Sign of the Times

by Susan Buchanan

  “I think not,” Maggie’s tone was cold. Much as she liked Akbar and saw him for her sins, on a daily basis, she wasn’t going to discuss her childlessness with him. Besides, he had six. Although Maggie thought six was a bit much she would rather have had six than none. Dragging herself back to reality, she handed her basket to Akbar, who began totalling up her purchases.

  “£14.67” said Akbar. “Where to today then?”

  “I have an exam, so I’m going home for a bit of breakfast from this lot,” she held up her shopping, “and then I’m off to uni.”

  “Which is it today?” Akbar asked.

  “History of Art.”

  “No problem. Weren’t you an art teacher?”

  “Yes, hopefully I should pass. See you.”

  Maggie headed out into the street, now full of schoolchildren. It must be nearly nine. With a pang of regret, Maggie thought back to Akbar’s words, weren’t you an art teacher? Yes, she had been an art teacher and a damned good one. She loved working with kids, seeing their progress, encouraging them, even advising some to enter competitions. She really wanted them to do well, to make the most of their talent. But the toll of not being able to keep her babies had been too severe. Initially she had simply withdrawn from the children a little. She wasn’t sure if this was normal or not, as she had expected to become even closer to them, since it looked like she wasn’t going to have her own. Up until then her classes felt like large family gatherings and the kids genuinely seemed to enjoy them.

  She remembered the day she had to fail the best student in the year for all other subjects, as she really was dreadful at Art. She should have given her an E, but couldn’t quite bring herself to do it, so gave her a D instead. The girl was gutted, but what could Maggie do? She couldn’t even draw a square, much less the still life she was to draw for the exam. In fact, it was almost impossible to tell if she had been drawing a square or a bouquet of roses. The girl was close to tears, explaining how disappointed her parents would be.

  Maggie sat her down and told her she mustn’t think like that. How could her parents be dismayed when she was the top student in her year? Not everyone was made for Art, she explained. In fact, it was the less academic who usually excelled at it. The girl looked cheered at this and asked in a quiet voice, “You don’t think it will affect my plans of going to Cambridge then?”

  “Of course not,’ Maggie smiled at her. “Anyway, next year you have to choose your options for third year. Were you intending to choose Art?” Maggie asked her, already knowing the answer.

  “No,” the girl admitted.

  “Well then. That’s settled. Your mum and dad have no reason to be upset and you can always back it up by saying you’re dropping Art next year. Anyway, aren’t you really good at Music?”

  “Well, not good, but I play piano and a little clarinet and oboe.

  “You’ve nothing to worry about then,” Maggie finished. “Not only are you the top student in your year, but you have a creative gift too. Do you know how many people I know who can play piano, oboe and clarinet?”

  The girl shook her head and Maggie replied, “One.”

  “Oh,” the girl said, “Who?”

  “She’s sitting right in front of me,” Maggie smiled and the girl smiled and she knew the girl was going to be all right.

  It was a shame Maggie had blown it, not long after. His name was Paul. He was thirteen, always trying to play the big man and had no interest in any class, never mind Art, which he proclaimed was for poofs. Initially it irked her that he just wouldn’t try, as he obviously had an aptitude for art and indeed was an intelligent boy, but just didn’t want to let it show. She had spoken to other teachers and they had all given her the same story. Undoubtedly bright, he just didn’t want to apply himself.

  However, as time passed and he didn’t respond to any stimulus, she gave up. She had to concentrate on the rest of the class. Her priority became to ensure Paul caused as little disruption as possible. So, she ignored him. Then he started getting personal and several times, she had to consult the headmaster. Paul’s taunts ranged from, ‘you need a good shag’, to ‘nobody would want to shag you’, to the last straw, one day Maggie had kept him behind after class. ‘You think you’re something, don’t you? What do you know about kids? You haven’t got any. Thank fuck you aren’t my mother. Thank fuck you aren’t anybody’s mother.’

  Maggie, who had returned three weeks previously from recuperating after her hysterectomy, snapped. She slapped Paul hard across the face. They looked at each other in shock.

