That night I went to bed and turned out the light as I lay there in darkness I began to contemplate my situation. Everything I knew was changing and I felt helpless, an emotion which quickly turned to anger. Not just at the injustice of my situation but also at myself for resorting to feeling like a victim. I was more than a victim; I was a highly qualified academic with a bright if not “glittering” career ahead of me regardless of the short sightedness of Robert and his cronies. This was simply a bump in the road, a transition period which although uncomfortable would be short lived I told myself.
I looked around my bedroom and was able to make out the familiar shapes of my furniture in the moonlight. I imagined that Henrietta Street would probably have the same effect from the ambient light emitted by the street lamps. I had to admit despite my bravado I would miss this place, not just my apartment but Luci, which despite everything still felt like my home.
Anyway, I told myself. At least when this is all over I will have a story to tell at faculty dinners. I felt a dampness on my face, sitting up I turned the light on and looked around me, there was no sign of a leak but something had definitely made my face wet. Then I realised that in fact it was my eyes, they were watering probably as a result of the dust that had been disturbed when packing. I settled back down and turned the light off again but found my eyes continued to water, then I realised that they were not in fact watering. I was crying.
Don’t be so stupid, I told myself. You are not going to cry, do you hear? You are not going to cry. You are not a victim!
Pep talk over I found myself sobbing quietly into my pillow in the darkness.
Early the next morning I dropped my keys and my forwarding address through Trudy’s office letter box and feeling like a refugee with my rucksack and suitcases made my way back to Henrietta Street. The first thing I did was empty my rucksack; I removed my sleeping bag and inflatable mattress which I used when in Egypt. Although I booked a hotel for the duration of my time there it was often the case that I would remain onsite at archaeological digs overnight in order to ensure I was present if there was any chance of an interesting find turning up.
As I pulled the mattress and sleeping bag out a small amount of Egyptian sand which had somehow managed to make the return trip with me deposited itself on the floor. I scooped it up and held it in the palm of my hand. The contrast between what the sand represented to me in terms of my hopes and dreams, against the backdrop of the shabby bed-sit I was now living in could not have been harsher.
I carefully placed the sand in my one and only mug, an enamel affair that had seen better days but had also been with me on every trip to Egypt for the past ten years. As I Placed the mug with the sand contained within it on the only work surface next to the sink, I silently vowed that they were representations not of what I had lost but of what I was striving to regain. ‘It’s only temporary,’ I said again.
I inflated my bed and laid out my clothes, hanging them on coat hangers from every pipe, radiator and fitting I could find.
I realised I needed to feed myself somehow, ever since I had begun as a student at Luci I had eaten in the campus restaurant. As a member of staff I had simply placed everything I had purchased on my account and it had been deducted from my salary, this was a thing of the past.
The cash point machine showed me that my first weekly benefit had been paid and I drew out the meagre funds, I planned to visit a supermarket later in the day. However I had a more pressing engagement at the Silverdale Community Centre where I was to meet a lady by the name of Stacy.
The centre was housed in what appeared to be a former church school, it struck me as slightly out of place in the urban sprawl and I could picture it in some remote rural village anywhere from Surrey to Yorkshire.
The yellow lime stone blocks and the ornate stained glass window created a welcoming, warm feeling inside me. For the first time since I had been given my notice I started to feel a little more positive. There was a possibility I was simply clutching at straws, looking for rescue from the despair I was feeling but as I walked in I felt a palpable sense of optimism.
Inside it was obvious that there was an on-going, if low budget attempt at modernising without losing the charm of the original building.
‘You must be Marc?’ a voice from behind me asked.
I sighed my sense of optimism rapidly dissolving, ‘It’s Marcus actually,’ I said as I turned.
I found myself face to face with a woman of approximately my age, she was slim, slightly shorter than me, had shoulder length blonde wavy hair that I suspected was dyed and was sporting a beaming smile.
‘Stacy?’
‘I am indeed!’ she said, thrusting her hand forward and shaking mine. ‘It’s great to have you here.’
As we shook my sense of optimism inexplicably returned, Stacy was welcoming and for the first time this week was someone who was genuinely pleased to see me. I needed to say something appropriate in response.
‘Of course it is.’
Her smile for some reason froze for a second before she laughed, ‘A sense of humour, great, you’re gonna need that!’
Before I could respond to her perplexing comment she turned and said ‘Follow me,’
We made our way along the corridor and as I followed her, she suddenly stopped and turned to face me, before I could react we had bumped into each other. I could smell her perfume, I don’t like perfume as a rule. Its vulgar I find, still if she had to wear it at least she was wearing one that didn’t smell like industrial solvent, more a kind of light flowery affair.
The spell was broken as she stepped back, ‘Oh sorry Marcus, I do stuff like that. I am a bit ditsy at times!’
‘No my mistake, I apologise.’
‘Well now we are both sorry I can tell you what I was going to say. Do you want a cup of tea?’
Oh God yes! I thought to myself.
‘That would be lovely.’
‘Ok, let’s hit the kitchen!’
Stacy led me into the kitchen and clicked on the kettle.
