by C. P. Wilson
At length Dougie glanced up as her most recent tut faded from the room.
Regarding the young probationer over the top of his reading glasses, Dougie’s hawkish appearance, combined with his accusatory glare, reignited Frankie’s indignation.
“Mr Black, I really need to speak to you.” Her tone mimicked his glare.
“So it seems,” Dougie said flatly. Removing his glasses, he stood, only to seat himself at the edge of his desk, arms folded. “So, what’s so important that even manners must be put to one side?”
Frankie’s lips thinned as she fought her temper and the growing feeling of foolishness.
“Well, it’s been two weeks since you became my mentor and we haven’t had a single feedback session.”
Dougie raised his eyebrows. “And?”
“And we’re supposed to meet weekly.” Frankie was becoming indignant.
“I have to report back on these meetings, do you know that? Do you even care?”
Leaning back, Dougie dropped his pen onto the pile of exam papers he’d been marking. His facial expression was unreadable to Frankie.
Prepared for a confrontation, Frankie felt wolf-like in her state of readiness.
“You’re doing brilliantly,” Dougie stated.
The tension disappeared instantly and Frankie sagged visibly, but only for a single moment before her anger resurged.
“Then what the fuck have the last two weeks been about?”
Dougie’s facial expression changed from impassive to mildly amused.
“I needed to see you at your best… and at your worst,” he replied.
Frankie, unable to form words, not polite ones at any rate, stood with her hands out, palms up in a what the actual fuck gesture.
Dougie laughed loudly. “Look Francesca, there’s no use in us sitting planning and prepping for hypothetical situations and lessons you might face. I needed to see you work with these kids to see what you have going for you so that I know what to do to get you where you want to be.”
Frankie raised her eyebrows, a challenge.
Dougie responded with a slight nod.
“Like I said, you’re doing great.”
Sinking into a nearby chair, Frankie’s wide eyes locked on Dougie.
“No… I’m really not, Dougie. These kids treat me like an imbecile. They don’t show any interest in what I’m talking about, they barely respond to me when I speak to them. I plan for hours trying to get activities or develop elements of the lessons I think they might like, but… just nothing so far. They’re taking the piss.”
Dougie listened, nodding along.
“I literally do not know where to go from here, Dougie.”
Dougie shrugged a shoulder. “They’re teenagers, Francesca. And they’re teenagers with an awful lot going on in their lives outside school.
“Billy Reid has an alcoholic father and a mother in her grave since he was six years old. He is basically a surrogate parent to that father of his who has been broken into jagged shards by the death of his wife. Billy’s dad used to run a successful engineering business. He had a wife who worked as a solicitor, a wee boy who got to go to a load of different activities and with two parents who adored him, and parented him well. That kid was a star in his early school years. Now Billy must clean up vomit from his father’s lap and remove cigarettes from his hand as he sleeps so his dad doesn’t burn the bastardin’ house down.”
Frankie’s head lowered a little. She had disliked Billy quite intensely.
Seeming ruthless, Dougie pressed on.
“Monica is a good kid with a stable home life, but is choosing to hang about the park and smoke weed at the weekend with kids with much less privilege and opportunity than she has. Her guidance teacher is tearing her hair out in frustration trying to figure out why. Molly Robson is the sweetest kid you’ll ever meet. Her mother suffers from Multiple Sclerosis and her father works on the rigs on a three-week-on two-week-off schedule. That girl is up at five every day to get her mother out of bed, bathed and ready for her nurse coming around. Molly is a registered carer for her mum and spends all of her free time with her. Time when other kids are pissing about with their mates, or doing their homework, or going to sports clubs.”
Dougie paused for several moments, assessing Frankie’s reaction. A hand kneading the back of her neck, Frankie was the image of shocked silence. Shame grew in her. She’d been so wrong about them.
“How do you know all of this about them?” she eventually asked.
Dougie leaned forward in his chair, shortening the space between them.
“Because I took the time to learn. To speak to them, to ask about their weekend. Little fifteen-second conversations at the end of a lesson, or while they worked quietly. I know the older siblings of some of them. Some of them had a meltdown or lost their temper in my class. One of them came to me for a cry one day at lunchtime.”
Dougie smiled sadly at the young probationer.
“You’re spending so much time trying to be a teacher, or what your mental image of being a teacher is anyway, that you’re forgetting that you’re a human being first and a teacher second. You’re presenting them with someone you’re not; you know it, and so do the kids.”
Dougie allowed Frankie a few moments to process his words. He watched as she silently shook her head, slumped her shoulders, and then finally straightened her back. Her eyes rising to meet his, Frankie asked, “Can I fix it?”
Dougie smiled broadly. “Of course you can, kiddo. Easily.”
Frankie let go of a long cleansing breath she’d been unaware she had been holding. Dougie rose from his seat and approached her, a kind smile forming. Frankie stood to meet him.
“You’re doing a lot of things right, Francesca. You’ve got some great strategies and some wonderful ideas for getting your lessons across. You just need to get out of your own way and let the kids engage. They want to learn from you.”
Frankie eyed him sceptically.
