‘She did?’
‘Absolutely. And her judgement of people is never wrong.’
‘There’s always a first time!’
‘Rubbish! Here’s my den. I stepped into it fifty-three years ago, as a young man. Now, I’m trying to tunnel out and escape from it, to put my feet up and have a well-earned rest.’
Becky smiled at him. ‘Look at me in the eye, and tell me that you really want to leave,’ she challenged.
Pop snorted with laughter. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘To another teacher. Teaching is your life.’
‘And Burnley Football Club.’
Becky laughed. ‘It takes all kinds, I suppose.’
‘Even Clarets-mad fans. Now, here are the current projects. . . .’ and Pop launched into a description of what he’d been trying to bring from the curriculum into learning-by-doing projects, the problems that had emerged, how he’d tackled them, where the pupils should go next. Becky felt overwhelming relief: whatever the school’s odd culture, this was no different from how she would have tackled it herself. Forty minutes passed, two teachers engrossed in their craft, the air buzzing with questions and answers.
‘You’ll do fine,’ promised Pop. ‘And you won’t be on your own, Liza and myself will keep an eye on you. . . .’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Better eat my sandwiches,’ he apologized. ‘Else I’ll be spraying crumbs over the class.’
‘Thanks, for taking me through this,’ Becky said.
‘Pleasure. Find your own way out? Head towards the noise.’
‘See you on Wednesday morning,’ she said.
With all her heart, she wished she could start right now, when her mind was in tune with what the kids were doing. Just getting them to explain how they had got there, and what they had learned, would break the ice – and would be exactly the presentation/analysis approach which was central to modern learning.
She sighed: when you’re in the middle of a lions’ cage, it’s never as scary as the prospect of having to go in there and face the lions. You’re too busy thinking on your feet, to be afraid. Watching faces, searching kids’ eyes for puzzlement or understanding, then either finding a new way to explain the material, or moving on.
Becky pushed through the swing doors, into the spring sunshine. For a moment she stood on the steps, smiling at how the kids had split up to do their different things. Girls with their skipping ropes – the ancient toy which had survived the electronic revolution. Boys and their endless football matches.
‘Over here, Jonno!’ A shrill voice, full of urgency.
The ball must have come to him, because all the opponents converged, apart from one small figure who sprinted forward, in anticipation of the return pass which split the defenders’ ranks. The small figure pounced on the ball, and scored between the goalposts of piled-up jackets and jerseys.
‘Oh, well done, Jonno!’
Team mates ran to slap the scorer’s back, ruffle his hair. The boy looked up, his face radiant as if he had scored a winning goal in front of packed terracing. It was Jonathon.
The scene blurred before Becky’s eyes.
God bless you, Mike, she thought. In three short coaching sessions, he had found a way to solve a problem which had defeated her, setting her son’s shy steps onto the path towards winning acceptance from his peers. And, already, his football nickname – something he might carry for the rest of his life.
The school bell rang, and the children broke up, to stand in lines outside the door. Becky watched from the edge of the small schoolyard. She saw Miss Forbes come out, Pop Bailey behind her, his round red cheeks still suspiciously full and chewing. She sensed the mutual trust and liking between children and their teachers. A small, secure world. Saw the shy Liza Forbes in a new role, as the calm and confident head teacher in front of her pupils.
Becky stood until the last child filed into the old school.
Was this what she’d been made for? To live her life away from crowds and fame and fortune? With the only prize in her grasp, the knowledge that she was a respected part of an old continuity? Would she be like Pop, entering this strange school as a young woman, to ultimately hand over her classes in trust to someone else, having spent her whole life teaching generation after generation of children in this place? Watching them move on, to make their own lives?
She looked up to the blue hills of the Dales. Right now, there wasn’t anything she’d rather do than take over from where that kindly man had finished.
‘That’s it, keep together!’ Kathy shouted, above the noise of singing children’s voices. She beat time with her right hand as the CD backing track reached its conclusion, then applauded the performers.
