There was a newspaper article I’d read as a teenager that I’ve never forgotten. Chris Tarrant, in his days as an undergraduate at Birmingham University, had caught a Brent goose and tied its wings together. The details were lost on me. How he’d caught the damn thing. What he used to bind the wings. How he smuggled it through the campus to his halls of residence and then got it up the flights of stairs to an open window. There was no mention either of the outcome – though that was in no doubt. I do remember that he ‘threw’ the goose from the top floor, still bound.
The more I grew up and saw these kids coming through behind me, the more I thought of him tying those wings together. There are a lot of trouble makers, but there are also a lot of people who we shouldn’t be pushing for good grades, exam results, for colleges or university. There are only so many things you can give a kid like that to fail at, till they decide that they don’t care either way. I didn’t want to detract from Wolfencrantz’s personal beliefs in the individual but we were losing more every year. And that’s where he cut me off and drew the conversation to a close.
‘You,’ he said.
I paused and he stared through me for a second whilst he straightened one of his lapels.
‘You said “We are losing more every year”. I’m correcting you, Matthew. You are losing more every year, or so I would expect if you were able to continue teaching here.’
Annabel was waiting outside the entrance to my flat when I got back. She had lots of make-up on, a new haircut, and she was holding a neatly packed cardboard box of my things. She said she had tried phoning me. About six times over the past two hours. She had left three voicemails. She was moving out of her flat. If she hadn’t found me then she would have taken my books and clothes to the Salvation Army. I took the box, went inside and put it under the stairs, hoping none of my neighbours would spot it. Then I walked back out to see if Annabel was still in the car park.
She wasn’t.
I went for a walk. I waited by the train station. I circled through the abandoned steel workshops and factories. Posters for discount clubnights were plastered over the brickwork and doors. I caught the tram from the station on my way back through town to the flat. On the same line, in the opposite direction, trams run towards the Meadowhall Shopping Centre. It’s a ten- or fifteen-minute ride out of the city centre. I could see the youngsters crowding onto each tram heading that way. They dressed up just to go to Meadowhall in the summer holidays. There are ski-slopes somewhere out that way as well.
BOMB ASSEMBLY
1
IT STRUCK ME that to stay in Sheffield would be a mistake. I had to let go of the place. A phone call to a friend threw up some names and opportunities; I went with one of them and had a favourable email from the head of a city college in Birmingham. She offered to meet with me and discuss a role that had arisen to teach history to the college students. I took what I could from my years in Sheffield and packed to go back home.
I came into New Street one Friday at around 7.30 in the morning. I had got a call about an interview a few days before. It felt like I’d crossed the Iron Curtain; the platforms have that drab, apologetic concrete that’s best consigned to the 1980s. As I moved up the escalator I watched the attendants clearing railings that blocked off certain parts of the adjoining shopping centre at night. They were folded up and wheeled away. I walked through to the far side of the building. I looked through the security doors as the attendants opened them. There were brick walls running into darkness.
I went for a cigarette. I was standing on a small, raised island of concrete at the taxi rank.
No cars were present at the junction, the lights changed without them. I got in a waiting taxi and asked about the fare. The driver could barely hear me but acquiesced with a shrug. We rolled past familiar buildings. I saw a concrete office block that was being demolished as we ducked into the Queensway. There was only a little traffic and I tipped the driver with the change I had from the station’s newsagents. The head did not tell me how many they were interviewing. There was no-one else in the waiting room. They brought me straight through, even though I was early. I’m not sure I was particularly with it but I got a call two days later saying they had the funding to take me on a rolling contract.
The blinds were reeled back in the canteen. The breeze wafted the smell of salted chips through the hallways. Leafy branches flapped in the open windows. The Goths sat around and spoke in broken silences. A pretty girl had settled at the table but she had a bullring piercing in her nose to reassure the others she wouldn’t turn socially kosher. The big move was not far off now. I got lunch from the canteen some days and as I queued I took the time to look around the room at everyone.
In a year or two most of the faces would change completely. The college would be seven miles further up the Bristol Road. Campus would move and implications were furthered every week in board meetings. The head esteemed me enough to give me an invitation to one or two. At the second time of asking I actually showed up, coffee in hand. It was a Friday morning and I had a class that afternoon with some A2 students. We were dedicating most of our time in class to running through the previous year’s Vietnam papers.
The board meeting took place in the conference room at the back of the college. It looked over some impressive playing fields and an old sign planted in the corner of a pitch which read ‘Bomb Assembly Point’. The sign was a bit of an oversight. I tried to bring it up with Munroe but she was often too busy. I imagined students on their knees, wiring bombs on the windy sports field. I walked back away from the window and tried to dismiss it.
There were about ten or twelve chairs in the meeting room. A screen was unravelled from the ceiling and the cord dangled beneath it. The projector was on and there was a picture of some mountains on the screen. I sat down as four or five colleagues were already in discussion. People were already trying to make their claims to a share of the funding.