“Trust me. They really do, but winding you up is just far too much fun for them at the moment.”
Dougie gave her a gentle tap on the shoulder. “We can change that.”
“Yeah?”
“Absolutely,” Dougie said, clapping his hands together. He jutted his chin towards his door. “C’mon. Let’s go to your classroom and get started.”
“Dougie, how can you just talk to these kids the way you do? Treat them all the same, with respect and with authority, when you know these things are going on in some of their lives?”
Dougie cocked his head to the side, decided something then spoke. “They need us to be stable, and consistent. They need us to accept and forgive them and move on, especially when they don’t deserve that allowance from us. These kids need the predictability and positivity and routine we give them. They even need the normality of having expectations and rules placed on them and to have consequences when they act inappropriately. It’s not about making excuses or not expecting good behaviour from the pupils: we need to manage that behaviour and show them how to accomplish it themselves, every bit as much as try to teach them about cells or enzymes or kidneys.
“Sometimes, the teachers in this school might very well be the only people in their lives capable of providing that environment. They deserve that, so we give it to them, without judgment, without special treatment or excuses for bad manners or behaviour, but with the simple acceptance that they made mistakes, they amend, but the next period or day or week you see them, it’s a fresh start.”
Dougie looked at his shoes for a second, seeming a little embarrassed at his words, but only for a brief instant. His eyes slid back up to meet Frankie’s.
“Here’s the trick, kiddo. At least for me. You put it in a box. All the little things, like knowing this or that about him or her. Like how he or she made you feel. Like sorrow or pity or pain. Put them in little boxes and keep them separate from your time with your pupils. Keep the same positive, predictable persona in place every lesson of every
day in school. Then when you’re home alone, or if you’re lucky with someone who loves you, open the boxes and deal with the shite inside. If you must. But don’t ever let the kids in front of you see anything but the real you… but the best, most positive, resilient version of you. Over time it’ll become a mask you slip on as easily as a pair of shoes.”
Frankie gave him a lop-sided grin. “Put it in a box, eh?”
“Aye.” Dougie shrugged and smiled warmly at her.
“C’mon.” He bobbed a side-nod at the door. “Let’s get on with it.”
Without turning to see if she had agreed, Dougie Black left his room. Frankie followed along in his wake a few seconds later, wondering what she’d just agreed to, if in fact she had agreed at all.
∞∞∞
W.H.A.L.E
Works Hard and Loves Elephants
Wonderful Humpbacks Are Leaving Earth
Wishful Hippos Always Lie Easily
Wasted Hope Already Lurks Everywhere.
Her attention refocused in the present, Frankie lays her pen down, tries a sip of her coffee and finds it cold. She scans down the list of reverse acronyms she has made from the letters of the word whale. A simple task, but one she enjoys the challenge of and which also helps her block out the world for long enough to re-order it to a more manageable trial to face.
Packing her pad, pen and iPhone away, Frankie leaves the café feeling marginally more positive and able than she had when she arrived.
Rounding the corner of the corridor, Frankie notes two doctors leaving Dougie’s room as she approaches. One is Doctor Sweeney, who earlier in the day had arranged for the detectives waiting for her to give Frankie some space. Their eyes meet and the young doctor motions for Frankie to come over as the other doctor nods a greeting and leaves.
“Is everything alright, Doctor Sweeney?” Frankie asks.
“Yes, for the moment, Mr Black is stable.”
Frankie’s relief is an almost physical comfort to her.
“Mr Black went into cardiac arrest. There’s been so much blood loss and the damage to his liver… well, it’s not entirely unexpected that his heart might be struggling.
“We have him on medication that’ll help, but all we can do at the present is support him and hope he will begin to show improvement overnight.”
Dr Sweeney crosses her arms across her body. She looks like she’s cold, but mostly tired.
“I wanted to thank you for earlier, y’know, getting rid of those police officers. I really wasn’t up to facing them,” says Frankie.
Sweeney offers a half-smile. “No problem, Ms Malone. I understand how difficult a day you’re having. Look, I have to be getting along, but let one of the nurses know if you need anything, and maybe think about going home for a bit.”
Dr Sweeney indicates the door to Dougie’s room. “He’s not going anywhere and there’s very little to be accomplished sitting by him.”
Frankie nods before entering the room, not an agreement, just an acknowledgment, as Sweeney departs.
As promised, Kerry Fletcher has left a large chair in place for her. Frankie sinks into it gratefully, her eyes settling on Dougie’s face. He looks even paler than before, so empty and fragile. The man she knows simply isn’t present in his features. As Frankie watches Dougie’s chest rise and fall, her mind treats her to a series of flashing images of Harry Jardine plunging his blade into that chest. With a jerk, she turns in her chair to rest her face against the cool, high back. Several minutes and many new boxes formed in her mind later, Frankie Malone slips into a fitful nap.
Chapter Fourteen
Gilmour tidies their cups away whilst McCreadie welcomes the social worker McKay and Mr Storrie into the room.
Storrie looks frazzled.
“Everything alright, Mr Storrie?” McCreadie asks as he passes her.