‘Bravo!’ she said. ‘Everybody finished at the same time. Nobody came limping in five minutes late . . . which is a change, for some of us.’
‘C’mon, Kathy, I was only two bars behind that one time,’ protested Jim.
‘OK, so you’ve learned to listen to the others – and sing faster.’
‘He’s still out of tune,’ complained Samantha.
‘Look, Sam, for Jim that’s as close to tune as he’s likely to get.’
‘He should have been the family dog.’
‘I’m the family dog. I was the first to volunteer.’
‘At least you bark in tune. . . .’
Flushed faces, sparkling eyes. A contrast to the glum foot-dragging she remembered from rehearsals last year, Kathy thought. This lot were turning into real troupers, as tight-knit and full of banter as a football team,
‘We’ll kill them when we do this show in two weeks’ time,’ Jim declared proudly. ‘They’ll be asking us to sing an encore.’
‘Asking us, maybe. Not you.’
‘Who says?’
‘Let’s do that ensemble number again,’ Kathy said hastily. ‘This time, Donald, don’t sing quite so loudly. And Sally, let’s hear you a little more. Keep focused, Jim, you’re doing fine – just remember it’s a chorus, not a solo. And Nigel, pause a fraction before that final set of barks – create tension, that’s why the music stops. Ready, everybody?’
Kathy returned to the CD player, skipping to the final track. She pressed play, and let the opening bars blast through. ‘Right . . . one . . . two . . . three. . . .’
Children’s voices filled the classroom – not perfect, but with happy freshness and enthusiasm to spare. It was only meant to be children singing, not a polished choir, she reminded herself. Don’t get them too note-perfect. Let them all stay in character, keep their parents smiling.
At last, the rehearsal was over. Kathy cut across the babble of voices, to remind everyone when the next rehearsal would be. Then sagged back wearily, as the kids were collected in twos and threes by the usual long-suffering parents’ carpool taxi service.
She was left, as often happened, with Sally, because David always collected them, and took her home. Then came in for a coffee and a chat, while Sally explored Kathy’s wide collection of jazz, folk and pop music.
‘You did a lot better tonight, Sally,’ she said quietly. ‘I told you that the words would come to you once you were acting your part.’
‘I’m still scared.’
‘Why be scared? It’s a great show. You’re doing just fine – everybody is.’
‘I just am. Don’t want to be an actor.’
The little girl looked miserable. Kathy gently took her arm.
It was snatched away.
‘Want to leave the show,’ said Sally. ‘Don’t want to sing.’
‘You have a lovely voice! You sang your duet and your solo great tonight.’
‘Don’t want to do it. I’m asking Dad to let me leave.’
‘You can’t leave!’ exclaimed Kathy. ‘Not now. Not within two weeks of the show. We couldn’t train another singer, not in that time. And there’s no need for you to leave . . . you’ve grown into the part quite beautifully. You’re a star.’
Sally started crying, silent tears pouring down her face. Wa
s it stage fright, or something else, rooted in her mother’s death?
‘Oh Sally, please don’t cry,’ Kathy said gently. She hesitated, then tried to gather the little girl into her arms.
Instant resistance. Two small hands pushed her violently away.
‘Don’t do that!’ Sally screamed. ‘You’re not my mum! You never will be!’
‘Easy!’ said Kathy. ‘Calm down. I was only trying to comfort you, show you that I was on your side.’
‘You’re not!’
‘Of course I am. . . .’
‘It’s all an act!’ stormed Sally. ‘You’re trying to show my dad that you care for me. But you don’t, not really. You’re trying to steal him . . . I saw him holding your hand, the other night. It’s not fair! My mum’s not here, to look after me and him . . . just let him be, leave us both alone. Go away! I hate you . . . I HATE YOU!’
Stricken, Kathy stared at the girl, searching for words, when there was nothing she could say. Gradually, she became aware of another figure, standing silently at the classroom door. David.
Sally ran to her father, throwing herself into his arms.
Kathy waited, with the same strange feeling as she had experienced after that meal in David’s flat. A feeling that she was on the outside, always. An intruder who was trying to worm her way into a family who didn’t want her.
