Cat's Cradle

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.