Imprisoned by Love

by C. S. Brahams

  At 5 pm we are officially “dismissed” and told to get a good night’s sleep. Some people laugh. Others feel patronised. I don’t care either way as I need to return to my sanctuary. Principal Peter returns to his. We speak to each other on the phone as neither of us wants to disturb the other’s important reading. I suspect my taste in fiction is rather different from Peter’s. Finally, I get a chance to print out and photo-copy everything I need for Week 1; this is utterly tedious but wholly necessary. Last year, I did battle with the photo­copier. There’s a small dent in the machine where my Gabor boot hit it. There’s a CCTV camera in that room now.

  It’s 6 pm and I feel the weight of the week to come and decide to head home. I change into my “cycling clothes” and mount my black hybrid bicycle; it’s pretty old now but I love it. I don’t love the traffic and I particularly dislike being trapped behind a bus. The advertisements of cheerful stu­dents don’t ring true to me. Their smiles look too forced and their teeth look too white. But they make me think wistfully of Olivia and Eddie. I wonder where they are right now and am desperate to talk to them. Michael thinks we should let them contact us first. He reminded me not to become a heli­copter parent; it won’t benefit the children. They need to be independent. He is right, of course. We compromise on five days, otherwise I will turn grey with worry.

  I am home at 6.45 pm. The door isn’t double-locked so I assume that Michael is in. He isn’t. Careless. Out of charac­ter. There are several messages on our answering machine; piles of brown envelopes to open and little in the fridge, even though I have been off school for about eight weeks. Well, we have been away… I feel guilty. I pick up my mobile and open the Ocado App. It’s so easy. I book a delivery slot for 8 to 9 pm the next day. I check the school calendar for dates. Nothing.

  I have six text messages from Rosie and Emma; we have been friends since we moved into the area. They want to arrange a girls’ night out. In principle, I agree but can’t commit to anything until half-term. Neither of them is a teacher. They both work part-time. Both are artists. Emma’s husband is stinking rich and has bank-rolled their pottery and ceramics business for the past five years. I have no idea if either of them ever makes a profit. Their plates and mosaics are pretty though; we have quite a few of them in our house.

  Michael is home very late. I don’t bother to tell him that the door wasn’t double-locked. We talk a bit about our respective days. His is full of responsibility and analysis. He is rather a back-office sort of guy. Naturally reserved though occa­sionally outspoken and loud in his own defence. Not a risk-taker. Doesn’t ruffle other people’s feathers, not as a general rule. Michael isn’t motivated by money – though he likes to earn it – he’s motivated by success. He is well-liked by almost everyone in the office. I think this is remarkable, given his level of responsibility. And the levels of stress that he is fre­quently under. I am the opposite to Michael. I like the front line. I am a risk-taker. I like to think that I am well-liked (like him) but I use humour to engage and am not permanently on the charm offensive. I am a team player. Michael isn’t. Back office. Front office. That’s us. We are the team. But some of our friends call us the “dream team” which we find embar­rassing. I know I am lucky. Michael may be a little reserved; he may not be the funniest chap at the dinner party table, but he’s my husband. And I love him, unreservedly.

  We go to bed with our books. Mine is The Collector by John Fowles, which I am teaching this term. I have taught it once before. Michael is re-reading Freakonomics which he has read five times and counting. He has a copy of Capital with­out Capitalism on his bedside table; it was birthday present which he said he wanted. We switch the light off at 11.30 pm I can hear Michael rummaging around for a Rennie which he finally chews nosily. He says it tastes like chalk. Gaviscon was my constant companion during my pregnancy. He thinks it’s for women. Between the two of us, Michael usu­ally falls sleep first; perhaps his conscience is clearer than mine. We lie together, slightly out of sync, as he breathes out, I breathe in. I never tire of the soft sound of his gentle snoring.

  I am surprised how pleased I am to see my pupils. They’ve all blossomed and grown-up over the summer holidays. They are completely re-energised. The Lower Sixth are thrilled to be in the Sixth Form and even Freddie Adebayo, who just scraped enough Level 7s in his GCSEs to stay here, is focused and relatively smart though he has taken to wearing black shirts as well as black jumpers. We have no uniform in the Sixth Form. Just guidelines; these are mostly ignored. We have to pick our battles; this isn’t one that I wish to embrace.

