Miss Bradshaw

Miss Bradshaw came to us in the March of year four. One of the first things she said was, ‘I hope you all know how to behave yourselves, because if you don’t, I have the power to make the next four months of your lives hell.’ By home-time that day, some of us were plotting to kill her.

One thing we had all noticed was the man who dropped her off. ‘Mi-iss,’ said Sarah Nash that morning, when the class was silent and we were sitting sensibly before lunch-bell. ‘Who’s that man? Like, whose car you go in.’

Miss Bradshaw looked up from the register and sighed. ‘I’m not sure it’s any of your business, “like,” but that man’s name is Patrick.’

‘Oh,’ said Sarah. ‘Is he your boyfriend?' Some of us sniggered, and Miss Bradshaw waited a long time until we were quiet again.

‘Yes,’ she said to Sarah, before turning to the rest of us. ‘And there’s nothing funny about that. So grow up.’

‘Mi-iss,’ said Sarah Nash, a moment later. ‘Do you love him?’

We sniggered again, on purpose this time, and Miss Bradshaw chose to ignore us.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I love him.’ For the first time that day she smiled. 'He's the love of my life.’

None of us reacted, and her smile faded. It was quiet for some time, and then Thomas Harvey whispered ‘Ooh-la-la’ and everyone screamed with laughter. A moment later Miss Bradshaw stood up and made her threat, which we accepted. But maybe we knew even then that she was bluffing; that if she gave us the chance, it would be her life that was made hell.

But children need their villains to be 100% evil, and gradually – just enough to win us over – Miss Bradshaw started being nice. During story-time, for example, she might let one of the girls tie her hair in a ponytail, and once or twice – unthinkably - she even joined in with our match on the football court, and said ‘Watch this space’ if someone put the ball through her legs. Other times she didn’t even come outside; she just stayed at her desk and stared straight ahead.

One day we met the boyfriend. Patrick was a thin, pale, good-looking man who wore a cap indoors and called Miss Bradshaw ‘Flick’ (her first name, we learned, was Felicity). He came to see us before home-bell, when we were working on some papier mache dinosaurs, and something about his presence excited us into savagery. We charged. He laughed. We pulled his legs and scratched at him; still he laughed. We bit him and we spat at him, and he cheerfully held us off until we were close to crying with rage. Finally, he lost his balance and fell backwards onto Mrs Jones’s piano, and an open tub of PVA glue was spilt over the carpet.

‘Get out!’ screamed Miss Bradshaw, who had been watching all this as if in a trance. ‘Get out!’ She ran forward and, panting louder and louder, dragged us one by one out into the corridor. Then, with her palm on her forehead, she paced up and down and mumbled bad words – Patrick still hadn’t picked himself up - until Mrs Hughes came out of class 2 and held her as she cried into her shoulder.

‘Miss Bradshaw is under a lot of stress at the moment,’ said Mrs Gregory in her office the next morning. ‘Now. I’ve had a word with her and yes, she’s sad about what happened, but she’s also willing to forgive and move on. Are you willing to forgive and move on?’ We nodded briefly at our feet. ‘That’s the spirit. Off you go then. And boys, you’ve been very mature.’

In the playground we were less forgiving. ‘She’s a crazy bitch!’ said Thomas, and no-one thought about telling on him for swearing. ‘She’s a sexy bitch!’ For weeks when we got to school, we would put an upturned pin on Miss’s chair, which she removed each morning without comment. We hummed furtively when she was reading out the register, and every day, when the others chorussed ‘Good morning, Miss Bradshaw,’ our lips stayed sealed, hearts thudding, daring her to notice. Spring came, and playtimes were spent on the field. We played big football matches - year 4 tek - in the hope that she would come outside and join in, but she never did; she stayed at her desk, staring.

After Easter Miss Bradshaw had some news for us. ‘Me and my friend Patrick,’ she said, standing up at the end of assembly, ‘we’re getting married.’ In class that morning, Sarah Nash kissed Miss Bradshaw and kept talking to her about the wedding. Later, I pinched her on the forearm until her eyes were blurry with tears. ‘You won’t get to be a bridesmaid,’ I said. ‘She hates you.’

The wedding was only a month away and everyone was excited. Lying in the field, we all did a painting of Miss Bradshaw in her wedding dress, and Thomas got into bad trouble for doing her with big boobies and having Patrick say ‘Hubba hubba!’ I saw Patrick only once again. He was in the back of the car when an older woman (her mum?) dropped Miss Bradshaw off at school. I gave him a thumbs up and he gave me one back; then he was away up the road, gone.

After she was married we watched her closely for any signs of change. One thing was that she seemed to daydream even more often, which we took as a sign of sadness that such an important life-event was behind her. Another was that she sometimes cried and had to excuse herself from assembly, which made us think she was pregnant. It came as a shock, then – such a shock that for a whole playtime we ran around the field feeling outraged - when some weeks later we came to school and were told that Miss Bradshaw was having special time off, and that Patrick was dead.

‘It’s a sad day,’ said Thomas, as we circled around the tractor-tyre in the shade of the field wall. I pushed him and he fell backwards, landing on the stile to the playground. A whistle blew. We were surrounded. He lunged forward; we tried to kill each other.