Confessions of a School Nurse

by Michael Alexander

  ‘Maybe we should check it out.’

  ‘We can’t sleep with such a racket.’

  ‘It would be culturally insensitive not to go to a local club.’

  ‘Greece is the land of sun, sand and se—’ I cut Joel off before he could finish his sentence, but the girls were already giggling.

  ‘I think that glass of wine has affected you already.’ Joel scoffed at such a suggestion.

  Reluctantly we made our way back to the docked yachts.

  ‘Well, this isn’t fair.’

  ‘Tell them to be quiet.’

  ‘This is torture.’

  The yachts were moored directly opposite the noisy nightclub. Instead of getting ready for bed, everyone was sitting on the side of the yacht looking forlornly at the people going in and out of the bar. In the dimly lit night you could make out the silhouettes of people dancing through the open windows.

  ‘This is truly cruel, sir,’ Mohammed said to me, and I had to agree with him. Johnno and I made an executive decision. ‘Well, I suppose it would be all right, if we went with you.’ There were cheers all round. ‘But … you are to be on your best behaviour. One drink only per person, and when we say it’s time to leave, we leave, no argument.’

  ‘Thank you so much, sir. The first round is on me,’ Mohammed offered.

  ‘You mean the only round,’ I replied.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I meant.’

  To our surprise there was a door charge to get in, but without hesitation Mohammed paid for everyone, and true to his word he also paid for everyone’s drinks.

  His generosity impressed everyone, creating an atmosphere of good fun and good will. Mohammed found himself a couch near the wall where he could watch the room. His fellow Saudis stayed with him while the girls went off to dance with the rest of the boys.

  ‘There’s something strange about this place,’ Johnno observed. We’d been there about twenty minutes and I had to agree; something didn’t seem quite right. We’d been so busy making sure the kids got in OK and had only one drink each, we hadn’t paid much attention to the rest of the setting.

  We noticed a local looking man had pulled up a chair and was sitting with Mohammed and the gang. Johnno and I sidled into the background, within hearing distance, just in case he was up to no good.

  The man offered to buy Mohammed and his friends some drinks, but they politely refused. He then tried some small talk; he asked the guys where they were from, and offered them a cigarette each. Our boys turned down his offer, but did say they were from Saudi Arabia. Johnno and I were on guard, and I could sense Mohammed becoming wary too, but before we had a chance to intervene, the stranger made his move.

  Men and women do it to each other all the time; a brief touch, a false smile, a forced laugh. The first point of contact seemed almost innocuous, as he rocked back and forth at some great jest, his hand landing on Mohammed’s knee as if driven by the force of so much hilarity.

  ‘Did you see that? I don’t believe it. Did you see it?’ Johnno exclaimed. I had seen it. Mohammed looked in our direction, a stricken look on his face. We returned his look of distress with a smile and a wave. ‘I think we should do something. This could get nasty,’ I said.

  ‘You’re right, but that was truly priceless.’

  As we approached them, we could see Mohammed’s look of terror as he sat staring at the stranger’s hand still upon his knee.

  ‘You look so strong, so …’ The stranger never got a chance to finish as Johnno and I pulled up chairs opposite and, catching the hint, the man wandered away.

  ‘Did you see that? What the fuck was that?’ Mohammed and the other Saudis were quite worked up. ‘He put his hand on my knee.’

  ‘He obviously liked you.’ The boys didn’t know how to react. They tried to look indignant and unruffled at the same time.

  I asked Mohammed why he was so eager to pay for everyone to go to a gay bar.

  ‘What the … I didn’t want this …’

  ‘You paid for everyone,’ I reminded him.

  His mouth dropped. ‘I’m in a gay bar? My father can never find out about this.’

  We chose that moment to call it a night. We’d only been there an hour, but the group kept their word and didn’t complain.

  ‘Hey guys, Mohammed took us to a gay bar,’ Johnno called out when we’d regrouped. Eventually Mohammed and his friends saw the funny side, although they never found it as hilarious as the rest of us!

  EPILOGUE

  Graduation

  I’m not one of ‘them’, but they need people like me.

  I’m not super rich, or even mildly rich; I’ve never had servants or bodyguards; I’ve never driven a Porsche or Ferrari let alone owned one, and I wouldn’t know how to behave at the high society functions and fundraisers their parents throw. It’s exactly for this reason they need me, not as a nurse, but as a regular guy.

  These kids need a whole lot of ‘regular’ guys, whether they, or their parents, realise it …

  Mr Fitzpatrick was the head of the most exclusive and expensive school around, a whopping 140,000 euros a year for tuition and board, and I was part of a group that were being given a tour of his campus. I was mingling with board members, headmasters and recruiters. We all knew I didn’t belong; I was only there to check out the health centre.

  The campus was, as you’d expect, outstanding, yet the most poignant memory for me was when someone asked how they could justify such an incredible price.

  ‘It’s an expensive country,’ he began, ‘and that’s what parents like about it. A lot of our parents don’t want their child mingling with common people and such a high price ensures this.’ Such words should have been spoken as a confession, instead he sounded proud.

  There are over 7000 international schools around the world, with more than three million students, and the forecast is for that number to double in the next ten years. That’s a lot of teachers (around 300,000) and a lot of nurses; and it’s us regular guys who have a responsibility to bring out the compassion and humanity that resides in these kids as well as in all of us.

  I’m optimistic that not all wealthy parents are as Mr Fitzpatrick described, and I know that the vast majority of the students do care, but with so many future leaders in the making, whether business, technology, politics or other positions of power, we need the kids to understand and value the common man.