  I am quite keen to start teaching my A Level set. Joanna-cum-Jeremy is in it. S/he is very bright. Emotionally intel­ligent. Strangely intuitive for a sixteen-year-old. There are seven other students. None of them is as bright as the trans­gender student but each of them has his or her own tal­ents. I have two external students joining the set: William (Wills) and Louisa (Lulu). Both had been attending sin­gle-sex schools and were desperate to switch to co-ed. We start with some background on Romanticism and move onto Mary Shelley. They can’t quite fathom that she was only frac­tionally older than they are now when she wrote her novel. Everyone has read Frankenstein over the summer. I have taught it three times before and know it well. Besides, my text is heavily annotated, just in case early onset dementia sets in …

  For some reason, I suggest we see Mel Brooks’ Young Frankenstein as a Christmas outing. It’s on at the Garrick Theatre. At least the risk assessment won’t be too onerous. My dream lesson is interrupted by the shrill sound of the pulsating fire alarm. It’s a drill, of course, as we always have one in Week 1; however, why it has to be in my favourite lesson and not when I have Year 9 is something of a minor blow.

  We stand outside, in the half-mild, half-cold weather. It’s early September but it is neither summer nor autumn. The pupils file out quickly and quietly, in addition to them are: the staff; the cooks; the administrators; the peripatetic music teachers and the burly caretaker, Joe. He has a small and elderly ginger cat draped casually around his neck. Half the school is able to fit into the mews around the back of our grandiose classical building; the other half spills onto Bond Street. There is some muttering and resentment by passers-by. I am secretly impressed that everyone is quiet. Liam (the Academic Deputy) stands with his red clipboard, and keeps a note of the start and finish time of this drill. We have beaten our record. Once the excitement is over, the staff and pupils dutifully file back into school. The bells rings joy­fully and happily it’s break.

  Emily, the new and rather intense and earnest maths teacher, makes me a cappuccino with the pristine Nespresso coffee machine. We all feel a bit uncomfortable about the damage we’re doing to the environment. Annie – the Head of Art – has been working on an installation using the empty coffee pods but even so, once the inspection is underway, the Nespresso may have to hide in the cupboard, along with the its brightly coloured pods.

  I have a meeting with two different sets of parents; a con­ference with Principal Peter and two sponsors from the pharmaceutical company. I also have to observe Benedict White, our new history teacher. He is straight out of college and looks about twelve. Luckily, the observation lesson is third period. I print off an appropriate form from the teach­ers’ drive and another, just in case I mess up the first one. I should have been a Scout leader.

  I arrive at the same time as Year 11. They form an orderly queue outside the Room 12C and Benedict ushers them. No one misbehaves. He hands me the copy of his lesson plan which is almost identical to the pro forma on our database. Good for him. I decide to sit at the back, next to a girl called Fran. She’s going through a Goth stage at the moment. It doesn’t suit her. I notice that she’s wearing a very baggy black jumper – not the school one which has a distinctive double red line to mark the V shape – and that her white shirt is very long. Much too big. Her nails have been painted black. I am on the verge of reprimanding her but can’t. Not now. She gives me a half-smile initially but ignores me f
or the remain­der of the lesson. Benedict entertains the students with clips from YouTube; Blackadder and even has excerpts from old films. Seemingly effortless. All of this is achieved whilst referring to the GCSE assessment objectives. Benedict is adept at all things technical, as are all millennials. He sets them an essay for homework. No one grumbles. I notice that his blue shirt is untucked. I congratulate him on the quality of his lesson and offer to buy him a drink on Friday. He read­ily accepts. He doesn’t look much older than my son, Eddie.

