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'From the depths they come
Writhing and creeping in shadows
Tainting all they touch.' 

Dear Reader.

This is a story from personal experience. From the heart, I tell you the words above are true. I hold memories of the tale you read.  There is no fairytale here, as far as human frailty and jealousy are concerned.  It is a known fact that, sometimes, children learn from adults whom they copy. Sometimes, life is too hard for children, and from the depths, they seek revenge, ‘writhing and creeping in shadows’, and adult figures such as parents and teachers are sometimes duped, or at other times don’t care. This kind of behaviour, as you will read, taints all they touch.

It was three thirty on a Friday afternoon. The school bell chimed, heralding the end of the day, the week and, importantly, on this occasion, the term. Miss Hopper stood in front of the class with a prim look on her face. Her class was expecting a message like this:

“Well, girls and boys! Be good and enjoy your holiday. We will see you next term.” They heard instead:

“Well, class, I am disappointed in your behaviour this week. Were it a normal day you would all have a detention. Instead of this, I need to speak to the following children before they leave the premises.”

Miss Hopper placed her reading glasses on her nose, took a deep breath, and reading from a sheet said:

“Ann Turner, please remain, Debbie Small, please remain. Bobby Durrell, you remain, and lastly, Jim Baker. The rest of you leave quietly, please. See you in two weeks.”

The noise was deafening as the class left, and Miss Hopper was not amused. While she stood, she told the foursome to sit at the front desks indicated, looking directly at them.

“Ann, is the writing on this page yours?”

Miss Hopper did not move from her place, a distinct disadvantage to the supposedly errant child, who permanently wore spectacles for distance and reading.

“I don’t know Miss; I need to see the page. If you can bring it closer, I can answer.  We all write in the same way.”

Oh, the haughty look.  Miss Hopper perfected these.

“Indeed, you do not; you write differently. YOU are left-handed.”

Ann wondered what using her left hand to write the same scrawl as the others had to do with it. Then it dawned on her. She limped, too; she was different. Miss Hopper was picking on her again. She was the kind who thought herself a cut above the rest wherever she was.
In Ann’s doting dad’s words after a previous showdown:

‘Miss Hopper is an old bat with shrivelled wings and tonsils.’

The meeting continued.

“Debbie, is this your writing?”

“No, Miss Hopper.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am. When was this written?

“It is of no importance, I wanted…”

“Miss Hopper,” Bobby Durrell interrupted.

“Remember Debbie has been ill, until yesterday. If it were done yesterday, perhaps our memories would…”

“Oh yes,” said Miss Hopper.

“I take it that it was not you either, Bobby, for you are never wrong, are you? And what about you, Jim Baker?”

“It could have been me, I suppose. I would need to see the paper to remind me. Indeed, we all should see the paper.”

There was a look of horror on Miss Hopper’s face.

“Are you attempting to undermine my authority by talking down to me, Jim?”

“Indeed, not Miss Hopper.  However, you may or may not know that my father is a lawyer. Were you to falsely accuse…”

Jim spoke with an authority not often shown by a twelve-year-old. His father was indeed a lawyer. He had heard how his dad spoke to others by way of friendly advice. He would not be allowed to witness a consultation between his dad and a client, at least not until he was old enough to earn a fee.

Reluctantly, Miss Hopper allowed the foursome to examine the paper.

As a general rule in the nineteen sixties, primary school children did not have individual writing styles. They followed the basics; a style learned: the format that joins printed letters together as an extension of babyish printing. Later on, they create an individual scrawl.

On examination of the paper, it was difficult to determine who the guilty party was. The scrawl looked similar to the general style. Miss Hopper gave each of them a piece of paper and asked them to write the sentence.

 “I will be good in class.”

They wrote the line individually. None matched that of the original page.  The message there read:

“Chopper is on the warpath. Let’s make life harder.”

Clearly, Miss Hopper was not amused and sought retaliation. After all, she was a school teacher with some skill, including getting up folk’s nostrils, because she had a certain amount of authority that was never to be undermined or ignored.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.  It was Ann’s mother.  Miss Hopper opened the door with some reluctance.

“Yes?” she said as though she had a chocolate caramel in her mouth and was in danger of swallowing it.

“Good afternoon. I’m Linda Turner. Is Ann alright?  Oh! Have I interrupted a detention? Don’t you think, Miss Hopper, that detention at the end of term seems odd?”

“They are just leaving.” Miss Hopper answered with a supercilious tone.

“I’d like to ask you why my daughter is detained?”

They did not notice another gentleman approach them, smiling.

“The lady is not alone. Why is my son Jim being detained? It is now four o’clock, and he has an appointment in thirty minutes.”

Mr Baker smiled sweetly again.

“Surely you have something better to do at the end of term, Miss Hopper. You must be tired.”