Didn’t need her, now or ever.
Briefly, over the girl’s head, their eyes met. She saw the mute and desperate appeal in his. Then David picked up his daughter and carried her out to the car. The classroom door swung closed, behind him. A pause, then the sound of a car starting up, drawing away. Leaving her standing there.
Something tickled Kathy’s cheek. Absently, she lifted her hand, and brushed it away. Then glanced down at her fingers. They were wet, with tears.
Another battle lost, she thought. And, did she really want to fight this war?
Mike was waiting for her at the Foulridge bus stop. As she stepped from the bus, he gathered her into a quiet and gentle hug. Becky waited for her ribs to crack, but that didn’t happen. If it had, she wouldn’t have cared.
‘This is really bad,’ she said. ‘I vowed that, at all times, I would stand on my own two feet. And look at me. . . .’
Grey eyes twinkled. ‘Well, I’ve put you down and you’re standing.’
‘I’m not,’ she sighed. ‘I feel like a boxer, hanging on for dear life.’
His arm slipped round her shoulders, and she felt herself being steered down to the canal. ‘What’s a-do, then?’ he asked her. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘I just need to hang on to you for a bit. Borrow some of your strength.’
‘Feel free. But let me get the kettle going, first. Have you eaten?’
‘No. I left Noel to drum up a meal for himself and Jon. And Henrietta’s taken to dropping in at supper-time. She must like his cooking.’
Mike grinned. ‘I thought it was the way to a man’s heart, through his stomach. Not a woman’s.’
Becky laughed. ‘Nothing like that,’ she said. ‘They’re just good friends.’
‘Of course,’ he said solemnly. ‘Then I’ll do a Noel – impress you with my cooking. You’ve tasted nowt like a Yorkshire trout.’
‘From the canal?’
He laughed. ‘No way – wouldn’t last five minutes in the canal. No, I caught them in a moorland tarn last night. I was going to do them in a salad.’
‘I can make the salad,’ she said. ‘It will take my mind off it.’
They had reached his office, and his flat above that.
‘Take your mind off what?’ he asked.
‘Just scared.’ Becky sighed. ‘I start teaching tomorrow.’
‘OK, so you’re a teacher. Maybe a bit short of match practice, but still a teacher. You’ll be fine, once you get going.’
‘Everybody says that!’ Becky blurted out. ‘But this is a different kind of teaching. The only teaching I know is with single-age classes – everybody at the same stage, some quicker, some slower, than the rest. In the Cluny Foundation, there are only two classes. Ages five to fourteen, spread between them. Kids at different levels, learning different things – how do you give a lesson? What do you talk about? How do you prepare for everybody?’
Mike ambled over to his fridge and brought out a plate with four gutted trout lying across it. He turned on his cold tap, and began to rinse the fish.
‘Sounds just like coaching,’ he finally said.
‘What does?’
‘Different ages, different levels. Every coaching session of kids is like that.’ He began to search through his cupboards. ‘Ever tasted a trout rolled in oatmeal?’ he asked over his shoulder. ‘It means frying them, but it brings out the flavour.’
Becky sat on the edge of the kitchen table.
‘So, how do you handle it in a coaching session?’ she asked, frowning.
‘Only way you can. Talk to them for a bit about something general, then get them all working on their own thing. Let them work, while you go round them . . . a bit of praise here, change what they’re doing somewhere else, keep encouraging them to do it better, quicker. Keep ’em all working hard at whatever it is they’re doing. Then bring them together at session’s end, and set them a general exercise, where they can all chip in and show what they’ve learned.’
He turned, frying pan in hand. ‘It’s the best way to teach. You’re working with individuals, or small groups. Going from one to t’other. Giving each kid exactly what they need in skill, or confidence, keeping everybody on their toes. And staying on your own front foot, without even trying. Brings out the best in you.’
‘That helps,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘But all the different ages. . . .’
‘They won’t all be different ages,’ he said reasonably. ‘You’ll have maybe three, at worst four groups, with two or three kids in each. Get each group pulling together, helping each other. Works a treat in football.’
