Poppy zigzagged between rogue chairs and wonky tables, a tray balanced on her hip.
āMiss, do you want help with that?ā asked a student of Poppyās with the same Peaky Blinders haircut that every boy in Year Ten had as soon as they stepped into a barberās without their mum.
āMiss, donāt buy it. Leoās sucking up to all the female teachers after Mr Lattimerās assembly on empowering the women in our lives,ā his friend said, the last line rolling with sarcasm.
āFuck off,ā breathed Leo.
āOi! Swearing!ā said Poppy, glancing at the door to check that none of her colleagues were within earshot. She picked up a disposable camera from the desk. āWhat was Mr Lattimerās assembly about?ā she asked, trying her best to look disinterested as she pushed a chair under the table with her foot.
āSome womenās rights thing. How we should be nice to girls because they have to sit in a sandbox whilst theyāre on their period. Wish my sister did that ā she leaves tampon wrappers all over the bathroom. Proper nasty.ā
āLeo, youāre being incredibly misogynistic.ā
āThatās a big word, miss,ā he replied. At this, his friend spluttered into the back of his hand. Sakima, unashamedly Poppyās favourite student, appeared beside her, twanging an elastic around a rope-thick braid that ended at her waist.
āItās actually not, Leo. You need to read more.ā
āI read,ā said Leo, his neck mottled pink. He shouldered a drawstring JD Sports bag and glanced at the clock, jerking his head backwards to flick his fringe out of his eyes.
āThe back of a cereal box doesnāt count.ā
Leo gulped like a fish. āYou need toā¦ toāā
āMessage me when you think of something. Miss, Iāve collected the other cameras ā theyāre on your desk.ā
āCan we go?ā said Leo, standing up.
āThe bell hasnāt rung yetāā
Before she finished her sentence, three sharp bleeps reverberated in the tiled corridor as her students dismissed themselves. Poppy sighed.
āSakima, youāre a star, thank you.ā
āShall I get a dustpan?ā she said, gesturing to the floor where a broken camera had been knocked off a table.
āPlease, itāsāā
āBy the sink, I know.ā
āYep.ā
Sakima took the tray from her, leaving Poppy to scoop shards of broken camera casing into her palm, the film reel chopped into plastic confetti. She knew that photography was seen as glorified babysitting by her colleagues, which was why she was sent so many of their students who had ādo not give scissorsā typed on their student reports.
āYou should go. You have to catch the bus, donāt you?ā said Poppy.
āNah, Iām walking. Iāve got an hour in the dark room at The Art House, but it doesnāt start until five. Iāve been doing double exposures, but Dadās fed up of me photographing him watching Pointless, so I thought I should take my baby out and about, you know?ā Sakima smiled and patted her rucksack, where her camera sat inside.
Poppy nodded, her head fuggy from Friday afternoon noise, too much instant coffee, and the delightful blend of Lynx Africa and body odour that hung heavy in the room. Eau de Teenage Boy at its finest.
The previous Easter, her teaching partner, Frances, had left school in the midst of a breathy tantrum, threatening to leave for good. In a waft of patchouli, overwhelmed tears, and ā unbeknownst to Poppy ā a ticket to Ibiza, sheād actually done it. Poppyās admiration outweighed any residual envy. According to Facebook, sheād changed her name to Celeste and now performed reiki healing to a crowd who appeared far more open to her claim that she could photograph guardian angels.
Poppy packed her tote bag with a class set of disposable cameras. It was going to cost her a fortune to have all these developed, but seeing as sheād had barely a week to prepare for an additional twenty students taking her subject and no school budget to give them decent cameras to use, it was either this or she had to let them use their phones, which was far riskier.
Cricklemead Academy was in the relegation zone of schools, always dancing between āsatisfactoryā and ārequires improvementā when Ofsted came to visit. On the eve of their last inspection, Poppyās field trip request was dredged from the stack of previously rejected files and signed off for approval. Off she had gone to the local botanical gardens, which conveniently took the worst offenders away from the school for an entire day.