‘How do you like it, milk and sugar?’
‘Earl Grey with lemon please.’
‘Oh I can see we are going to get on great!’ she laughed.
To my horror she dumped supermarket own brand tea bag into one of the two mugs she had picked up, I assumed the one without the tea bag was mine. She then filled them both with hot water from the kettle, was she actually going to put the water in first then my Earl Grey? The woman was obviously in need of culture.
‘Can you pass me the milk; it’s in the fridge over there?’
I opened the fridge door and pulled out yet another own brand carton of milk. Stacy promptly removed the tea bag from the one mug and deposited it into the other. She then put milk into both mugs and placed the tea bag into the bin.
I was speechless at how the simple pleasure of a cup of tea could be so barbarically butchered in such a short space of time, even more so when she then handed me a mug as if she thought I was actually going to drink it!
‘Sugars over there,’ she said and then sat down at a table. Unable to think of anything else to do I followed.
‘Ok, let’s go through things and then I will give you a tour. Is that alright?’
‘That’s fine.’
She smiled at me again and I had a peculiar sensation, similar to seeing the sun come out on a cloudy day.
She went on to explain to me that my first impression of the building was correct and it was a former church school. She had bought it with a former boyfriend and they had the intention of converting it into a music shop and living in the flat on the top floor.
However the boyfriend had elected to change his mind and leave Stacy with the sole responsibility for the building. It seemed that when her parents had passed away she had inherited enough money to purchase the building but the upkeep was another matter. As the music shop had been her ex-boyfriend’s idea she had decided to open a day centre where local people could meet and be fed.
<
br /> Her clients ranged from teenagers through to the elderly, most were referred by social services who paid a small fee, some however were none fee paying but were “in need” as she put it.
She explained that it was a constant struggle to pay the bills and the wages for herself and the cook. She also had some voluntary helpers but things were very tight financially, to the point where the centre was on the verge of closing. She had taken on the option of the delivery of some short term training to young adults in the hope the extra income from this would tip the balance in her favour and keep the centre open.
This was where I came in, unpaid but able to deliver the training. If it was successful then there was a chance that further paid training could be available but for now it was about survival.
As she spoke I unconsciously had sip of my tea, the sensation that assaulted my taste buds was the culinary version of chemical warfare. I fought the urge to spit it back into the cup and tried to avoid grimacing as I swallowed it.
A short Chinese lady who was dressed completely in white, shoes, trousers, shirt and hat walked in.
‘Morning,’ Stacy said. The Chinese lady simply nodded.
‘This is Yu,’ Stacy explained, She’s the cook.
‘Good morning,’ I said and got a curt nod in response. Perhaps she did not speak English?
‘Are you hungry?’ Stacy asked.
I had not eaten for over twenty four hours and was craving sustenance so much that I was actually considering drinking some more of my tea.
‘A little,’ I said.
‘Right well I will give you the grand tour and Yu will sort you out some breakfast?’ the second part of this sentence was a question directed at Yu which got yet another nod in response.
Leaving my mug of nuclear waste on the kitchen table we began our tour, the building had several large rooms that were unofficially designated by age.
‘This is the “Oldies Room” where everyone is over sixty five,’ she announced.
She could see the look of surprise on my face at her comment, ‘Don’t worry. They named it themselves, gives them a sense of identity they reckon!’
We also quickly toured the “Adults, Teens” and “Communal” rooms. Finally she showed me the last two rooms which she labelled “Classrooms”.
‘This is where you will be working,’ she said.
I reviewed them with a critical eye, they were very similar to the other rooms we had seen only much less cluttered. Each had a white board, a filing cabinet and tables and chairs.
‘You can use either one,’ she sounded a little pensive now.
‘This will be adequate,’ I said.
There was that smile again and I could not help myself smiling back.
‘In terms of supplies, I have got a small budget for pens, paper and things.’
‘Computers?’
‘Oh no. Sorry, I just couldn’t afford it. You can use the one in my office if you need to get onto the internet and stuff but there won’t be any in the classrooms. Not yet anyway, if this works out then maybe.’
Just for a moment her smile faltered.
‘This will be fine,’ I found myself saying.
‘Really? I hope so. How much teaching experience do you have?’
‘Fifteen years.’
‘Oh my. I didn’t realise you were a proper teacher!’
‘Professor actually.’
She laughed again.
‘Oh my god! That’s wonderful,’ I found the relief in her voice quite gratifying.
I laughed too and we made our way back to the kitchen. As we walked I asked ‘You mentioned the top floor is that where you live?’
She stopped and looked at me, then she said in a quiet voice ‘No, not anymore.’
I waited for her to continue but it was clear she was not going to; I was unsure what that signified so elected to say nothing. Eventually she said ‘I was going to but let’s just say my ex left me in the lurch in more ways than one. So it never happened’
‘Well quite frankly he must be a total idiot.’
I had no idea why I had just said that. I did not know her ex-boyfriend or Stacy herself really for that matter. Maybe she was an awful partner? Why had I made such a rash statement? She looked at me again and then laughed ‘Thank you. I think. And yes he was a total pillock as it turned out.’
