Planks

 

Planks

 

There is a bad smell in the dressing room, but where it comes from is anybody’s guess.

Where is this dressing room?

Oh, well, downstairs, I suppose. It abuts onto the school swimming pool, a body of green-tinged water, less emerald and more pea soup, which itself was cupped by once sky-blue tiles, clouded with age.

Not that old; fifteen years, since you ask. And out of bounds to male members of staff if female students are using it. Them’s the rules.

What’s that over there? Ah, yes, the diving board. Which is generally forbidden also. Diving, I mean.

So it’s roped off.

Funny, that. You notice it more often these days - pools where diving is forbidden - whereas, when I was born, pools came equipped with gigantic platforms, high above the waters and - as kids - you’d scurry up ladders and scare yourselves by looking down.

Mostly, we’d jump.

Occasionally, some over confident show-off would do a graceful swallow dive and emerge unscathed, but she’d be the exception. And if you were in front of her, it had been known for a sharp shove in the back to be administered and you’d be tumbling from the plank towards the plankton.

Very Squid Game, eh?

None of this was on the mind of Mr Frank, who was responsible for the school’s P E Department.

Frank Plank.

Not his actual name, but the Afrikaans was close enough.

He was late, having just come from observing a teacher’s Geography Lesson. Year 9 Boys, and they’d been appalling.

He could see why, since you ask, having had decades of experience, before accepting this overseas post. Somehow, the job had expanded along the x and y axis (for y reach for the sky), his beard had grown grizzled and there was a shiny bald pate surrounded by a concentric circle of fluff these days.

Grizzled. Maybe from the French for grey. Gris. No?

Frank saw a lot of lessons, bits of which stayed with him, like grit in between the toes.

As he strode towards his own class, which was to be a theory lesson on football, he wondered why Geography had no equivalent rhyme for the X axis. X. Rhymes with sex. Horizontal. There were definite possibilities. But he pushed these fledglings to the bottom twigs of his feathered mind’s nest because, well, age, and his was not in very good working order.

He had scant chance to use it these days.

Ten years ago, the school had had its fifth birthday and words like family, blue sky, out of the box were tossed around like medicine balls.

Something else you never see anymore, eh? You know. Medicine balls. Or cinnamon balls. Or aniseed rocks.

Or those candy cigarettes with the red tips. Shame, that.

Ten years on, it was more ‘In the Wee Small Hours than ‘Come Fly With Me’, for Frank.

Entropy, entropy, they’ve all got an end for me – no, that doesn’t quite work and, in any case, plenty of life in the old dog yet, he would like to think.

As he pushed open the classroom door, he already knew what awaited. The worst class in the entire world.

No that’s not fair. Once, back in South Africa, he’d had a class with too many students who had – individual needs – shall we say? He’d ducked, just in time, and, while pulling the knife from the board where it juddered, decided that maybe he needed somewhere a little calmer to see out what remained of his career.

So here he was, watching desert suns rise and set on a daily basis.

“Morning, lads.”

One or two answered. Ayad stared at him, fixedly. Why?

Frank decided that briskness was the order of the day. Brisk, brisk, brisk. That was the ticket. The computer was on. He jammed in his flash drive. Stabbed the keyboard. Watched as his presentation opened on the interactive whiteboard.

“Ok. boys out. Date. Scribble down the objective of the lesson…”

“What’s the title, Mister?”

“I need a tissue, Mister.”

“Can I go to the bathroom, Mister?”

“I forgot my book, Mister.”

“Don’t have a pen.”

“I’ve put my pen in the bin, Mister.” That last one caused whoops of derision.

Frank decided not to rise to it. He waited. Looked at Ayad. Ayad looked back.

There was something sad in there, Frank decided. Something he’d done?

Ah. Yesterday he’d hauled the Egyptian lad outside the gym – metaphorically, of course – for throwing basketballs at another group of boys whilst Frank had been trying to explain some of the finer points to do with shooting hoops.

Now - as the teacher in charge of teaching teachers, as it were - Frank was up to date with modern pedagogy and teaching methods. Had to be. Was well aware that you could not expect to stand lecturing fourteen-year-olds for more than ten minutes.

Age plus four. That was the Golden Rule. Age plus four.

