Imprisoned by Love

by C. S. Brahams

  Whilst in the maths lesson, I take the opportunity to view Year 10’s maths exercise books. The pupils have already worked hard. It’s not them that I am unduly worried about. Several pages of x’s and y’s are strewn across the sheets. But the marking is minimal. I return to Tim’s desk and carefully open the top drawers; they’re full of the usual things: marker pens; spare pencils; throat sweets; post-it notes; reward slips and punishment slips. We don’t even use those anymore. Everything is done on spreadsheets these days. The class is working so conscientiously that I dare myself to open the bottom desk drawer as well; this is locked. I am immediately suspicious though my suspicions may not be warranted. I’m just about to log onto the computer on the desk when the bell rings. I can’t believe I have just wasted forty minutes.

  There’s a bit of sighing and grunting; requests for the lav­atory but no one actually moves from their places. They have double maths. I feel for them. It was always my least favour­ite subject at school. It’s ironic that I married Michael. I wait for the second cover teacher to arrive before leaving. It’s Emily. As I close the door behind me, I can hear the pupils’ disquiet; the scraping of chairs and loud chattering. I hesi­tate, just for a moment, before returning to my office. I don’t want to undermine the young teacher. She will have to find her own way through this. Youth is no excuse. I was more draconian in my twenties than I am now.

  I return to my office; it’s such a relief to have my own space. I deal with the usual admin, and see a reminder pop-up from my to do list. I need to send an electronic letter about the forthcoming Harvest Festival. It sounds harsh but I have to dissuade the parents from donating hampers and expensive items placed carefully into fancy wicker baskets. Instead, we respectfully request tins of soup (vegetarian), tins of tuna fish, baked beans, dry pasta, dry spaghetti, dried fruit and cereal without nuts. Even the homeless have aller­gies. This year, we are collecting for The Passage, a charity in St Vincent’s Square. Our students and their parents are generous. I don’t know why this surprises me. I telephone our contact at the charity, and ask her to speak in one of our assemblies. She agrees. I follow this up with an email. I am not sure what I will do when these are phased out, if they ever are. I also ask permission for our school to show The Passage on our Twitter account to which she gives her con­sent. We dare not breathe without it.

  I have another double English lesson with my lovely A Level set. We are making quite good progress. I instigate a discussion about dangerous knowledge and ambition. We talk about Prometheus and hubris. The bell sounds for the end of the first lesson and I allow the students to get a coffee from their common room; this is a new concession. I vow never to touch their precious gadget. The SMT recog­nise that we have to treat the students like undergraduates, otherwise they will vote with their feet and go to a Sixth Form College. There are plenty of good ones from which to choose: MPW and Ashbourne in Kensington or Woodhouse if you live in North London. Before they depart, I hand them each a white and black branded collapsible cup; they gra­ciously accept them. I note their disappointment when they see the school logo.

  After double English, I am mindful that I need to pop into Principal Peter’s office before his pre-emptive strike on mine. I’m usually on the phone to my mother when he does, so this time, it’s my turn to embarrass him. I walk in with two instant coffees swimming about in our new collapsible cups. He smiles at me. I sit down on one of the Victorian chairs (reupholstered in the same fabric as the ones in my office) and place my coffee cup neatly on the coaster placed conspicuously on his partner’s desk. It’s huge, like him.

  We talk about replacing Jack. There’s an exchange of ideas including promoting him, trying to persuade him to stay, increasing his salary, enhancing his status. But it’s no good. Jack is definitely leaving at the end of this term. We invite Liam into the office; he offers to update the job description and manage the whole process. It is agreed that I will con­duct the first interview with Harry-the-Harrovian. We all know – though we can’t say – that we need to replace Jack with a woman, and make her the number two in the depart­ment. We agree on a fairly short deadline and throw a perk into the mix: this job will come with an additional £1000, provided that the person is willing to take on the School Magazine. Harry-the-Harrovian is no longer interested in doing it. I suspect his resignation will be next. We ought to promote him before this happens. I don’t want to lose my job though: how many deputies does a small school need?

