My debut work.
I read until it is time to collect the kids from school, carefully piling the pages together and putting them on my bedside table. I’m going to get Nick to read it through in its entirety later and then ask his advice about what I should do next. Now that it’s actually written I feel a sense of calm about the whole thing. Daxx and Bella Rose will tell their story and my words will be read by other people. And they might like it or they might loathe it and I can handle that.
Because no matter what comes of this whole venture, I will always have Wyoming. Nobody can take that away from me.
*
The sound of laughter coming from the bedroom makes my heart sink and my stomach churn. I pause outside the door, glass of wine in hand. Maybe Nick is laughing at something totally and utterly unrelated to my book. Perhaps there’s a particularly entertaining pigeon at the window? Or maybe he’s got bored and is scrolling through humorous videos on YouTube?
If I turn around and go back downstairs, I can avoid any heartbreak. But fuck it – I can’t bear not knowing what he thinks. I’m going in.
Nick is sprawled on the bed, pieces of paper spread out around him. He looks up as I enter the room, his eyes sparkling.
‘Hannah! This is truly brilliant!’ he exclaims and a little bit of me sobs in relief. ‘I can’t believe you’ve written all this!’
‘Do you really like it?’ I perch next to him, feeling oddly shy. ‘You don’t think some of the sexual descriptions are too shocking? I’m aware that I’m pushing the boundaries of the genre a bit at times.’
Nick sniggers, like I’ve said something funny. ‘I didn’t know you had this in you, babe. Seriously. This is golden!’
I allow a smile to spread across my face. ‘Honestly? God – I’ve been terrified waiting for you to read it. I thought you might look at me differently, you know – once you’d read the things that I’m capable of thinking.’
Nick sits up. ‘Hannah, I am in awe of you.’ He reaches across the bed and picks up my hand. ‘You took this whole book in a direction that I just didn’t see coming.’
I shrug, trying to act modest. ‘It wrote itself, if I’m honest,’ I tell him. ‘And you helped me out, don’t forget. Those Kama Sutra moves came in really useful when I was describing the incident in the barn.’
‘Oh my god, yes!’ Nick lets go of my hand and wipes at his eyes. ‘The way you had Bella Rose with her leg behind her ear and then Daxx got muscle cramp because he hadn’t warmed up – I nearly died at that bit.’
‘It wasn’t too much?’ I ask. ‘Too racy?’
Nick removes my glass of wine from me and takes a large gulp.
‘Comedy gold, babe. Comedy gold. And the bits where you go into detailed explanations of the weather and the location and the crop rotation cycle in Wyoming are just hilarious.’
A shiver of something cold trickles down my spine.
‘Hilarious? Comedy gold? What are you on about?’
Nick clearly fails to hear the warning in my voice because he just laughs. ‘You know those Bad Sex awards that are given out every year? I seriously think you could be in with a shot of winning.’ He pauses, looking thoughtful. ‘Although I think they’re actually awarded to serious fiction with terrible sex scenes. Not books like yours that are actually supposed to be funny. What genre is this, anyway? Is there such a thing as erotic humour? Because if there isn’t, then I think you just invented it!’
I shake my head, trying to clear the ringing sound in my ears.
‘My book isn’t funny. It’s sexy.’
Nick passes me the wine. ‘It’s the funniest thing I’ve read in ages, Hannah!’
I drain the pitiful amount that is left in the glass and stare my husband in the eye. ‘Listen to me. It. Isn’t. Meant. To. Be. Funny.’
And then I burst into tears.
9.30 p.m. The crying stops. Nick has spent the last hour and a half trying to reassure me and tell me that he was praising my literary efforts and that he truly had no idea that what he was saying was both negative and hurtful. He has also plied me with much more wine.
10.10 p.m. The crying resumes. I curl up on the sofa, clutching a cushion and wailing that I am never going to get the last few months back and that I don’t know what possessed me to think that I was the kind of person who could ever write a book. Nick points out that I have written a book. I sobbingly tell him that I have clearly written The Idiot’s Guide to How Not to be Sexy.
