MRS LAMBROU, Bergotte [most important books to read TXT] 📗

I was sitting in the staff room, reading my copy of the Times, in early July, 1975. Having completed my degree and secured my first teaching post, I was waiting for the bell to sound at four o’clock, signalling the end of the school day.

The door opened and Mrs Lambrou entered, carrying a very large bag, overflowing with the paraphernalia middle-aged, female teachers have with them during their working lives.

“Hello, Mr Lambert,” she said, breathlessly, as she approached the large table in the centre of the room, placing her bag on it, some of the contents of which, spilled over on to its surface, mingling with the detritus of a busy week’s marking and preparation for the teaching staff. “Have you seen a set of exercise books, with my name and ‘history’, on them? They are about thirty in total and I seem to have mislaid them.”

I shook my head. “No, I haven’t,” I replied.
“I’ve lost the class I’m supposed to be teaching,” explained Mrs Lambrou. “There was a timetable change. Mr Constable did inform me of the new room. I made a mental note of it, but when I went there, to find the boys, the room was empty. I shall never find them now.”

She sat down and prepared to tell me the whole story. I rested the newspaper on my knee and folded my arms, resigned to listen to what she had to say.
“I’ve had an awful day. I didn’t get here until ten o’clock and I set off at six o’clock, this morning.” She paused to draw breath before continuing.
“Mr Evans has been teaching me to drive, but he won’t do it any more,” she said grimly.

She looked intently at me. I raised my eyebrows in response.

“I was driving him home in his car; we live close to each other.” She explained her predicament to me. “You can imagine what happened…” she said.
I could; every detail of it. Mrs Lambrou had studied the route by consulting her AtoZ map of London. She suddenly heard Evans shouting at her.
“Stop! Stop!” The normally calm and placid Head of French had finally lost his temper. He was mad with rage. Meanwhile, the emotional and some would say, unstable Mrs Lambrou remained speechless as she contemplated the enormity of what she had just done.
“You have just tried to turn right off the Holborn Viaduct,” he screamed. “Are you a complete moron?”

It had looked to her as if you could turn right. The map had given no indication that there was a drop of some seventy feet to the street below, had Mrs Lambrou been successful in carrying out the manoeuvre.

“Well,” said Mrs Lambrou to me, “I was divorced a few months ago. We sold our house in Highbury and divided the proceeds between us. I found a little one bedroom flat near Mr Evans. My husband used to drive me to work, but recently I have been relying on public transport, which is very difficult when you have to carry what I carry. I bought a little car. When Mr Evans discovered that I couldn’t drive, he offered to teach me. Now he won’t.”

I saw the tears welling up in her eyes. “This morning I removed the ‘L’ plates from my car. I was determined to drive here on my own,” she explained. “I took the precaution of not making any right hand turns on my way here. I only turned left.”

The bell sounded and I left for home abandoning Mrs Lambrou to her four hour journey home, making only left hand turns.

Publication Date: 06-13-2011

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