  We are barely into the second week of term when our first crisis happens.

  Fran – the Year 11 Goth pupil – is pregnant. I haven’t taught her since Year 7, and apart from sitting next to her in the history lesson that I observed, she has kept herself below my radar. Until now, that is. I immediately look her up on our database. She has just turned sixteen and is, for­tunately, old for the year. But it takes no mathematician to realise that she must have been fifteen when the great act of passion occurred. I am immediately concerned. Was she raped? Was the sex consensual? Is the partner at our school? Do her parents know? What should I do? Do I need to contact social ser­vices? Google and I are best friends. I have lost my appetite and immediately feel relieved that my daughter didn’t cause me this sort of grief. I am not ready to be a grandma.

  I don’t want to write about this delicate matter onto an email just yet. I walk along the corridor to Principal Peter’s office. He is with prospective parents. He acknowledges me with his massive bushy eyebrows and I grimace at him, look­ing stressed. I return to my office which his slightly smaller than his. His interview with Mr and Mrs Lewis ends rather abruptly. I can hear his heavy stride pounding down the narrow corridor. He’s always polite. Principal Peter shows the couple to the door, and shakes their hands enthusiasti­cally, cupping his left hand over the right hand, Bill Clinton-style. The double handshake. It seems to work. “Such a warm guy,” they say, “So different from what I expected,” and “Didn’t expect an American Principal.” As I said, he’s Canadian.

  I have quite a busy day ahead with plenty of lessons, despite being on half a timetable. It’s par for the course: multi-task­ing, that is. Fran has become my priority and this time; her problem really does fall within my remit. Peter advises me to “extract” her from the science lesson. I do what he suggests. I scrutinise her. I can see a small bump protruding over her black school trousers; she has tried, quite successfully until now, to conceal it using the oversized jumper which is prob­ably her father’s. She looks at me as if to question my author­ity. I adopt a matter-of-fact tone and bluntly ask her whether the sex was consensual. I am relieved to find that it was. She is five months’ pregnant. The baby is due in January when she should be doing her mocks. It’s all relative, I suppose.

  We decide to support Fran. I ask her who the father of the child is and straight away she tells me it is Freddie, the student who scraped into the Sixth Form. Freddie is mixed race and so is Fran. His father is Nigerian. His mother is from Suffolk. I have never met Fran’s father but her mother looks like me. Will she want to proceed with her GCSEs? She looks at me as if I have asked her the most ridiculous question. And, of course, her mother is aware that she’s preg­nant. They share a flat in Bayswater, West London. I feel a bit of an idiot and decide to tell the rest of the staff, before the rumour-mill lands one of the male teachers into hot water. I feel a bit disloyal. Issues pertaining to safeguarding prevail.

  I am resolved to get as much done as I can before lunch. I would really be quite happy to eat a sandwich or a little tray of sushi at my desk but Principal Peter insists that we mix with the rest of the staff. And the new staff canteen was very expensive to build. We are all told to use it. I telephone Fran’s mother, Dr Enderby. She’s a psychiatrist at the Tavistock. I remember this because I bumped into her a few times whilst doing my evening course there. She apologies for not alert­ing me and claims that Fran only admitted to being pregnant over the weekend. And what a lovely weekend it was! We discuss what we’re going to do to support
Fran. Obviously, she can’t take her mocks with her peers. The timing won’t work. We suggest that she sits them early. Dr Enderby has already phoned an agency and booked a maternity nurse and a home-help. She isn’t ready to be a grandmother either. She is the same age as me: forty-nine.