However, as this was a practical lesson and the finer points only took a couple of minutes, he was well within his wheelhouse to express some irritation. “I’ll be emailing your parents and you can take a detention for your insolent behaviour.”

But he didn’t go through with it. Frank almost always never went through with it. He was a boy himself, once.

Ayad, sullen, sad-sacked behind his desk. Right in the middle of those boys whom he knew would respond to his negative leadership, expressed loudly in Arabic, should he choose that option.

Of course, Frank did not know Arabic. Even after ten years.

Ayad, good looking, tall, eyes deep pools of brown and that curly black bush, flourishing upon his head. Every month dragged to the salon to have it cut back to its roots, a thorn thicket, a clump of Scot’s reeds, burned to its roots, to a stump and yet that rooted clump clung to the ground like clenched fists, like fingernails deep in grit.

There he sits, eyeballing, and Frank wondered if he should. You know. Engage.

“Here’s a question, lads. Have a think about this one. Talk to your mates if you wish. We’ll take some answers in five minutes.” Frank paused. “In football, which of these is the most important consideration…a player who touches the ball must be sent off, all players must stay onside at all times, the referee must be obeyed without question?”

Frank circled the room, and was now behind the students’ desks, so that if they wanted to see him, heads would have to turn.

He had two things on his mind. Were they engaged? Were they playing 8 ball on their phones?

Now he was directly behind Ayad.

He was doing nothing. No work. No engagement. No talk. Nothing.

Frank wondered at which point he should ask – or even what he should ask. His gut instinct was to roast him, toast him. Instead, he snatched the boy’s planner which was on the desk and flicked it open.

“What’s the matter, Ayad? Why aren’t you doing anything?” Frank’s eyes scanned through the pages and saw the previous three lessons where some teacher had scrawled ‘detention’. So that was it.

Ayad burned.

Next to him, his pal, Mohammad was nattering in an animated fashion to a couple of other boys about the football question. His compadre. Partner in the crimes of teacher baiting. But Mohammed was sharper, was beginning to learn to reel in fish more carefully and, consequently while Ayad flamed in resentment, Mohammad was cool. Picked his moments. Cooked his catch. And ate well.

 

 

Dressing rooms and tiring houses.

If Anita was a horse, her nostrils would be flared as if cantering after a gallop. Maybe a steeplechase. And something wild in her eyes, that was not so before.

You get it in those films we no longer see, like ‘come, white horses’, or ‘woah, woah, the lightning tree’, or that one with no words where the horse is thundering, unsaddled, through far gone English landscapes and is followed by some breathless child shouting, “No, Beauty, no!”

And Anita was somewhere between a canter and a gallop – do we know what the name for an interim stage is? Heading towards her office, the door of which has a plate in newly polished metal which brags ‘Deputy Principal’ and those fixing screws are still gleaming.

She throws herself into her chair, which sits behind a newly installed desk. From her vantage point, she can either glare at two computer monitors that sit at right angles to each other, or, with a gymnastic swivel of the hips, eyeball a round table in gleaming black ceramic, around which are four uncomfortable looking black plastic chairs.

IKEA had fitted these two months ago. They hadn’t lingered.

Almost immediately, Anita whipped out her phone from the inside pocket of her suit jacket. As though unobserved, she snarled at the screen, at the text in green. Green for What’s App. Her fingers stab.

Frank. Frank Plank. She tapped something out, but I couldn’t say what.

His smiling Avatar looked back: old, grey, slow of thought, whilst beneath her avatar tossed its blonde hair back, framing a grainy face that was not so lustrous as it had been, ten years ago.

Throwing the phone onto the desk, Anita looked towards the door because there was a hesitant tap-tap-tapping.

If she said nothing, someone would enter. If she said something, someone would also enter.

And, sure enough, the door pushed itself open, revealing a hand at first, then a leg and finally the whole torso.

Not Frank.

Anita hastily morphed her scowl into what she hoped was a welcoming smile, but the icy glitter around her eyes was like permafrost. It was just that she was the last to know it.

“You wanted to see me.”

