Cat’s Cradle
The office was not
much more than a box; its door permanently open. Unless it wasn’t.
The architect who
had designed and scattered these boxes throughout had thought to himself – or
herself – well, you know, we have to put that these days, pronouns and so
forth…
…although, do you
remember that Filipina? ‘Ewww, man having hankus with other…’and the room
smiled politely, looking at their Jesus sandaled feet as she was dragged back
behind the bar by an irate manager.
Manager. There’s
another minefield…
…had thought to
itself, let’s make them glass fronted, in a spirit of openness and transparency.
Well, what’s a
chap to do? Plaster the glass with posters? Try to find a nook or cranny where
the inner workings are concealed, like Winston’s recess?
Maybe just leave
the door permanently open. Or not. And on this occasion, voices birthed from
inside to out, briefly audible before they were suffocated by block transfer
air conditioning.
For a
sixty-year-old woman, Sandra had a brisk pace, she kept herself fit, well aware
that teaching was a marathon not a race – twenty minutes a day, perhaps a
little more on weekends; mango for breakfast. Dates.
Always dates, Arabia was fecund with dates – they grow on trees there,
you know, super food.
On a certain day,
nets would appear around generous clustered bunches, ready to catch the falling.
But she knew to keep it to six a day. Any elderly Arabian would always advise
no more than six – there are properties, they contain certain supplements that
are apt to keep a person awake.
Therefore, without
being too much smug, Sandra walked with a bounce and hips and did not miss the UK too
much.
Well, who does?
Some people do,
some people miss those green fields on the other side of the fence, the
clustered shoeboxes clutching at a long departed past, where some people have
too short a season, it seems.
Now abreast of the
voices, Sandra peered into the box and was unsurprised to see her boss, George,
slounging in his plastic leather swivel chair, hands clasped behind the back of
his head, all lace fingers and knotty brow, listening to Khalid, who had a
notebook, an animated voice, a mocking tone and was stroking his fingers on the
strings of George’s old, cornered bass guitar as he spoke.
“Morning, boys.
What’s going on here?” she asked, in an open tone, although she wasn’t too
interested.
“Secret Santa.”
“I don’t hold with
Secret bloody Santa,” Khalid asserted, disdainfully.
“Well, you’re
Muslim,” Sandra pointed out. “Which - fair enough. But for some of those
teachers from the UK,
well, it’s a highlight for them.”
“Of course,”
grinned George, “But what to get?” He waved a crumpled piece of red, festive
looking card at her. “I’ve got Sinead. I haven’t a clue what Sinead would think
is a good present. Two years ago, I got Ciaran a train set, for a laugh…except
he didn’t see the funny side, he got all puffed up and red necked. All
blowfish. I thought his acne would spew pus like a volcano. So last year, I
played it safe and got Aidan a potato peeler from Lulu.”
“Young ones
are the worst,” Khalid agreed. “For them life is just get pissed, order takeout
and go to the gym.”
“Bit ageist,”
replied Sandra, shaking her head.
“Well, can I help
it if it’s true?”
George’s forehead
was one of those that had a cleft between the two thickened, greying brows,
and, while he would never own up, she knew he plucked those hairs that dared
grow there. He waved at the grubby desk behind his chair, “Coffee?”
“No thanks, had
one. I’ll want to pee all lesson. Teaching in five minutes.”
Khalid nodded,
still stroking the strings. “At least you do fucking teach, Sandra,” he grunted
in a grumbling undertone, his eyes glancing at her – slightly more youthful –
tapping his notebook. “More complaints, bloody endless.” And his voice had a
northern burr to it, northern UK
that is, not Qatar.
“She was in here
crying the other day,” George added, with a thoughtful swivel.
“Who?”
“Oh, one of those
young ones. Sunita. Complained she had to mark some exams. Said it was giving
her stress and bringing on her anxiety. I had to point out that marking exams
comes with the job. I didn’t point out, however, that she was bringing on my
irritable bowel syndrome. She complained I lacked empathy when I ran to the
toilet.”
Sandra nodded in
sympathy. And then was moved aside.
