The Girl in the Scrapbook by Carolyn Ruffles (reading women TXT) 📕

good teacher. You could come and teach us,’ the girl with plaits offered excitedly.

Jennifer snatched a look at the alarmed face of Miss Potter and smiled at the girl. ‘That’s very kind of you but you already have an excellent teacher and I would need lots of training. It’s a very difficult job.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ snorted the blue-eyed boy. ‘It’s us who have to do all the work!’

‘That’s enough, Kevin,’ Miss Potter snapped with a steely glare. ‘Now, are there any more questions for Miss Thompson before she leaves?’

‘I like your shoes,’ said another girl in the front row who had spent most of Jennifer’s visit staring at her feet. ‘Where did you get them from?’

‘Relevant questions only,’ Miss Potter interrupted before Jennifer could reply. ‘Remember Angela, we talked about this. Just questions about Miss Thompson’s job.’ Her tone was becoming increasingly exasperated.

‘Actually, I think I bought them from Debenhams.’ The girl was now looking distinctly downcast and Jennifer gave her an encouraging smile.

‘Hey, my mum works there. She probably sold them to you. She’s their top saleswoman,’ a boy with a snotty nose announced joyfully, following up with a loud sniff.

‘Right. Well if there are no more questions, what do you all want to say to Miss Thompson for giving up her time for us this morning?’ prompted Miss Potter.

‘Thank you,’ the class chorused dutifully.

‘It’s been a pleasure,’ Jennifer beamed at the children. ‘I thought you asked some excellent questions. Good luck to you all in whichever career you choose to pursue.’

As she was picking up her things and putting on her coat, she heard the girl with plaits whispering to her neighbour. ‘She’s really nice. I wish she was our teacher.’ The comment gave her a warm glow and she drove back to her office with a broad smile on her face. Maybe she could become a teacher … If that class were anything to go by, it would certainly be entertaining.

The seed was planted but she did not rush into it. Instead, she arranged to volunteer at another local school - one day a week for six weeks - which she took off work as holiday. Each time she went, she worked in a different class so she could experience the true flavour of life as a teacher and, each time, she thoroughly enjoyed the day. It made her accountancy work seem dull and unrewarding and she decided to bite the bullet. Without further delay, she applied for a place to study for a post graduate certificate of education and, having been successfully awarded a place, handed in her notice at work.

Her father had been furious. ‘All that hard work ... the last five years … totally wasted!’ he raged. ‘All that money spent on that fancy school thrown away on a dead-end job like teaching. You’ll hardly make your fortune in a profession like that. The way you were going, you could have made partner in just a few more years.’ After the bluster, he tried a more subtle approach. ‘I would never have believed you were a quitter. I thought I’d brought you up with the determination to see things through.’

However, the decision had been made and Jennifer stood firm. She went through the training course, secured her first teaching job and so began her new career. There were many times, after a particularly difficult day, when she wondered what on earth she was doing but she never regretted her choice. Twelve years later, she was awarded her first headship; teaching had become her life. The traditional, 'husband and children' route was not for her. To do her job to the best of her ability and to make a difference to the lives on the children in her care overrode everything else. All her passion, she poured into her work and, now that had come to an end, she needed something else.

It had felt so strange, almost surreal, leaving school that last time, handing over the keys to the caretaker, walking to her car, driving out the gate, no longer a part of that community. Her colleagues had taken her out for a quiet dinner, as a send-off, but there had been none of the fanfare she might have expected after a successful career spanning thirty years. She wouldn't have wanted it. It would have been inappropriate in the circumstances.

At least her new venture had kept her busy and given her a fresh purpose for the past few months. But now, she had to admit, as she sat alone in her cottage on a wet November afternoon, she was lonely. She missed the buzz of school life, the chat, the laughs, the constant demands made upon her by colleagues, pupils and parents. She missed being needed.

Having recognised the problem, Jennifer concentrated her efforts on thinking of solutions. It was not in her nature to sit about feeling sorry for herself. She decided that it was time to get involved in village life – maybe join a club or two, offer her services as a volunteer, meet new people. So far, she could count on one hand the villagers of Chalkham she could name.

She reached for the parish magazine and the telephone.  The race night David Brewer had mentioned was tomorrow night. Maybe it wasn't too late to get a ticket. Remembering that the initial invitation had come from Jill Riddleston, the landlady from the popular village pub, The Fox and Hare, she found the telephone number and keyed the number into her mobile. She'd been in the pub a few times for lunch, when she had been visiting the cottage to see how the improvements were coming along, and for an evening meal when she had first moved in. Jill, she recalled, was a tall woman in her forties with cropped blonde hair and a wide smile. It had been good of her to think of inviting Jennifer to a village event. Hopefully, there would be tickets left.

‘Oh lovey, I’m so glad you rang,’ Jill