by David Park
He closed the classroom door and as he turned to walk down the corridor, he was confronted by a boy in full flight. The boy came to an instant halt but the expression on his face showed that he knew he had been seen running.
‘Well?’
Silence.
‘Well, boy, I’m waiting for you to explain to me why you were running in the corridor.’
Silence.
‘You do know that you’re not allowed to run in the corridor?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He raised his voice suddenly.
‘Well, then, why were you doing it?’
The boy continued to shelter in silence.
‘What is your name? Whose class are you in?’
‘Stephen Weir, sir. Miss Osborne’s class.’
‘And why are you only going home now?’
‘Miss Osborne kept me in, sir.’
‘Kept in, no doubt, for misbehaving and the moment you’re let out you proceed to break one of the school rules by running in the corridor. I don’t like this, Weir – I don’t like it at all. I shall be keeping an eye on you, young man, and if I come across you again, I’ll give you something to remember me by. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Mr Andrews.’
‘Now – on your way.’
He stood and watched until the boy had walked the full length of the corridor. It pleased him that the boy had used his name, reassuring him that his reputation still flourished throughout the school. It was something he took every care to preserve and perpetuate, and was an important weapon in his armoury. Once set in motion, it was not difficult to keep it rolling, and so it went before him and prepared his way. Yet it was a reputation based on nothing other than solid fact, and acknowledged by the many children who had sat in his classes. Too many children. He grew weary of them.
As he passed Miss Osborne’s class, he looked in through the window. She was keeping in five boys – five reprobates by the look of them. They were spaced round the room, but by their insolent postures and casual signalling to each other, it was obvious she was being punished, rather than they. One was flicking a piece of paper at another, but as soon as his presence was realised, the five slipped into the roles of model pupils, while she reddened and pretended not to see him. It was always embarrassing for people to be confronted by their inadequacies, but he had no sympathy for her, or her incompetence. They came out of college, young slips of girls, armed with naive enthusiasm and ideas given to them by people who knew nothing about real children, and who spent their careers avoiding them, then floundered against difficult, unco-operative children, who possessed the strength of numbers and weight of ignorance. He would mention Miss Osborne to Elliot; after all, as headmaster he was being paid good money to deal with problems like this. He wondered again what Elliot wanted with him.
With a cursory knock at the office door, he briskly entered the room. Elliot was standing in front of his desk, smiling blandly.
‘Ah, Mr Andrews, good of you to come at such short notice.’
The inane smile seemed fixed on his face as his left hand stretched forward in a gesture of welcome. There were two other people and a child in the room. Elliot’s gush of geniality and the school’s best china teaset suggested that the guests were considered to be of some importance.
‘Mr Andrews, I would like you to meet Mr and Mrs Lawrenson, and their daughter, Lysandra.’
They shook hands, and as he turned to acknowledge the child with a nod of his head, he realised, to his discomfort, that she was stepping towards him with her hand outstretched. For a second he thought of pretending that he did not see it, but there was no trace of hesitancy, of self-consciousness, in her movement that might allow this. There was no avenue of escape. He raised his hand limply and as she shook it he glanced at Elliot, but could discern no perceptible change in his expression. The couple were in their late thirties. He was originally from the city, but was lecturing in a university in England and had come back on some sort of year’s exchange scheme. Rather than split the family, it had been decided that his wife and daughter should accompany him. The girl had already been accepted for a place in a public school when they returned again. Elliot obviously considered them a great catch, and something of a feather in his personal cap. He himself was less enthusiastic in his response. As soon as he had heard that Lawrenson was involved in education, he felt a foreboding based on past experience. Parents who thought they knew something about the educational process were the worst possible type – always asking for interviews, sending letters of complaint, always trying to steer the boat from the shore. They also seemed collectively incapable of admitting the possibility that educationally successful parents might not have particularly brilliant children. It would help him a little if the girl was bright, but he supposed that it was merely a matter of time before the pleasant Mr and Mrs Lawrenson became his educational critics, pouring scorn on supposedly old-fashioned methods and aims, and quoting the latest reports and papers. This couple were potentially more troublesome than any he had faced before. It was already obvious that Elliot considered them as something approaching illustrious patrons, and he was not likely to treat their criticisms lightly, nor have their opinions dismissed with disdain.
Of course, if Elliot had possessed any backbone, he wouldn’t have permitted parents over the front door of the school in the first instance. There was no place for them, or their complaints or advice. They wouldn’t think for a moment of advising the baker how to bake bread, or the carpenter how to saw wood, but as soon as it came to educating their child, they inevitably presumed that they could influence and direct the process. If he had a pound for every parent he had put in their place, he would have been able to retire in luxury. Elliot was worse than useless. In the face of an irate parent, he would adopt a placatory attitude, a benign neutrality, and hope to offer enough sympathy to pacify the supposed grievance. He himself usually adopted a reciprocal attitude to his complainant. If they were polite and respectful, he would be the same, and try his best to explain whatever it was they needed explained, but the moment they became aggressive or presumptuous he would give better than he got. He felt tempted to smile as he thought of the adversaries sent away with their tails between their legs. It was never really much of a contest, and even if under some pressure, or merely if he grew impatient, he could always play his trump card and, with a tone of casual dismissal, inform them that if they were unhappy with their child’s education, they were perfectly at liberty to take them elsewhere. It always gave him pleasure to say that in front of Elliot.
