He’d had quite a struggle to persuade the jejune Mr Jones, Head of Department, that this lower-ability set would be able to cope with the language.
“Look, Sam,” Mr Jones had said, his voice patronising, the old patriarch to the younger man: “most of them struggle with ordinary English; how are they going to cope with Elizabethan cadence?”
“I’m not saying it will be easy, but it’s such a powerful story,” he’d replied. “Loyalty, ambition, murder, power, ghosts, mental breakdown – I think they can cope with that; it’s your average soap opera. The rest, well, I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
Now he had to deliver.
The students shuffled in. Some were still young-looking 13-year-old children, while others could have passed for late teens. Sam had reason to suspect that several of the taller girls already managed to buy drinks in their local pubs: one reason that he made sure he never went for a beer near the school, and a very good reason for living nowhere near Kidbrooke.
“Greetings, everyone,” said Sam. “This morning we’re going to start off with an exciting new project: we’ll be studying Shakespeare’s play ‘Macbeth’.”
There were a few groans, but most of the students had never heard of Shakespeare. Sam wasn’t very surprised or worried: at least it meant they had no preconceptions.
“Stanley, can you hand out copies of the play, please? One between two.”
The eager, skinny boy wiped his hands on his trousers and picked up a pile of the scruffy texts and started chucking them across the room.
“I said hand them out, Stanley, not launch them!”
Stanley smiled disarmingly, then gave out the books delicately, as if he were handling live grenades.
“What’s this about, sir?” said Brendan, eyeing his copy with distaste even before he’d opened it.
“It’s about a man on the edge,” said Sam. “A man whose life is about to change in ways he could never imagine and…”
“Does he win X Factor, sir?” asked Hassan.
“Does he win the Lotto?” said Kristen.
Sam smiled and held up his hands. “No, neither of those. Although he kind of thinks he’s won the Lottery big time, but what he wishes turns out to be a poisoned chalice. That’s a metaphor: who can tell me what a metaphor is? Yes, Hal.”
“When you’re describing something and the words mean that it really is it, but it isn’t really,” said Hal, strangling the sentence nervously.
“Pretty much,” said Sam. “It’s using an image to represent something intangible: ‘a heart of stone’ would be another example. Okay, turn to page 27. This is going to give us our first introduction to the man Macbeth. Instead of him talking, we’re going to hear what one of his friends says about him.
He read slowly and clearly:
“For brave Macbeth – well he deserves that name – Disdaining fortune, with his brandish’d steel,Which smoked with bloody execution,Like valour’s minion carved out his passageTill he faced the slave;Which ne’er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him,Till he unseam’d him from the nave to the chaps,And fix’d his head upon our battlements.”
“Oh, sir, that’s gross!” said Anna, wrinkling her nose. “He’s cut off some scuzz’s head and stuck it up.”
“Wicked!” said Brendan, his eyes alight with interest.
“Yeah, but he’s called ‘brave’, complained Leila. “And then he goes and gets all trippy!”
“Yeah, is he on drugs, sir?” asked Brendan.
“You could say that,” said Sam. “He’s on the most addictive drug of all: power. And his ambition is going to be a big part of that. But at the moment his friends still call him ‘valiant’ and ‘worthy’. Now turn to page 220. Here’s how he’s described now: ‘Of this dead butcher and his fiend-like queen’…”
“Oh, oh! I know this, sir!” piped up Luka. “His wife, innit! She’s that crazy ho! Messes with knives and that. Yeah, yeah! She’s got mad cow disease!”
The class laughed but Sam was impressed: somehow, the depths of south east London and the ninth-floor flat of a council block had produced a boy who knew the story of Lady Macbeth.
Just then Sam’s door flew open. It was Sylvie, breathless and agitated.
“Oh, Mr Patterson! A word, please!”
The class looked up, a murmur of anticipation rippling through the room at the sudden interruption.
