by Gemma Rogers
When we found St. Wilfred’s, I was immediately impressed. The Ofsted rating was Good, and it had a sixth form attached with a variety of media courses available that I could see Charlotte would be interested in. During a tour, I got a feel of the place. Charlotte seemed keen and when I saw they offered the same GCSE options and the syllabus at St. Wilfred’s was nearly identical to what she had been previously learning, it was a no-brainer. I enrolled her to start in the coming September. It was only by chance when I mentioned to Mr Scott that I was looking in the surrounding areas for a teaching position that he said they had a vacancy for an English teacher.
At first, I wasn’t sure how it would work; Charlotte attending the same school I’d be teaching at, but she said it didn’t bother her as long as I kept my distance. When I discussed it with Mr Scott, he said he wasn’t fazed as it was Charlotte’s last year, as long as I didn’t teach her directly. David thought, if anything, it would be a good opportunity to keep an eye on her. To ensure she was on the straight and narrow.
Once committed, we found the perfect house in Rusper, amidst a row of five detached cottages that were surprisingly spacious on the inside, with a large gravel driveway and separate garage. I fell in love with the rustic fireplace and family kitchen. Our offer to purchase was accepted, we engineered the move during the school summer holiday, and everything seemed to slot into place. After the awful year we’d had, we saw it as a sign that we’d been given another chance to be happy.
Glancing back at the plan, I saw the year tens were going to be starting Romeo and Juliet, which, at fourteen and fifteen, was always met with lots of sniggering and lewd comments. Footsteps in the corridor caused me to look up and I saw a figure stride past the door, our eyes connecting for a split second before he was gone. I forced my gaze back to the sheet of paper and gripped the arm of the chair. The footsteps paused and resumed, this time back towards the classroom, until a head popped around the door frame.
‘Miss?’
I was pretending to read, my knee twitching under the desk, but I glanced up like I’d only just noticed him.
‘Hello?’ My voice caught in my throat.
A sheepish grin emerged on his face and he stepped into the classroom. Towering over me. He had a strong angular jaw, piercing sky blue eyes and pearly white teeth. Good-looking without a doubt, but he knew it.
‘I’m really sorry about this morning. It was you on the roundabout, wasn’t it, Miss? I mean, I recognise your face, although you don’t look so angry now.’
Impertinent little sod. By the look of him, I was sure he’d be able to talk his way out of anything, but remembering what I’d called him, I had to tread wisely.
‘Was that you? You need to be careful, you could have killed yourself pulling out without looking.’ He had the good grace to look suitably ashamed. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Nicky Stevens, Miss, and I’m late for PE, but I wanted to apologise.’ Flashing me an awkward smile, he left to go to his lesson. It could have been uncomfortable if he’d taken offence to being called a twat this morning. Would he be in any of my lessons? I hoped not.
The rest of the day went as planned, although my mind wandered to Charlotte and how her first day might be going. My morning lessons were pleasant, the children were well behaved and at lunchtime I braved the staffroom. It was a large, square room, with one green three-seater sofa and two mismatched armchairs around an oblong wooden coffee table displaying various degrees of tea-stained rings. There was a kitchenette at the end of the room, with a fridge, a few cupboards, a microwave and a kettle.
I placed the Tupperware pot of cold pasta salad on the worktop and awkwardly introduced myself to the other teachers. Shaking hands with sweaty palms was never good, but no one commented. I always struggled to hide my nerves. There were two women and two men, one of whom was Mr Scott, taking up the kitchenette as the kettle boiled. Deep in conversation, they discussed whether there would be a snap general election as Boris had promised if a bill against a no-deal Brexit was passed by MPs.
The women were vastly different. One was a plump, friendly-looking lady with grey hair and a warm smile. I guessed instantly she was the art teacher from the way she was dressed, lots of colours thrown together and purple Doc Martens under a long tie-dye skirt, and I was right. She interrupted the debate and introduced herself as Matilda Brown, shaking my hand firmly. The second lady was short and wiry with glasses and a pointed nose. She smiled tight-lipped at me and limply grasped my hand as though she hated physical contact as much as I did. She was Ms Quinn, no first-name introduction, and was the maths teacher.
Next there was the scruffy history teacher, Mr Collins, first name Henry, who grunted a welcome and, lastly, Steven Scott, who’d come into the staffroom for the purpose of introducing me to the other teachers.
I cast my eye around the room; it seemed from the various attire that I didn’t have to worry about what I wore, there was a mixture of formal and informal. I relaxed knowing I didn’t have to conform either way and my previous work wardrobe would be fine.
Mr Ross, a latecomer to the staffroom, breezed in. He was the PE teacher, a no-nonsense Scotsman, who, as soon as we were introduced, asked me if I’d seen Nicky Stevens that morning. The mention of his name made me slop a tiny amount of tea over the side of my cup as my hand trembled. Apparently, Nicky had blamed me for his late arrival, as I’d accosted him on the way to his lesson. It was easier to agree than to explain I had almost crashed into his car this morning and he’d stopped to apologise.