  “You bitch!” he lunged at her, but Maggie grabbed his wrists, unable to believe she had struck a pupil. Unfortunately for Maggie, at that moment, the headmaster walked in, took in the situation and assumed Paul had tried to strike her. She released him and Paul started yelling at the Head, “That mad bitch hit me! She hit me! Look at my face!”

  The headmaster, appalled by the boy’s outburst peered at him closely and saw the tell-tale marks of Maggie’s slap.

  “Paul. Go to my office. Talk to no-one. Understood?”

  Astonishingly the boy acquiesced and throwing a look of contempt at Maggie, left the classroom.

  For the first few seconds neither said a word. Then, calmly, the headmaster said, “Maggie, what happened?” and out poured the whole sorry tale.

  “I see. Maggie. I know you’ve been under a lot of stress recently.” Maggie raised her eyes to meet his gaze. “However, much as sometimes we may want to thump the little darlings and God knows you wouldn’t be the first to want to take a swipe at Paul, we can’t. Ever. Perhaps if he’d held a knife to your throat, you could get away with it, but not otherwise.”

  Maggie had looked at him, fearful of what was coming next.

  “Maggie. You know what to expect.”

  Her superior had looked at her with genuine sympathy and said “Maggie, I’m sorry, I really am,” before heading off to deal with Paul.

  The hearing had been brief. It was an open and shut case. Representatives from the school had tried to paint Maggie in a better light, had talked of how she motivated the pupils. They explained about Maggie’s delicate problem. The headmaster blamed himself, said perhaps they had let her come back too soon. But it was all to no avail. Her suspension officially became a termination of contract with the recommendation that she not be allowed to teach children again. This had been the final nail in her coffin. She had loved those kids as if they were her own. It was so unfair. She had never regretted anything so much in her life. First she had her potential to be a mother taken away from her and now her career.

  Things looked bleak for a while. Unfortunately, much though Michael wanted to, he was unable to offer the solace she so required. Three months later they split up. She had thought about teaching adults, but it wasn’t the same. She couldn’t nurture them in the same way. So, she had tried to put it all behind her and spent several months trying to figure out what to do. One day she realised the only other time she had been truly happy had been at university. She loved studying. She loved teaching. If she couldn’t teach, she could study, but what? She was twenty-seven.

  Psychology had been her first choice on her return to Further Education. She had discovered that grants were quite good for a mature student. Well, not good exactly, it was still a pittance, but it was more than other students received. She applied for money from the Access and other funds to help her get by.

  Her first year at Glasgow University had passed uneventfully enough. Of course she had needed to adjust, but she managed it relatively painlessly. After Psychology came Philosophy, after Philosophy, English. Over the next few years she studied English Language, then English Literature, studying Keats, Milton, Shelley, as well as the obligatory Shakespeare. She learned not to take novels, plays or poems at face value. She learned the hard way by failing the first paper she wrote, basing it on what she thought the author meant. The tutors couldn’t care less what she thought it meant. They wanted her to utilise the informati
on available from the university library, the plethora of critiques on the various works, written by ‘experts’ and simply regurgitate their interpretation. After implementing this strategy, she started to do rather well. English was followed by a branching off into languages, Spanish, Portuguese and German to be precise. Now, at forty, she was taking things easy, doing Politics and Art History, with European Business Management thrown in for good measure. She didn’t intend to use it, but it came in handy for debates.

  With a jolt, Maggie pulled herself out of her daydream. She hadn’t even opened a book and was now hoping she hadn’t been too cocky. But, she did have an excellent memory for artists and dates and their period and style, so after dropping her dirty dishes into a basin and with a glance in the mirror, she opened the door and was back out in the close again. I really must do something about my hair. Pigeon shit streaks went out a long time ago and it has never suited me. Nor did they bring out her hazel eyes, flecked with gold. It was time she started taking a bit of pride in her appearance. Since she was rather plain anyway, flat-chested, not that that bothered her, she really had to make the most of what assets she did have. Her eyes were her best feature, although perhaps over-large in her thin face. She was taller than most guys she fancied. Unprepossessing, the type of person you’d walk past in the street. She could scrub up quite well when she put her mind to it. She’d go to the hairdresser after her exam. That could be her starting point.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the end the previous week’s exams seemed to go OK. Today was the last one, the final History of Art paper.