Behind her, tall,
her long locks covering deep brown pools like willow trees, Ms Ananya peered
into the office, her gaze not quite as friendly as George would hope. “Mr
George,” she snapped displaying all the charm of the Master-At-Arms and his
swagger stick and the cold parade ground on a January day in Devon.
“Why did you miss my training?”
Khalid scoffed
silently, rolling his eyes in such a way that Ms Ananya could not see.
“There was
training?” George responded, not too convincingly, but using his deepest and
most English accent, well aware that such a register still had cachet –
although, it could never be openly admitted, here or anywhere else.
“I sent an email.
All invigilators to have training before the next examinations.”
George pursed lips
sent out an SOS to Sandra and Khalid: “I…er…must have missed that one, Ms
Ananya, I say, I do like your hair today, it’s very, very nice, very nice
indeed.”
She paused, just
slightly, but then, not to be diverted, continued. “It’s not the first time you’ve
missed my training. We have a new important directive that you must be aware
of.”
“Ah, um, what is
that?”
“We have a
selection of students who are serial lates. To exams. We will make them wait
outside.”
“Good, that sounds
an excellent plan. Tell me, did the Head of Arabic go to this training, Ms
Ananya?”
Ms Ananya scowled.
“Mr Hassan is excused invigilation. He never turns up.”
George stood up,
pushed past Khalid and Sandra and grinned. “Well, what if I never turned up?
Would you excuse me?” And he looked deep into the Indian woman’s stunning eyes.
A blistering, soul shuddering look - that travelled between them both, from
inside to outside, before it earthed itself safely.
She bit her lip
and blushed. “Please never do that, Mr George. I think too much of you for you
to do that.” And she frowned, walking away, leaving George shaking.
“Laters,” Khalid called
after her, watching her retreating figure.
Sandra flicked his
ear from behind. “Snap out of it.”
George’s frame
relaxed, as it does, you know, when unresolved tension passed. “That rogue, Mr
Hassan, I can’t tell you what he asked me to bring back from England
next term. After Christmas.”
“You can’t just
say that,” replied Khalid, emphasizing that.
“Tell. Tell what it is.”
“Some spray.
For…you know… a certain spray. I didn’t even know you could...well I’ve never
heard of it, anyway, filthy old man.” George gestured vaguely at his crotch.
Outside the
office, the bell for last lesson sounded. Children had already begun walking
the corridors, turfed out from within the classrooms, idling towards their next
one, chattering, up and down the open bleaches.
Khalid bristled.
He had spotted a teacher coming up stairs from below. Although it was only two
or three years older than the Year 11 students, he could tell it was definitely
a teacher by the strut, high heeled, a Starbucks iced latte in one hand and
phone in the other, gamely tapping the latter with a scarlet nailed thumb. “The
shite they’re sending us from England these days,” he
grumbled, but, as he was looking at the guitar, it was difficult to be sure
what he was referring to.
“Yes,” agreed
Sandra, “that really is a shitty bass.”
“It’s ok, it’s a
Yamaha, just a bit old, is all. You can still play a few good tunes on her.”
replied George. And he picked it up. Riffed a string or two with his right
fingers, tonguing his lips as he usually did.
“It’s not right.”
Khalid scowled, his dark face creased, “I’ve said it before.”
“You just don’t
agree with music, is all,” George smiled, tolerantly. Because if life had
taught him anything over here, it was to be tolerant.
“No, not that. The
fact this young one is about to give out 25 worksheets, sit behind a desk and
message the other young ones on the phone for an hour.”
Sandra shook her
head. “Probably it was Covid. Why they turned out this way. Maybe we need to be
more understanding. You know. They grew up in times when getting out of bed was
a major decision. Life or death.”
George nodded.
“Yes, Sandra, it could be that.” Tolerant.
“No, no,” growled
Khalid, “I just wish you’d be more, you know, strict with them. Put some stick
about, George. You’re the boss. It gives the school a bad fucking name, the way
these bastards behave.”
“Now, Khalid, what
good would that do? They’d just stay in bed more than they do already and throw
more sickies. Bless them, I say. Some we catch, some will fall. It’s always
been that way.” And George beamed in a Head of English sort of way. You know
that smile. You’ve seen it before.
