We're a couple of weeks away from publication (eBook and paperback this time) and a number of you have requested a sneak peek. So here's the artwork and a tale from chapter 8: the day I had to cover in the infant playground.
An
infant teacher’s away today so I’m doing her playtime duty. I
usually do duty in the ‘junior’ playground where footballs and
skipping ropes dominate, although there are often also a fair number
of football cards being swapped, dolls being dressed and undressed
again, tops spun and cuddly toys dismembered. I know the score in the
junior playground – well, as long as Toni hasn’t lost another
football.
The
infant playground is a whole new dimension. Here, I’m less at ease.
Well, to be honest, I’ve not much idea what’s going on. Swarms of
ridiculously small children bumble around, bumping into each other,
like wind-up toys with pieces of their mechanisms missing. Every so
often a bumbling child will collapse onto the tarmac as the wiring
between brain and legs gets mangled somewhere near their
belly-button. It’s my ‘duty’ to help, as Miss Dolly (who’s on
duty with me) has gone to ‘powder her nose’…
‘Are
you OK?’ I try gamely.
‘WAAAAAAAAHHHHH.’
‘Shall
we get you up and go and see Miss María?’
‘WAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!’
A
large crowd of small spectators gathers. ‘Do you know who this is?’
I ask the spectators. I might as well ask the trees. The
children look at me like I’m an exhibit in the London Dungeon:
they’re hugely interested but slightly frightened. I think it’s
‘cos I’m a ‘man’. They don’t get many men around here. I
might not come back in a hurry.
The
wailing subsides and damaged child sits up. There’s no blood, but a
fair bit of snot.
‘Go
to the toilet and bring me some tissue,’ I order no one in
particular. They ignore me. Actually, one of them is stroking my
head. I have quite a tight crop so I guess it might feel like a
hedgehog. I turn to face the child who’s stroking me. It’s a boy.
He smiles although he doesn’t have many teeth. He looks at me like
I am a hedgehog, or any other dumb animal who’ll let you stroke
them for as long as you like. He cocks his head to one side like he’s
pitying my inability to sort things out. I smile back at him.
Child
on floor suddenly gets up and staggers away across the playground
into the melee. He’s like a mini-Frankenstein fresh off the
operating table stumbling blindly into everything in his meandering
path. Now I’m left on the ground with a crowd of ten or fifteen
children staring at me. Two of them are now stroking my head. One of
them asks me a question. I can tell it’s a question from the
intonation and the fact that they’re pointing at my head. The
language they’re using, however, is a mystery. A small girl with
curly hair has all her fingers in her mouth, like she thinks she’s
sucking a giant lolly; I hope she’s not planning on stroking my
head in the near future.
Suddenly
two or three start to point. And laugh. Before I can say, ‘What the
hell are you laughing at?’ they’ve lost all interest in me and
are starting to walk behind me. I turn around and see my career
disappear.
Behind
me is the entrance to the school. It’s sealed by a metal-barred
gate, about four-metres wide and two-metres high. Whenever someone
wants to enter the school they buzz through to the office
who’ll open the gate. The gate is opening now,
sliding silently to the left, as a delivery truck waits outside with
hazards flashing and engine rumbling. My problem is that six or seven
children have climbed onto the gate and are enjoying a slow ride –
towards a quite nasty-looking mechanism which includes some pretty
large metal cogs and gears. It’s a bit like a James Bond film where
James Bond is tied to a board which is moving towards a circular saw
spinning at great speed. The children who have been watching (and
stroking) me are now pelting towards the gate to join in the
relatively-low jinks. Bloody hell!
‘Get
off that gate!’ I yell, wondering if any of them are capable of
such a feat without risking dislocated joints or broken bones. The
gate isn’t moving that quickly but, as I’ve already seen, these
kids can fall over if a cloud passes overhead. ‘Get off!’ I yell
again, to equal effect (none). I rush over to the site of
international incident involving possible death or maiming of dozens
of small children under the care of J.J.Dean, and start plucking
children off the gate from the side nearest the cogs and gears. While
I’m doing this I shout at the other children who are approaching me
on the gate as it continues it’s journey. The children are having a
wonderful time, smiling and screaming back at me; they must think I’m
just joining in the ballyhoo. One boy has a particularly tight grip
on the bars. I have to peel his fingers off before setting him down
on the ground and reaching for the next laughing child who is inches
from death but doesn’t give a monkey’s. Within seconds there’s
another boy with an equally strong grip – until I notice that it’s
the same boy who’s just found another space on the gate and has
jumped back on.
‘Again!’
he shouts, nodding towards his fingers which are turning white with
the effort.
I’m
finally saved when the gate stops, fully open. I breathe a long sigh
before noticing my next problem. Luckily, the driver isn’t planning
to drive his truck into the playground (I wouldn’t have bet against
it), but he is going to carry his
packet to the office while the office staff leave the
gate open until he returns. I stand in the middle of the entrance
facing into the playground. A dozen children, twenty now, maybe
thirty, line up facing me, staring beyond me into the orange groves
on the other side of the road. I honestly can’t see what they’re
staring at, they come in and out of this gate every day, it’s not
like I’ve opened Narnia’s wardrobe for them to look into.
A
girl points. I look around. There’s a dog.
Wild
dogs – well, OK, strays – are quite common around here. This one
is a brown 57 who doesn’t look dangerous. No, it’s worse. Much
worse. He looks playful. His head is cocked to one side, a bit like
the little boy who was stroking me five minutes ago when my problems
couldn’t possibly get any worse. The dog takes a tentative step
towards me. Oh god!
‘Get
away!’ I say, ridiculously in English. ‘¡Vete!’ I try,
which I’m pretty sure means get outa here you mangy mongrel.
He prances towards me like I want him to play. ‘Goo on! Get ouda
here!’ He jinks past me and is in.
Utter
bedlam. Complete chaos. Imagine aliens invade a busy IKEA firing lasers.
Kids are screaming in all directions, bumping and bashing into the
trees and each other, tripping over balls and ants. Within seconds
there are half a dozen on the floor nursing cut knees and god-knows
what else. I’m powerless to do anything except guard the entrance
to make sure none of them run out onto the road. Where the hell is
Miss Dolly?
I
spot the van driver coming back across the playground looking bemused
at the carnage that is underway.
‘Perro!’
(dog) I say as he passes me, like this will explain everything.
He raises his head in an ‘Oh, right,’ sort of expression. Then he
puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles the loudest whistle I’ve
ever heard. The dog appears from the mayhem and pelts towards him
provoking another epidemic of tripping and bumping into each other.
Driver gives me a little salute as he climbs into his cab. The gate
starts to close.
Dolly
saunters out as the bell goes and the gate clicks shut. She’s not
exactly hurrying to begin with but her pace slows as she takes in the
battlefield. There are children hobbling towards her pointing at
their grazed knees and elbows and wailing like zombies. She looks at
me. Her look says I leave you alone for five
minutes…
Next
time they’re looking for some sucker to do duty in the infant
playground? I’ve got a dentist’s appointment for root canal.
If you haven't already, why not read Zen Kyu Maestro: An English Teacher's Spanish Adventure, (Monday Books) available from Amazon. It's the prequel to Cucarachas.
The first year of an English teacher, teaching a class of lively Spanish seven-year-olds, in English, in Spain.
What could possiobly go wrong?
“The detailed way Dean has described the atmosphere of this little city in Spain is magnificent.” Salford University, The Salfordian.
For a free sample chapter of Zen Kyu Maestro, click HERE.
The sequel, Cucarachas or Cucuruchos, available soon as an eBook and paperback from Amazon.