Becky laughed. ‘But maybe not in the rest of the world.’
Mike grinned. ‘Oh, you’d be surprised,’ he said. ‘I teach football as a way of learning to work as a team. Of finding out their strengths and using them, or knowing where they’re weak, and covering for them. Of getting beaten, and picking themselves up again. Of winning, and learning not to crow too loud – because there’s always somebody better. Kids will find a lot of these skills useful in their lives. Long after they quit playing football.’
‘Mike,’ she sighed. ‘You’re a philosopher.’
He looked at her ruefully. ‘A better philosopher than a cook.’
‘Sit down,’ ordered Becky. ‘Give me these trout.’
He watched her work, smiling. This was the woman he had searched for, all his life, he thought. Bright and brave, easy on the eye and on the ear. He liked her humour, and her sudden serious moods. Liked the way she leaned on him – and he, increasingly, on her. He liked the way things were going but, as with the canal, it was better to let what happened flow at its own natural pace.
A memory stirred, less than half-formed, in his mind.
‘There was a guy I heard about at school,’ he mused. ‘A poet.’
‘Uhuh. And?’
‘And . . . something he said . . . about being in a desert – or was it an oasis?’ Mike found himself turning red, and prayed that Becky was too busy to notice. He had just remembered the full quotation, and knew that it led to deep waters.
‘Right,’ she said, ‘he was in a desert or an oasis. He probably knew which was which, even if you don’t. He was a poet, a man of words, so what did he say?’
‘I’ve forgotten,’ Mike evaded. ‘Something about wine.’
‘You’re as bad as Noel,’ Becky complained. Then, suddenly, she knew. The hair on her neck prickled. ‘Omar Khayyam,’ she whispered. ‘It was him, wasn’t it?’
‘Could be.’
‘. . . a glass of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou beside me in the wilderness,’ she quoted softly. ‘Then that
wilderness, is paradise enow.’
‘Something like that,’ he muttered. ‘Give or take a bit.’
‘You thought of that?’
‘I did. And I’ve thought of something else as well.’
‘Which is?’
‘I’ve a loaf of bread in the larder. And I can nip to the Costcutter and get a bottle of white wine . . . and. . . .’
Becky came over, and carefully placed her oatmeal-covered hands behind his head. Such a huge strong neck, for a quiet man, she thought. Her gentle giant.
‘Mike,’ she said. ‘I don’t need the wine, and I don’t need the bread just yet. . . . I’ve got all I need right here.’
He looked down into her face, knowing deep in his heart that he loved this woman and that, as time passed, he would only learn to love her more.
‘All you need? And what’s that?’ he asked.
‘You,’ said Becky.
Becky pushed through the school doors, her heart hammering, almost climbing out of her chest and into her throat. Inside, she found Pop Bailey leaning nonchalantly against the corridor wall, and studying a well-used piece of chalk in his fingers.
‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded. ‘This is supposed to be your day off, from now on.’
The eyebrows bristled like an ancient and overgrown hedge.
‘I’m old,’ he said mildly. ‘I forget things. I forgot it was my day off.’
‘Liar, liar, pants on fire.’ She found herself smiling.
He pushed himself away from the wall, and craned stiffly round. ‘Not yet,’ he said. Then the blue eyes twinkled up. ‘Solidarity. We’re in the same life’s calling, so I came to wish you well. To walk you down the corridor, in case you’ve forgotten where my classroom is.’
‘Hey!’ she protested. ‘I’m not that old.’
Pop grinned. ‘You will be, one day.’ He fell into step alongside her. ‘About a hundred years ago, a batty old lady walked me down this selfsame corridor, when I was every bit as scared as you. She smelled of mothballs in the wardrobe, but I’ve spared you that. She talked to me, and calmed me down. She told me that I would be just fine – and look at me now. I have my own sorcerer’s apprentice and the only fear I’ve got is that, one day, it will all be over, and there will be nothing left for me to do.’
Another Chance, Another Life Page 10