Autumn in Sycamore Park, page 1
Autumn in Sycamore Park
CP Ward
Contents
By CP Ward
Autumn in Sycamore Park
1. A new wind blowing
2. Sycamore Park
3. Oak Leaf Café
4. Big Gerry
5. Bad News
6. Hauntings
7. Secret Plans
8. New Acquaintances
9. Chasing Ducks
10. Seeking Help
11. Sideways Picks
12. Heart to Heart
13. Progress
14. The Protest March
15. Philosophy
16. Acting and Other Dramas
17. Dashed Dreams
18. Traffic Lights
19. Hedgehogs and Chilli Sauce
20. Memories and Meetings
21. Crutches and Cakes
22. Activism
23. Takeaway Night
24. Surprising Discoveries
25. Star Turn
26. Picnics and Mosaics
27. Wins and Losses
28. Baking and Wildlife Spotting
29. Appreciation
30. Festivities
In case you missed CP Ward’s debut Summer novel…
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Acknowledgments
“Autumn in Sycamore Park”
Copyright © CP Ward 2022
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The right of CP Ward to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the Author.
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This story is a work of fiction and is a product of the Author’s imagination. All resemblances to actual locations or to persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.
By CP Ward
The Delightful Christmas Series
I’m Glad I Found You This Christmas
We’ll have a Wonderful Cornish Christmas
Coming Home to Me This Christmas
Christmas at the Marshmallow Cafe
Christmas at Snowflake Lodge
Christmas at Log Fire Cabins
Coming Soon:
A Stranger Arrives this Christmas
* * *
The Glorious Summer Series
Summer at Blue Sands Cove
Summer at Tall Trees Lake
* * *
The Warm Days of Autumn Series
Autumn in Sycamore Park
Coming Soon:
Autumn at Willow River Guesthouse
Autumn in Sycamore Park
For Eriko,
* * *
may your autumn be long
and filled with colour
Autumn in Sycamore Park
1
A new wind blowing
Animals.
With her front foot nudging the base of the fire doors, and the hand not clutching the overloaded bag of textbooks she might or might not need lifted in readiness to force her way ahead, Jennifer Stevens paused at the entrance to Brentwell Primary, racked by a sudden tsunami of self-doubt.
Imagine them as blood-thirsty, cannibalistic animals, and things couldn’t surely go worse. In fact, things might seem better.
Another voice was more practical: think of the rent, the electricity, and the hot water you’re going to need if we get the kind of winter the TV keeps talking about. You need this job, and you’ve got this.
And still a third had something to say, making Jennifer wonder just how many of them there might be knocking about up there, waiting to show themselves at the exact wrong moment and get her committed, or worse: run, while you still can. Buy that camper van that you’ve always promised yourself and take off across Europe. You’re thirty-six, Jennifer, remember? The clock is ticking. Most people your age are married off and/or dragging balls and chains in the shape of the little darlings you get to wave goodbye to at a quarter past three each day. Be thankful for your holy singleness. You nearly screwed it up in Dottenham. Don’t make the same mistake again. Are you paying attention?
She was, at least she had thought so until the door in front of her began to open with a sudden alarming creak of its hinges. Slowed in its outward arc by a fireproof mat, the delay was just long enough for Jennifer to step backwards onto a patch of muddy grass before a paper cup of coffee, closely followed by an arm in a navy blue sweater, and then finally by the remainder of a human male a little younger than Jennifer, stepped outside.
He made straight for the steps she had so recently vacated, and might have passed her by without acknowledgement, had she not slipped in a little patch of mud and, afraid of unbalancing, let out a gasp of fright. Pausing in his stride, he glanced sideways, his face registering a hint of both surprise and shock, followed by a rather inappropriately raised eyebrow. He was easy enough on the eye, if a little young for Jennifer’s tastes, but an annoyed smirk doused any potential fire of excitement before it could really get going.
‘Oh, hello,’ he said, the condescension in his voice matching that in his face. ‘Are you the new girl?’
‘Um, thank you for not showering me with coffee. I was just considering quitting before I’d even started, but you’ve made me strengthen my resolve just enough to at least make it as far as the staffroom.’ She stuck out a hand. ‘Jennifer Stevens.’
‘Rick Fellow. I teach Year Five. You replaced Clara Goldsmith, is that right?’
‘I don’t know her name, only that she retired.’
Rick nodded. ‘All good, then. Her class are the angels. You’ll be fine.’
‘Please tell me you’re not just saying that.’
‘No, I’m not. Actually, yes I am. They’re a nightmare. They told you she retired, but that was a lie because they couldn’t get anyone to take the job. She’s in a mental institution, straitjacketed, night and day. Apparently she wails all night long about pins being left on her chair, and buckets of water propped over a slightly ajar door.’