  I am bursting with information: new and old. I decide that having lunch with others will be a good thing and besides, I am now ravenous. I choose the tomato and basil soup, and take a piece of bruschetta to go with it. I sit with Abbas, who is sampling the vegetarian curry, and Annie (the Art teacher) who is on another diet. She’s eating an apple, very slowly. She takes out her mobile and opens up the gallery. She shows us a picture of the coffee pod installation she’s making out of our recycled products here; we tell her it’s amazing. Funny how some adults still need so much reassurance and praise. She’s a typical-looking art teacher: all beads and ethnic jewellery, nothing like me. I can’t remember how old Annie is. She has barely changed in the eight years she has been here. I realise that I know very little about her. Luckily, Abbas is the font of all knowledge. He tells me that she is going through a nasty divorce. Can a divorce ever be nice?

  I decide to leave work quite early today; it’s 5 pm Liam isn’t even here. Principal Peter is still in his office – pretend­ing to do some work – and the staff room is empty. The army of cleaners has arrived. I only know one by name; that’s Margaret. She’s lovely. I am amazed to discover that she has five children aged between four and seventeen. She works three nightshifts a week at St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington. I am full of admiration.

  I am feeling quite weak, despite lunch, and can’t face cycling home. I decide to browse around the shops near Bond Street tube station and pop into Zara to buy some clothes. I’m an impulse shopper. Always have been. I never bother to return anything, even though I make quite a lot of mistakes. Margaret benefits from them, at least. Either that, or she sells them on.

  The atmosphere between Michael and I isn’t congenial at the moment. I am annoyed with myself but find it hard to for­give his recent outbursts. He has become increasingly irri­tated at the slightest thing. I put it down to stress. Although I don’t feel like cooking, I do so, and this time, make a chicken stir fry with all his favourite vegetables. I marinate every­thing and put the bowl of food back into our undersized fridge. It’s just about all right for the two of us; it was pretty desperate when the twins were here. I have no idea when Michael will be home. We normally text each other several times a day but today we haven’t exchanged a single word.

  We have lived together for a long time; and during that while, I have never been through his pockets, other than to check for items before taking his suits to the drycleaners. I have never suspected him of having an affair. Our relation­ship has always been built on mutual trust. We respect each other’s space. But this evening, curiosity has got the better of me. Perhaps it was Tim’s locked drawer at work that has aroused my suspicions. Perhaps I have a taste for detective work: I am a compulsive reader of thrillers. I start with his bedside drawer. There is nothing interesting in it: aspi­rin, a started box of Rennie (minty), a ballpoint pen, a few small golf pencils, an unopened packet of Durex and little bookmark made by Olivia, aged 9. I open the second drawer down. I don’t know what I am doing. I don’t know what I hope to achieve by snooping. I am disgusted with myself. Again, there’s nothing interesting in there and I return to the kitchen and lay the table. I decide to make a salad whilst listening to The Archers. I have no idea what’s going on. I’m just relieved that Rob Titchener has been written out of the script; listening to how he controlled his wife, Helen, had me shouting at the radio. I don’t know why she stayed with him for so long. There are still no texts from Michael. I realise that I shouldn’t take him for granted.

  I return upstairs to our bedroom; it faces the mews. I take a cursory look out of the window. No one is around. I close the white and blue curtains, casually, and decide to look in Michael’s suit cupboard. His suits are arranged from black to grey to navy. He’s much neater than I am. Only my books are in alphabetical order and he knows better than to mess about with my vast collection. I decide to approach the pock­ets methodically, moving swiftly from his fifty shades of cor­porate to his more casual clothes. The grey suit hasn’t even been worn yet. The pockets are still sewn up. I’m about to give up when I reach the navy suit; it’s his favourite. There’s nothing in the main pockets but there’s a small bulge coming out of the inside one. There’s a wallet with ten pounds in it; two business cards; a photograph of the twins and even one of me. It’s about fifteen years’ old. I am touched that he has kept it all this time. I look much younger. I feel a pang of guilt and carefully stuff the wallet back into his hiding place. I can hear the sound of the key in the lock. Michael is home.