She sighed, reluctant to give in.  She wanted to find out who wrote; no, whom she could blame effectively. No one in their right mind could blame Ada Hopper for anything. Ann was, in Miss Hopper’s opinion, a spoiled brat. If the principal found out… oh well, too late! The plan was in action.

She turned back to the task at hand.

“You are dismissed,” she said to the errant foursome.

Once outside, Jim tugged his dad’s sleeve.

“What appointment, Dad?”  he asked.

“Shh!”

“Dad?” persisted Jim.

“I made it up, Jim. I know I shouldn’t lie, given I am a lawyer and not a politician!”

Linda Turner laughed.

Mr Baker smiled again. Turning towards Linda and Ann he said.

“Mrs Turner, do you have a few moments?”

“Yes, we do.”

“Would you two like to come with us?”

“Okay, what do you have in mind?”

“A little bit of Hercule Poirot sleuthing, Madam,”

Mr Baker ushered them over to a seat near the shelter shed where, coincidentally, Bobby Durrell and Debbie Small were chatting. They could hear the conversation.

“That was a close one, Deb,” said Bobby, stating the obvious.

“We’ll need to be going soon, or Miss Chopper, oh did I say that? will wonder why we are here!”

Linda Turner and Dan Baker looked at one another in disbelief. All four sleuths watched on eagerly.

Debbie was writing very carefully on a sheet of paper, her tongue sticking out in concentration.  Bobby looked over Debbie’s shoulder and smiled. This second attempt would not fool anyone.

“Yes, that is more realistic this time, Deb. A distinct left-handed slant to the writing.  This will convince the powers. That brat should be at a special school!”

“I tend to agree. Yes, the sooner we get this back to Miss Chopper, er Hopper...” Debbie appeared flustered. Neither she nor Bobby were tidy; the mess they created needed to be cleared, and soon otherwise...

On hearing this, Ann was close to tears. She felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning around, she realised it was Mr Baker’s gesture of comfort.

“Don’t let the remark upset you, Ann. You are not to blame. We will sort something out.  Chin up.”

Suddenly, as though supporting Mr Baker, the wind whipped up as Debbie and Bobby were supposedly tidying their mess.  As they were leaving, Debbie dropped the paper pile she was carrying to the ground. She panicked. The wind gust grew stronger.

Almost on cue, several pieces of paper responded to the wind’s leading and landed at Linda’s feet. She picked them up with Jim’s assistance.

Oh my gosh. Mr …”

“Dan, please.”

“Dan, look at this!”

Dan studied it carefully, shaking his head in disbelief.  He looked directly at Linda.

“Last week, Jim overheard the two clowns having a whispered conversation. He was annoyed and told me. How dare they… I suspected trouble between them. I was determined to look into the matter.”

Dan waited for a response; none came.

Hence, my meeting you in the street the other day, Linda, was planned.  I thought only to challenge Miss Hopper, but fate played its part, and I did likewise.”

“It was convincing, though.” laughed Linda.

Dan took a deep breath.  He read the paper in his hand again.

“Ann, my dear, surely this is not your writing!”

Dan handed the fresh paper. Ann looked horrified.

 “It seems you have been set up. I will…”

Someone was watching in the shadows, eager to find out what was happening. The sleuths heard the sound of determined steps.

“Why, if it is not the two interfering parents,” said Miss Hopper.

“I thought you had an appointment, Jim?”

“I …”

“Well?” the school teacher's voice was evident.

“We are still waiting to be called,” said Dan.

“Called? Where? What? All of you?  Here? Dear me!” The sarcasm was so thick you would need a knife to carve it.

Suddenly, they could hear footsteps. Mr. Dodd, the principal, was approaching. He smiled, and Miss Hopper visibly paled.

“Hello everyone I’m sorry to keep you. How are you Ann, looking forward to the holidays?”

Ann nodded, just a little scared.

Dan indicated the papers in Linda’s hand.  Mr Dodd examined them, taking care not to show surprise.

“Ah, thank you, Mrs Turner and Mr Baker.  By the looks of it, the proof of something sinister is in the pudding unless it is in the principal’s hands. Shall we wander back to my office? After all, we don’t want to spoil another day.”

Dear reader, I have a confession to make. I am the errant Debbie Small, now grown up. What happened on the horrid day was a set-up. Mr Baker had his suspicions and alerted Mrs Turner. I deserved the stern talk from the principal after the meeting was over. I believe Miss Hopper was cautioned. She resigned at the end of that year.

It was Miss Hopper who planted the seed of contempt. Though Bobby was reluctant to get involved, he always did as a bid. Miss Hopper was a master (or mistress) of hypocrisy.  I confess I hatched the plan, and Bobby followed my lead. Jim was the class pinup boy. Ann hid her fears stoically. In hindsight, she, too, was the model student, and her limitations did not warrant sarcasm.  I despised the two of them. Jealousy is a curse. It taints everything you touch. Do not let it grow inside you!