  “Maggie!” Josh yelled to her. “Over here!”

  Maggie smiled at Josh, bouncing up and down like an over eager lamb.

  “Are we ready?” he asked.

  “Think so.”

  “Last one and then we are freeeeeee. Yippee!”

  Sometimes Josh really did make Maggie think of what Tigger would be like if he took speed. So full of energy, Maggie envied him sometimes. This was his final year, being a conventional student and not a lifer, as Maggie called herself. He specifically chose all the supposedly easy courses, Psychology, Philosophy and History of Art so he could concentrate on his principal reason for going to university, getting laid. He seemed to have accomplished his objective, too, as he was often found with some gorgeous male wrapped around him. The tales of his sexual exploits were endless, but Maggie knew it was all true. Occasionally she felt jealous of her friend, simply because his sex life was so hip and happening and although her own wasn’t drought-like, Josh did tend to end up with the finer specimens.

  “Well, what do you think?” Josh asked.

  “There were a couple of Renaissance questions which took me by surprise,” Maggie admitted, “but otherwise it was all right.”

  “I only knew the Impressionists and Renaissance ones,” Josh responded, “but who cares? We’re frrreeeee!!! Let’s go celebrate.” Linking arms with Maggie, loudly murdering the tune to Celebration, Josh dragged her to the student union, where a bevy of students exhibited various stages of inebriation.

  “Hic, hic, hic, Maggie, hic, how many, hic, of these, hic, bloody, hic, Marys, have we had, hic?”

  “In your case too many by the sounds of it,” Maggie admonished. “Same again?” she grinned.

  “Play it again Sam,” drawled Josh. Maggie laughed at Josh’s gobbledygook. She’d slag him tomorrow about being so drunk he was talking absolute drivel. No change there then.

  “Maggie. Look at me!” Josh shouted.

  Turning, Maggie groaned as she saw Josh somersaulting between couches, spilling drinks and attracting as many jeers as applause. He always did this when he was plastered. Apparently the gay kingdom loved his acrobatics. She bet they did.

  Maggie accepted her latest round of Bloody Marys from the barman and dashed off to turn Josh upright, as he’d crashed into a speaker. She was surprised he hadn’t ever been barred. She reckoned the manager fancied Josh and often wondered if they had some secret liaison, which meant the poor manager couldn’t bar him, especially since he was newly married and his wife six months pregnant. Propping Josh up on the seat opposite, she said firmly, “This is your last one.”

  She’d had to fork out a tenner to the table whose drinks he’d spilt and she’d never see that again. Josh was always broke. She wasn’t flush, but she didn’t plead continual poverty. She supposed all the Paul Smith and Ralph Lauren gear had to be paid for somehow, although he did receive lots of presents from his beaus. For someone with no cash he had expensive tastes. Maggie had never cared much about clothes, particularly not in the last thirteen years. You were more likely to find her gracing Oxfam, than Karen Millen. Her thinking was, if it was in good nick, you could wash it and it was as good as new. If it was in a poor condition, you didn’t buy it. Simple. What she couldn’t buy in charity shops, she bought off Ebay. Thank God for the internet. She flipped open her phone and called a taxi.

  “I’ll call you,” Maggie told Josh, as she dumped him on his bed. The taxi sat outside waiting for her.

  Maggie awoke the next morning with a resounding headache. Why, oh why did she do this? Straining to open her eyes, she searched for the light switch and suddenly everything was illuminated. She hoped she had some headache tablets. After a reviving shower, she sat on the sofa, with a towel atop her head and a cup of tea in hand. A slice of toast and a glass of water containing soluble aspirin lay on the table. She was free, at least until September. She still had to work of course. Usually she did bar work or waitressing to keep her solvent during the summer.

