‘Right-o, Mr Beaumont.’
‘And, just call me Norris.’
‘Really, sir, I can’t. I spent five years of my life peeing in my pants every time I saw you.’
‘Norris, Lanky, Norris. And none of this “sir” nonsense, either. Right, what else do you need to know about teaching?’
‘Er, how should I plan a lesson?’
‘I recommend the five-step plan, Lanky.’
‘And how does that work?’
‘Five steps before you go into the classroom, work out what you’re going to teach them. One step — vocab test? No, too boring. Second step — grammar test? No, takes too long to mark. Third step — show them a video? No, Mr Lowson’s got the bloody machine again. Fourth step — reading comprehension? No, none of them can read. Fifth step — wing it. You’ll get the picture.’
I think I’m going to enjoy this.
Saturday 5th November
I am enjoying this. I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life. It’s the first job I’ve done when I haven’t watched the clock and longed for the end of the day. I am getting paid to do something I actually enjoy doing.
My colleagues are a happy bunch of eccentrics who love their jobs. Sure, there are the usual inevitable tensions of any group of people. Geoffrey Aitken, the Latin teacher, thinks he should have been made deputy head over Bob Lowson, the Science teacher. Norris Beaumont is an implacable snob and hates the idea that Stuart Ackland — a former PE teacher — should be Headmaster. Rupert Pearce (Maths) is jealous that Simon Reeve (English) gets to coach the first team football and he’s stuck with the under-9 D team. And there is an intriguing little love triangle between Alice Price (Matron), Charlie Blackwell (gap year teacher from South Africa) and Amy Barbour (Junior Form Mistress).
But there is none of the horrendous competitiveness of most other jobs. They tease each other in a light-hearted way. There are no Arabellas or Mr Coxes or Buddy. They are here because they love teaching, not because they love money. It’s something that they’ve chosen to do and not something they’ve drifted into. It’s all about the boys.
And what a bunch of little characters the boys are:
‘Thsir, thsir, are you sexing Miss Barbour?’
That, my little chestnut, is not a proper transitive verb.
‘Thsir, thsir, why does Mr Beaumont call you “Mr Lanky”?’
None of your business, Fereday. It’s Mr Lancaster to you.
‘Thsir, thsir, is it true that you’re a zillionaire with a really fast car?’
Well, Blenkinsop, you can tell Miss Barbour that if you like.
‘Thsir, thsir, how long have you been teaching French for?’
Shit, is it really that obvious?
‘Thsir, thsir, why don’t you have a girlfriend?’
Boys, how long do you have?
They’re young and they’re inquisitive and they’re full of fun. There is respect behind their cheekiness. Their enthusiasm is infectious. The older ones have told me how much they liked my dad.
And I even love the teaching. My only previous experience was on my gap year in a village in Syria with classes of sixty to seventy kids of mixed ability. The headteacher there was a carbon copy of Hitler and almost as ruthless. He claimed that he only hit the pupils because he cared for them, but it was not an uncommon sight to see the playground strewn with those he had laid out unconscious. The kids thought I was weak because I refused to hit them. Their desire for English stretched no further than ‘Sleep with me, pretty girl’ to my fellow gap volunteer.
Morley Park is something of a holiday camp in comparison.
And that’s all I have time for. Mr Lancaster (still haven’t got used to that) is off to prepare the games pitches for bonfire night.
Sunday 6th November
Flatmate Fred rang. It’s my birthday on Wednesday and he wants me to go back to the old flat in London, where he and Jasper are going to cook for me.
Flatmate Fred ’n’ Jasper. They’re beginning to sound like a bit of a roadshow. They’ve made it clear that I can have my old room whenever I want, but I’m really quite happy in the countryside.
Flatmate Fred is still Flatmate Fred, whoever’s flatmate he currently is.
Wednesday 9th November
‘Surprise!’
It certainly was. I’d let myself into my old flat with my own key and found myself in the dark. Just as I turned the light on, twenty people jumped out from behind the sofa. I’d never had a surprise party before. I’d always wanted one.
Twenty of my best friends in one flat and the first person to collar me was Buddy.
‘Jacko — very long time, no meet, as you guys say.’
‘Buddy, wow. How are you? This really is a surprise.’
‘Yeah, well me and your Flatchum Fred have stayed in touch a little bit. Thought I’d pop down and see how ya doing. I heard you’ve sorted yourself out a bit. Got a teaching job, eh? Those who can’t, and all that.’
‘Yeah, and those who can put numbers in Excel boxes?’
I managed to sidestep him and talk to Rick and Mrs Fielding, who didn’t look quite as heavily pregnant as I’d expected.
‘Drinking on a school night?’ said Rick.
‘Literally,’ I groaned. ‘Have to be back in time for morning assembly at 8.30 tomorrow.’
‘So how are the provinces?’ replied Rick. ‘To tire of London is to tire of life? Do you agree with Oscar Coward?’
Marriage had done wonders for his conversation.
‘It was Noël Wilde, wasn’t it?’ replied Lucy.
‘My dear Fieldings, it was Samuel Johnson and he was spouting utter bollocks as usual. I’m bored shitless of London and I’ve never been so energised by life.’
