The School Trip: a short story
As an orange wedge of sun hauled itself perfunctorily into the sky, teachers around the conference table groaned in commiseration. The time was 7:45 and endlessly effervescent kids were about to make their way into a tired classroom, with that damp, musty smell, ready for a school trip.
High on staff-room coffee, whiteboard markers and risk assessments, Jemma walked nonchalantly across the tarmac, adorned with fading paint and kiddi-chalk, towards Room 7. She was greeted by a wall of excited chatter, and her crack team for the day: two members of the parent-teacher association. Jemma has the calm, authoritative tone of a well-seasoned teacher, an integral skill for taking the register.
With high-viz vest donned, colourful backpacks stowed safely above, seatbelts fastened and staff strategically placed, the coach shuddered into motion with a pneumatic hiss. Pasture land embellished with trees of varying sizes flew past the windows, slowly becoming a patchwork quilt of confluent tones. The chorus of chatter diminished as the journey progressed, only crescendoing when the coach reached the zoo’s entrance. The welcome sign promised ‘fun for all the family’; Jemma suspected this didn’t apply when the family consisted of three adults and thirty-two children.
An autumnal tang filled the air as Jemma issued the obligatory ‘go to the toilet even if you don’t need it now’ speech. After announcing the trip’s groups, Jemma’s group headed for the reptiles. Everyone knows the smell of the snake enclosure but no one can quite describe it. After their eyes had adjusted to the feeble, orange glow of the heat lamps, clusters of children formed around each exhibit. Eyes wide, faces pressed to the dusty glass, they gazed at the pythons: fixated. Jemma prompted them to fill out their worksheets, telling them they’d need to be completed and handed in by the end of the day. This was a lie: these crumpled sheets would be heading straight for the recycling bin on their return.
A sharp buzz pulled her out of the action. It was one of the cheap Nokias that the finance department had ‘invested’ in last year. The message was from Sam, who had apparently already lost a member of her group. She had one job. Shepherding is an essential skill in the school trip arsenal and Jemma made quick work of finding the sad excuse for a picnic area. Faded oak refectory tables which were slightly too large for the Year 6 kids but that didn't deter them from devouring their packed lunches.
Jemma’s new assignment was a reconnaissance mission. She backtracked through the one-way system hoping not to cross paths with the zoo staff. Optimistic, she scanned the play area for the stray 11 year old; this was not what she signed up for. More anxious now, Jemma toyed with the thought of heading straight to reception to make an announcement on the PA system, however she couldn't face the disproving, parental looks the staff would cast upon her. Jemma paced towards the parakeet enclosure, almost paroxysmic. She froze at the sight of Harry with a bird perched on his arm. Palpable relief washed over her, so much so, that she almost made some sort of genuflectory move.
Previously weary-eyed children perked up as if on a sugar rush, for this was the holy-grail of gift shops. Kids stood, mouths agape, brains whirring almost audibly with both decision and budgeting calculations. If only they tried this hard in class. The shop was not large, but filled to the rafters with apparel and stationery galore. Cuddly toys loomed over them as if they were the true inhabitants of the store. Jemma had clearly expressed a £5 spending limit in the letter to parents, yet the unwritten school trip rules said otherwise as kids went all-in at the checkout.
Eventually, they were able to board the coach and set off home. There was a marked difference in noise level compared to the outward journey. Jemma gazed ruminatively out of the window. She needed to devise some sort of exit strategy from teaching before the residential trip at the end of the year.
By Joe Goodsell, Year 11
High on staff-room coffee, whiteboard markers and risk assessments, Jemma walked nonchalantly across the tarmac, adorned with fading paint and kiddi-chalk, towards Room 7. She was greeted by a wall of excited chatter, and her crack team for the day: two members of the parent-teacher association. Jemma has the calm, authoritative tone of a well-seasoned teacher, an integral skill for taking the register.
With high-viz vest donned, colourful backpacks stowed safely above, seatbelts fastened and staff strategically placed, the coach shuddered into motion with a pneumatic hiss. Pasture land embellished with trees of varying sizes flew past the windows, slowly becoming a patchwork quilt of confluent tones. The chorus of chatter diminished as the journey progressed, only crescendoing when the coach reached the zoo’s entrance. The welcome sign promised ‘fun for all the family’; Jemma suspected this didn’t apply when the family consisted of three adults and thirty-two children.
An autumnal tang filled the air as Jemma issued the obligatory ‘go to the toilet even if you don’t need it now’ speech. After announcing the trip’s groups, Jemma’s group headed for the reptiles. Everyone knows the smell of the snake enclosure but no one can quite describe it. After their eyes had adjusted to the feeble, orange glow of the heat lamps, clusters of children formed around each exhibit. Eyes wide, faces pressed to the dusty glass, they gazed at the pythons: fixated. Jemma prompted them to fill out their worksheets, telling them they’d need to be completed and handed in by the end of the day. This was a lie: these crumpled sheets would be heading straight for the recycling bin on their return.
A sharp buzz pulled her out of the action. It was one of the cheap Nokias that the finance department had ‘invested’ in last year. The message was from Sam, who had apparently already lost a member of her group. She had one job. Shepherding is an essential skill in the school trip arsenal and Jemma made quick work of finding the sad excuse for a picnic area. Faded oak refectory tables which were slightly too large for the Year 6 kids but that didn't deter them from devouring their packed lunches.
Jemma’s new assignment was a reconnaissance mission. She backtracked through the one-way system hoping not to cross paths with the zoo staff. Optimistic, she scanned the play area for the stray 11 year old; this was not what she signed up for. More anxious now, Jemma toyed with the thought of heading straight to reception to make an announcement on the PA system, however she couldn't face the disproving, parental looks the staff would cast upon her. Jemma paced towards the parakeet enclosure, almost paroxysmic. She froze at the sight of Harry with a bird perched on his arm. Palpable relief washed over her, so much so, that she almost made some sort of genuflectory move.
Previously weary-eyed children perked up as if on a sugar rush, for this was the holy-grail of gift shops. Kids stood, mouths agape, brains whirring almost audibly with both decision and budgeting calculations. If only they tried this hard in class. The shop was not large, but filled to the rafters with apparel and stationery galore. Cuddly toys loomed over them as if they were the true inhabitants of the store. Jemma had clearly expressed a £5 spending limit in the letter to parents, yet the unwritten school trip rules said otherwise as kids went all-in at the checkout.
Eventually, they were able to board the coach and set off home. There was a marked difference in noise level compared to the outward journey. Jemma gazed ruminatively out of the window. She needed to devise some sort of exit strategy from teaching before the residential trip at the end of the year.
By Joe Goodsell, Year 11