10.25 p.m. The ranting begins. I pace the floor while Nick cowers in the armchair.
‘Maybe it’ll be okay. After all, why shouldn’t sex be funny?’ I ask, snapping at Nick that I am obviously speaking rhetorically when he tries to tell me that sex with me is often funny.
10.35 p.m. I ceremoniously throw my entire manuscript into the fireplace.
‘Burn in hell, you stupid book,’ I curse, waving my fist in the air. ‘Thanks to you, I will now have to endure another year of Year Nine, Class C. Except I won’t because I probably won’t even have a job and I’m going to have to become a dog walker and pick up poo for a living.’
10.37 p.m. I start sobbing again. Nick retrieves my manuscript from the empty fireplace and dusts it down before putting it carefully on the table and telling me, quite kindly, that I need to get a grip.
‘It’s really good, Hannah,’ he says, sitting down next to me. ‘I think you should get it out there. See what other people think. Otherwise what’s the point in having written it?’
‘Exactly!’ I wail, slumping back onto the sofa. ‘What’s the fucking point? And I can’t let anyone read it because the shackles have been removed from my eyes. It’s crap, I know that now.’
‘I think it’s the blinkers that have been removed from your eyes,’ points out Nick. ‘I’m not sure that eyes can have shackles.’
‘Thank you, oh Wise One,’ I howl. ‘Why don’t you write a bloody book if you’re so good with words?’
10.39 p.m. Nick guides me upstairs and into the bathroom where he puts some toothpaste on my toothbrush and tells me to open my mouth. And then he helps me get into my pyjamas and tucks me under the duvet.
‘You’ll feel differently in the morning,’ he whispers, kissing my forehead and turning out the lamp. ‘This is just post-writing tension being released.’
I drift off to sleep before I can find the words to tell him that I might be slightly emotional but that I know how I feel. The book is rubbish and it’s still going to be just as rubbish tomorrow.
I’ll just be right back where I was at the beginning.
With no prospects and probably no job.
And with absolutely no hope.
Chapter 31
‘So, how do you feel the lesson went?’
As opening questions go, it’s fairly standard and I’m vaguely surprised. Miriam seems so intent on changing the status quo around here that I was prepared to answer questions on just about anything. But here we are, with an easy starter for ten. I sit back in my chair, relaxing the tiniest bit. I know how to play this game.
‘I think it had areas of strength,’ I tell her. ‘And also some room for development.’
I can’t go wrong with that answer. Some confidence in my own teaching ability combined with a little humility. I smile, volleying the ball across to her side of the net.
‘And would you say that all the pupils were engaged?’ Miriam bares her tiny, white teeth at me. ‘Do you feel that they all contributed to the lesson?’
I nod. ‘This particular class is very keen.’
‘And how do you feel that they have responded to the works of George Orwell?’ she presses. ‘I know that when I was teaching English I made the decision to stick to slightly less challenging books.’
‘Well, as you saw in the lesson, they have a good understanding of the plot,’ I bluster.
They do not have a good understanding of the plot. At one point in the disastrous observation, Brody started doing an impression of the animals, chanting ‘fo
ur legs good, two legs bad’ and when Miriam asked him what point Orwell was making with that comment, he scratched his head and then told her that ‘it means chickens are evil, innit?’
Miriam’s mouth opens and I leap in to stop her before she can get a withering comment in.
‘Several of the pupils did extra research in their own time,’ I blurt out. ‘That’s how keen they are.’
‘Oh?’ Miriam looks surprised. Not that I can blame her. Our school isn’t in a catchment where pupils tend to be keen on self-development or self-improvement or self-motivation. They are, ironically, very keen on ‘self’ though. ‘And what form has this extra research taken? Do you have evidence that you can show me? Is there anything in your planning?’
I regret saying anything now. I’m not sure when the teaching profession became as obsessed with evidence as the Crime Prosecution Service but it’s a complete pain in the backside. Nothing counts anymore unless you can prove it, which is ridiculous, because some of the best things that have happened in my classroom have been entirely undocumented.