‘But you must miss it. All the theatre, and the culture and the opera. And all the best jobs are here. Everyone is in London.’
‘Rick, when was the last time you went to the theatre? And actually, for that matter, when was the last time you had one of London’s “best jobs”?’
Lucy giggled. Rick looked momentarily hurt and then guffawed, too. We raised our glasses and drained them. Lucy was on orange juice. Rick seemed to be drinking for the two of them.
‘You must be due any day now, aren’t you?’ I asked Lucy, performing some rapid mental arithmetic.
Lucy looked at Rick, who broke into such a fit of unsubtle coughing that she was forced to answer.
‘Hmm, yes. Jack, well, the thing is, Rick got me pregnant in March, actually I got my dates slightly confused. I’m due some time next month.’
So there you had it. Valentine’s Day — the day of commercialism, despair, desperation, love and inventing stories. I stared at Lucy. She looked back at me evenly and then broke into a small, private smile of apology. I decided to leave it be. We all do stupid things in the name of love. That was all in the past now.
I carried on mingling, but it wasn’t until after midnight that I finally managed to talk to Leila. Buddy had been monopolising her all night.
‘So, happy birthday, old man.’
‘Ah, thanks Leila, but you’ve just missed it. I’ve now been twenty-six for fourteen minutes. You’ll have to wait till next year.’
‘Never mind. Timing never was my strong point.’
I laugh. Slightly bitterly.
‘Hmmm, me neither. Actually, speaking of which, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you for well, er, for, let’s say roughly forty-two weeks and six days and a couple of hours.’
I can remember exactly what I said next, because I’d rehearsed it in my head a million times. I’d muttered its clauses to myself while stomping up the escalators on the Underground. I’d honed its inflections while running round the games pitches with the under-9 C football team. The monologue had become part of me. It had kept me up for hours in bed at night and awoken on the tip of my tongue in the morning. The curtain was lifting on the first dress rehearsal. My seventh seduction attempt and I wasn’t going to bottle it th
is time
‘Leila, to me you are beautiful in every way. You’re funny, you’re kind, you’re sweet and you’re stunning. But it’s not simply that you’re the most amazing girl in the world — which you are — or that I fancy you to bits — which I do — or that you make me unbelievably happy whenever I’m around you — which you do. I think there’s something even better there. There’s a hidden side of Leila of which I’ve caught tantalising glimpses. A Leila I’d like to get to know better. A Leila worth fighting for. Nothing in the world would make me happier than to be your boyfriend.’
I pause, waiting to see the effect of my little oration. She’s half-crying, half-smiling.
‘Oh fuckity fuck it, Jack. You weren’t joking about your bad timing. I’ve been wondering for months whether you were ever going to say anything.’
She hasn’t said no. She hasn’t said no.
‘So you feel the same way? Why didn’t you say something yourself?’
‘Because I wasn’t sure. And I couldn’t work out how you felt. I’m the girl. I’m old-fashioned when it comes to this sort of thing. You know how shy I can be. It’s your role to hunt us, isn’t it?’
Girls have no idea how difficult our self-appointed role is.
‘You’re so hard to read, Jack. I mean, one moment you’re sleeping with your ex-girlfriend again, the next you’re having a one-night stand with the bridesmaid at your ex-girlfriend’s wedding.’
Who told her that? I never told her about Katie.
She continues. ‘You tell me that you “fucking love me” when you’re being thrown out of the bank by security guards. The next time we meet up, you deny it completely. A month later you’re running naked across a polo pitch. Then, at the end of August, just as I think you’re becoming a normal human being, you come round to mine for dinner. I think it’s all going well. I’m bursting inside wanting you to kiss me, and then my flatmate Catherine finds you, well, finds you doing something you shouldn’t in the loo. Then you disappear travelling without even telling me that you’re going. I mean, you’ve acted extraordinarily. Is there any explanation for all of it?’
There is one explanation: I’m a dickhead. There’s another: I love her. But I’m too scared to say it.
‘No, Leila, that’s just not true. It was a long-distance release Well, anyway, never mind. I can explain everything. Can’t we just put it all behind us? We can still be together.’
‘Jack, you’re incredibly special to me.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that you’re incredibly special to me, but I can’t go out with you.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m back with Buddy.’
I’d stuck to my bit of the script. She’d deviated horribly from hers.
Thursday 10th November
‘Thsir, thsir, is it true that it was your birthday yesterday and you’re now forty-six?’
‘Blenkinsop, shut up.’
‘Oh is thsir tired today? Is thsir in a bad mood?’
‘Right Blenkinsop, detention. Three hours on Saturday.’
There’s no point teaching kids if you can’t take out your personal problems on them.
Sunday 13th November
Remembrance Sunday.
There’s something in the simple beauty of the service that always hits me. The last post, the music, the poetry:
They shall not grow old,
As we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them,
Nor the years condemn,
At the going down of the sun
And in the morning
We will remember them
But when we all stood in the school chapel for the minute’s silence, I found it impossible to concentrate on the war dead. It wasn’t Blenkinsop with his beeping digital watch a couple of rows in front. It wasn’t Anson and his blasted sniffling in the front row. It wasn’t even Alice Price giggling next to me because Charlie Blackwell was pinching her arse and saying ‘Oooh, Matron’ and then blaming it on me.