Munroe, the college head, greeted me enthusiastically. She came around to my side of the table and put a Dove-creamed hand on my shoulder. She asked about some of the students. A man sitting across from me pushed his glasses up into his face. He got the attention of a fat man next to him and muttered something. I assumed we were in the presence of some of the college’s governors. Whilst we were talking, one of them produced a magazine from a bag beneath the table and started handing it around.
‘Have you seen the Future Ed cover this quarter? Guess who is the star attraction.’
‘We’ll be making it into the Times Education Supplement in a week or two.’
‘Has anyone spoke to the builders?’
‘Any movement on the dates?’
More people filtered into the room and took up the remaining chairs. The magazine that had everyone smiling was the Future Education quarterly. On the front was the headline ‘The Brave New Future of College Education’. Underneath was a picture of Mrs Munroe in an orange high-visibility jacket and a hardhat. She was surrounded by men and the group looked up from an A3 plan. It was from her well-publicised visit to the building site for the new campus. Seven miles down the road, the girders had been laid. One or two of the main buildings were beginning to take shape. Munroe was slightly embarrassed by her fame. As she got up to chair the meeting, the fat man tapped the table to get my attention.
‘I hope you’ve brought your hard hat.’
He turned to the grey-suited man beside him and repeated this statement. I hope he’s brought his hardhat. The magazine circled the room. The three silver cranes involved in the new site’s construction were now stapled on the city’s southern skyline. Everyone was eagerly anticipating what Mrs Munroe would do next. She thanked everyone for coming.
‘There are, of course, the usual hard workers here this week, soldiering on for the cause. We have some new faces also. I just want everyone to know they’re welcome here. If you are with us for the first time, whilst a lot of work
has been put in already, you’ve chosen the best week to arrive. We are at the forefront of the education revolution. As you’ve all been so kind to point out – I don’t suit hardhats. But this magazine cover, exciting as it is, should not fool anyone.
‘This is not an easy road. We might be gaining, finally, national recognition for thinking big about what this college is capable of, for taking a pioneering line on the kind of vocational work we can offer and the links we can provide to employers. But we are also at a crisis point. We have to look at what works, what is worth the money, and what doesn’t. There are some sacrifices to be made. I want you all involved in decision making – at every level.’
She caught my eye more than once, and I felt a little of the fire in her, in me. Without realising it I had reached the end of my cup of coffee. The styrofoam still felt hot against my palm.
We all scanned the agendas that were handed around. At first I saw nothing of particular interest to me. Then I saw item number five – Curriculum Review. Someone slid the copy of Future Ed into my eyeline. Munroe’s hardhat was a clean, pure white with rivets like snake’s eyes. The Government Minister for Education stood alongside her. He had one hand gripping the edge of the plan they were supposed to be scrutinising. Behind them was the college sign with its new logo. A woman next to me asked if she could have a look. I hadn’t got past the contents page.
I spent the meeting drawing several lines underneath item five. I went over the lines again and again, till the nib of my pen was blocked up with ink and paper. The pen went through the agenda and the resultant shred prompted everyone to turn and look at me. The secretary handed over a replacement copy. One of the governors explained that the builders had pushed the completion date back by three months. He pulled at his tie nervously and made a disparaging comment about their work rate. The estates manager laughed at this from one end of the table. He had drawn up a spare chair from the back of the room after coming in late.
‘It was actually the original date, before Brendan was pressured into bringing it forward.’
‘Can we look at item 5?’ I asked.
‘We haven’t done 3 or 4 yet.’
‘Brendan is yet to speak to me about this.’
‘Item 5.’
‘Will there be any more climate modules on the curriculum?’ one governor asked, almost to himself.
‘We might as well forget the agenda if no-one’s going to stick to it,’ a voice said from the back of the room.
Munroe brought her hand up and waved us all away. She placed it back on the table like a ceremonial sword as we looked silently on. She said it was probably best to skip to some of the later agenda items for now.
‘I hope he brought his hard hat,’ the fat governor murmured, glancing over at me.
‘Let’s look at the state of play with the curriculum review. We’ve got approval to run with the following courses: Floristry and Horticulture, Music – never in doubt, Law, Construction and – this is some breaking news – Counselling also.’
‘What about the Humanities?’ I said. There was a collective sigh.
‘Well, apart from Law and Music, we’re looking into a massive expansion of some Humanities subjects,’ Munroe answered.
A conversation about class sizes and enrolment trends began to bounce around the table. I thought about my next class. I only had three students in it. Just then the female head of Humanities came into the room, apologised for being late and picked up the discussion points. I instinctively gave her my chair, trying to be polite, and ended up sitting further back from the table. Next to me was a silver-haired man checking his emails. I glanced over his shoulder then back to Munroe when he noticed.
‘We’re seriously looking into areas of the curriculum that are low on funding and uptake, where we’re not getting a value-for-money output. Those weak areas are likely to go, with resources being redistributed elsewhere. We can move teachers and materials to get a more rounded class size and an even level of teaching quality.’
Munroe began listing the subjects under review. She glanced up at me at one point, before calmly adding History to the list. A member of the admin staff interrupted then and passed Munroe a message. She continued almost instantly: ‘Besides, it’s not all bad news for Humanities – we’re going to offer opportunities for re-training in other areas.’
