How to Kill Your Husband (and other handy household hints) by Kathy Lette (top 10 novels to read TXT) 📗

‘Do you think these issues with time management make you Deputy Head material?’ he says quietly. ‘Mrs Pendal is always perfectly on time.’

Perdita Pendal is not only punctual but also well connected. Seems to me that the only way to survive in England is to pick an ancestor, whack on some fertilizer i.e. bullshit, and simply grow an extra branch of your family tree. Perdita doesn’t just have a family tree, she has a forest, including a father who has been Chief Inspector of Schools. I, on the other hand, come from a long line of felons. My ancestors were transported to Tasmania for stealing a lace hanky and a stale loaf of bread . . . oh, and for dealing in A-grade narcotics. Perdita is the sort of woman who has coasters, matching hand towels, padded hangers, fish knives and a special little dish for the butter. She also has a well-off husband. In the staffroom one day she was actually heard to say, ‘Oh, I’m completely exhausted! I’ve spent the entire week agonizing over which au pair to take skiing.’ The female staff members could have killed her then and there. And do you know what? A jury of working mothers would have acquitted us.

‘And your excuse this time?’ The Head seems to be taking grim enjoyment from my discomfiture.

‘Um . . .’ During my time at North Primrose Primary School I’ve run through the pantheon of excuses. Unbeknownst to my relatives, most of them have met a premature demise. My children’s illnesses have ranged from diarrhoea and diphtheria to whooping cough and weasel bites (married to a vet means I can occasionally resort to the zoological). I glance up at my boss. His eyebrows are raised in anticipation of my answer. When he waggles them, they look like copulating caterpillars. I wrack my brain for a fresh excuse. I think about telling him that my cult leader kept me back for throat-slitting practice . . . Well, it maynot get me the promotion but it will definitely get me early retirement on full pay. Then, genius strikes!

‘Actually, I was up so late relishing your Threshold Assessment form which, by the way, is scintillatingly insightful, that I slept in a little this morning,’ I lie. ‘It was just so penetrating, so, well, stimulating that I just couldn’t sleep.’ I really should stockpile Chapsticks so I can kiss yet more ass, I think to myself, but it does take the wind out of his vitriolic sails.

‘Oh. Yes. Well. Right. Do you have it on you?’

‘I have mine. Brilliant title, by the way. To Teach Is To Learn!’ Perdita chirrups unctuously, handing in her form.

I think about explaining to Scroope that a job application is just a piece of paper with lies written on it. But settle instead for, ‘Oh! Gosh. In all the rush of being late, I must have left my form behind,’ I ad-lib. ‘First thing tomorrow morning I could—’

‘You could give Mr Scroope a verbal assessment,’ Perdita suggests sweetly.

Shit. Out-foxed by a Chalk and Talker.

‘Excellent idea,’ Scroope says heartily. ‘Normally I would see you separately, but as you’ve missed so many appointments, Ms O’Carroll, I’ve had to squeeze you into Mrs Pendal’s preliminary session. Would you say that you . . .’ the Head reads from Perdita’s sheet, ‘consistently and effectively use information about prior attainment to set well-grounded expectations for pupils, and monitor progress to give clear and constructive feedback relating to the curriculum?’

‘Curriculum?’ I cling to the only word that computes in his entire sentence. ‘The inner-city London school curriculum? Oh, you mean how to read, write and do a drug deal?’ I bluff. ‘Oh well, at least it teaches the kids how to do metric.’

My smile is not reciprocated. In fact, my Headmaster’s response would make a piece of granite look animated.

Perdita then volunteers to give her self-assessment verbally, enabling her to sing her own praises for approximately eternity, before running through the history of her illustrious family since, oh, the Crusades.

‘Excellent. Well, Ms O’Carroll, Mrs Pendal and I have had a meaningful dialogue about what I’m looking for in a Deputy Head during this probation period . . .’

I’d like to have a meaningful dialogue with Perdita too – armed with a cricket bat.

‘But as I now have school assembly, perhaps you could take the time during your lunch-hour to write me out your Teacher Appraisal, listing your strengths . . .’

‘Not punctuality, obviously,’ Perdita slips in so she can share a little conspiratorial chuckle with the Headmaster.

Trying to explain what makes you a good teacher is like nailing jelly to a wall. ‘My best qualification, Mr Scroope, is that I adore my pupils and love my job.’

Strangely, the Head seems unconvinced of my genius. He pushes to his feet. ‘Thank you, Mrs Pendal,’ he dismisses Perdita with a smile. ‘But Ms O’Carroll, if I could just have a quick word . . . You may have been at this school for longer than Mrs Pendal,’ he tells me when we’re alone, ‘but you know she did get a first-class Honours degree. And she’s written a thesis – “Control and Structure in the Classroom”,’ he parrots approvingly.

My most accomplished skill as a teacher is knowing who is pulling faces behind my back and which kid’s dog really did eat the homework. Not things they can really teach you at college.

‘Tell me, why did you choose primary-school education?’ he says finally.

‘Well, I suspect that educating high-school kids is probably more rewarding than primary-school teaching because the kids are tall enough to headbutt,’ I joke, ‘but kidding aside, I actually like teaching younger children because of their sense of humour. Just last week little Rosie Myttas-Perris wrote in her geography lesson that what joins the Red Sea to the Med is the Sewage Canal! And when I asked Adi Greenberg to count from one to ten backwards, she turned her back to me and started counting.’ I laugh, cutting it short when I realize I’m the