  The morning disappears as quickly as it appeared and we are already into the afternoon block of lessons. I have a double with Year 10 followed by a single with Year 9. Liam O’Riley, the other Deputy, is in charge of the timetable. He lives in a one-bedroom flat near Warren Street and walks into work. It takes him twenty minutes. Liam could easily sleep in his office; it’s big enough, and he has all manner of things at his disposal: a shaving kit, an electric razor, spare shirts and ties, three pairs of shoes, socks, mints, toothpaste and a tooth­brush, boxes of Alpen and his own expensive coffee. He also has a sleeping bag tucked away in his cupboard. Liam always looks smart. Professional. He could be a pilot for Aer Lingus.

  Almost everyone goes home by 4.30 pm I don’t. And nei­ther does Liam – King of the Timetable. There is always something to do. I’m reading through some of the pupils’ SENCO reports, ensuring that each one has an up-to-date statement. I’m not trained in Special Needs but somehow this falls under my wing as the Pastoral Deputy. I don’t mind. There’s a polite knock on my door. It’s Abbas. We have both been in the school for ten years. He is Iranian; approaching sixty-three and is the kindest man in the school. He had a heart attack in the classroom last year, so it has been agreed that he should have a very light timetable. I really want him to go part-time but Principal Peter wants him to take ER: early retirement. Ironic. Despite being very capable, he is not management material. He dislikes computers and is rather old-school. Abbas teaches Religious Studies. The subject is oversubscribed at both GCSE and A Level. I appreciate and value his friendship. The feeling is entirely mutual. I some­times feel guilty when I am with him. He’s such a warm and caring man. I can’t explain what we have but there is definitely something between us. We connect. He pays me compliments with ease, unlike Michael, but I can never tell whether he is truly genuine, which Michael always is. We are just friends. Colleagues. We will never be more than this.

  We mainly talk about our children; their A Level results; their plans for the future and ours. We also chat about our current and existing students here but can’t help focusing on the transgender ones. He bemoans the loss of Joanna-cum- Jeremy’s beautiful long blonde hair; it’s brutally short now, with a slightly floppy fringe. He is thin and languid. Could be a model. I tell Abbas about the evening course I took at The Tavistock Clinic. He gives me a wry smile. He updates me about the chatter in the staff room – for which I am eter­nally grateful – and agree that it was more fun in the old days. We pity the new recruits. We simply weren’t under the same scrutiny in the twentieth century.

  Finally, I befriend my bike. The traffic is chaotic. I swerve and swear my way through London’s commuter and post-commuter traffic. The adrenalin dump barely makes the ride home worth it though I vow that I will stay later tomorrow. I might even see what time Liam goes home. When I get home, the door is double-locked but Michael’s keys are still in the lock. We live in Daleham Mews, Belsize Village. I can’t believe we haven’t been burgled. Michael and I have lived here since the twins were four. Now they’re eighteen and half way round the world. I miss them.

  I immediately turn on Radio 4. I am uncomfortable with silence. I start unloading various items from my backpack. My bespoke Bond Street School A4 planner is substantial. I like to enter my whole timetable for the academic year; this takes quite a long time (as it’s a page a day) and if there’s a change to the schedule, I have to make endless amendments. I never learn!

  There’s a text from Michael saying that he’s leaving work early; it’s 8.30 pm. He has made two typos in his two-line text. I throw some tuna, fresh tomatoes, chopped onions and sliced black olives into a pan and stir in some ready-made tomato sauce from Waitrose. I put the pasta on at 9.15 pm Michael comes home around then. He divests himself of all his outer clothing and takes his socks off for good mea­sure. He forgets to put his slippers on; this is part of his rou­tine. The smell of the freshly grated parmesan morphs into Michael’s slightly sweaty size ten feet. I try not to notice. He looks exhausted. I am too tired to snipe at him. He rarely snipes at me. We are quite tolerant of one another. It will be interesting to see if we will remain on our best behaviour without the children present.