“Yes, yes, Salome, sit down, how are you?” Anita’s voice was a grit and sandpaper wound upon which balm had been recently smeared. It was the sound of an 11 plus exam taken at 10 years. It had the tone of a thick fruit smoothie garnished with tin tacks and drawing pins.

It is almost impossible to face somebody these days without having your phone open. Even walking down corridors towards each other, that phone serves as a way of avoiding eye contact. It is your defense mechanism. You can pretend that everywhere else is more urgent than here.

So it goes now. Salome was looking at her phone. But she could feel the hostility as though she was facing an unstoppable forehand down the line from the back of the court.

Anita spoke. “The…er…courses in…ah…stem subjects.”

“Yes?”

“I thought we sorted this out?”

“Well, what is the problem?”

“The problem is, as we discussed, too many students are asking to do the easier courses in order to take examinations a year earlier.”

“No they are not.” Salome sighed, and it was a deep sigh, a gulp for air.

“They are signing up for them. They have paid for these courses.”

“No.”

“I have just come from Examinations Officer. English is a particular problem. All these students opting for the easy option.”

“Maybe it is that the head of English, he is sacked now? Over this problem?”

“What? Look, I know you are new in your role as Head of Secondary, Salome, but I expect better than this. If we have an agreement to change the curriculum, we must ensure that we apply it with rigor and no exceptions.”

“I did everything that you asked.” Salome glanced at her phone again. She seemed to be gathering reserves from within her as though she knew she’s a set and a break down and she had to get the first serve in. “You have to let go. Let me to get on with it.”

“I’m sorry?”

Now the two women looked at each other, and I have to tell you, this wasn’t altogether friendly. How long had it been? Ten years? A ten-year working relationship, a friendship, even, at the edge of darkness. Well, if not darkness, then tasseled and frayed.

“When Paul left last year, Jenlee promoted to Principal, you become her deputy and I become you, and he became me. Except you won’t let me become you. You are still you and I am somewhere him or me.” Salome’s English was reasonable, but the accent thick.

“What is your point?”

“Well, all of us are like planks. Plank that is holdings up this school. But the planks are not even. We must hold up British standards. We have the inspection coming again. This time, she must be outstanding if we is compete with the other schools in Doha. Now, I do things my way.”

“With my continued guidance.”

“Yes.”

“You are new to the role, my dear.”

“So are you.”

Salome bit her lip. Bit back words that might exacerbate things. It was hard up there, though, up there in secondary. Teachers were walking. Jumping on the planes to less frantic places and the gaps in the timetable needed boarding up. With planks.

Anita looked as though she might explode but thought better of it. In any case, here’s another hesitant knock at the door of her office.

If she said nothing, someone would enter. If…ah, well you get the picture, I’m sure. I guess Anita might have declared she was busy in a meeting, but her horns were locked and her mouth was dry and the door was halfway by now and…

It was Frank.

Salome rose to leave, but Anita shook her head, nailing her to the spot. “Just the person I wanted to see.”

Frank Plank.

He shambled towards the desk.

Well, it’s a matter of perspective. Anita saw a shambles. Frank saw an efficient stroll. Salome saw her phone.

He smiled in a friendly way, unsure what the meeting was to be about, but certain he had done nothing either wrong or provocative. Frank was nothing but professional and experienced. What’s more, he had always liked Anita.

She smiled back. “Frank. How pleasant it has been not to see so much of you. Since I moved downstairs.”

“Pardon?”

“Joke.”

Well, Frank couldn’t see anybody else laughing, to be sure. He riffled through his mind’s filing cards, for something aberrant – but in all honesty, he thought he had just been slogging through the sludge of the term – boot deep – as you do, negotiating the unexpected, doing his best.

Was it the disappearance of the Principal?

Somewhat mysterious and unforeseen – something to do with potatoes.

Frank now recalled how he’d bumped into Liam a couple of weeks back. Liam had moved to Paisley School. The pay was better; the building newer. Liam had smirked and told him how other schools were sniggering. “Convenient, that, wasn’t it?”

“How can I help?” Frank asked, still standing, like Elton John, back in 83.

Ah, where to start, thought Anita, where to start?

I mean, Frank bloody Plank ran a Faculty and coached the teachers on behalf of British standards. He wasn’t well liked, but he did a job. He was also filling in for that Geography teacher who’d done a runner. She beckoned him to a seat.

