The Teacher's Secret Read Online Free PDF

shuffle their feet and look at the floor. It’s embarrassing to be hauled out of class to see Mrs Foreman. It’s as good as holding up a sign saying I’m stupid . That’s why no one ever comesto her with their head held high. Except this one. She’s a stocky kid: broad shoulders, chunky little legs and a barrel-shaped tummy. Freckles, too; not just across her nose but a whole face full of them, from her forehead right down past her chin. Her hair, light brown and long, could do with a cut.
    ‘I’m Mrs Foreman,’ she says. ‘Nina Foreman.’
    This makes the girl flick her head up in surprise. It’s an introduction Nina gives deliberately. To create an intimacy, to give out a bit of a secret. To make up for the embarrassment of being sent out of the classroom and over to her in the first place.
    ‘Come in,’ she says. ‘Have a seat.’
    The kettle starts to whistle as it boils, and already Paige is looking past Nina and across to the tea corner.
    Nina makes her a hot chocolate. ‘White marshmallow or pink one?’
    The girl’s lips twist up. ‘Pink.’
    Nina hands her an exercise book, which is already covered in red-and-green-striped contact. Nina covers all her students’ books, to make it seem a bit less like schoolwork and a bit more like fun.
    ‘Do me a title page,’ she tells the girl. ‘Just your name and your class.’ Nina has three pencil cases: a green one filled with coloured pencils, a red one with textas, and a blue one with lead pencils and biros. She places them all on the table and leaves the girl to it. She always starts with something easy, something she knows they’ll be able to manage, so they don’t panic.
    Paige looks doubtful but opens her book to the first page then runs a finger down the edge to make it stay flat. She chooses the red pencil case and tips it up so that the textas roll out of it and onto the table. For her name, she uses purple. Paige Peters she writes incareful bubble writing. To make a border, she draws green zigzags along the edge of the page then repeats the pattern in red and then blue. When she has finished the last zigzag, she looks up at Nina.
    Nina nods. ‘Good,’ she says. ‘And now I want you to tell me a story about yourself. Just a short one. Two or three sentences, that’s all.’ It’s a test to gauge the girl’s writing level, only she doesn’t want to say that. But the girl isn’t fooled, and her face falls.
    Nina hands her a lead pencil. ‘It’s just for me,’ she says, ‘so I can get to know you.’
    The girl bites her lip but takes the pencil and starts to write. She is left-handed, like Emily. For this reason alone, Nina feels a sudden affection for her.
    She writes slowly, her first attempt at each word crossed out then rewritten. Most of the words, even on a second attempt, are misspelt.
    ‘So,’ she says, ‘you’ll be eleven this year?’ This is what the girl has written—that she’ll be eleven on 11 August; that she has a cat at her mum’s place; that her dad lives in an apartment where they aren’t allowed pets.
    Next, Nina hands her a book. It’s a simple text, widely enough spaced to make it seem like a chapter book. The girl’s reading is stilted and laborious and she baulks at many of the words. She’s well behind where she needs to be. Which means that she and Nina will be spending a lot of time together this year.

Terry
    A new day, 29 January. First day back for the kids. And, he remembers with a start, Clare’s birthday.
    Clare.
    Oh God.
    And although it’s been years—decades—she’s still crystal clear to him. Even now, he can picture her as if she were right there in front of him: her lithe little body, her light pink lips, the watery blue of her eyes.
    Lovely eyes.
    Lovely Clare.
    It makes him tremble to conjure her up like that. Even now.
    Best not to, then.
    Best to push her right away again.
    So he does. He gets into his car, gives himself a shake and pushes Clare Sorenson back into the far recesses