Was there life after the three forty-five bell?
The worst period was Monday afternoon
with Killer Whale, conjugating
on a stomachful of stewed cabbage,
amo, amas, without the option of declining.
Each morning she’d wade into assembly,
harpooning the hall floor on six-inch stilettos.
We’d slow flow past, mouthing the last amen,
while she measured the distance
between knocking knees and mini-skirted tunics.
A six-inch gap was way too much and if
we chanced to loosen hair below the collar
she was ready with scissors and string.
We thought we’d seen the last of her,
the day we hugged and handed in our primers,
tied black plimsolls to the bike shed,
tossed our note books in the bin.
Some time later, on the High Street,
a car pulled in the gap I’d spotted first.
Still flashing amber, I got out
and hammered on the glass.
The driver wound the window down.
Miss Kilway looked out, ticking over.
I muffled through my college stripes
You’re in my space.
At an old school tie reunion
I learnt she’d died in a nursing home
after years of suffering.
It was, they said, a great relief.
Name tapes have been changed to avoid detention.