“My Year 10 class is appalling,” said Frank. “You know. The one I inherited from that teacher who ran away. Last September. Six months ago. There was to be a replacement teacher. Only temporary, you said. Five hours extra teaching. It’s making me tired.”

Anita and Salome – who, of course, were his bosses, ignored him. Anita spoke first. “I was not pleased with parents last week.”

“Parents?” Frank rubbed his bristles. That’s unexpected. Annie, get your gun.

“Speeches. Fatima’s speech. It was…stupid.”

Ah. The penny dropped. Or the dirham, if you like. Frank shook his head. “I must disagree with you. What she said was beautiful. How did it go? ‘If language is a purse of coins, spend your little language wisely.’”

“I know what she said,” snapped Anita, “It made our school look stupid. As though we are only hiring doddering old fools and can only attract the senile?”

“We need our experienced teachers. The young ones need guidance. The young ones need help to set alarms, get out of bed and come to work without hangovers.”

“Yes, well that’s your job, Frank. We don’t need experienced teachers who confuse parents or make them laugh. Some people need to recognize when they are past their ‘use by’ date.” Anita was growling like a boxer with a stick it didn’t want to relinquish.

“They do?”

“I expect you to do something about it. If you still can.” And Anita was glaring, pointedly.

Frank wondered if she had always been like this. Did she mean him?

“And another thing. I asked you to write a presentation.”

“Yes.”

“For International Day.”

“True, I sent you the first draft.”

“I hate it. It is not what I asked for.”

Frank swallowed and looked uncomfortable. In truth he had not had the time. One of his top students, Shams, had offered to do it for him as a homework. Now, as you might think, Frank had been delighted to pass this one over – and Shams had done exceptionally well. It was a super presentation, and roughly in line with the dire shopping list Anita had sent in an email two weeks ago.

Dostoyevsky. In order to promote a love of reading. For 13 year olds.

“Well, Shams is more than happy to do a second draft.”

“You think a project of this importance should be given to a student?”

Important? Frank glanced at Salome, who was still transfixed by her phone. She did look uncomfortable, to her credit.

He decided not to fight. “OK, I’m sorry, I’ll redraft it myself and you can look at it tomorrow.”

Damn. Another evening’s work, then.

Next door to Anita’s office was a well-being room, newly inaugurated that nobody used. Nobody had time.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“This Year 10 boys’ class that you say is unteachable.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, Anita.”

“I do worry about it. I worry about their grades. The finals are coming.”

“Well, they’re very naughty. Very naughty.”

“That is because your lessons are not active enough, Mr Frank. You above all teachers should know that if you engage the students, behaviour improves. Poor classroom management.”

“But, its P.E. It is active.”

“Exactly. I’ll be coming to observe your teaching tomorrow. To see just how active it is. Now, both of you. There is work to do. Let’s get to it.”

Frank stopped Salome outside the well-being room, after Anita had shut her door on them both. His lined face was somewhat bewildered, I must say. therefore, he tugged on her left sleeve and she turned to face him.

“You know,” he said, earnestly, “Those boys are unhappy. They are unhappy because of the changes to the curriculum. In fact, so are the parents. This unhappiness has led to poor behaviour throughout. Maybe, you know, we all should discuss it? At Faculty level?”

“Maybe we should.” But Salome jerked her finger at the closed door behind them.

“Yes, but you’re the boss now.”

“Am I? I should…er…maybe do a good lesson tomorrow. Very good. After all, poor classroom management.”

“What? Me?”

 

 

As I think I mentioned, there is a bad smell in the dressing room, but where it comes from is anybody’s guess.

As he stood by the pool’s edge, Frank pinched his nose. The scent of the sanitizer he’d rubbed his hands with did a reasonable job of blocking this out.

In front of him, a couple of the school’s maintenance team were busy at the diving board.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Their voices did not fill him with confidence. Heavily accented, and in broken English, from what they uttered, frank gathered they’d come to disassemble the diving apparatus because it was, as you know, no longer used.

The two men were sweating.

Working with wrenched, screwdrivers and muscle, they were gingerly removing the plank from its housing – and although the board itself was not too heavy, it was cumbersome enough and awkward, given that half of it hung over the cold water.

