It was a slight shift in the light that made him turn to look. The Ofsted inspector was peering into his classroom through the small pane in the door.

“Oh no. No. Please. No. Not this lesson. Not her. Not with this lot.” The teacher looked away, out of the steamed-up classroom windows, out across the grey, oily rooftops of the surrounding estate, hoping the inspector would move on.

A single rap. The inspector sailed in.

She spoke. “Not able to be here to observe your management prior to the lesson start. Bit of an issue to write up. No matter. Do carry on.”

He knew what the 'bit of an issue' was. Jenny, the music teacher, had come over all hysterical after being observed by this very inspector and had announced at break-time, to a stunned staffroom, that she’d had enough of this effing job. She had screamed, “If that woman's so bleeding good at teaching why doesn't she do it? She's just a whatjamecallit ... a robot ... a sad, dried up, emotionless ... ahh!" Poor Jenny had to be taken home.

The teacher felt he should say something.

“Come in, and welcome, Mrs, erm Miss, Mzz erm ...’

"Inspector Palling.”

"Right, Merzzss err Palling. I’m Mr. Rayhope. Oh. Sorry. Ah. Yes. You already must know that. Erm .. may I introduce my class? This is 11th Year Group 3."

"Quite. I am already acquainted with a number of its members.” Her eyes scanned the room. “They attended the last lesson I inspected - the music lesson." A murmur fluttered around the class. But the inspector’s face showed no expression. It was a face that was thickly layered with foundation. She wore bright red lipstick, too bright, too young for her, he thought.

"Erm ... Here’s a copy of my ... my lesson plan ... oh and a task sheet with the part of the poem we’re looking at. Would you like to …”

“ I shall retire to the back. I see better what goes on from there.”

“Right,” said the teacher. “Eyes this way, class.”

The inspector settled into her chair.

“Now, today, class, we've reached the pivotal moment in ‘The Eve of St Agnes' - Verse 36. Open your full texts. Turn to the page. That's three Xs, one V and a capital I, David.”

“Okeydokey Sir.” This retort came from Lee who was sitting at the front. Lee leaned back on his chair, swivelled round to check behind that all were looking at him, then, turning back to face the teacher, asked, “Is this the bit where the whatsit, the veoayer bloke is going to dive in an’ 'ave it off wiv the girl, sir?”

"I don't erm ..." said the teacher.

"I mean, 'Ee's. a right perv. In’e?” continued Lee, "'Es been watchin’ ‘er, like, undress. Then e’s been lookin' at 'er lyin' there in bed, like, for about an hour."

Lee paused for dramatic effect. He had been preparing for this moment. "And ... on top of that he's just been playin' on her ... instrument!”

All eyes turned towards the teacher. Sue, at the table to the left, started to giggle. Jess, next to her, began to blush. A snort came from the other side of the class, a snort that ricocheted around the room. The inspector, eyes wide, was looking at the teacher. Was that a smirk on her face?

Mr. Rayhope tried to clear his head. “Why, oh why, do we have to try to teach stuff like this?" he thought, feeling that familiar tightness round his collar, that itch of sweat on his forehead. “Literature like this is for adults, reflecting on their experiences, not for hormonal adolescents who ... " But Lee, just in front of him, eyebrows raised, mock innocence fixed on his face, was waiting.

The teacher hesitated. To show anger at this challenge would be an admission of defeat; to be too nasty to this tyke, Lee, might shift the whole class against him. Perhaps it was already.

The room held its breath as the adult prepared himself for humiliation. Lee had him and Lee was a master of this game.

But Mr. Rayhope started to smile. "You're right, Lee. Wow!” he said. "You know what, Lee, you are a real ... reader, a proper ... reader. You've remembered what I told the class a few lessons ago.” He looked beyond Lee at the class behind. “You’re trying to recognise how Keats' audience would have responded. You're empathising. That’s the word, Lee. You're reacting like a young man of the time, a young ... gentleman of the time. Or perhaps ...” he paused, and looked back at Lee, “like a ... proper ... young lady ... Shocked, they would have been, but they would have been excited too. Both young lady and young gentleman would have wanted to know, just like you, what Porphyro would do next, how Madeline would react. This was 1820 remember, parents would be trying to stop their children from reading these Romantics. This bunch of poets was subversive. But the poets knew their young audience - children of the French Revolution - they were almost the same age themselves. And that audience, like young generations everywhere, like you, like me in my time, felt they could take on the olduns, the old values. This is, indeed, a daring piece of writing. And it was improper. It was in a way … indecent.”


The class was silent. Was their teacher joking? Lee's eyes narrowed. But before he could think how to regain his position, the teacher was speaking again:

"Right, class, all of you - it's 1820. Imagine you’re there. Imagine that since you were perhaps ten or twelve, you have never, never, been allowed to be alone with someone of your age of the opposite sex."


Safia tugged at her headscarf, looked across at her friend Faseeha.