āIāve always wonderedā¦ā said Sakima, hopping up to sit on a desk. āWhat do teachers actually do in the summer holidays?ā
āWell, some go on holiday to the south of France to eat Boursin and baguettes for six weeks, but in reality, most of us crawl under our desks, where our bodies turn wrinkly and hard like a walnut, then Shane the caretaker cracks us open with a pickaxe on September the first and we go through the whole rigmarole again.ā
Sakima swung her legs, fiddling with the end of her braid. āLast year I saw Mr Kane in the big Sainsburyās near my house. On a Saturday, right? He was buying a jar of pickled onions and said hello to me. So weird.ā
āWeird that he was buying pickled onions or weird he said hello?ā
āI donāt know, both. Maybe because he was wearing shorts. Really short shorts. Like, illegally short shorts. Seriously though, miss, are you doing anything nice? No offence, but I think you could do with getting away for a bit. Some sunshine. Some fun.ā
āPfft, no. Well, I am. Sort of.ā Poppy busied herself at the tap by the window and filled a paint-smeared yoghurt pot with water. She looked down at the school gates, the glass dirty with chalky water droplets. There was Josh ā her husband ā marching towards a group of boys who were taking it in turns to kick a half-drunk can of Relentless towards a steady stream of traffic. Sheād found it hard to refer to him as Mr Lattimer when theyād both started at the school some six years before, but now sheād become well-adjusted to their compartmentalised lives since Easter. After nearly a decade together, a feeling had settled in Poppyās stomach like poured concrete, rock-hard and immovable. Did it count as an official separation if they still lived in the same house? Split chores? Ate each otherās leftovers?
She dried her hands on a blue paper towel and unzipped a battered suitcase, carefully stacking old lenses, fixtures, and wobbly tripods inside. Poppyās Friday routine involved wheeling equipment back and forth to her attic at home, tinkering away with tiny screwdrivers and a four-finger-deep gin and tonic at her side. It hadnāt helped the image that many of the Cricklewood students had of her, the slightly odd photography teacher who didnāt eat lunch with the other staff, despite being married to one of them.
Back at her desk, Poppy pulled a copy of National Geographic out from under her keyboard and passed it to Sakima. She tapped the cover, a smile tickling her mouth.
āYouāre going for it?ā said Sakima.
āIām going for it,ā said Poppy, running a hand through her hair. āThought I might try and practise what I preach for once. Get out there, just me and my birds. Settle in on a clifftop. Become at one with the puffin community. I canāt keep telling you to enter competitions if I donāt do the same myself.ā
āMiss! Iām proud of you!ā
āThanks, Sakima,ā said Poppy with a faux curtsy. Poppy was looking forward to a fortnight on the Devonshire coast. She craved solitude. When she was alone, she wanted to be more alone, if that was possible. A single pickle in a jar. If a stone cottage off the national grid with only seabirds for company didnāt scratch the itch, she wasnāt sure what would. Poppy had come to the conclusion that isolation was better when you brought it on yourself. Most of the time, anyway.
There were many examples she could point to over the past few years. Take last weekend: after a bout of silent treatment from Josh, sheād spent a solitary morning in her local Wetherspoons just so she could experience a normal burble of noise. It turned out that the grumbling of retirees working through pints of Fosters and a mixed grill at eleven oāclock in the morning was far more depressing than being stuck at home, so despite her avowal that she wouldnāt be back for hours, Poppy caved and returned to Joshās smug face at the front door. Again.
āWill you show us your photos when youāre back?ā said Sakima, shouldering her rucksack.
āSure,ā said Poppy. The thought of a new term starting in barely seven weeks made Poppyās stomach tighten.
She waved goodbye to Sakima and clunked her suitcase down the stairs, pausing on the landing as the English department shut their classroom doors behind them, ties loose, tea-stained mugs and houseplants in hand. Between them, there was an inordinate amount of polka-dot print on display.
āPoppy! Last day of term! Coming to The Stag? Your fella is getting the first round, I heard.ā
Poppy openly scoffed. She often forgot the golden rule that she and Josh had agreed on: their split was a secret until heād decided on the right time for āa clean breakā.
āNo, I donāt think so.ā
āOh, come on,ā said Mike, a middle-aged man who chaired the teaching union and could quote the entirety of Animal Farm by heart.
āIāve got to pack, fix some equipment, you know? Iāve got a big trip to prepare for.ā
āHe got you doing his packing as well? Cheeky sod. Put a brick in his hand luggage.ā
āHeās not coming.ā
āOh?ā
āMmm.ā
The group loitered with fixed smiles as Poppy tried to think of something else to say. Sheād never been very good at making things up on the spot.
āWell, have a good one, Poppy.ā
āYou too.ā Poppy nodded and walked in the other direction, where she stood behind a wall and waited until there was no chance sheād accidentally catch them up on the way out.
Now that she knew to expect an empty house, she wanted nothing more than to return to it. Sheād never anticipated a kinship with Melania Trump, but as the last day of term swung around, she felt a similar need for large sunglasses to hide her swollen eyes when around her husband. At work, she forced a smile when her colleagues asked what sheād done at the weekend. Poppyās stories of homemade croissants and hiking in the dales were the stuff of fantasy. In reality, she lived like a dormouse, scurrying up to the attic where she slept on a rattan couch every night whilst Josh took their bedroom. She came downstairs after heād left for his HIIT class at 6.30am, and walked to work nursing a coffee that made her eyelids twitch, then dashed up to the art classroom until the bell rang at 3.30pm.
Josh stalked the corridors in skinny suit t...