  She felt certain she had passed her exams, perhaps not top grades, but definitely passed, so she didn’t have to worry about re-sits. She’d already been accepted for her next course, but she was going to have to fund it herself. She supposed she couldn’t expect the taxpayer to subsidise her yearning for knowledge indefinitely. She’d decided to do a BA in Geography, mainly because it had interested her at school and she hadn’t the foggiest where anywhere was in the world, unless she’d actually visited it. For years, she thought Florida and California shared a coastline, until she went to Long Beach on holiday. Now, as she sat there, on her first morning of freedom, she wondered if she really did want to go back to university. Perhaps it was time to stop being the eternal student. Laying that aside for now, Maggie picked up the phone and called her friend, Jennifer.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi Jennifer. It’s Maggie. How are you?”

  “Busy.”

  “Oh?”

  “The usual. I’ve been up since five thirty running after Mum. I’ve just given her a bed bath and was about to jump in the shower.”

  “Fair enough. I was phoning to see if you wanted to grab a sandwich. I’m coming down to Ayr.”

  “I’d love to. It would get me out of here,” Jennifer sounded down.

  “If you’re sure you have time.”

  “Yes. I need to go and pick up some more incontinence pads for Mum, so I can spare half an hour or so.”

  “Great. See you in Caprice at half three.”

  “Sounds good,” Jennifer rang off.

  Dressing hurriedly, Maggie was suddenly aware she was bored of the same grotty clothes day in day out. Everything was faded. They were good for marches and demos, but she needed some new clothes, not many, to update her look. A shopping trip after lunch would sort her out.

  Maggie sat in the corner of the café tugging at her hair. What a mess. Josh had dragged her to the pub last time she’d thought of getting her hair cut, so it was even more of a bird’s nest now. She really must do something about it. Now that uni had finished, she’d have time, although she would of course be working most of the time. She liked the atmosphere in the pub, the banter. It was a real pub, unlike the faceless chains that were on the increase. Three Monkeys had character. Generations of families had been going there for years and their children would most likely do the same.

  “Hello you,” Jennifer broke into Maggie’s thoughts, dr
opping onto the soft leather couch beside her and dumping her carrier bags on the floor. “How’s it going?”

  “Better now the exams are over,” Maggie replied. “I should have time to catch up on things.”

  “Like Ebay you mean?” grinned Jennifer.

  “Among other things, but yeah, that’s pretty high on my list. I’ve so much junk. How do we accumulate so much stuff?”

  “We buy it on Ebay I suppose,” shrugged Jennifer. That’s how they had met, just over two years previously. Maggie was selling a beautiful, burgundy and cream throw patterned with cream elephants. Jennifer had been looking for something to brighten up the lounge in her mother’s house, after circumstances dictated she live there. She had won the auction and not being flash for cash, since giving up her job at an insurance firm to care for her mum, had asked Maggie if she could come and collect it, to save on postage, as she lived nearby. Maggie agreed and was pleasantly surprised when she met Jennifer.

  Maggie had made tea whilst Jennifer surveyed Maggie’s other Ebay items. There were several Jennifer was interested in. Maggie showed her the condition of the books and the foot spa, which was still boxed and the TV, which made a slight buzzing noise, but which had a reserve price of a fiver. They had talked for a good few hours before Jennifer, horrified at the time, left to attend to her mother once again.

  “What do you want to drink?” Maggie asked.

  “I hear cinnamon lattes are good.”

  “They are good,” Maggie confirmed.

  “Can we have two cinnamon lattes please?” Maggie asked a passing barman.

  “I’ll bring them over.”

  “So, what have you been up to?” Maggie leant her arms on the table.

  “The usual. Mum’s demanding as ever,” she rolled her eyes. To lend some levity to Jennifer’s situation, they pretended her mother was just a nightmare to live with, instead of the incapable, broken woman she’d become, thanks to the mytrophic dystrophy she’d developed four years ago.