‘And the extra research was linked to your lessons on George Orwell, you say?’ Miriam looks across at the Head, who appears to be taking the opportunity to have a quick doze. ‘Roger? You’re quite the Orwellian, aren’t you?’
The Head finally opens his eyes. ‘Absolutely. And frankly, I’m rather surprised that you’ve managed to garner any interest in him from Year Nine. They seem a sadly uninspired cohort.’
Why did I even mention extra research? Miriam’s eyes are gleaming and I am getting the sinking suspicion that I am being set up for a very large fall.
‘Sadly, Miriam, the work was generated by the pupils themselves,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘It isn’t detailed in my planning.’
I happened to finish an English lesson by telling the class that we would be studying Animal Farm the following week and that if any of them felt like getting ahead, they might like to look up the film online.
It was an innocent mistake.
‘So how do you know that they actually did the study?’ asks Miriam, narrowing her eyes. She’s like a super sleuth and I can tell that she won’t rest until she’s got a satisfactory answer from me. A horrifying thought flits through my brain before I can stop it. Maybe she already knows? Maybe I should just hand in my resignation now?
‘A couple of them brought in posters,’ I say, seizing on the first thing that enters my mind.
The following Monday, I had entered the classroom to find Brandon Hopkins standing at the front, detailing the plot of Animal Farm to anyone who would listen, which from the rapt silence appeared to be just about everybody. I stood for a second in the doorway, feeling happily smug that my teaching was finally starting to get results, before the detail of his description hit my ears and I shrieked at him to leave the room.
It transpires that there is more than one film online with the title Animal Farm and, as luck would have it, Brandon Hopkins had managed to stumble upon a version that would have had Orwell turning in his grave.
‘I’d love to see them,’ says Miriam, leaning towards me with an evil smile. ‘We really do want to encourage the pupils as much as possible. If they know that people as important as the Deputy Head will be looking at their work’ – she pauses to give a little self-deprecating laugh – ‘well, I think they’ll be motivated to do even better next time. Don’t you agree, Hannah?’
‘Absolutely.’ Not. These kids couldn’t give a rat’s arse if Miriam looks at their homework. Not to mention the fact that the posters are entirely fictional and I’m going to have to fabricate some rubbish during my lunch break.
‘So, Hannah.’
Overuse of my name. She’s definitely going to fire me.
‘How do you offer praise and reward in your classroom? These pupils who completed extra study, for example. What did they get back in return?’
I am sweating now. ‘Surely learning is a reward in itself, Miriam?’
She frowns and I hurry for something else that might placate her. ‘But saying that, I also feel that the home-school partnership is something that cannot be valued enough. So with that in mind, I made sure that I contacted the parents of the pupils who had done additional work and spoke with them at length about their efforts.’
Oh yes, I absolutely did. The instant that the bell rang I was on the phone to Brandon Hopkins’s mum. Partly to inform her that her son has access to hardcore porn and that, despite the fact that he is indeed ‘a fifteen year old boy and what can you do with him, miss!’ this is possibly something that she may wish to monitor. And also to cover my own back in case word got out that I was setting inappropriate viewing as homework.
‘I have a question for you.’ Miriam leans back in her chair. She’s enjoying this, I can tell. ‘As you are aware, we are currently reviewing all the temporary contracts. If given the opportunity to teach English next year, would you still choose to use Animal Farm as one of your texts?’
It’s a trap. She definitely knows. I can feel my armpits prickling with sweat and my cheeks feel like they’re glowing. I scrutinise Miriam’s face, trying to figure out where she’s going with this, but it is unreadable. I make a mental note never to play cards with this woman; her poker face puts Lady Gaga to shame.
What is the right answer? I can’t work it out. Should I say that I wouldn’t teach Orwell next year? Is that what she wants to hear? Or is she expecting me to confess to the almighty balls-up that I have made of her English class? Does she want her pound of flesh? Does she want me to bleed for this job?