Carrying a large
cardboard box, Sandra’s heels clipped on the hard floor as she zigzagged pupil
flack and bombing, on her way to class.
Now, in this part
of the world, most children had not lost their joy in a good lesson. The girls,
a Year 8 class, clustered around Sandra, and the door, looking cheerful,
talking animatedly, asking a barrage of questions like dam busters.
Because, as you
will remember, a good English lesson is the best lesson of the day.
This one would be
particularly splendid, too. Sandra was about to teach Philosophy with her
cardboard box. No actually, that’s a thing these days – for children. Well, you
know, lessons move on.
She got fed up
explaining to friends who did not work in schools what a cover lesson was.
Covering a sick
colleague, teaching a subject that was unfamiliar, managing a class on the
hoof. These could be difficult. Typically when young teachers were persistently
absent, she reasoned, it was because the children in front of them had been
allowed too much laxity and become naughty.
Hence stress, absence
and the spiral got worse as behaviours were repeated. Some could be saved, some
would fall.
“Where’s Miss
O’Donnell? Why is she absent again?”
Given that three
or four young ones were absent that morning, Sandra thought she probably
knew, but kept mum. Instead, she arranged a circle of chairs and asked them to
sit.
“I am your cover
teacher,” she announced grandly.
Immediately, Jana
put her hand up. “Are you our cover teacher?”
Several girls
groaned.
“Yes, Jana…now,
stop.” Because Sandra could see the hand was about to shoot up again. “Remember
what you’ve been told? Give yourself some thinking time? High quality
questions?” Sandra started passing out those small mini-boards that are
commonly seen in classes these days, little white plastic slates – very Roman -
designed to get students to slow down and think. “In fact,” she continued,
“It’s a very good idea to scribble questions on these before asking them.”
Jana’s whole body
was quivering indecisively, fighting the urge to ask something along the lines
of why such a thing was a good idea. Before she could, however, Sandra had put
her large, innocuous cardboard box inside the circle, bracing herself for Jana
to ask if it was a cardboard box, or why it was a box, or how a box had arrived
there.
“Now then, girls,
What’s in the box?”
It was an old
idea, Sandra still occasionally trotted out when she was winging it.
“Is it a Christmas
present, Miss?”
“If we guess
what’s inside, can we get to keep it?”
“Christmas is
haram.”
“You can’t get to
keep it, nobody gets to keep it, do they, Miss?”
“Do we have to
guess what’s inside the box, Miss?”
That last one from
Jana, of course, but Sandra grimaced through gritted teeth and watched as the
arguments unfolded for about ten minutes or so before calling for order from
team leaders.
“I think it’s a
bird.”
“If it was a bird,
we’d hear it squawking.”
“No, it could be
sleeping.”
“Miss would never
be as cruel as to put a living creature in a box. It would be dark in there.”
“It’s a bird that
likes the dark.”
“It’s an animal
that likes the dark.”
“It hasn’t got out
of bed.”
“It hasn’t been
born yet. It’s an egg.”
“Miss, would you
be so cruel to put a living thing in the box?”
“It’s a snake.”
“It’s a snake
egg.”
“Do snakes come
from eggs?”
“There are snakes
in boxes in the desert. They like dark places and they wait in there, ready to
attack anybody that dares disturb them. Waiting.”
“Maybe, there’s a
bird in there near to the snake egg and if it moves it will be attacked. We
should open the box to let it come free.”
Sandra waved for
quiet. “You’re a bloodthirsty lot, girls. But, I suppose, that’s the point
isn’t it? What if something was in there waiting to…erm…come free, but we don’t
know what it is? Do we open the box or do we leave it undisturbed where we
found it? What do we do? What rough beast, its hour come round at last?”
“Miss, do rough
beasts leave snakes in boxes in the desert?”
“Shut up, Jana.”
As the girls
busied themselves responding to the idea, Sandra watched them, thinking about
George and Khalid and things in dark wombs waiting to be born.