Sam stepped outside, his face worried.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. But there’s a fight in the playground. It looks serious. Can you go? I’ll sit with your class.”
Sam ran down the corridor, startling two girls who were dragging their feet to class. One nudged the other, but Sam was too worried to notice as they followed quietly behind him.
Tearing open the door at the entrance, Sam sprinted into the playground. A ring of students were standing loosely around two boys who were bloody-nosed and wrestling each other on the ground. The bigger boy had the smaller on the ground and was kneeling on him, landing some solid punches.
“Stop that!” roared Sam.
But the boy ignored him, too maddened to hear anything.
Sam pulled him off and swung him round. The boy struggled wildly.
“Calm down,” said Sam, loudly. “Come on, take it easy. That’s better.”
“He started it, sir,” said one of the boys watching from the side, and pointing at the prone figure.
“I don’t want to hear it,” said Sam, firmly. “We’ll talk about this in the Principal’s office.”
Suddenly one of the girls screamed.
The smaller boy was on his feet, a long evil-looking knife held in one hand. A stream of obscenities started pouring from his mouth.
He took a step towards the bigger boy, who cowered back.
“Don’t do this, Jason,” said Sam, stepping between them. He recognised the boy from his year 10 class, a loner, thoughtful, but never before violent. Strain made Sam’s voice rougher than he wanted.
“Put the knife down.” He tried to speak calmly.
The boy didn’t seem able to hear him. Sam took a careful step towards him, his hands held out in a peaceful gesture.
“You don’t want to do this, Jason,” he said.
The boy’s eyes were wild.
“Jason!” said Sam, sharply.
The boy’s head snapped towards him and this time he seemed to hear Sam.
“Don’t do this, Jason,” Sam repeated softly. “Put the knife down. If you hurt anyone, your life will change forever. Here. Today. Put the knife down. Now.”
Sam held his breath.
Slowly, the boy’s gasps seemed to ease and he sank to his knees, dropping the knife.
Sam breathed deeply, relief filling him.
“Well done, Jason. That was the right choice. Okay, you with me,” he pointed to the other boy. “Everyone else back to class. Now.”
The small crowd dispersed reluctantly, along with the two itinerant older girls, giggling to themselves. Sam picked up the knife, careful of the wickedly-sharp blade. Jason stood up shakily and the two boys silently followed Sam to the Principal’s office.
It was some time before Sam was able to get back to his class and finish what was left of the lesson. The students’ eyes were bright with curiosity and Sam knew the story would be all round the school by lunchtime. He hoped something could be done to help Jason: he wasn’t a bad kid, just confused and listening to the wrong people. The boy hadn’t injured anyone so maybe he’d get a temporary suspension instead of a permanent exclusion.
For the rest of the day both pupils and staff came up to Sam to hear a firsthand account of what had happened. To the pupils, Sam said nothing; to staff, that Principal Skinner was dealing with it.
He was very happy to slump after school and listen to the first-day-back chatter of the other Arts Faculty staff.
Joan, one of the older teachers, a motherly woman in her fifties, was bemoaning the miserable weather. “I’
m really looking forward to some sunshine,” she said.
“Who isn’t?” agreed Nora, one of the teaching assistants.
“But Summer. Sports day! All those young men in shorts,” sighed Joan. Then she looked speculatively at Sam. “Will you be wearing shorts?”
Sam reddened and ducked his head, trying to ignore their laughter.
Luckily Mr Jones started the department meeting promptly, although he seemed to be having some difficulties finding the right papers.
“Lucy shuffled his notes,” Joan whispered to Sam. “Petty, really, but he’s such a tosser.”
Sam bit back a smile as Mr Jones finally found the agenda.
The meeting was typically boring and Sam was almost relieved when Bill King kicked off about the lack of TA hours this term. Mr Jones made some anodyne comments about the depressed state of the economy and everyone pulling together, and then headed off on a tangent talking about some changes to the exam syllabi.
