Chapter Text
Alison Cooper considered herself good-to-passable at a great many things. It was a bit of a prerequisite for being a primary school teacher. As well as maths, English, science, and advanced wet paper towel application, she was particularly pleased with how well she could attempt to sell the perks of Button House Primary School to prospective parents.
Yes, the faded paint markings in the playground did make hopscotch and football more challenging, but it added a vital element of imaginative play. Sure, perhaps the library books hadn’t necessarily been updated in the last decade, but that just meant the children were getting a solid introduction to the foundations of literature.
Worst came to worst, she had a handful of particularly talkative children in her year 3 class to put on a charm offensive. Interested in the pastoral side? Kitty or Pat would talk their ear off about their activities for the day, and how much they loved Mrs Cooper. Academically focused? The Captain would be thrilled to explain in excruciating detail the history book he was currently pouring through, Thomas could recite a poem until they decided it was easier not to ask further questions, or Robin could sing the praises of chess club. Conveniently, he would leave out that he and Julian were the sole members.
It was also unbelievably useful to be able to say “ah, yes! That is Councillor Fawcett’s son. We’re so thrilled that he chose to send him here”, omitting that Julian was a little toerag due to be packed off to boarding school as soon as they’d have him (once his dad had garnered a little goodwill from sending him to the leafy local school).
But on this particular November morning, Button House was going to be a hard sell. It had been pouring with rain since the night before, and the mega potholes covering the playground meant it currently looked more suitable for swimming than cartwheels. After having a fairly nightmarish morning herself of the hot water running out (she would be having a word with Mike about his shower usage later on) and having no instant coffee left, trying to teach multiplication to a group of damp 7 and 8-year-olds didn’t fill her with joy. Sure enough, not long after she’d managed to ransack the teacher’s lounge for some Nescafe, a child-shaped mass of tactical wear squelched wetly into the classroom.
“Good morning, Mrs Cooper!” the child said with what would, from anyone else, be an unnerving level of properness, but Alison was used to this by now from her supernaturally punctual charge.
“Morning, Captain. Made it through the rain did you?” Alison asked.
“Ah, yes, nothing was going to penetrate my Goretex, let me tell you!”.
Alison made a note as she helped the boy remove his soaked outerwear and listened to him explain the inner workings of his waterproofs how best to follow up with his family to ask how far into that assessment process he was.
As more and more children arrived to seek shelter in her classroom, it became apparent that no one else was anywhere near as prepared for the weather as the Captain had been. Even Pat, a devoted Beaver, had soaked his shoes and socks through by continuing his otherwise noble insistence on wearing shorts year-round. She grimaced as she heard the slop of wet exercise books hitting the tables and water dripping down chair legs.
“Right, everyone!” she called out, interrupting Stephanie’s loud rebuttal to Kitty’s complaints about the grey school uniform being particularly miserable on a day like today (“It’s school uniform! Of course it’s meant to be miserable!”). “If you’ve got wet socks, gloves, jumpers - anything which is damp and making you uncomfortable, pop it on the radiators and we’ll dry them off that way. No, never mind, not everything damp. Pull your trousers back up please, Julian.”
“Spoilsport,” the boy muttered as he followed her orders and plonked himself back in his plastic chair with an audible huff, pushing his sopping hair back across his skull.
Before Alison could even think about taking the register and getting the morning underway, there was a knock on the door. Before she could even tell them to come in, Obi, the school’s receptionist-cum-digital marketing lead (though Alison was fairly certain he gave himself the title and no one else knew enough about what he did to question it) let himself in, grinning and waving at the kids. “Morning, Mrs Cooper!”.
“Morning! What’s this?” Alison asked as she began to read the memo he scrunched into her hands.
“New rule from the board of governors. They’re asking us to limit how long we keep the classroom radiators on during the day. Cost saving, you know?” Obi said, perching on the edge of her desk.
“What? That’s outrageous! I mean, look at me, I’ve got an entire Asda’s worth of school uniform drying off on mine as we speak.”
“I know, bad ennit,” he shrugged. “Well, if anyone catches a cold and needs sent home, send them my way yeah? See you later! Bye, kids!”
Alison gritted her teeth and opened the register.