"Let’s imagine ourselves in those days. Girls, if you were to meet a young man, you would have had a chaperone, some grumpy, nosey old biddy right behind you, observing and listening.”

The teacher couldn't help but look up at the Ofsted woman at the back. Some of the class turned, too. She was staring at him, her lips parted.

"And lads, remember, you are not allowed closer to a girl than two full arms' lengths. Boys and girls, like you, wouldn’t meet in school together either. Girls, you wouldn't have gone to school at all.

“Now, I need all of you to just imagine you’re reading this story upstairs, alone, in your bedroom. Your parents have no idea you've got this book of Keats' poems. You keep it hidden. If they found out, you’d be in real trouble.

“Let’s picture the scene in the poem. Porphyro is alone with Madeline in her bedroom; his face is leaning over her sighing, half-asleep, half-awake body; his arm is resting gently on her pillow, just next to her head. Oh, and, Lee, the word you were looking for is 'voyeur'. But then a voyeur is someone who only wants to look, unnoticed, to gain sexual gratification, and that's not really the right word to describe Porphyro here, now is it, Lee? He wants her to wake her up, but gently, and see him. He desperately wants to know, yet is fearful to know, her feelings for him.”

Lee remained quiet. The class had lost interest in him.

"Right, remember the build up to this verse - we looked at it yesterday. Porphyro has just sung that ancient song about a femme fatale – hang on – what was it called Stephanie?”

“La Belle Dameson ...”

“Damme Sans ...”

“Son Mercy"

"Well done Steph! ‘The beautiful pitiless woman’. Porphyro is scared she might wake and show her distain for him. Both are madly in love with each other, but are terrified the other feels nothing for them. And, though dreaming of him, she's fearful that he isn't interested in her. What colour are her eyes, Jason?’

"Blue, sir... ‘Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone’."

"Jason, spot on. And, class, why, in that line we looked at last lesson, do you think Keats wrote 'wide open shone' why didn't he write 'shone wide open' like he'd have said in conversation? Anyone?"

Ideas came flooding in.

"Makes it stand out!"

"Makes it sound like oldey English."

"Makes you remember it!"

"It emphasises the last word - shone "


"Yes, Keats does inversion a great deal in this poem, for all of these reasons.” The teacher crescendoed, “Oh of stars what brilliant a bunch we are all!". The class laughed.

“Isn't teaching the best job in the world?” he thought. He was growing to love this class - Eleven Group Three. He'd even forgotten about the Ofsted woman.


"Now for work. Table groups. Each table has its handout - the verse. Make your notes on it. And your task is to explain to the rest of the class how the language, the imagery and the sound of the verse show what the man, Porphyro, and what the woman, Madeline, are feeling. To get you started, I've written examples of the sort of thing I want on the board - firstly, language - Porphyro hears Madaline speaking in her sleep, in Porphyro's mind Madeline speaks with 'voluptuous accents' - in earlier English, 'voluptuous' simply meant 'pleasurable' - but by Keats' time, it was usually being used to describe physical female attraction - that means sexy, Lee."
Lee smiled, sheepishly.

"And 'sapphire heaven' refers to the simile, the image of Porphyro feeling like a 'throbbing star'. He's throbbing with passion in a sapphire sky. Sapphires are blue but they're also precious, classy. So his feelings don't come from something coarse and nasty, they come from feelings that are ...?" Devon, on Table 3, chimed in, "Precious and classy, Sir."


The teacher paused. "That's enough," he thought. "The Ofsted woman must have noted I've engaged the class, given a bit of scaffolding, modelled something of the type of answer wanted. Mmm. But then, she’ll think I’m too familiar with them, too personal. Oh. Oh what the heck. Let's make sure what I want is clear." He stood up again."Right, class. You have five minutes to get your ideas together and feed back to us. Feel the words yourselves, not just as 19th Century readers. Most importantly, think about emotions you've had if you have ever fallen madly in love with someone but don't know if they’ve any feelings at all for you."


The class looked at him, thoughtful, silent. The Ofsted woman hunched over her desk looking at the worksheet.

"But first, before you start, I want you to close your eyes and just listen to the sound of the verse. Close your eyes. Just listen:

“ ‘Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far
At these voluptuous accents, he arose,
Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star
Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose:
Into her dreams he melted, as the rose
Blendeth its odour with the violet ...’ ”


After a while he began to pace the classroom, listening in at each table. But he wasn't needed. There was a hum of discussion and there was laughter and there were earnest voices burning with feeling.

He found himself at the back of the room standing next to the Ofsted woman. But she didn't seem to notice him. She was propped up by a hand that was sort of shading her eyes. In her other hand, now partly open, rested a pen. He saw that on the task sheet in front of her she'd underlined the words 'Into her dreams he melted.' Next to the underlining she had written: 'But only in my dreams ever would he come to me."

A watery droplet landed, made a brief trembling dome in the midst of her words. This was followed by another and then another. But they were soon sucked away into the paper - her words becoming just a pale, blue, streaky stain.