Once, the
staffroom had been upstairs.
Maybe ten years
ago, when the school first opened, was establishing itself, was waiting for
students and, of course, the teachers to educate their budding souls, there had
been plenty of space, plenty of empty classrooms. But like converting a hard
shoulder to smart running on a cheapskate English motorway, the more capacity,
the more it fills, less room, more congestion.
You get the
picture.
Once meetings had
been held in the staffroom. It was an industrious place, there were
workstations, a kitchen, an efficiency. Now meetings were held in the library.
What once had been was now a classroom and the staffroom had been moved
downstairs, away from the business end of the school, a little box at the
bottom of the stairs with pigeonholes at the back.
George’s
pigeonhole was stuffed full of old papers, because he never went there.
It wasn’t
deserted, though. And only this morning, the school nurse had come from her
well-furnished clinic to drop off some non prescription cures for coughs,
colds.
Quick. Take
Beechams.
Was Covid just a
myth? How did it happen so long ago? What poison?
Bracing himself,
outside the door, George tried not to knock. It was difficult, feeling like he
was about to disturb something that should be left untouched, like lifting a
damp rockery stone – or giving due warning to whatever was on the underside.
Closed doors, not
something he felt should exist in a school, yet here he was with a fistful of
exam papers.
And no windows,
either, just the ever present air conditioning blowing the toxins inside round
and round.
Reluctantly he
pulled the handle and the wood in the frame grudgingly gave in; he poked his
nose around the corner. “Is Jimmy here? Are, yes, there you are.” He strode the
two or three steps that it took to cross the floor and thrust the papers under
his nose. “There you go, all marked.” And, without waiting for thanks, abruptly
turned and scuttered out.
His presence had
caused a flurry of silence. That ominous sort, like the rapid hanging up of a
phone followed by a tone, back when that had been a thing.
Maybe ten seconds
after the door clicked shut, a buzz of conversation restarted.
“What a bastard,”
declared a garrulous, female Irish voice. Its owner possessed blonde tousled
hair and she pulled out her hastily hidden iced coffee and McDonald’s
beefburger which she tore into, white toothed, ripping lumps of bread and
greasy meat apart with relish.
Some spilled onto
the desk and her trousers as she continued with full-mouthed opinions. “It’s
all right for him, with his office. In any case, he only does that marking to
show you up, Jimmy.”
“Yeah, I know,
Siobhan,” replied Jimmy, looking up from his phone, thumbing it dexterously
with his left hand, because his tight held a pen which was wanting paper to
score. “Still, that’s fifteen less to do.”
“Yes but he’s a
complete tosser, Jimmy. I have to work with it – always telling you what to do,
giving advice, ‘teaching in his day’. Fucking annoying.”
“They’re all as
bad as each other. Know nothing. Do nothing. Them and their blackboards, chalk
and sugar paper.”
They were all
packed tight in that box and Jimmy’s breath mingled with the cheap odour of
Siobhan’s processed meat. Forced to. Breathing in each other’s words. He
coughed loudly, the light catching the shower of spittle and looked
suspiciously at some of the powders previously left by the nurse for the use
of. “Think these will help?”
“Ah, we’ve all got
it in here. I think we’re passing it to each other like parcels,” someone else
replied.
“Parcels?”
“Yeah, you know.
Pass the parcel. Like at parties.”
“Oh yeah, funny,”
chortled Jimmy, although he didn’t really think so. And he glanced at the
trolley with all the Secret Santa boxes on it, for later that day.
“You travelling?”
called another voice, this time from the other side of the room.
Once more, Jimmy
looked up from the phone. “Heading back to Liverpool,
can’t wait, I’ll be free of this shit hole.”
“Two or three
weeks at lest.”
“If I come back.
I’ve a mind to stay there.” Jimmy paused for thought. “They didn’t tell us
about this, did they? Lied to us, the bastards.”
“You signed a two
year contract.”
“What can they do?
I just won’t get on the plane.” Jimmy paused. “I mean, think on it. I could be
on the Kop New Year with me mates. I’ve saved a bit from the four months I’ve
been here. I mean, I’m not saying I will. It could be, though.” He frowned,
wondering where his last idiom had come from. It could be, though. Yes. That
was very Middle East. Ah well, finish, hallas.
