The fog clears and here we are.

The autumn

It’s primary team-planning time at the social, emotional and mental health and pupil-referral unit school in Barnsley. We’ve successfully implemented our new vision for a curriculum over the past two terms and, since September, things have been going well.

We’re now thinking about the run-up to Christmas with our key stage 1 cohort. We want a book – that’s easy, and lots to choose from – and we’d like to focus on the change of seasons with the associated science work.

As we sit chewing our Sharpies, staring at our brainstorm/thought-shower/ideas-vomit sheet, Christmas seems so far away.

The pace of the day-to-day in this setting is full-time full-throttle. As a mainstream secondary teacher, I hadn’t really thought about these "special" settings much at all, but once I found myself in one on a regular basis, I was awestruck at the resilience and professionalism of the adults there, not to mention the mettle of the children in their care.

In the classrooms, I see relationships being honed and managed, as well as a curriculum being personalised and delivered for the kids in the room. I also witness good humour and warmth: the classrooms are oases for a lot of these children and the work is rich, and, from my own humble point of view, I feel I’m really contributing.

We stare at the blank sheet, as the October rain hits the windows with a depressing, thunderous monotony. Then Dan, a gent who has given his life to the place – and has the wrinkles to prove it – says one word:

“Narnia.”

…And we are off!!!

The room fills with the strangely attractive scent of Sharpie pens, as we scribble down possibilities and I find myself coming into my own. What areas of the curriculum does The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe reach out to and touch?

This is one of my standard planning questions when dealing with a hook or a stimulus. The answer to the question is: a lot. And we scribble, laugh, reflect, and then scribble again. The plan is forming. Winter is coming, and it’ll be alright.

Sophie, a brilliant, recently qualified KS1 teacher, starts talking about immersive environments and Dan’s head theatrically hits the desk in a kind of I-can’t-take-it-anymore declaration.

“No,” he moans, “please, no!”

“YES!” Sophie and I respond in unison.

“We need a wardrobe,” I suggest.

“A what?” asks Dan , one of his craggy cheeks still glued to the desk.

“British Heart Foundation Furniture Shop at Town End roundabout. They’ll have one,” offers Sophie.

“We’ll need an old ‘un,” replies Seth, a very agreeable support teacher, as he retrieves one of the school’s minibus keys from his pocket.

“Yeah,” I concur, “one that’s haunted, forgotten, and non-Ikea.”

Ninety minutes later, we are all back in the planning room, our presence dwarfed by a massive old wardrobe. To be fair, it’s ghastly.

“Have we checked inside for skeletons?” I ask.

“Chuff me,” mutters Dan.

“Don’t worry, Dan,” says Sophie cheerfully, “it’ll soon be Christmas.”

The winter

Simply put, the wardrobe becomes more than just a wardrobe. And the classroom becomes more than a classroom. In their study of Ice Worlds, Sophie, Dan and the children gradually transform the classroom into a frosty kingdom of fake snow drifts, polar bears and penguins. The role-play area has swamped the classroom and the vibe is great.

So, what about the wardrobe?

Well, despite Dan’s subtle mock exasperation at my suggestions, they follow them to the letter:

• The doors of the wardrobe are removed and "made magical" by the children who etch their names into them under the guidance of Alex, the KS4 D&T whizz. They also create the image of a castle on one of the doors. When the doors are refitted, the wardrobe front looks like something from, well, a magical story.
• Unbeknownst to the children, the back panel of the wardrobe is removed, and the structure made safe.
• Old coats, donated by staff, are hung on the rail inside the wardrobe.
• The wardrobe is placed in front of the classroom door, the entrance to the Ice World.

So, to enter the classroom, these sometimes angry, often vulnerable and seeking-to-be-understood little people have to open the doors and walk through the wardrobe.

I’m there, in class, watching the children come through the hanging coats, wide-eyed and excited. It’s magical and I’m finding the whole experience strangely moving, as the children ask if they can go out and come in again!

And then little Becky Potter emerges, coats swinging on their hangers in her wake.

Becky Potter, a powder keg of emotion and wit, all seven years of her.

“How long’s that chuffin’ staying there?” she asks, in her colourful South Yorkshire twang, shaking her head.

Dan, Sophie and I crack up.

“That’s just what the caretaker said to me this morning,” whispers Sophie in my ear.

Becky Potter takes her seat and proclaims, “Is it Christmas yet?”

“Soon,” Dan replies, smiling, and repeating, “soon, Becky.”

And the fog descends.

Today, Becky Potter will be about 17 years old. And even though she might not remember me, I’m thinking of her. I hope she’s okay. I hope it’s working out for her and the world isn’t as cold as it sometimes can be.

I hope she has a very Merry Christmas. She’s my very own ghost of Christmas past.

Hywel Roberts is a travelling teacher and curriculum imaginer. He tweets as @hywel_roberts. Read his back catalogue, and follow him on Facebook