Storrie offers a tight nod. In the short time since they last saw the head teacher, his appearance has changed considerably. His shirt is now unbuttoned at the collar, the tie has been loosened. His suit jacket is absent and his eyes are darkly circled. The man looks as though days have passed for him rather than minutes.
“Bloody press,” he remarks.
McCreadie offers her former teacher a reassuring smile as Gilmour joins them.
“Aye, it’ll be fine,” Storrie sighs, taking his seat.
“Excuse me.”
Both detectives turn to the door in response. A dark-haired, green-eyed girl stands in the doorway. She has the handle of her bag held at waist height and her hands choking the leather tightly enough to turn the fingers white.
McCreadie smiles warmly at her.
“Jenna?” she asks.
The kid nods, her eyes flicking towards the head teacher for reassurance.
Storrie stands and escorts her into a chair. Both detectives sit themselves opposite her.
Gilmour makes a little darting gesture with his eyes toward the girl. Beth McCreadie interprets it as you take this one.
Storrie places a hand lightly on the girl’s shoulder. “Just tell them everything you saw, Jenna. The detectives will ask a few questions, try to answer as best you can.”
Jenna Hopkins nods her agreement to Storrie before turning her attention to the detectives.
Jenna looks nervous, but not frightened.
“Hi, Jenna,” McCreadie says. “Like Mr Storrie says, we’re going to ask a few questions and we want you to talk us through what you saw when Harry Jardine came into the class. Can you manage that?”
“Yes,” Jenna replies firmly. The hand-wringing slows and stops and she places her bag at her feet.
“Do you know Harry well?”
“Yes… well, no. Not anymore.”
McCreadie’s eyes narrow, a questioning gesture. She stays silent and allows Jenna to continue of her own accord.
“Harry and me, we used to be friends, when we were little. At primary school,” Jenna adds.
“But you’re not friends now?” McCreadie prompts.
Jenna gives a little head wobble as she weighs up her response. “Well, we hadn’t been, not since starting high school.”
Jenna looks around the adult faces in the room. Storrie smiles at her encouragingly, but McKay doesn’t once look up from her notepad. She returns her attention to DC McCreadie.
“We didn’t fall out or anything, just drifted apart at the bigger school, moved in different circles, yeah?”
McCreadie nods her understanding, motioning for Jenna to continue. Apparently with nothing to add, Jenna remains silent.
“So, you and Harry haven’t spoken in a while, then?”
“Well, actually we’ve been in touch a little recently,” Jenna says.
“Really? Tell me about that. How recently?”
“Perhaps around three months. We just kind of started talking again, mostly online. It’s been nice. He’s still like he was when we were younger.”
“Uh huh. What’s that like, Jenna? What kind of boy is Harry to you?”
Jenna considers the question for a few seconds before replying.
“Harry’s nice. At least he… before…” Jenna’s hands meet. In the absence of her bag strap, she begins clenching her hands.
“It’s fine, Jenna. We understand how difficult it is talking about Harry. Look, try this. Describe the Harry you knew before today. Before what happened. Can you do that?”
Jenna nods.
“Harry was nice. He was a kind boy, very thoughtful, and a really good friend. When we were little, we walked to school together every day. He was funny and quite popular when we were at primary.”
“That’s good, Jenna,” McCreadie says. “What changed at high school?”
Jenna shrugged. “Nothing really. We didn’t stop being friends, we just didn’t see each other for ages. We both had different friends and made new ones. Harry seemed like he was still the same… still his same old self. We just stopped spending any time together.” Jenna shrugged. “A bit weird, I suppose.”
> “It’s not that unusual, it happens a lot when we move on to new things,” McCreadie says. “So, there were no bad feelings between you two?”
“No.” Jenna’s tone suggests it has never occurred to her that she and Harry might be at odds. “We just somehow succeeded in getting through four years of high school without really coming across each other.”
“Until recently.”
“Yep. Harry messaged me one evening, saying he’d spotted me in the corridor and nearly came to say hello, but got distracted by a friend.”
Gilmour takes notes silently whilst McCreadie nods her encouragement for Jenna to continue.
“We messaged each other for over an hour, mostly just catching up and having a laugh.”
“Did you see him in school after that?” McCreadie asked.
Jenna shook her head. “Not really, but we messaged each other again a few nights later. He was asking after my family and then we just got chatting about stuff and people at school.”
“Was there any sexual or romantic content to the messages, Jenna?”
Incredulous, Jenna’s voice raises in pitch as she replies, “Eh, no. I have a boyfriend.”
Suppressing a smile, McCreadie asks. “A boy at school?”
“Yeah, a sixth-year. James Beath.”
McCreadie nods. “We met James earlier, he was in helping your class?”
Jenna nods.
“Good looking boy,” McCreadie states.
Her face reddening a shade, Jenna simply nods.
“So, Harry and you were messaging each other, but not really talking at school, that right?”
“Yeah, we just hadn’t got around to it yet.”
“Three months of chatting online and you didn’t speak in school?” McCreadie asks.
“Yeah,” Jenna replied, her tone all teenaged duh. “I told you, we move in different circles.”
“I see. James doesn’t seem too keen on Harry either. Is that why you only speak to him online?”