“You need to get
those papers marked, Jimmy,” Siobhan pointed out, “if you miss the
deadline…well…if you miss the deadline…”
“Well, what?”
Siobhan wasn’t
exactly sure what, having never faced much in the way of repercussions in her
short life, yet. What would happen? She tried to conceptualize the enormity of
missing a deadline, but had no frame of reference. Then, something dawned.
“You’ll miss Secret Santa. You’ll not get your present.”
“Bollocks to
Secret Santa.”
Unable to think of
a retort, and not sure if she wanted to, Siobhan finished the last of her
fries, drank the dregs of the latte and examined at her phone. Her pudgy young
face froze in disbelief; the colour literally draining out of it. The phone was
frozen in her hand.
Next to her,
Patrick sensed something was wrong, placed a red pen down and shoved her left
shoulder. “What’s the problem?” And he too, looked at the phone in his left
hand. No, nothing on his. He shrugged.
Siobhan was still
frozen.
“What’s the big
issue?” said Patrick again.
His voice seemed
to act upon her like a laxative, and the left thumb began gliding across the
screen frantically. Occasionally she would pause, wait. Then the thumb sprang
into further action. It was rather impressive to an onlooker – but to those
within, commonplace – they’d been doing it since they could remember.
Whatever was being
typed was having little result, however, judging from the various shades
Siobhan’s face was turning.
Until, at last,
she shook her head and finally answered Patrick’s plaintive calls.
“It’s Abdul
Shehabi’s parents. They want to see me. In the foyer.”
“That’s not good.
That’s never good.”
“But he was only
moved to my class by Mr George two weeks ago. I only told him that he would
find top set too difficult, that’s all. Honest.”
“That Abdul’s a
hooligan.”
“It’s not your
fault. It’s those bastards again. They never think anything through. That’s the
trouble. They never ask us. Just do what they want, when they want.”
“Well there’s no
way I’m going to meet them, anyway.” Siobhan bit her lip, fighting the urge to
cry. And the staffroom had never felt so warm and comforting. So closed and
safe. Like a blanket from a mother.
“What if they
don’t go away?”
“Shut up. They’ll
go away. They’ll get bored waiting,” Siobhan muttered, not even convincing
herself. Why now? Why on this day? It was Secret Santa, they had to know that,
didn’t they?
The others, within
that small room could genuinely feel it, fight or flight; the swirling,
bitterly cold air from without was waiting to get in, waiting for those within
to come without.
Siobhan suddenly
knew what had to be done.
“I’ll call Sandra.
She’ll know what to do.”
Now as all this
was going on, upstairs, down the bleaches 500 steps and to the right on the
boys’ side, Head of Secondary, Ms Anita, was having one of those.
You know -
interviews. If you look in your management handbook, they’re often called
‘difficult conversations’, can fall into several categories and none of them
are very much fun anymore.
Managing difficult
conversations – first, establish the parameters and set the venue – and if you
haven’t had to read one of these books or attended one of these courses, you’ve
had a lucky life, full of joy and freedom, with any sort of pyramid absent from
your thoughts except on those times when you flick through a guidebook and
dream of visiting the Nile.
Anita sighed
inside herself, setting a calm smile upon the white canvas of her attractive
face, brushing back the blonde locks that would tumble across her eyes in
disobedience and settled her trim frame more comfortably into the high backed
chair.
Pushing across a
box of tissues, she forbade her eyes to look at the winking laptop; a dozen
important tasks screaming for attention, “like a cat’s cradle.”
The figure in
front of her stopped sniffling. “What?” She had a northern English accent – or
was it Welsh? Yes, maybe Welsh – which figures, because Sunita was from Cardiff.
“Huh?”
“You said something
about cars.”
Anita frowned, “I
thought that was in my head. It must have escaped, somehow. Like cats.”
“Cars?”
“Yes, they escape,
don’t they? At least the one I had, when I lived in Prague as a student. It would escape,
wouldn’t it?”