Having always enjoyed jumping and diving as a boy, Frank watched with a mixture of nostalgia and resignation.

So, it goes.

He looked at his watch. Wondered if Anita or Salome would have the unmitigated gall to observe his lesson. Felt somewhat resentful. Tried to remind himself not to measure his standards with someone else’s, for that way led to madness.

Inevitably, one of the workers fell in.

There was a splash and a loud shriek, as the board half pivoted, knocking the gallant Filipino into the pool.

Inevitably, he couldn’t swim.

Frank watched the flailing arms for a second, then jumped in, dragged the man to the side, pushed him onto the aluminum steps and, with the other fellow, pulled him up onto the pool’s edge, where he looked embarrassed for five minutes.

Soaking wet, Frank looked at his watch again. “How long you will be?” After nine years, Frank could switch his syntax to match accents. Everyone could. Somehow it helped.

“Finish, finish,” replied the co-worker, the one who was still dry. “Help.” The three men placed the board, now free from its cradle, along the side of the pool. Frank pointed at the fixtures and fittings, those bits that still remained. They looked rather vicious, now they were exposed – all cogs, jagged teeth and oily metals.

“Tomorrow coming back.” Dry replied, with a grin and they both departed, the second trailing watery puddles and looking woebegone.

Frank was not alone for long.

A bevy of boys pushed their way from the dressing room and were soon jostling at the pool’s edge, noisy and disorderly, their voices bouncing painfully off ceramic tiles and assaulting Frank’s ears.

“Shut up, shut up,” he shouted back, only adding more dissonance and discord.

He blew his whistle.

“Stand back from the pool’s edge.”

They were fully uniformed up. Twenty five boys, Year 10, all in shoes, trousers, shirts, sweaters.

“What are you doing here?” Frank asked, plaintively.

They all answered at once, loudly, some in English, others in Arabic. It was horrible. Quite ghastly. Grimly, Frank noted that Ayad and Mohammed were amongst them – the former had forgotten his earlier ennui and apathy and was know as lively as an exposed electric terminal.

Eyeing the exposed machinery, Ayad was grinning. His tongue that of a snake. His foot toyed with the plank, lying flat, beside the pool.

This would not end well.

“Shut up!” screamed Frank, blowing his whistle a second time.

This was greeted with a hollow, echoey cacophony of wails, reverberating around the complex in a grisly roar – the sound of shrieking hawks plummeting towards desert prey. Or lions, sinking their teeth into the hapless oryx.

Saying ‘shut up’ was strictly forbidden, an insult. Haram.

But Frank did not want to jump into the pool a second time. He seized a boy by the shoulders, spinning him around. It was Faisal. “Why are you here?”

Faisal’s lips moved. Frank could hear nothing.

He motioned the boys towards two benches, backed against the walls. You know, you always get these round the sides of school swimming pools, don’t you? And, to their credit, some of the boys sat down.

Some, not all. Ayad and a couple of other were still by the plank and the diving board housing. Were they climbing on it? Surely not.

Striding over, Frank caught Ayad by the elbow. “Sit down. Over there.  And you.”

“Why?”

“Because I told you too, and that is reason enough.”

As slowly and as rebelliously as he could, Ayad stalked to the bench that Frank indicated. The others followed suit.

Now, after maybe five minutes, the boys were mostly sat down and mostly harmless.

But, like a coiled spring, there was potential.

And talking of such things, Frank looked over at that exposed coggery, wishing the two workers had finished the job, his gut telling him that this was somehow fate, destiny, foreshadowing his end.

But, he was wrong.

“Faisal, tell me, why are you here?”

“Physics,” answered Faisal, “It is our Physics lesson, mister.”

Ah. Of course it was. Let it be that.

“What?” snapped Frank, spinning on his right foot, arms outstretched, like St Paul across the Maltese bay, introducing the deep water. “Physics? In here?”

“Yes, Mister. Miss Salome, she sent us to here.”

“But, Faisal. Forgive me. Would not a science lab be…well…more suitable?”

“Mister?”

“I mean, as opposed to a swimming pool?”

“Pardon, Mister?”