It played on my mind throughout my last lesson of the day and I was grateful when Charlotte slunk into my empty classroom at ten past three, still trying to avoid being identified as the daughter of a teacher by her peers. She told me on the way home that her day had been OK, she was still working out who was who in the social hierarchy. I knew the move wouldn’t have been easy for her; she didn’t think there was a problem where she’d been before. Our relationship had been fractious ever since.
‘How’s your head?’ she asked.
I gingerly touched the lump, the pain easing.
‘Good, thank you. Can you believe he goes here?’ I said, shaking my head.
‘What, to St. Wilfred’s?’
I nodded, glimpsing Charlotte’s open mouth. ‘He came to see me in my classroom to apologise.’
‘I hope you told him to piss off,’ Charlotte replied, without batting an eyelid.
I gave her a sharp look. ‘No, I did not, funnily enough.’
The radio was turned up for the rest of the journey and as soon as we got home, Charlotte vanished to her room to boot up her laptop. Facebooking or Instagramming or whatever it was teenagers did that incurred so many hours online.
Our neighbour Mary popped round almost as soon as we got back, she’d introduced herself the day we moved in, having lived in the cottage next door for thirty years. Her and her husband Bob were retired. Since our arrival, she’d popped in every couple of weeks, delivering scones and cakes, much to David’s delight. Today, a batch of still-warm blueberry muffins were handed over as she reminded me the bin men were coming tomorrow. We chatted for five minutes on the doorstep, Mary declining my offer to come in. I made a mental note to pick up some flowers for her.
I sat on the sofa with a mug of tea and a muffin. I had no homework to mark and no lessons to plan for tomorrow as I’d managed to get that done in my free period. The house was deathly quiet, the only noise from the clock ticking above the fireplace. David would be home later; perhaps we could watch a movie together. Crack open a bottle of wine to celebrate my first day. I headed into the kitchen to make a Bolognese sauce, humming to myself.
At half past five, as I was setting the table and about to dish up, David called my mobile.
‘I’m sorry I’ve got a conference call with the US at six, shouldn’t be more than an hour.’
I tried to keep my voice upbeat as I told him it was fine, but I knew he wouldn’t be home before eight. If this was w
hat his new job was going to be like, we wouldn’t be spending as much time together as I’d initially thought.
3
When the front door opened, I glanced at the clock – it was quarter to nine, much later than I’d realised.
Charlotte and I had eaten dinner together, discussing Mr Ross, whom she declared as ‘evil’ because he had made them wear disgusting tabards in PE that had never been washed. She seemed totally unfazed by the transition to St. Wilfred’s and I was relieved her day had been a good one. Afterwards, Charlotte went upstairs to do science homework on the periodic table. I cleared up and sat in the lounge, watching a true crime documentary; I loved them and fancied myself as a bit of an amateur detective.
David swooped in and kissed me on the forehead before going into the kitchen to reheat his dinner. I’d left it in the microwave, as I always did.
‘How was your day?’ I called, finishing my glass of wine and knocking back some more painkillers. My bump was now a dull ache, but irritating nonetheless.
‘Busy, yours? How was school?’
‘Fine, apart from some idiot on the road this morning. Charlotte seems to like it.’
‘Great,’ he said. No further conversation followed. He didn’t even enquire about my journey to work.
He ate his dinner at the table, casually perusing the newspaper he’d brought home. When he finished, he flopped beside me in front of the television, stifling a yawn. It was obvious he was tired, but when I announced I was going to bed at ten, he didn’t follow. Feeling slightly rejected, I cleaned my teeth and got into bed.
I knew David was anxious about making a good impression at his new job. He’d started three weeks ago, determined to hit the ground running. Whenever David encountered any stress, he would shut down and I’d have to wait for him to snap out of it. I gritted my teeth and rolled over, plumping my pillow with my fist. It wasn’t just the pressure of his new job, or the recent move. He’d been distant for a while, but there was nothing I could do to fix it. I couldn’t change the past, however much I wanted to.
The next morning, David had gone by the time I woke. He usually left for work early, preferring the quieter roads to the congested school run and said it was a less stressful start to the day. I wished I had that option, but I’d always been the one to do the school runs.
I woke Charlotte and we both got ready for school. The sky was overcast and as we left it began to rain again. The warmth of summer had abruptly ended with the start of the term. As a result, the roads were busy, and I arrived a little later than planned, although with less drama than yesterday’s commute.
As I shook out my umbrella and hooked it onto the coat stand in the corner of the classroom, I noticed a cup on my desk. A Starbucks takeaway coffee cup, steam protruding from the hole in the lid. Bemused, I slid into my seat and picked it up. Latte had been ticked on the selection but there was no name written on the side. Instead, a yellow Post-it note was peeling off the cardboard as it was so hot. It had one word written on it in thick black capital letters.
SORRY
Was it for me? I frowned, who’d felt the need to apologise? Had I missed something, or was it meant for someone else? I was in the right classroom, wasn’t I? I looked around at the now familiar pictures on the walls. Then I remembered the journey to school yesterday morning and the near miss at the roundabout. Surely it couldn’t be? The boy from yesterday had brought me a coffee to apologise for his terrible driving?