  There are other reasons why parents spend a lot of money to send their child to a boarding school like ours:

  Safety. For some, this is the only time when the students won’t have a driver or bodyguard. One year there was a surge in kidnappings in Mexico and Brazil, and our numbers from those parts doubled.

  Networking. When you spend as much as nine to ten years living, growing, experimenting, playing and learning with someone, you have a friend for life whom you can trust. I suspect knowing who to trust is not easy for some, especially when inheriting wealth or power.

  Prestige. For the parents, not so much the kids.

  Work. Some schools began as a place for children of ex-pats working in corners of the world that are dangerous or undeveloped. Often the companies they work for pay for their children’s schooling abroad.

  Effort. Sadly, some parents just don’t want to deal with their children; it’s sometimes hard to see it as neglect when parents spend so much money.

  And my favourite:

  Scholarships. Sometimes the regular guys make it in.

  Some schools are required by law to take a certain number of scholarship students, and while some take the minimum number, others take more. Almost without fail, it’s the scholarship students who do the best. They appreciate the value of their education, and many come from hardship, even poverty.

  Many teachers tell me they like having these students in class as they set a good example, though the others don’t always follow.

  It makes sense that those with nothing strive to do better, although it makes me wonder how those who’ve had eve
rything can appreciate what they have.

  Many of our students don’t. It’s not their fault, and they’re not bad kids, they just don’t know about the real world. School headmasters, those like Mr Fitzpatrick, should make it their goal to admit as many ‘common’ people as possible. But ultimately private education is a business, and while we can educate the children, we can’t enlighten the parents.

  But once a year, I get an opportunity to try …

  The grand finale

  ‘It’s a beautiful prison,’ Andrew joked, but he still looked close to shedding a tear. The two of us were standing outside the Grand Hall, waiting for the parents to settle down and the ceremony to begin.

  Andrew had spent his life in boarding school, well, at least the important parts of his life so far. He had spent his formative years here, those years when your body begins to change and you discover that the opposite sex is much more fun than your favourite stuffed toy.

  ‘You’ll never all be together in the same place again,’ I added poignantly.

  ‘Thanks, that really helps.’ But he couldn’t help but smile at my lack of tact. ‘I’ll never see this place again,’ he added and I told him how wrong he was.

  The long-termers always come back, at least once, no matter how far and wide they spread and they spread pretty far: from the Arctic circle to the tail of New Zealand, from the Steppes of Kazakhstan to the rain forests of Brazil.

  ‘Nah, I’m done. I’ll miss my friends, but I need to get off this mountain.’

  ‘You’ll be back … and I’ll probably still be here!’ I said, unsure of whether I was joking.

  ‘I hope so, you’re one of the good guys.’

  Dammit, he was going to get me all soppy with such talk. Graduation days stir up mixed emotions, happiness and sadness. I’ve been there during the good times and bad, the breaks, the triumphs, the tragedies. They’re kids no more, they’re young adults who’ve turned out, for the most part, pretty damn fine. The road hasn’t always been easy, and there’s been blood, sweat and tears shed, but they made it. And I made it as well.

  Andrew filed into the Grand Hall and officially finished high school.

  The Grand ceremony in the Grand Hall is followed by a Grand Dinner, with families and staff mingling. It’s my chance to meet, and hopefully not confront, the people who’ve sometimes ordered, yelled, and sometimes even thanked me, over the phone.

  Over the past ten graduations I’ve attended, I’ve met the parents of nearly all the special characters who have come into my life.

  When Ameena graduated, her parents were lovely, rational, and seemingly incapable of hate, although I never did find out if they ever discovered their daughter’s friendship with a Jewish girl. And had it actually mattered?

  When Kurt’s mother asked me how her son got the scar on his forehead, Kurt gave me a very worried stare. I resisted the urge to say: ‘If you think that’s bad, you ought to check out his fore …’

  When Faisal, the Lebanese rocket launching warrior graduated, he and his parents shook hands with all his teachers, even the Jewish ones. I often joke that I only go to graduation for the food, and to ogle the cars in the parking lot, but I’m just kidding. For me, graduation is a chance for the young adults and staff to say farewell.

  Perhaps I too will graduate soon. I don’t know how much longer I’ll stay a school nurse, because I feel a touch of guilt. Sure, I have a lot of responsibility and I do make a difference, and I do enjoy working with children, but I want to make a greater difference, change the lives of the poor, not just the rich.

  Whether this means going to a developing nation and working with those most in need, or simply returning to New Zealand and doing some good close to home, I’m not so sure. I’ll guess I’ll just have to wait and see …

  Acknowledgements

  Again, how do you thank the people who made you what you are? From friends, family, patients and colleagues, you have all had an impact on my life, in work and home, in fun times and sad, and this book would not have been possible without you.

  I would also like to thank Rachel from The Friday Project for being so patient and working so hard.

  Thanks everyone.

  Confessions of a School Nurse is part of the bestselling ‘Confessions’ series.

  From the same author

  Confessions of a School Nurse

  by Michael Alexander

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  by Andrew Crofts

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  Confessions of a New York Taxi Driver

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  And coming soon…

  Confessions of a Barrister

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  About the Author

  MICHAEL ALEXANDER is the pseudonym of a nurse who has previously worked in the UK and New Zealand.

  Also by Michael Alexander

  Confessions of a Male Nurse

  Getting Out Alive (ebook)

  About the Publisher

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