Jennifer stared. Rick started to laugh, one hand on a metal handrail, the other barely keeping hold of the coffee.
‘Sorry, I really am joking. They’re all right, your lot. Actually, they’re so quiet they have a ready made nickname this year … the Year Trees. Old Clara could barely get a word out of them. Said those classes dragged. Probably why she was lacing her coffee with brandy of a Monday morning.’
‘That’s it,’ Jennifer said. ‘I quit.’
She started to turn, but her heel chose that moment to slip in the mud, and to stop herself falling, she snatched for the handrail by the steps, managing only to grab hold of Rick’s hand.
A moment of awkwardness passed between them before Jennifer steadied herself and regained the safety of the concrete footpath.
‘Careful, if the kids see us there’ll be talk,’ Rick said, with another smug grin. ‘Anyway, it was lovely to meet you. I hope to see you again before you run screaming from this place with your tail between your legs. I left something in my car, so I’d better get a move on.’
He hurried on down the footpath, leaving Jennifer standing by the door. She smoothed down her blouse and jacket, then headed inside, along the corridor, following signs for a reception desk. At least now she’d broken the ice with one member of staff, she felt a little better, even if Rick Fellow hadn’t left the best impression. She passed a few groups of children in sky-blue sweaters and black trousers and skirts, all of whom treated her as though she didn’t exist. She glanced across a few faces, wondering which, if any, might be in her class.
‘Hello?’ she called into the reception window. ‘I’m Jennifer Stevens. The new Year Three form teacher?’
A dumpy woman in her fifties who looked like she hadn’t smiled since childhood, dropped down a pile of photocopying with a sigh and came stumping over.
‘Yes?’
‘Jennifer Stevens?’
‘What? I’m Maud Lee. What can I help you with?’
‘Uh, no, I mean that I’m Jennifer Stevens. The new teacher?’
‘Ah. You’re the one who couldn’t make the training days.’
‘I was moving house—’
‘Hang on a minute. I’ll call the Head. He’s in the morning meeting.’
Jennifer, feeling more and more awkward as the minutes passed, waited for the headmaster to arrive. A few more groups of kids passed her as they ambled towards class. Some of them sniggered behind cupped hands, making Jennifer tingle with the first rattle of paranoia.
Please don’t be like Dottenham. Please, please, please.
A stern man in a grey sweater vest over a greyer Marks & Spencer shirt stepped out of a door a little further down the corridor. His hair was pepper flecked and thinning down a centre line. Just like the receptionist, he looked unfamiliar to the concept of happiness, and couldn’t have been more of a headmaster stereotype if Jennifer had cut him out of a school prospectus. Jennifer smiled as he glared at her, eyes narrowing behind thin-rimmed glasses, nostrils flaring like a bull readying for a charge.
‘Miss Stevens?’
‘Yes, that’s me.’
With a sudden unexpected grin, the man clapped his hands together and gave a hearty laugh.
‘You’re young! They’re going to love you.’
‘Excuse me? I’m thirty-six—’
‘Have you been a
He led her down the corridor and into a messy, busy staffroom. Calling for a moment’s attention from the other assembled teachers, none of whom looked willing to stop what they were doing, he introduced her.
‘Pay attention please, we’re supposed to be in a meeting, remember?’ When no one responded other than to close books or set coffees down, he raised his voice a level and said, ‘This is Jennifer Stevens.’ From behind a photocopier near the back, Rick Fellow gave her a little wave. ‘She’s the new form teacher for Year Three. As you know, she couldn’t make the training days, so please lend her a hand if need be. Do you want to say anything, Jennifer?’
Caught off guard, Jennifer just stared at the faces watching her. Aside from Rick and one tubby young girl who gave her a wide grin, most of the teachers were older than her and looked keen to get back on with their work.
‘Uh, it’s nice to meet you,’ Jennifer stammered. ‘I’m looking forward to working here.’
One teacher near the front, a short man with an obvious comb-over, snorted and said something under his breath as he rifled through a stack of papers. Another older woman sighed.
‘Right, well, that’s nice,’ Greg Downton said. ‘Enjoy your day, everyone. Oh, by the way, Colin Waite from Year Four got caught shoplifting last night and has been suspended for a week. He bagged the new edition of Resident Evil from Kay’s Electrics on the high street.’
‘Good game, that,’ Rick said, at the same time as the short teacher in the front muttered, ‘Send the thug to Borstal.’
‘Yes, well, can you gather after lunch for a short meeting about it?’ As several teachers moaned under their breath, Greg seemed to remember Jennifer was standing beside him. ‘Oh, your desk is back there, between Miss Clairmont and Mr. Fellow. I’m sure they’ll show you how it all works. Come to my office at nine-fifteen and I’ll take you to your class. I’m sure the little toerags are looking forward to meeting you.’
