Quel est votre passe-temps favori? Que font vos parents dans la vie? S’il-vous-plaît, venez au tableau et décrivez votre vie en France pour que nous puissions tous en bénéficier. Ces élèves pourraient tirer grand profit d’un entretien avec une vraie Française telle que vous! Mais rendez-moi un service, ne me corrigez pas devant eux!”
Like everyone in the class, and indeed like most people reading this book except for the exceptionally clever or French ones, Dennis had absolutely no idea what Miss Windsor was going on about. I don’t know either–I had to get a friend who had passed their French GCSE to translate it for me. Basically, though, Miss Windsor is delighted to have a real French person in her class and is asking lots of questions about life in France. I hope so anyway, unless my friend is playing a horrible joke on me and Miss Windsor is talking about her favourite episodes of Spongebob Squarepants or something.
“Er… oui,” said Dennis, hoping that by simply saying yes, he couldn’t get himself into too much trouble. Unfortunately, Miss Windsor became even more animated, and led Dennis up to the front of the class, still declaiming excitedly in French.
“Oui, c’est vraiment merveilleux. On devrait faire cela tous les jours! Faire venir des élèves dont le français est la langue maternelle! Ce sont les jours comme celui-ci que je me souviens pourquoi j’ai voulu devenir prof. S’il-vous-plaît, racontez-nous vos premières impressions de l’Angleterre.”
Dennis stood still in front of everyone. Lisa looked like she wanted to shout out and help, but couldn’t make a sound.
Dennis felt as if he was underwater or in a dream. He looked out into the eerie stillness of the room. Everyone stared at him. Nothing moved except Mac’s jaw.
Rolos are extremely chewy.
“May I speak in English one moment?” asked Dennis in a tentative French accent.
Miss Windsor looked a little surprised and a lot disappointed. “Yes, of course.”
“Errrm, ’ow can I put this, how you say… politely?”
“Poliment, oui.”
“Madame Windsor,” continued Dennis, “your French accent is very poor and I am very sorry but I cannot understand anything you are saying.”
Some of the pupils laughed cruelly. A single tear appeared in Miss Windsor’s eye and rolled down her cheek.
“Are you all right, Miss? Do you need a tissue?” asked Lisa, before shooting Dennis a furious look.
“No, no, I’m perfectly fine, thank you, Lisa. I’ve just got something in my eye, that’s all.”
Miss Windsor stood there swaying like she had been shot, but hadn’t quite fallen to the floor yet. “Um, why don’t you all get on with some private reading. I just need to step outside to get some air for a moment.” She tottered uncertainly out of the classroom, as if the bullet was slowly making its way to her heart. She closed the door behind her. For a moment there was silence. Then from outside the classroom they heard a huge wail.
The mouths of those pupils who had laughed now closed tight with regret. Lisa looked at Dennis, who bowed his head. He returned to his seat, scraping his high heels along the floor sorrowfully.
A few more seconds passed like hours, before Miss Windsor returned to the classroom. Her face was red and puffy from crying.
“Right, so, um… right, good… turn to page fifty-eight in your textbooks and answer questions (a), (b) and (c).”
The pupils all began their work, more silent and compliant than they had ever been before.
“Would you like a Rolo, Miss?” ventured Mac. No one was more aware of the momentary comfort chocolate could give in moments of despair.
“No, thank you, Mac. I don’t want to spoil my lunch. It’s bœuf bourguignon…”
She started crying uncontrollably again.
“You complete &**%$£%!”
Oops, sorry. I know even though real children do swear, you mustn’t have swearing in a children’s book. Please forgive me, I really am %$£©$*& sorry.
“You shouldn’t swear, Lisa,” said Dennis.
“Why not?” Lisa asked angrily.
“Because a teacher might hear you.”
“I don’t care who hears me,” said Lisa. “How could you do that to poor Miss Windsor?”
“I know… I feel so bad…”
“She’s probably weeping into her bœuf bourguignon now,” said Lisa as they stepped out into the busy playground. It was lunchtime, and people stood in groups, chatting and laughing, enjoying their hour of partial freedom. Football games were breaking out everywhere–games that Dennis would normally have joined in with, had he not been wearing a wig, make-up and an orange sequined dress.
And high heels.
“Maybe I should go and apologise,” said Dennis.
“Maybe?” said Lisa. “You have to. Let’s go and find her in the dining hall. She should be there, unless she’s jumped in the River Seine.”
“Oh, don’t make me feel any worse.”
As they made their way across the playground, a football rolled past them. “Kick it back, love,” shouted Darvesh.
Dennis couldn’t help it–the urge to kick the ball was too strong.
“Don’t be too flash,” said Lisa as he ran after the ball. But Dennis couldn’t help himself, and chased it aggressively. He stopped it neatly, then took a run up to kick it back to his friend.
But as he kicked the ball his high-heeled shoe flew off, and he toppled backwards.
At that moment his wig slipped back off his head and on to the ground.
Denise became Dennis again.
Time seemed to slow down. There Dennis was, standing in the middle of the playground, in a girl’s dress and make-up with one shoe on. Silence spread across the playground like snow. Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him.
“Dennis…?” asked Darvesh incredulously.
“No, it’s Denise,” replied Dennis. But the game was up.
Dennis