There is only one answer. I don’t know if it’s right or wrong, but at this exact moment, I have gone beyond caring.
‘Yes.’ I sit up straighter and give Miriam a smile. ‘I’d do some things differently but yes, I would teach Animal Farm again.’
Minus any mention of the porn film, obviously, Miriam! Lol.
‘I think it has a lot of messages that are worth discussing with the pupils. If we shy away from the trickier topics then we’re failing to do our jobs.’ I lean back, satisfied with my reply.
My contract might not be getting renewed but damn, that felt bloody brilliant. I am almost inspiring myself. I should open a Twitter account under the name @toughteacher. I could give talks about how to keep things real in the classroom.
‘I see. That’s very interesting.’ Miriam jots something down in her notebook and finally, after what feels like hours of interminable interrogation, I am released with no further questions.
I trudge down the corridor and down the stairs. I’m not teaching for the rest of the day and I have a pile of books that are waiting for me in my classroom. Outside, the sun is shining and I have a sudden urge to bunk off and escape to the park.
Then my phone beeps and I stop, reaching into my bag to see what latest emergency awaits me. Scarlet has already texted three times today over a variety of crises, including the fact that she appears to have Benji’s lunch and therefore will have to starve to death because she refuses to be seen in the canteen with a Pokémon lunchbox.
Only it isn’t yet another complaint from my daughter. It’s an email from a name that I don’t recognise with the subject heading Submissions/Big in Wyoming. I open up the message and then freeze in the middle of the corridor, my brain struggling to catch up with the words that leap out at me.
Thank you … sending … your book. After careful consideration … not quite right … wish you … best … placing it elsewhere.
All best wishes,
Jasmine
On behalf of King and White Literary Agency.
What? Somewhere in the distance a bell rings and suddenly doors fly open, releasing dozens of kids into the corridor. I stand very still, an immovable rock in the middle of a river of pupils. I am aware on some level that they are laughing and yelling but it all seems to be happening a very long way away.
Eventually I come to my senses and stagger down the hallway and into the staffroom. Once safely inside, I collapse o
nto the nearest chair and look again at my phone. None of this makes sense.
‘Are you okay, Hannah?’ Cassie wanders across the room, looking at me with curiosity. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
I open my mouth but no words come out. I don’t even know where to begin.
‘Seriously, mate.’ She sits down next to me and touches my arm. ‘Has something happened? Have you had some bad news?’
I swallow and tear my eyes away from the screen. ‘No. Yes. God, I don’t know.’
Cassie nods understandably. ‘You just had your feedback with Miriam, didn’t you? Was she awful about your lesson?’
‘It’s not that.’ I force myself to sit up straight. ‘I just opened a really weird email.’
She grimaces. ‘Oh no, not you as well? Bloody hell, Year Nine, Class C are getting out of control. You know that Danny has been bombarded with penis enlargement emails? He only figured out that they were behind it when one of the little sods asked him if he’d been getting treatment for his erectile dysfunction when he got back from the dentist last week.’
I shake my head. ‘It’s worse than that. I think I just got a rejection letter from a literary agency, which is totally insane because I haven’t submitted my book anywhere.’
There’s a pause while Cassie looks everywhere but at me. I stare at her, watching as her face starts to flush. ‘Cassie? What’s going on?’
‘Nothing!’ Her voice is suspiciously squeaky. ‘Nothing is going on! And that agency must be stupid to reject it because your book is bloody brilliant!’
‘You haven’t read my book,’ I say slowly, as the penny finally drops. ‘I was too embarrassed to let anyone read it once it was finished. The only person who read it is Nick.’
That snake in the grass. That traitor. What was he thinking?
‘He gave you a copy of my book and you sent it off? Oh god, Cassie. How could you do this to me?’
Cassie sits on the edge of the seat, as if she’s getting ready to run. ‘It wasn’t me!’ she protests. ‘It was Nick’s idea. Honestly.’
‘So now that you’ve betrayed me, you’re going to throw Nick under the bus too?’ I ask, dropping my head into my hands. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
More Than Just Mom Page 24