I found it impossible to concentrate because I was thinking about what an idiot I am when it comes to Leila. I am all blast and bombast and no results. And then I felt like even more of an idiot for thinking about her when I was meant to be thinking about the millions who sacrificed their lives so that I could sit there and think about girls.
That’s the problem with our generation. We’ve got no cause, no belief, nothing worth fighting for. Our grandparents had world wars. Even our parents had the 1960s and Vietnam. What do we have? Fox-hunting and PFI partnerships. It’s not much to get worked up about.
We want everything and we are left with nothing.
I was just coming out of my haze as the service ended and we were filing out of chapel.
‘So, Lanky, what are we doing with the boarders this afternoon?’
‘The boarders, Norris?’
Yes, Mr Lanky, this is a Sunday in a boarding school and the boys need to be entertained. I think maybe a spot of paintballing.’
‘Don’t you think that’s a little bit insensitive, given the date?’
‘Nonsense, utter nonsense. An inverted pyramid of piffle. Our countrymen died to protect our freedom to spend a Sunday afternoon paintballing. It’ll toughen the boys up a bit. I’ll see you after lunch by the minibus.’
So Norris Beaumont and I took the boys paintballing and shot ten degrees of hell out of them and each other. Norris captained one team; I took charge of the other. We both sent our troops over the top as fire-diverting decoys while we went for the flags ourselves. Field Marshal Haig would have been proud.
Leila called in the evening and I smothered the phone under the cushions. Felt much better.
Friday 18th November
I have thrown myself so completely into my work that I’ve demoted Leila from the forefront of my thoughts. Gone are the sleepless nights and the endlessly rehearsed internal dialogues. Of course, there is the complete frustration that I screwed everything up and embarrassed myself. But at least I now have the release that I’ve said something at last. I’ve promised myself that I will never again keep things to myself for so long. Farewell ‘Jack the Bottler’. Hello Mr ‘Open Man’ Lancaster. From now on, I will sort things out quickly and move on.
There was a time when one word from her could have changed my life around completely. When I was a miserable banker, she was all the hope I had. Now that I have something else to focus my energies on, she has become an optional extra. It doesn’t sound very romantic, but it’s much more healthy. Perspective, I believe it’s called (or maybe just denial?). It’s almost as good as closure.
Tuesday 22nd November
The school is a hub of excitement as there are inspectors coming in on Thursday. It’s the first inspection under Stuart Ackland’s headship and he’s as nervous as the rest of the staff. Bob Lowson has sent his only suit to the dry-cleaners to get the Bunsen burner stains off in time. Geoffrey Aitken has had his comb-over trimmed. Simon Reeve has started chewing Nicorette gum so that he can last an entire lesson without smoking his pipe. Amy Barbour has been told to put on a short skirt to distract them into thinking she’s a good teacher. Even the cleaners are working overtime to make the whole place look like less of a bomb shelter.
Only Norris Beaumont remains unperturbed by the whole charade.
‘It’s my fifteenth inspection, Lanky. Did you know that?’
‘I can’t say I did.’
‘Piffle, the ruddy lot of them. Every time, they tell me that I speak French like Colonel Blimp and that my methods are unconventional but effective. It’s only so that this wretched government can pretend to keep an eye on the private sector. They only come here to moan about how much better our facilities are.’
‘Is that so?’
‘It is so. One word of advice, Lanky. Don’t change anything in your teaching style. The children will smell a rat a mile off.’
‘Teaching style? I don’t believe I possess any such thing.’
/> Thursday 24th November
‘Thsir, thsir, why are you giving us printed handouts? We don’t normally have printed handouts.’
Blenkinsop, I’ll murder you later.
‘Thsir, thsir, can’t we just watch a video like we normally do?’
Anson, remind me to tell your yummy mummy what a little pest you are.
‘Thsir, thsir, you are our best, favouritest teacher. We’ve learned so much from you.’
‘Very good Fereday, you little creep. Right, boys. Let’s have none of that when the inspector comes in.’
And, sure enough, they were good as gold, and the inspector was charmed by my firm, but fun, teaching style.
I am an excellent pedagogue, a pillar of the community, a key worker.
Saturday 26th November
We’re in the last two weeks of term and the school has switched from the football to the rugby season. Given that I am marginally less bad with the oval ball, I have been promoted to coach the under-11 B team.
We are on the bus for our first match, away at Cotcote House. I’m more nervous than the boys. They’re stuffing their faces with iced doughnuts and crisps. I’m looking out of the window and trying to remember if the team going forwards in a maul gets the scrum at this age group, or whether it’s given against the team which fails to recycle possession. Thank God I don’t have to referee.
‘Thsir, thsir. Blenkinsop’s mooning out of the window to passing cars.’
‘Fereday, you’re a little sneak. And, Blenkinsop, pull your trousers up. We don’t want to frighten the other motorists.’
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