, yes, those children are indeed clapping and cheering as this black man hangs dead from a tree, his neck broken, his crime was to apparently stare suggestively at a white woman miss! miss! miss! no, there were never any trials, suspects were grabbed off the street and hung, shot, beaten or burnt to death this, class, is what happens when prejudice gets out of hand she had their attention and by the end of each term, their devotion, expressed through so many gifts of homemade cards and cakes, chocolate Easter eggs, Christmas presents and baskets of fruit that she was embarrassed to carry them over-spilling her arms into the crowded staff
room (a sure way to make enemies) and took them directly to the boot of her car instead Shirley was praised by the headmaster, Mr Waverly, as a natural teacher, with an easy rapport with the children, who goes above and beyond the call of duty, achieves excellent exam results with her exemplary teaching skills and who is a credit to her people in her first annual job assessment Shirley felt the pressure was now on to be a great teacher and an ambassador for every black person in the world.