Grandma got bored
What on earth have you made? Its impossible to eat! Too sweet, too gloopy, too Oh, yuck.
Without a second thought she tipped the whole pot into the loo.
Daisy, at the end of her tether, snapped:
Thats enough! Ive had it! This is my house, my kitchen, my family! Out you go!
***
Margaret Whitaker, whose name was whispered with a mixture of awe and terror in the corridors of Oakridge Primary School, was a phenomenon. A veteran teacher turned headmistress with twenty years under her belt, she embodied every wonderful thing that could possibly happen to the education system. Did the school love her? Thats a rhetorical question. More likely the school was just trying to survive her.
Margarets devotion to teaching manifested as a relentless, sleepless surveillance of everything. Lessons had to be flawless, discipline ironclad, blazers pressed, ties knotted to the exact specification. She could burst into a maths class to check the register, riffling through pupils notebooks, or halt the PE teacher to ask why half the class wore trainers while the rest sported canvas shoes.
MrsWhitakers coming! that hushed warning made teachers straighten their backs, students frantically stash their phones in their bags, and open their textbooks to the right page, while cleaning lady Auntie May doubled her speed polishing the floors to a shine.
Everyone instantly became diligent and industrious. The pupils obeyed. The staff never argued. Parents arriving at meetings arrived with a box of calming tablets in case they needed them.
Margaret genuinely believed she kept the school in the palm of her hand, while in reality she simply wore everyone down with her insatiable urge to control every facet of school life.
MrsWhitaker, youre especially lively today, noted deputy head Irene Peters when the headmistress stormed into the teachers lounge, waving the latest issue of the school newsletter.
Lively? Margaret snapped, staring at the offending paper. Irene, have you even read it? Life at Oakridge its a disgrace! Where are the photos from the graduation ceremony? Wheres the report on the teachers conference? All I see are pictures from the disco and love columns! Is that all were writing about now? Yellow journalism, you say? If youre editing this paper, youre responsible.
Irene sighed. What could she do? The graduation ceremony had been dull, the conference even drier, and the disco was wildly popular with the kids. Arguing with Margaret was pointless.
Ill fix it, MrsWhitaker, she muttered. Ill tell the pupils to rewrite”
Immediately! the headmistress cut in. And make sure the next issue has an article on how music boosts mental development! I spent time lecturing the Year11s for nothing? It must be there! And more photos from the reading competition! And”
The list of demands could have gone on forever.
Margarets energy seemed endless.
But nothing lasts forever.
Time took its toll.
She began to find it harder to cope with restless teenagers, her headaches grew more frequent, and she had less stamina for yet another parents evening with the chronic underachievers. One day, after a heated argument with a parent who insisted his genius son simply couldnt solve quadratic equations, Margaret made a decision. Retirement. She would quit. Shed done enough for the education system; it was time to do something for herself.
The farewell was lavish. Speeches were touching, flowers were extravagant, but underneath the pomp lay a faint, almost imperceptible relief. The school exhaled.
The first few days of retirement were pure bliss. Margaret slept until ten in the morningsomething she hadnt done since universitywent for walks, binged on TV series, and even tried her hand at crochet. She finally had time for herself! But it didnt last long. Within a week her energy started looking for an outlet.
Im getting a bit soft, she complained to her longtime friend Valerie Hughes, a former maths teacher and the only colleague Margaret ever truly befriended. Im doing nothing but eating and sleeping. Ill turn into a greatgrandma!
Valerie suggested she pick up a hobby.
Join a crochet class, you seemed to enjoy that, she said, eyeing the halffinished, lopsided scarf on the windowsill. Or volunteer at the library. Or
But Margaret didnt need crochet lessons or dusty bookshelves. The scarf shed bought yarn for, only to get frustrated the moment she touched it, proved that she needed something more commanding. She needed to mentor. She needed power.
And then the family appeared on the horizon.
Her son, Arthur, a polite gentleman who always agreed with his mother, his wife Daisy, an artist with a tumble of fiery red hair and a temper to match, and their three teenage grandchildrenDaniel, 16, a hopeless romantic rebel; Sam, 14, dreaming of becoming a YouTuber; and Toby, 12, a budding mathematicianbecame Margarets new focus.
She didnt move in with Arthur, but she started dropping by every day for at least half a day. Not just for tea. No, Margaret got to work.
Daisy, whats this mess on the walls? Where are the framed paintings? Where are the family photos?
Arthur tried to smooth things over:
Mum, she likes it. Its her style and we like it too.
Style? Son, youll need to visit more often to remember what style is, and this has to be cleared away immediately.
Daisy snapped back, then fell silent when she thought of her husband. Arthur pleaded, Daisy, bear with her; shes having a hard time without a job
When the colour of the livingroom walls made Margarets eyes roll
Arthur, whats this colour? Its a dreary grey! Whats with the odd decorations? Wheres the joy? Wheres the optimism? Paint it yellow! A pale, gentle yellownothing blinding, just a soft hue that will make the furniture sing.
Mum, we like the colour, Arthur replied. Daisy chose it herself.
Daisy Margaret pursed her lips disdainfully. What does she know about design? In my day
Margaret took charge of the grandchildrens diet.