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the offering. If it was him, the gesture seemed mature beyond his years. I braved a sip, pleased to discover it was a latte, the hot liquid burning my throat.
‘You got it then, Miss?’ came a voice from the door, startling me. A little of the hot liquid leaked onto my hand, searing my skin.
‘Shit.’ I scowled, raising my hand to my mouth. Heat engulfed my cheeks.
He leaned on the door frame, looking considerably pleased with himself, smirking at my loss of control.
‘Sorry about that. I don’t normally curse in front of students.’
His eyebrows lifted and I felt the onset of a hot flush, the silence making me squirm.
‘Thank you, it’s kind of you, but you didn’t have to do that.’
‘I did.’ The bell rang and he turned to leave, our conversation finished.
The classroom swiftly filled with children chattering amongst themselves and throwing bags under desks as they slipped into their seats. I took the register and chatted to some of the children about how they’d found their first day back at school, all the time cradling the coffee, the warmth making my fingertips tingle.
It wasn’t long before the year eights were replaced by year sevens, who all looked so little. Every year, they seemed to look smaller. Their pristine uniforms drowning them with backpacks bigger than they were. I couldn’t believe Charlotte was that size once.
The lesson today had them writing stories with a definitive beginning, middle and end, all on the subject of ‘growth’. The explanation I had given them at the start of the class was that ‘growth’ could mean any number of things, from plants growing, to how you could grow as a person.
They banded some ideas around between them and, after a few minutes of brainstorming, the class were fully engrossed, and the room fell silent. All the children had their heads bowed, scribbling away in their exercise books and occasionally raising their hands to ask a question.
I could hear a PE class outside, it sounded like football from the posts rattling and scuffling of trainers on concrete. It was still drizzling, and I didn’t envy them playing outside today.
A loud bang echoed around the classroom and everyone jumped, heads snapping to the window just in time to see a football bounce off the narrow wall and zoom into the flower bed. I tutted – at that force, it could have smashed the window I’d left ajar to allow some fresh air in.
‘Carry on, children, I’m going to close the window as they’re a noisy bunch out there.’ I walked over to the paint-chipped sash and pulled it down, spotting Nicky Stevens navigating the path between the flower beds towards the building. He was part of a mixed group, playing football in the tennis courts. Perhaps doing a PE A-Level? He had to be in sixth form if he was old enough to drive.
He grinned when he saw me, his walk becoming a swagger, and mouthed the word ‘sorry’ as he came closer. What must it be like to have that much confidence?
I couldn’t help but smile at his nerve, but I did shake my head in disapproval. He picked up the ball and kicked it high over the wire fence of the court, back to his teammates, with expert precision. They didn’t wait, carrying on the game without him. He turned back to award me another smile and stretched his arms over his head in a victory pose as he walked backwards. His rain sodden T-shirt rode up, showing a glimpse of bare torso beneath. Sitting dangerously low, his shorts revealed the V-shape of his hips and the trail of hair descending beneath.
My face flushed as he caught me looking. It was exactly what he’d intended.
I turned away quickly, cheeks now a vivid scarlet, and hurried back to my desk. My eyes darted around the room to see if anyone had noticed the exchange, but the children had resumed their stories.
What had just happened? How had I let myself get drawn in to that charade? Clearly, I had to be more careful with him. There was no doubt that display was deliberate, and I’d fallen for it. Even a rumour these days was enough to ruin a teaching career.
Nostrils flaring, I launched the empty coffee cup with the note still attached into the bin and sat down to drum my fingers on the underside of my desk. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.
The rest of the day was uneventful in comparison. In the staffroom, I chatted with Matilda and Susan – Ms Quinn – over sandwiches. Susan had volunteered her first name this time, seemingly thawed since our last interaction. They gave me suggestions on restaurants and what there was to do in the area, some of which I’d already explored. Horsham was a market town and had a shop
ping centre, swimming baths, cinema and theatre. I loved to go to the cinema almost as much as I loved curling up with a good book.
I asked for directions to the leisure centre, hoping to go for a swim after school if I could rope Charlotte in too. I always kept a backpack of swim gear in the boot of my car, in case I got the opportunity. Where we used to live, in Wallington, I swam at the local pool three or four times a week, using it as my time to destress. Charlotte hadn’t been interested in swimming for a few years now, but I persuaded her to come along and sit in the spectator section, nonetheless. It seemed as long as she had her phone and could connect to free Wi-Fi, she was happy. Plus, I couldn’t deny wanting to keep an eye on her. I had to make sure she stayed out of trouble at St. Wilfred’s.
Any time we spent together these days was a bonus. Since the hormones kicked in, it seemed mothers became public enemy number one and I was no exception. It was a challenge to say anything to Charlotte without it being misconstrued as criticism. I was often treading on eggshells. Although uncharacteristically, on the drive to the leisure centre, Charlotte shared that she had made a few friends and they’d already asked her what she was doing at the weekend. I refrained from gushing too much, fearing it might make her clam up. I had to trust she’d chosen more wisely this time as her old friends, Lisa especially, had led her down a path I didn’t want to revisit. I wanted her to have a clean record at St. Wilfred’s.