“Would it?”
“Of course. Over
the top of the gin factory and into the mews, where it would spit at the legs
of innocent people out for their Sunday shopping. And there was that time it
thieved my neighbour’s steak. Left on the window sill to thaw. Mid January.
It’s cold in Prague
on a mid January morning.”
Sunita looked
puzzled. “What kind of car? A Fiat?” Perhaps she was putting herself into that
car, spitting at the public, stealing steaks. Perhaps she couldn’t see it,
though, the way she blinked underneath her hijab, reaching for another tissue,
filling up again.
Because the
difficult conversation was not sticking to the set parameters she’d previously
written down, Anita probably wished she had that book to hand. “Not car,
Sunita. Cat. I’ve heard that crying too much causes your ears to block and your
nose to run. In any case…” she paused, raising her hand to prevent something
that looked like it might be an outraged outburst along the lines of ‘are you
calling me deaf’…”I was thinking of a cat’s cradle.”
“Cat’s cradle?”
“Looking at my
computer, a small black box, with everything inside, ready to burst outside. My
Grandfather, God rest his soul, used to show me this thing with string.
Somehow, when he flicked it, everything inside would be on the outside.”
Sunita sniffled,
not really understanding, because all she had was inside and she hadn’t really
giving much thought to the outside, or what it was that happened there. Safer
to be in, within what could be controlled. The outside was something she kept
away from the inside. Not that she said this or thought it, really, she just
felt it. If the outside came in, it was via her phone, where it could be
blocked.
“Wouldn’t that be
a thing? If what was inside was outside? If everything flipped?”
“I really don’t
see what this has to do with my resigning.”
“Ah yes, that.”
Anita replied, reluctantly, and examined the typed note in front of her – which
looked as though it had been drafted on a phone. She squinted at it. “Well,
look. You’d be breaking your contract, you know? You’ve only been with us three
months. Is that really long enough to know that you’re unhappy?”
“That George
wanted me to mark the students’ exams. Lots of exams. Just the thought of it
brings on my anxiety. My mental health is more important than marking exams,
isn’t it?”
“Well, marking
exams is generally part of a teacher’s job, Sunita. I’m sure they must have
mentioned it at teacher training college.”
“Well, maybe they
did. I might have missed that lecture. I missed a lot of lectures. There was
Covid, you know?”
“Covid?”
“Yes. I did my
teacher training online – mostly in my bedroom. I also had special permissions
to keep my camera off during the Zoom lectures I attended. Privacy.”
“Yes. We used to
have that problem with the students, I remember.”
“I just feel
homesick. I want to go back to Cardiff.
To my mum and dad.”
Once again, Anita
sighed. Some days, you’re just not going to win, are you?
In fact it was
Khalid, not Sandra, who turned up.
The foyer, located
at the front of the school, was a grand affair, a huge semi circle beneath the
library with several desks, behind which were people to meet and greet,
depending on whatever visitors would present. Behind them was a glass fronted
aviary containing parrots and love birds – for reasons best known to the
architect.
Something to do
with sustainable vertical gardening was mentioned in the plans.
The Principal’s
offices were situated to the left and other administrative offices to the right
and behind the aviary? A swimming pool and large sports hall.
Rather than let
irate parents into the inner workings, several sofas and chairs were arranged
into horseshoes and within one such, a man and a woman sat patiently.
The woman was
dressed in comfortable, shapeless clothing and wore her hijab tightly – a colourful
one with a floral pattern. The man was a few years older, face mostly obscured
by a grey beard, wore a traditional thawb and sat, silent, tapping his watch
occasionally. He was, in fact, desperate for a smoke and was looking at the
exit doors.
“Wait,” snapped
his wife, before he could move. And the man sighed, shook his fob watch again
and showed yellow teeth.
Khalid witnessed
all this from the corridor to the side of them, because he was of course, anonymous
to them at this point. Therefore, the initiative was his, familiar as he was
with that indispensible teacher’s handbook ‘Getting the Buggers’ Parents to
Behave’.
Instinctively,
Khalid thrust his arm out. “Stop.”