No chips or fizzy drinks! Only proper food! she declared and began cooking for the whole clan. Her signature disheslumpy semolina porridge and boiled beetroot with garlicmade the teens gag, but they kept quiet because Arthur asked them to. Margarets culinary skills were, lets say, homecooked.
She also seized control of their studies.
Daniel, whats that scribble? Show me your diary! A C in algebra? Shameful! Sam, why are there so many mistakes in your essay? Read more classics! Ive prepared a listevery book you read will be inspected by me.
Even Toby, who tried to slip past his grandmother, wasnt spared.
Whats this game? Running around? Catching people? Thats bad for the mind! You should be doing maths! Ive got a list for you too.
The climax came when Daniel, head over heels for his classmate Amy, arranged a date at the cinema. Upon hearing this, Margaret decided to investigate.
Whos this girl my grandson is seeing? Could she be from a bad background?
So Daniel, blissfully unaware of his grandmothers scheming, escorted Amy to the movies. In the darkest corner of the theatre he spotted his own grandmother. Focus on the film? Impossiblehe kept glancing at Margaret, hoping she wouldnt intervene.
After the film, Margaret sauntered over as if nothing had happened.
Hello, Amy! Youre Amy, arent you? Im Daniels grandmother, Margaret Whitaker. Pleased to meet you.
Amys eyes widened to the size of saucers, but before she could explain, she turned back to Margaret and mumbled, Hello.
Now tell me, how are you getting on at school? What are your favourite subjects? What do you want to be when you grow up? Who are your parents? Margaret bombarded the poor girl with questions.
Amy, bewildered by the principallevel interrogation, answered tersely. Daniel stood nearby, ready to sink into the floor from embarrassment.
Eventually Amy excused herself, fleeing with a startled look. That was clearly their first and last date.
Daniel snapped at his grandmother:
Gran, what are you doing? Youve ruined everything! What am I supposed to say about this now? How am I supposed to look Amy in the eye tomorrow?
You cant reason with a woman like Margaret:
What ruined? You went to the cinema, you saw a film. I didnt interfere. I only stopped by after you left to talk to the girl. I need to know who my grandson is seeing.
Earlier she had even asked why her grandchildren attended a different school from the one she once ranbecause, of course, the son knew his mother too well.
Margaret kept trying to control everything: rearranging furniture, rewallpapering, tossing out unhealthy food from the fridge, and doling out advice left and right, especially on topics she knew nothing about.
One evening Daisy, following her motherinlaws advice, made a pumpkin soup puree. It turned out averageDaisy wasnt exactly a healthfood guru. Margaret tasted it, grimaced, and repeated the opening line:
What have you cooked? Its impossible to eat! Too sweet, too thick, too Oh, yuck.
And, without a moments hesitation, poured the whole pot down the toilet.
Daisy, driven to the brink, erupted:
Thats it! Ive had enough! This is my home, my kitchen, my family! Get out!
Margaret, who never forgave such insubordination, left the flat in silence. Imagine someone at school pulling a stunt like that! That evening Arthur received a furious text from his mother: I expect an apologypersonally. Have Daisy come over and apologise to me, and explain exactly what shes done.
No apology ever came. Arthur tried to smooth things over, but Margaret wouldnt listen.
Tensions in the household rose daily. Arthur still called his mum occasionally, but his wife and the kids, now three weeks into celebrating that Grandma no longer visited, kept their distance.
Then, at the height of the crisis, the phone rang from the school.
MrsWhitaker, good morning! This is Anna Clarke. We have a small problem. The new headteacher isnt coping; hes been asked to step down. The school is in chaos, teachers are complaining, parents are panicking Could you possibly help, even temporarily, while we find a replacement?
Margaret froze; it sounded like music to her ears.
Anna, you have no idea how timely youre calling! Im in! When should I start?
The very next day, Margaret, looking ten years younger, walked back through the doors of Oakridge Primary and resumed her beloved duties. She stopped being angry at her daughterinlaw. She got along calmly with Arthur. She was back in her element. She was again Margaret Whitaker, headmistress of School No1.
On her first day back she called all the teachers into the staff room for an emergency meeting.
Discipline! Order! High expectations! her voice boomed.
She then patrolled the corridors, chastising pupils for muddy shoes.
Quickly, get yourselves together! she commanded.
She popped into the canteen to inspect the lunch.
What are these meatballs? Wheres the meat? Just a slice of bread!
Margaret was back where she belonged, in her element.
She stalked the hallway, scolding pupils for running during breaks.
Stop it right now! she shouted. Youre disturbing everyone elses learning!
She lectured a teacher for being too lenient.
You must be stricter! Otherwise theyll sit on your neck!
She summoned parents to discuss their childs poor performance.
You need to spend more time with your child! Otherwise hell never get into university!
Yes, Margaret Whitaker was a difficult woman. But without her, things seemed even worse. Deep down, even the most disgruntled admitted that a bit of orderher brand of orderwas preferable to chaos. And she wasnt going anywhere soon. Margaret Whitaker wasnt just a headmistress; she was *the* Margaret Whitaker. And that meant the school would dream of peace only when she finally smiled.