This particular meeting, however, only lasted a short time. A few pleasant generalities were exchanged on both sides, and Elliot made a joke about the poor Irish weather, while the Lawrensons described some of the hazards involved in moving house. He helped Elliot out on a few occasions with a couple of questions about Mr Lawrenson’s particular subject and career. It was all over in fifteen minutes. The girl would join his class on Monday, and if any problems should arise, they encouraged him to contact them. Both sides assured each other that such an event was unlikely, then, as they were leaving, Mrs Lawrenson had an afterthought.
‘Mr Elliot, I forgot to ask, does Lysandra need a school uniform?’
He enjoyed Elliot’s embarrassed fluster as he momentarily struggled for an answer.
‘No, Mrs Lawrenson, not necessary. We don’t have a uniform – we try as much as possible to encourage individuality in the children, and we’ve tried to get away from the uniformity syndrome.’
That was a good one. The school never had a uniform simply because Elliot had neither the drive nor the interest to create one. As vice-principal he had suggested its introduction on numerous occasions, and each time it had been conveniently shelved for future consideration, or dismissed as a low priority. Anything that needed energy or the application of discipline was a low priority to Elliot. A round of golf followed by a round of drinks seemed to be the highest peak of human activity his soul aspired to.
After the Lawrensons had left, he thought of raising the question again, but a glance at his watch told him that he was late. The two men’s sudden awareness of each other in the tiny office forced them into small talk.
‘Well, they seemed quite a nice couple,’ said Elliot, looking at him for confirmation.
‘Yes. He seemed young to be a university lecturer.’
‘They get younger all the time – or is it just that we’re getting older? By the way, how’s your father keeping?’
‘He’s not doing so badly, thank you,’ he replied quickly.
There was always something in him that shied away from discussions that involved his father. Elliot had only asked out of politeness, but he balked at revealing the problems he faced in his world that existed outside school. Taking up his bag, he left Elliot’s office and walked out through the front doors of the school. Going through the front gates, he noticed a boy’s head drop down behind a parked car, and without staring or looking near him, he knew it belonged to the boy he had spoken to in the corridor. Weir, Miss Osborne’s class. Waiting for his friends. He filed away the name in his memory. He had lied to Elliot about his father. For some reason he wasn’t sure of, he always had – maybe he was just too proud to let anyone offer him sympathy; maybe it went against his strongly held belief that people should take responsibility for whatever situation they found themselves in, and get on quietly with their lives, avoiding fuss or drama.
The car engine wouldn’t start. Pulling out the choke, it spluttered into unenthusiastic life after bronchial coughing and wheezing, and as the car pulled away, he looked in his mirror and saw Weir standing up and staring after him. But he thought no more about the boy. He always enjoyed the fifteen minutes’ drive it took to reach home. The rush hour traffic was still an hour away, and sometimes, by driving slowly and precisely, he managed to savour the time. He enjoyed the pure mechanical response of the car, the immediacy and physical supremacy of his wordless control. The journey acted as a buffer between school and home. That day, it seemed to pass too quickly. He wondered what sort of day his father had had, but as he drew up in the driveway and looked up at the house it gave no clues. It stood in its quiet suburban avenue, indistinct and silent, distinguishable from its neighbours only by its own personalised veneer of shabbiness. The green paint had grown darker over the years – in places it looked black – and the garden was losing all traces of its former glory. His father was no longer able to tend it and there was little hint of the splendour he had once maintained. He himself had no talent for it, but he resolved to spend some time that weekend in tidying it up. If it was warm enough, his father could sit and watch him, and he would be pleased at the chance to issue advice and instructions. It was a good idea.
As he walked to the front door he looked in at the sitting room. On the piano that no one had ever played sat his parents’ wedding photograph, and a photograph of himself, taken at his graduation ceremony. The room was never used now, except on those rare occasions when visitors called, and even then he suspected that it required something of an effort on their parts to sit in it for any length of time. He started to look for his key, but stopped when he saw the front door was partly opened. Mrs Mitchell was standing in the hallway. She was wearing her coat and was in the middle of putting on her headscarf, a bad sign.
‘It’s a quarter past four, Mr Andrews.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry, Mrs Mitchell.’
‘I should have been away fifteen minutes ago.’
She bristled with indignation, drawing her favourite shawl of the exploited about her.
‘Yes, I know, Mrs Mitchell. Mr Elliot wanted a word after school. I’m sorry I’m late.’
Her annoyance had abated, but she realised that she held a strong position and was determined to make the most of it. She continued, ‘Fifteen minutes mightn’t seem very much, but if I was to come fifteen minutes late in the morning it would hardly do, would it?’
In her two-year spell as home-help, they had often crossed swords, and at times he had spoken sharply, but on this occasion he was in no mood for a fight. He remained silent as she drained the last dregs from her grievance.