In doing so, he
caught hold of Siobhan, still stuffed up, all red eyes and puffy cheeks and
shaking.
“Where do you want
to be?” Khalid nodded his head curtly in the direction of the parents.
She did not
answer. Looked at him, maybe for the first time. Solid, bearded, a little
overweight, a glint of humour or malice in his eyes, solid, comforting, forty
something, not much younger than her dad. They sent him with his space cadet
glow, like a surrogate band – she might have thought, if – well, you know. If.
If any of them had, if any of them did.
That bloody mobile
phone, clutched in a sweaty paw. It somehow felt useless. So, she slipped it
into her pocket. “Is that them?”
“Oh, I should
think so. Now look, shall I speak to them? You want me?”
Siobhan was
shuddering, like that moment just before the actor goes on stage or the speaker
has to stand up and take those three or four steps. Oh yes, she wanted that.
Khalid grinned. He
leant into her ear, not wanting to betray his presence just yet. “Bit of a fuss
isn’t it? Getting worked up over a couple of parents?” He paused. Scratched his
beard. “I remember, back when I was in the Royal Navy, Chief Petty Officer
Frost, a sadistic twat, racist, hated Muslims, particularly Pakistanis. Thought
we weren’t English enough, something like that. I was in the Black
Mountains, resource and initiative training, had a headache – a real
banger. I asked him for an aspirin. He had one. Gave it to me and told me that
if I didn’t give it back at the end of the yomp, he’d thrash the living
daylights out of me.”
“What did you do?”
Siobhan asked, interested, despite herself.
“It doesn’t
matter, does it?” Khalid looked at the parents and inside his head was counting
very slowly to twenty.
He’d got to about
thirteen when Siobhan crossed the floor with a smile fixed upon her face. He
saw some movements of greeting and then she sat down.
He watched for
about five minutes, just in case. But, even as he did so, the meeting abruptly
finished. There were more handshakes, some smiles and the parents headed for
the exit.
Siobhan almost
flew back to Khalid and her face betrayed something like joy. Clutching a small
package in the hand usually reserved for her phone, she punched Khalid on his
right arm.
“Well?”
“I was literally
shaking,” she confessed. “That was my first. My first, ever.”
Khalid laughed. “I
was here. If you needed me.”
Siobhan shook her
head in disbelief. “They told me I was a good teacher. Just wanted to give me a
gift. No, more. They wondered if I could go after school to tutor their other
son, Mohammed. I feel like something flipped. Crazy.”
“You’re not.”
“Not what?”
“A good teacher.
But you could be. You will be.”
“I’m better than
you. They said. Better than Mr Khalid.”
Khalid roared with
laughter. “Have it your own way, Ms Siobhan. But don’t forget, I have the top
results for English in the school. That’s why George rates me.”
“Yes, well things
are about to change around here, my friend.” And Siobhan’s voice was full of bass
notes and conviction.
Later that
afternoon, there was Secret Santa.
Here was Anita
dressed in red, passing out packages with her two deputies. Here was George in
the corner, nearest to the door, which he held open, occasionally taking in the
air from outside as he hovered on the fringes. Here was Sandra, opening a box,
taking what was within, looking about in mocked up outrage. These occasions are
like that.
Mostly, teachers
were already thinking about flights and jetting away to homelands for the
winter break.
In the corner of
the staffroom, a sulky sullen few, still messaging on phones, inconvenienced by
the need to open the gaudy coloured bags – for these, mainly a mug from the
nearby Starbucks if a girl, a tie for the boys.
“Oh look, a potato
peeler,” exclaimed one, in surprise.
“Not just any
potato peeler. Turn this handle and your actual vegetable becomes a spiral to
deep fry,” replied George, as if he knew of such things.
Khalid of course,
did not participate, instead enjoying a karak with Mr Hassan.
Siobhan herself
had an arm around Sunita, feeling almost motherly. “Looking forward to going
home?”
“Of course. I’ll
not miss this place, will I? What about you?”
“No, I’m not ready
to go back into my box yet.” And looking around the staffroom, she shivered.
It seemed such a
small place.