“And, of course, you might also need an actual Science teacher. You know. as in someone who teaches Physics and not basketball.”

The half-sarcasm was lost on the boys, and the murmuring was beginning to build again, like sand being pushed up by the tides. Building, building into choking dunes. Frank blew his whistle. ” Why do you want Physics here?”

“Mr O’Leary, he is absent today from sick virus.”

Well, of course he was. it was happy hour discount for teachers last night in The Irish Harp. ‘St Practice Day’ – a dress rehearsal for the real one. Frank shuddered, thinking of the mass depressions, anxieties and hangovers that were waking up across the city even now.

Any sympathy he might of felt was soon dispersed to the winds, however, to blend with that bad smell.

While Frank’s back was turned, Ayad was back at the board. He had sprung like a gazelle from his bench, drawn by its potential and naughtiness quotient and was, even now, mincing along it, mimicking a tightrope walker, arms outstretched. “Plank theory,” he snorted, mockingly.

This drew cheers of appreciation from the class.

One or two others, braver souls, joined him, shoving and pushing, jostling, jockeying for position, so close to the water’s edge, so near to taking that cold plunge enjoyed earlier by the maintenance Filipino.

“Get off, get off.” Frank snapped, angrily, but, in truth, pretty toothless – there wasn’t much he could do, if all 25 acted – and, of course, like all boys, they knew it. There was only so much time they were prepared to be benched and the lure of the plank was almost irresistible.

Anxiously Frank wondered if Salome had told Anita about this mess. And grimly he thought that she probably had.

What if Anita was on her way to the swimming pool now, to judge his classroom management? No. That would not be fair. And in any case, Frank was a good employee, her best, doing everything he could to stay the course, see her through.

Still, he had not liked that glister in her eyes. “Stop!” Frank cried, his voice cracking.

Ayad had rotated the plank by 90 degrees. Half of it hung over the pool’s edge. He stood on the other end, in a perfect demonstration of weights and pivots and those things Frank half remembered from his own Physics lessons. “Get off that board!”

Ayad sneered. Two other boys jumped on to his end to provide ballast and now he began the careful outward journey, high over the water’s surface to the end, executing one or two malevolent springs on the bouncing plank once he arrived.

Instinctively, Frank jumped onto the plank, pushing the other two boys off in the process.

He could feel Ayad’s weight, suspended over the water.

“Get back here. Now. You’re in serious trouble, my boy. Two demerits and a phone call home.”

“I care less.”

“Make that three demerits. Get yourself back here.”

“No.” Another taunting bounce or two. Now Ayad was on one leg, swaying to and fro above the pool, grinning in victory.

Frank had nowhere to go.

The rest of the boys were either screaming appreciation or holding their noise – all realizing this was a seminal moment, one of life’s crossroads, something they’d remember forever. Frank beckoned to Faisal, Mohammed and a couple of others to join him. “Stand here. Don’t move.”

Frank inched towards Ayad. He held the boy’s gaze with steely determination. He would not be the one to break eye contact.

And all the while, foot by foot, advancing.

Then, with a laugh, Ayad allowed himself to tumble into the pool, just as Frank reached him. Unlike the Filipino, he had no difficulty in reaching the aluminum ladder with a couple of strokes and hauling himself out.

For brief seconds, Frank was in limbo, high above the cold waters. is mind swam backwards. Those high boards of childhood. The push in the back.

He turned to face the four boys on the other end of the board. Almost beseechingly. Somehow knowing what must happen.

Again, he was wrong.

At that exact moment, Anita barged in through the door. In one hand, she held a clipboard. In the other, a pen.

Blindly, she pushed through the crowd like a bowling ball. Unseeing. Unknowing.

Her momentum and weight caused the four boys upon the plank to scatter like skittles.

The plank bounced one final time and Frank toppled backwards, his head slapping the hard ceramic tiles of the pool sharply, before he hit the water and submerged, its surface closing like dark curtains around him.

And he knew no more about it.

There was an inquest of course. A couple of lines in the local paper. Something about ‘hard lessons learned’ (the copywriter had been pleased with that).

And she even kept the paper for a while.

Bloody nuisance, though. another teacher down, half the term to go. As Salome put it, there simply weren’t enough planks to go round.