She seemed to relax a little and told me the upstairs was used for storage, also that she now lived with someone called “Max” in a house a few miles from the centre. She then abruptly changed the subject which I found a little odd and suggested we see what Yu had created for breakfast.
As we walked in, Yu announced ‘Full English!’ as she slid two plates across to us, both of which were loaded with bacon, sausage, egg and toast.
‘You speak English. I don’t mean that as an instruction, you know. Yu speak English! Just an observation.’
She rolled her eyes, ‘I am from Dartford,’ she said.
As we ate Stacy said ‘Wow! You are hungry.’
‘Sorry. I have not eaten since yesterday, I apologise.’
‘That’s fine. Why don’t you stay for the day, see how you like it and then you can have lunch. How does that sound?’
It sounded perfect to me.
‘That would be excellent, thank you.’
‘So tell me all about yourself Marcus,’ at least she was getting my name right.
I relayed my tale of woe to her and at one point as a gesture of empathy she gently touched the back of my hand as I spoke. This sent a shiver down my spine and I found myself unable to articulate any further so ended up saying ‘So that’s me.’
‘Well you are in the right place. We cater for those in need and you certainly seem to fit that bill. Of course we need you as well so I guess that makes us partners.’
She allowed me to check my email inbox via her computer, it was still empty. By this time I was aware that people, her clients I assumed, were starting to arrive and once I had filled out the necessary paper work she informed me that she was going to introduced me to “The Gang” as she put it.
We began with the “Oldies”, as we entered there were four people sat in comfortable chairs, three men and a woman. Although looking at the gentleman who was furthest away I could not quite ascertain if he was asleep or in fact had died and no one had noticed.
‘This is Albert, or Bert to his friends,’ Stacy informed me. ‘He’s a little deaf,’ she whispered. Why was she whispering I wondered, if it was to avoid upsetting him then it made no sense. He was deaf and thus seemingly would not hear her so there was no need to whisper surely?
I was about to point this out when she started shouting. ‘Bert! Bert!’
Bert looked our way, ‘Hello sexy,’ he said.
I was horrified; this man was old enough to potentially be her Grandfather. Should I chastise him for his inappropriate comment?
Stacy looked at me smiling, ‘He’s a bit of ladies’ man, or so he thinks.’
‘Who is this?’ Bert asked.
‘This is Marcus.’
‘Carcass?’
‘Marcus!’
‘Hard case?’
‘No! Marcus,’ she said elongating the last two syllables.
‘Oh Marcus! Pleased to meet you.’
I nodded and smiled at him.
‘He is here for the day,’ Stacy continued.
Bert paused for a moment then said, ‘Well there’s no shame in that son. Not in this day and age.’
Even Stacy looked confused by that response, I was totally baffled. There was a shrilling noise and Stacy said ‘Just gonna get the phone ok?’
Before I could respond she was gone. I looked at Bert again and smiled, he turned to lady sitting next to him who had been preoccupied with the contents of her bag during my initial introduction.
‘Here Ada, this is Marcus,’ he said gesturing to me. ‘He’s gay.’
What?
Where had that deduction arisen from? I may be single but I ce
rtainly was not gay. My last girlfriend Sarah had been three years ago and apart from a one off encounter with Fiona, a now departed bursar, I have been celibate since then but not gay.
‘Oh, are you joining us?’ Ada asked before I could correct the misperception.
‘Yes I am. I am coming to work as a teacher here for a short while. Also I am not….
‘George!’ she said turning to the man next to her. George had been fascinated in our encounter but had not as of yet commented.
‘This is Marcus,’ Ada continued. ‘He’s a poof.’
Oh lord above, not only had she passed over my educational expertise she was focusing on my sexuality, incorrectly as well.
‘Shirt lifter eh?’ George asked.
‘Actually no,’ I said.
‘My grandson is one of your lot, maybe you know him?’
‘I doubt it as I am not gay.’
Stacy mercifully reappeared.
‘They think I’m gay,’ I said sounding rather pathetic.
She laughed, ‘Guys, he is not gay!’ she said emphasising the last two words. ‘Are you?’ she asked more quietly.
‘No.’
She smiled and inexplicably said ‘That’s good.’
Was she homophobic?
‘I said he was here for the day! And even if he was that would not matter!’ She turned to me and said ‘Paul one of our volunteers is gay, maybe they were trying to match make?’
So if she had a gay volunteer then she was not homophobic. This was very confusing.
‘Oh!’ Ada exclaimed. ‘That’s good. He is a nice looking fella, it would be such a waste.’
Was I not in the room now? They were talking about me as if I was absent.
‘Not a shirt lifter then?’ George asked. At least he was addressing me.
‘No, I am not.’
‘So you won’t know my grandson then?’
‘Probably not.’
As we moved to leave Bert grabbed my hand, ‘Not gay?’
‘No.’
‘Married?’
‘No.’
‘Girlfriend?’
‘No.’
‘Right, you could do a lot worse than sexy Stacy,’ he told me. ‘I would have ago myself but I think I am a little too old for her,’
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