Jennifer grimaced. ‘I hope so,’ she said.
2
Sycamore Park
Greg Downton looked around the watching faces. ‘Stand up, please.’
The twenty children sitting around five bright blue plastic desks all stood up. A couple at the back pushed each other, one other dithering girl wanted to finish off a doodle Jennifer hoped was supposed to be Snoopy on her notebook. Greg clapped his hands sharply, and at last the class stood to attention.
‘This is Miss Stevens,’ Greg said. ‘She will be your teacher in Year Three. Call her Miss Stevens, and be polite, or you’ll be outside my office or picking up leaves from the school field every lunchtime. Is that understood?’
A chorus of muted ‘Yes, sirs,’ came from the children.
‘Good.’ Greg clapped his hands together again. ‘Right, well, it’s over to you, Jen—uh, Miss Stevens. Don’t let these … darlings fool you with their innocence. Any dissent and you send them straight to me.’
Jennifer gave Greg an awkward nod as the stern headmaster went out, closing the door with a loud thump. She looked around the kids, most of whom were still staring at her, feeling a sudden brain-freeze. She’d survived for three years in Dottenham, and while at times that school had been a living hell, the kids alone hadn’t been the reason why she’d left.
A hand had risen from a short, frail boy with spectacles so thick you couldn’t be sure of the size of his eyes.
‘Ah, yes? What’s your name?’
‘Matthew Bridges,’ the boy said, in a weak, nervous voice.
‘Yes, Matthew, do you have a question?’
‘Yes, Miss. Is Miss Goldsmith coming back?’
The rest of the class erupted into sudden cheers, the boys clapping each other on the backs, the girls tittering behind their hands. One rough-looking boy gave Matthew a hearty back slap, to which the boy just looked down at his feet, and Jennifer got the impression she had been the butt of a joke the poor boy had been set up to deliver.
‘I’m afraid she’s never coming back,’ she said, feeling a sudden resentment towards this group of devils in Tesco Back-to-School clothing. ‘She’s never coming back again. In fact—’
Don’t say it, don’t say it, whispered a voice of reason that Jennifer was quick to stamp out.
‘—she’s never coming back, because she’s joined a cult and run off to South America.’
A little girl at the back began to cry, and Jennifer immediately felt like the worst teacher in the world. She smiled, clapping her hands together, and said, ‘That was a joke! She’s fine … as far as I know. She’s just retired. It happens. You’ll retire one day, when you’re old and grey.’
Two girls were now crying.
Near the front, a tall boy with a sensible, mature look in his eyes leaned forward and whispered, ‘Miss, first class is geography. Why don’t we watch a DVD?’
Jennifer was tempted to berate him for trying to do her job, but as he nodded at a box of DVDs next to a large, widescreen TV in the corner, she understood.
He was trying to save her.
‘Great idea,’ she said, hurrying across to the box and pulling out a documentary on Ancient Egypt. It wasn’t geography, but what did it matter? They probably didn’t know the difference … or so she hoped. ‘Get your notebooks out, please.’
Her hands were shaking as she slid the DVD into the player, and to her relief the disc automatically started to play. The sensible boy, along with two others, jumped up and began to run around the classroom, closing the curtains, while the other kids shuffled their chairs forward.
As another boy switched off the lights, Jennifer sat down on a stool in the semi-darkness and breathed a sigh of relief.
She could do this. She really could.
And she didn’t need a swift glass of wine to pull it off.
By lunch time, things had begun to take a turn for the better. After half an hour of watching the DVD on Ancient Egypt, she’d set them to drawing pictures of Egyptians in extravagant, scribbled headdresses, which took the focus off her long enough that she could begin to get herself together. With the kids busy in their activity, she was able to mingle, learn a few names, pick up on some of the class dynamics.
Matthew Bridges was the class whipping boy, the butt of all the jokes, the poor kid whose very appearance made school life a never-ending minefield. The kid sitting next to him, Gavin Gordon, the resident disrupter and bully, had seemingly altered his seating position after Miss Goldsmith’s departure, hoping Jennifer wouldn’t notice. Quickly picking up on the vibe, however, she moved him to sit further to the back, among a group of bigger boys less likely to put up with his teasing, and giving Matthew—during class time at least—a little respite.
Overall, though, they seemed like nice kids. With the exception of Gavin and a couple of other rowdy boys, they were polite, called her Miss, and didn’t give her much backtalk. There were a pair of identical twins—Becky and Kelly Jarder—whom she couldn’t yet tell apart, but otherwise, she was surviving with at least tentative ease.
