You might recognise bits of this story from here or here, but stick with it.
She moved her head and watched
the reflection of her face distort in the shiny gold in front of her. She
longed to touch the bell, to pick it up and give it a shake; hear the tones of
the clanger on the metal. It really was a thing of beauty. The highly polished
waist was criss-crossed with the scratches of time, the tip of the dome was
slightly dented and the rim scuffed. Of
course they didn’t use it anymore. Instead of the melodic ringing, her ears
were invaded every thirty-five minutes by the grinding, grating buzzer telling
the students the lesson was over. Despite being surplus to requirements, the
bell sat just outside the office as a reminder of a bygone age.
Ha, those long lost days where
teachers were shown a modicum of respect and could take appropriate retribution
on anyone who stepped out of line. Not that they needed to use it that often,
it was the threat of the dap or the cane that kept behaviours in check. These
days it wasn’t just the students who showed their insubordination, the teachers
were an unruly bunch too. Always
whinging and moaning about the paperwork and the behaviour while misbehaving
themselves; messing about and never getting things done on time. She knew what
they called her. The kids called her Gruffalo, the teachers called her grunge.
Grunge, it made her sound ancient; Jesus she was only forty-five. She looked at
her face in the bell and inspected it. The grey flecks amongst the dark hair
reminding her she needed another trip to the hairdressers. But the hair
dressers couldn’t fix the crow’s feet around her eyes or the lines around her
mouth. It wasn’t meant to be like this. She’d seen herself as a benevolent head
teacher; a kind hearted soul who nurtured the young minds in her care. Instead
she’d become a dragon, ground down by the system; nagging and moaning and
frowning, always bloody frowning. What would make her happy now was to hear the
ringing of that bell.
“Bugger it,” she said. The wooden handle felt as good as it looked
and the bell let out a gentle tingle as Mrs Griffiths picked it up. She felt the
smooth surface in her hand, worn down by the hands of headmasters past. She
felt the power of their presence through her body. She held the bell above her
head and brought her hand down.
It clanged and tingled, filling
the room with the most delicious tone she had ever heard.
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