When the meeting finally broke up, Sam turned on his phone. The school enforced a strict no-mobiles policy: any pupils caught using one had them confiscated for a week, and staff were expected to restrict their use to out-of-school hours.
When the phone blinked into life, Sam saw that Elle had sent him a text. The brief message was warm and sweet, saying that she was dying to see him and maybe they could go out on Friday.
All the staff and students were delighted when the weekend finally arrived. The first few days back after a holiday were always harder – getting back into old routines was draining.
But Sam’s week wasn’t over yet.
The first rugby practice of the term was a scrappy affair, not helped by the fact that Sam made Ayesha go and cut her half-inch long nails before she took someone’s eye out. She’d moaned and grizzled and complained and whined about her human rights but Sam ignored her stoically.
The team had some work to do, but they’d be in good shape for the second round matches that were coming up. Sam was quietly pleased by their progress.
It was a pity the PE staff didn’t think the girls’ team worthy of their interest; Sam was pretty sure his first team could take the boys. Ayesha alone was a force of nature and ruthless in the scrum.
He changed out of his muddy clothes and let the hot water in the staff shower-room ease his stiff shoulders. It was a better shower than the one he had at home; some days he got into school early just so he could use it.
Now the week was over and school was out, he didn’t have to worry about dressing smartly. He pulled on a pair of jeans that he knew Elle particularly liked and a long-sleeved grey T-shirt that clung damply to his chest.
He stuffed everything else in his sports bag and jogged to the car. Two sixth-form girls were just stubbing out their cigarettes.
“Oh, sir!” giggled one. “I wouldn’t kick you out of bed on a wet Tuesday morning!”
The other shrieked with laughter while Sam wished the ground would open under his feet. Instead he tried to ignore them and drove away with what little dignity he could muster. He saw them waving in his rear view mirror then dissolve into more giggles.
An hour later he was weaving his way through the Friday night crowds of Soho, slightly later than arranged. Elle had chosen the venue, of course, and he expected it would be expensive. To be fair, she’d promised it was her treat, so he couldn’t really complain.
He saw her immediately, her bright hair distinct beneath the bar’s gloomy lighting. His heart sank when he saw that she was surrounded by her work colleagues. This really wasn’t the reconciliation that he had in mind.
He studied the group carefully: he couldn’t see Crispin, which was definitely a good thing. Sam couldn’t promise himself that he wouldn’t have punched the older man. And if he did, Elle would not be pleased.
Just then one of Elle’s colleagues, gazing in Sam’s direction, murmured something and Elle looked up. Her face brightened immediately and he couldn’t help smiling back.
“Sam, darling! I was beginning to think I’d been stood up!”
The confidence in her voice made it clear that she’d thought no such thing.
She pulled him onto the seat next to her, forcing everyone else to shuffle round.
“Mmm, you smell divine,” she whispered in his ear. Then more loudly, “We’re celebrating, darling. And it’s all thanks to you!”
Sam looked surprised.
“The client just loved your idea for reciting Byron on the perfume promotion. They’ve given us the contract for the next 18 months: billboards, TV, magazines. Crispin is delighted.”
Sam’s eyes tightened at the mention of her boss’s name. Realising her faux pas, Elle gushed on.
“That’s right Ellie-belly,” interrupted the obnoxious Roland Nash. “Wall-to-wall shampoo for us!”
He popped open another bottle of champagne, thoughtlessly pointing it towards another group of drinkers. The cork missed them by inches. The man was such an arse.
Sam’s expression was mirrored in Elle’s face.
“I’ve missed you,” she sighed, rubbing her hand down his thigh. “I mean, I’ve really missed you.”
Sam could feel the warmth of her hand through his jeans, but a part of him was wondering how much he’d missed her. He hadn’t thought about her as much as usual, although it had also been a very busy week.