  The next morning, we both wake up feeling exhausted. We talked too much whilst in bed and I am not enjoying re-reading The Collector. Miranda is trapped in the cellar but still desperately trying to manipulate Frederick (her abduc­tor) from there. The book has made me worry about Olivia. She’s miles away and there’s nothing I can do from here other than Facetime or text. I know the ending of the novel but I’m still rooting for Miranda. Michael didn’t sleep well either. He is definitely troubled by something. I try to ask him but he brushes it off and makes various plausible excuses. He seems a bit absentminded. More than usual, perhaps. But he’s busy at work. I know that’s what it is. We peel off in two different directions. Michael walks to Belsize Park tube sta­tion and I cycle towards Swiss Cottage and continue south. I used to sit on the underground, wedging myself under­neath people’s armpits. But I don’t do that anymore. I suffer from taphephobia; it’s a fear of the underground and a fear of being buried alive. It’s not completely irrational.

  When I veer up to the school entrance, I notice the plaque has been removed. There’s a trace of black spray paint around the edges of where it had been pinned to the entrance. The plaque was a shiny gold one, quite discreet, but probably more suited to a dentist’s practice than an indepen­dent co-educational school. Joe, the caretaker, whose cat is not swathed around his neck this time, is fumbling about with an Amazon package. His nails are dirty and his hands look rough. We chat a bit about the graffiti incident (on the plaque) and he complains, again, about the litter in the Sixth Form common room. I don’t disagree with him. I let him flirt with me. I don’t know why.

  I chain up my bicycle against our own railings – even though I am conscious that this annoys Principal Peter. I don’t really know where else to safely stow by precious hybrid. Yesterday I left it in the disabled toilet. I’m not very popular right now. No one dares suggest I take the tube – something everyone who lives in London really has to grap­ple with – they know that I can’t do it. Not even after copi­ous amounts of counselling. Liam wants me to attend a course but thus far I have refused. I think the money would be better spent on updating my safeguarding knowledge; after all, we live in litigious climate.

  I have a free period first thing; this is great. Everyone else is pretty much timetabled. The staff room is empty. I help myself to a clean mug; it has our school emblem and motto on it: “Laboris Gloria Ludi” which means “work hard play hard”; that’s how we interpret it anyway. Our school colours are red, green and black. Mostly black. A bit too distinc­tive for town. We are thinking about scrapping the green, red and white tie. Too many of our pupils have been bul­lied on their way home from school. I prompt the staff to remind all the pupils to remove their ties at 4 pm I try to use the coffee machine but we don’t have one at home, so I don’t really know how to use it. I shove a random Nespresso coffee pod into what looks like the appropriate slot. It should be child’s play. It isn’t. There’s a faint sound of percolating but this transpires to be the milk heating up. I end up with hot milk and no coffee. I try to extract the coffee pod but it has been arrested. I Google the price of a new machine. It’s extortionate so I quietly slink away back to my office. I really ought to know better but at heart I have always been a bit of a rebel without a cause.

  I have 109 e mails. Liam has
emailed us the cover of the day. Luckily, I am not “on cover” for period 1. Mind you, not even deputies are exempt. I notice that Abbas has been assigned an additional lunch-time duty. I think this is mean. But I suppose a light timetable leaves you open to a pleth­ora of tedious obligations. Lunch time duty is the worst. We become Epsilons. And since our previous inspection, those on duty have been instructed to wear a red and white over­all. I have conveniently developed an allergy to the material. I am no one’s “Handmaid”.

  One of my 109 e mails is a complaint. It’s about Emily, the new maths teacher. I am surprised that any parent can jus­tify a grievance so early on in the term. I read it twice and print it out and highlight the main points for good measure. I am a born teacher. Apparently, the young maths teacher has no empathy. Emily was the best qualified candidate whom we interviewed. She has first-class honours in maths from Birmingham University. She seemed normal. Not autis­tic. Not even on the spectrum, if you know what I mean. Young though. Mind you, everyone looks young to me these days. She’s new and doesn’t appreciate how weak some of our pupils are. She is taken in by the clipped accents and their veneer of sophistication. They might be blessed with inherited wealth but this doesn’t mean that they’ve inherited their parents’ intellect. My mole has already told me that the bottom set “hate” her. I detest this part of my job – and think it should be Liam’s, but we agreed that complaints, even about academic matters, stray into my pastoral territory. I forward the email to Principal Peter, just to keep him in the loop, and email Emily to ask her to make an appointment to see me today. I tell her not to worry. I send her a text message as well. I like to think that I am efficient.