Thirty Years in a Cupboard

The weather chart in Room 4 had been broken since October, when the cardboard arrow fell off and rolled under the radiator.

“What’s in that cupboard?” a boy asked, one wet Tuesday in March.

“Weather charts,” Fenwick said. “One for every class I’ve taught. Thirty of them.”

He had meant to save them for June. Instead he let the children spread them across the floor, oldest by the window, newest by the door.

1996. 2003. 2011. Thirty sheets of paper, all covered in tiny drawings: sun, rain, cloud, snow.

Nobody said anything for a while. Then a girl at the window end put her hand flat on the oldest chart. “Mr. Fenwick, this one has fourteen snow days.”

“Ours has one,” said a boy by the door. “And it wasn’t real snow.”

They called the numbers down the line. Fourteen. Eleven. Nine. Six. Two. One.

Fenwick opened his mouth and closed it again. The girl was already counting the rain.

That evening he took out his June folder: a film about climate, a huge image of the planet, two pages of questions about the future. On the front, in his own handwriting: Look at the charts. Do you notice anything?

He crossed it out. They had got there in March, on the floor, without him.