But Elle seemed determined to show him just how much she’d missed him. She started whispering in his ear all the things she’d been thinking about during the previous week: things she wanted to do with him, and things she wanted to do to him. Some of them made him raise his eyebrows. Elle looked at him smugly.
Then he remembered that he was an English teacher and had a very good command of language. He ran his lips along her neck, murmuring some ideas that she’d left out of her various scenarios. The descriptions made her arch her back like a cat.
“Oh my God!” said Mim, loudly. “Sam, is that you on this video?”
Sam lifted his head and looked at her questioningly.
Elle’s colleagues were huddled around Mim’s iPhone watching a tiny film clip.
“It is you!” she gasped.
“What are you watching?” said Elle, crossly. She hated to be the last to know anything.
Everyone was staring at Sam: it was a very uncomfortable feeling.
“What’s that?” said Roland, returning from the gents, still zipping up his flies. “What are you all watching? Is it porn?”
“No-o!” said Mim, her eyes on Sam, and obviously considering the idea that Sam and porn in the same sentence had possibilities. “It’s Sam facing down a boy with a knife.”
“What?” said Elle. She looked a little pale.
Sam recognised the flickering picture: someone had managed to film him taking the knife from Jason earlier in the week – and posted it on the internet. He had no idea how Mim had stumbled across it.
“What happened?” said Elle again, her colour coming back. “You didn’t tell me about this!”
Sam shrugged uncomfortably.
“Just a kid at school. It wasn’t anything serious.”
“Bloody hell!” said Roland, looking impressed in spite of himself.
“My God,” said Rebecca, eyeing Sam thoughtfully. “I knew teaching could be tough but…”
“Yeah,” snickered Marcus, “but in advertising they stab you in the back.”
Everyone laughed too loudly, and Sam was glad that the focus of attention was off him.
Elle wound her hand around his neck, pulling his head towards her. “Do you want to go now, darling?” she whispered.
Sam nodded thankfully. She wasn’t usually so perceptive.
They stood outside the club in the chilly night air. Elle shivered in her thin coat and Sam put his arm around her as he flagged down a taxi.
He held her elbow as she clambered inside and then climbed in next to her. The taxi had barely left the pavement when she flung herself on him, her hands moving restlessly over his body and under
his T-shirt, her mouth glued to his lips.
The journey was mercifully short and Sam ignored the snide comment the cabbie made as Elle threw some money at him.
They crashed through the door of her house and Elle made it clear that she had really, really missed him.
Sam switched off his brain and let his body do the talking.
Chapter 3 – February
Half-term was approaching and, more to the point as far as the students were concerned, it would soon be Valentine’s Day.
Sam was dreading it. Last year had been a nightmare: cards had covered his desk like Autumn leaves; flowers decorated his car (mostly relocated from the local graveyard); and a parade of girls had hidden small presents in, on, around and under his desk. One enterprising individual had even left a couple of Quality Streets in his jacket pocket. He had no idea when that had happened, although it was common knowledge that Tanya had more light-fingered skills that a football team of Artful Dodgers.
All of the items he’d had to declare to Principal Skinner on the grounds that teachers could not be seen to accept presents of that sort; and gifts of a more appropriate nature, only occasionally at the end of the year, or as leaving presents.
The look of shock and disapproval on the principal’s face was something Sam didn’t like to dwell on. Nor the fifteen minutes he’d had to spend convincing his employer that none of it had been desired or, God forbid, encouraged.
It was a considerable relief to several other teachers too, that Principal Skinner had made an announcement informing students that they were banned from giving Valentine cards and gifts to staff: violations of the rule would not be tolerated.
Sam had breathed a sigh of relief until Sylvie pointed out the obvious.
“The kids will just make sure they don’t get caught,” she said. “It doesn’t mean that it’ll stop them trying.” She smiled sympathetically at his hunted expression. “I suppose some men would be flattered.”
Sam shook his head doubtfully. “Not if it meant they might get fired!”
The New Samurai Page 5