‘It’s not because I’m not getting paid for it, Mr Andrews – you know I don’t do it for the money. But if I’m not home, Jim’s tea won’t be on the table when he comes in, and I don’t like the boys being alone too long in the house. I tell them to get their homeworks done when they come in from school, but you never know what mischief they might be getting up to. I’m sure you understand that.’
‘I understand, Mrs Mitchell. It won’t happen again. You know I’d run you home in the car if it was possible.’
‘That’s all right – I’m not looking for a lift.’
She checked her headscarf in the hall mirror and gathered up her umbrella and shopping bag, then turned and looked at his father, who was sitting in an armchair facing the window.
‘I’m off now, Mr Andrews. See you on Monday.’
She did not wait for a reply and none came. He held open the front door for her as she hurried down the hall.
‘What sort of day did you have?’ he asked.
She paused only when she was outside the house.
‘Just the normal. Not too bad, really. All the usual complaints of course, but he didn’t want to go out or anything.’
She had already started off down the drive as she spoke these last few words, leaving him to stare at the back of her head. The headscarf she was wearing had pictures of Paris printed on it. He closed the door and went into the living room, resolving not to be late again. For all her faults, the woman was reliable and satisfactory home-helps were not easy to come by. She tolerated his father and had become accustomed to his ways. They too had become accustomed to her. The prospect of losing her and having to find, and introduce, some stranger, frightened him a little. He would not be late again.
‘Well, had a good day?’
His father grunted a reply that seemed to ridicule the question.
‘That woman has no business coming here. She acts as if she owns the house. Acts as if she owns it. We don’t need her here, touching things and prying into things that don’t concern her.’
He knew his father’s speech by heart, having listened to it at regular intervals for two years, and as always he ignored it.
‘Come on, let’s move you over here and I’ll put the television on.’
He bent over and helped his father to raise himself, feeling the staleness of his breath upon his face. Experience taught him the importance of letting it appear that his father was helping himself, and he disguised his own effort as best he could. With slow, sidling steps, they moved over to the armchair in front of the electric fire and facing the television. He lowered his father gently down into the depths of his chair and then found a cushion to support his back. The operation took several minutes. When it was over, he switched on the television. Children’s programmes were just starting, and he knew that there was a good chance his father would sit watching them for the next hour, giving him time to prepare the evening meal. It was usually something light and simple, restricted as always by the limitations of his range, but it didn’t really matter so much as Mrs Mitchell made his father a hot meal each midday, and he took his own lunch in the school dining-centre. Since his father’s condition had deteriorated she came twice a day – a period in the morning and a shorter period in the afternoon. Recently, he had started to pay her more and she was staying for longer, arriving in the morning when it was time for him to leave for school, leaving after she had prepared the midday meal, then returning again from two to four o’clock. His father’s decreasing mobility made him reliant on someone’s help, and if it wasn’t a perfect solution, it was the best that could be done under the circumstances.
From time to time he came out of the kitchen and looked in at his father as he sat watching television. A woman was making doll’s furniture out of cardboard. He brought the meal in and they ate
it off trays while his father continued watching. When it was eaten he returned to the kitchen and brought in two mugs of tea. His father cupped his in both hands under his chin and the steam curtained his face – sometimes it seemed as if he took more pleasure from its warmth against his skin than from its taste. They sat in silence. The tea cooled. His father began to drink it in noisy slurps like a child taking soup. A man on the television was balancing a plate on one finger.
‘I thought of tidying the garden tomorrow if the weather’s good.’
‘It’s going to rain. Do you not see the sky?’
‘Tomorrow might be all right. You could sit out and advise me what to do.’
His father stopped drinking and turned his head towards him. A rivulet of moisture ran down the side of his mouth and his eyes were blue-bagged and tired.
‘Sure the garden’s dead. It’s a bit late in the day to be asking for advice.’
There was an edge of bitterness in his voice that seeped into the atmosphere and smothered the possibility of future conversation. He took his cup into the kitchen and began to wash up. His father would hold his empty cup until the last vestige of heat had gone out of it.
His father had become a problem. He had never really recovered from the death of his wife, and while the immediate pain of grief had faded, it had been replaced by a bitter, bewildered emptiness. After her death the house had died too, and they had become like strangers whose lives were locked together. It must always have been like that, only hidden from them by the business of living. She had been the hub of their lives, uniting them both in her, and when she died they floundered, helpless and apart, having to learn new patterns and follow paths that were foreign to them. In the months after her death they had come to some unspoken arrangement and tried, together, to do the best they could, but the further they moved away from it, the more things fell apart. They shadow-boxed in the shell house, engaged in little contests of will over matters and objects which, though trivial in themselves, assumed epic proportions. The honours had been evenly shared until the battle of the sitting room, which his father had wanted to preserve exactly the way she had always kept it, out of respect to her memory, while he wanted to have it redecorated. He found forgetting a better salve for grief, but his father had won in the end and so the room sat like a mausoleum, uncared for and unused. A layer of dust fell on the china cabinet, the unplayed piano, the lace covers, the photographs, and coated every object in the room. Mrs Mitchell, aware of his father’s wish, was happy on this occasion to comply and completely ignored it.