There was a murmur of consensus from the attendees.
‘Like what?’ I asked. My voice was a little shaky.
‘We’re expanding Sociology almost three-fold. There’s been a lot of success with a number of new modules. If you think you’re up to it you can be part of the revolution.’
Another teacher asked how long there would be before the cessation of certain subjects.
Munroe smoothed her agenda out in front of her. ‘It’s a two-year transitional period, so you can see your remaining students through to university or wherever they may be heading.’
I was halfway down the corridor when Mrs Munroe called after me. She had left the meeting on hiatus. She held Future Ed magazine down by her waist.
‘Matt, I’m sorry. I don’t want you to take this personally. Things have been moving at a pretty fast speed and I haven’t really had chance to sit down and talk it out with you – but we will.’
‘All right.’ I sighed. ‘I need to think about it a bit.’
‘You’re a good teacher. People like you here.’ She smiled. ‘Maybe I can sugar the pill a little.’ She handed me a pamphlet. It was a flyer for a Science in History conference at the International Convention Centre. I scanned down the list of speakers and asked what she wanted me to do with it.
‘I thought, as you had a relatively light schedule, you would be able to go along, get some inspiration, check out the competition. I expect you’ll be wanting to give your own papers at some point.’ She went to walk back up the hall then turned back. ‘You’ve got a room at the Hilton, at our expense . . .’
‘But I live twenty minutes away.’
‘It’s on our expenses, Matt. Don’t worry about it.’
Then she grabbed my free hand with hers, letting my fingers fall open. She placed the spine of Future Ed against my palm and held it there until my hand closed around it. She leaned forward and I could smell the citrus from an orange she must have eaten that morning. Munroe was a bit of a health fanatic. A necklace of small pearls was caught in the collar of her shirt. She pushed the magazine into my chest.
‘Give it some thought.’
I walked down a recently built relief corridor added to the main brick building. With all the facilities and resources that were based on the campus – shops, salons, saunas and even a greenhouse – it was easy to feel part of some modern utilitarian experiment. In some purely superficial manner we could sustain ourselves on site through whatever nature or war might throw at us. I came to the front entrance of the school for the second time, still clutching the Future Ed magazine.
As I approached a set of stairs I let one of my pupils, Julie, go ahead of me and she pulled her small black satchel tight to her back. We walked up those steps and I wouldn’t have been surprised to turn back and see that each step had fallen away into some drifting mist. I tapped each desk as we entered the classroom. In front of me were three students. The pipeline that had got them here was already being dismantled in weekly meetings. I didn’t tell them. I didn’t want to de-value anything we were doing.
There was Julie, or Jules, with her atomic pink hair which came down in streaks over a layer already dyed cosmic blue. She had her lip pierced a little to the left, with a little blue stone in the ring. Whenever she was thinking she’d grip this stone between her fingers and lean forward in her usual oversized hoodie with her elbows taking root at the edge of the desk. She looked tense but I knew she got enjoyment out of learning. She was lightly cynical about everything and usually saw things the way they were. That’s how she looked, c
ynical, as I asked her about the reasons for American involvement in Vietnam before ’63. She swung forwards on her chair and I moved my textbook to the centre of the desk.
‘Here’s a clue,’ David said. ‘It’s a game old people play.’
David shouted this hint from the back of the room, his usual spot. He was the brightest of the three, the third being Steven who sat next to Jules and was at that point scurrying a pencil around his notepad aimlessly. Unlike Jules, there was no telling what David might be kitted out in from one day to the next. For the time being he was wearing a crisp white shirt beneath a grey cardigan. He tipped back his chequered flat-cap and met my eyeline through the empty rims of his thick black glasses. He was a smart blend of Buddy Holly and Mos Def. He had made me a copy of ‘Black on Both Sides’ after a few lessons and I’d listened to it two or three times.
David was clever but he was also impatient. I wasn’t entirely sure why he was stuck in a middle-of-the-road college. If he wanted to do music, he could have enrolled somewhere with better facilities – there were two or three music colleges in the city centre. But we were lucky to have him, anyway.
‘David, keep it quiet.’ I said. ‘I’ll come to you next.’
He shrugged. ‘I’m just trying to help her.’
He muttered this last bit whilst fiddling with some paperclips. Jules ignored the interjection.
‘Was it to contain the spread of communism? Ideological competition, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah, you’re almost there. I’m looking for a key idea. Eisenhower called it . . .’
She sat back. ‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s the Domino Theory. You need to get these key terms cemented in your brains. Eisenhower believed that if Vietnam fell Laos . . .’
‘Cambodia.’
‘Yes, and Thailand, would fall. The Americans were using similar principles elsewhere, in South America and Africa, but it was all to contain the spread of communism. So you want to get those key terms in. Containment and the Domino Theory. You can probably impress the examiners if you contextualise this sort of thinking in continued American foreign policy. In the years after Vietnam, the politicians lost their appetite for intervention. You can start drawing parallels then between Vietnam and Iraq. Be careful, though, they’re not one and the same. Some of the reasons are similar.’
Septembers Page 6