  We sit down and have dinner. It’s civilised without being warm. I apologise first. I tell him about Fran and Freddie. He makes a stupid comment about my school being synony­mous with EastEnders. The last time I watched it, Dirty Den “Done it” and I tried to justify my viewing by equating the sleaze-ball with a character from Dickens: a cross between Magwitch and Fagin. We only watch Danish-cum-Swedish thrillers these days. And Endeavour, of course.

  Michael offers to do the washing up and I accept. He’s always been very domesticated. I don’t take this for granted. I still feel very preoccupied about Fran. I phone my mother for some guidance. She is full of advice but it’s not what I want to hear. We are generations apart. My mother (Sheila) asks me if things are all right at home and whether I have heard from the twins. I only talk about them. I’m not pre­pared to discuss the highs and lows of my marriage this eve­ning. Eventually, Michael takes a long shower; changes into his blue dressing gown and slumps in front of the television. We watch the news. There’s only one topic of conversation: the aftermath of Brexit.

  He asks me if I am going to return to our bedroom and I do. I close Olivia’s bedroom door by way of confirming this. It’s a slippery slope, not one I intend sliding down. I am con­vinced that Michael isn’t having an affair. And I know that I am not having one either. We make up and all is well. His bedside drawers remain firmly shut though.

  In the morning, we kiss and I’m worried that he will make me late. It’s all right for him. He’s the King Pin in his office. And most of his client meetings don’t start until 10 am or they’re held over expensive lunches in wine bars or swanky watering holes in the city. I am usually dealing with my third crisis by then. I feel much more at ease now and promise myself that I won’t be rummaging through his drawers or jacket pockets again. We are both too good for that. I vow not to stoop so low again. At least I got away with it once.

  I decide to pay Tim (the maths teacher with the sore throat) a visit. He apologises for yesterday’s absence. I don’t hold grudges. I see the pile of red exercise books on his table; they’re all open on the correct page, waiting for the inter­vention of his red pen. I am interrupting his marking time and feel a sense of power and guilt all rolled into one. Tim’s absenteeism last year was a cause for concern. He was given a verbal warning. But maths teachers – particularly good ones – are hard to find, so we haven’t taken matters fur­ther. As I’m about to leave, I notice that here’s a small key in the bottom drawer of his desk, the one I wanted to open whilst covering his dreary lesson. He sees me looking at it, and pushes the drawer closed with his polished black shoe. I should mind my own business.

  I return to my office and look at my schedule. I have a very busy day: several lessons, two meetings, a staff meeting, one interview and some Oxbridge references to write. It’s all go. I’m feeling restless though so I decide to walk down to Robert Dyas, the hardware shop, in my free period. It takes me much longer than I expected and I find myself grabbing one of those Lime bicycles to get myself back to school on time for Year 9. The seat is uncomfortably high; I am too inept to lower it. I really don’t want to be late for that riot­ous class. I have bought myself a small, shiny red fridge; it can hold u
p to four cans of Diet Coke or two cans, an apple and a yoghurt. I am pleased with my purchase and plug it in straight away. It’s conspicuously noisy, much to my horror. I bang the top of it – the way we used bash the old hired tele­vision – and it quietens down immediately.

  I am about to teach Year 9 when my mobile buzzes in my jacket pocket; it’s Michael. I feel surprisingly anxious. Year 9 are waiting for me to walk in. I step into the classroom and confidently instruct the pupils to start reading Chapter 3 of To Kill a Mockingbird. I know this is a waste of time as they will have to re-read it all with me when I’m back in the class­room. Phone me asap. Got a problem. I can’t, of course, but I text him straight back, saying that I will be in touch in forty minutes. Year 9 can’t wait. I engineer a discussion about Scout’s first experience at school; how she beats up Walter Cunningham and also focus on the role of Calpurnia, the black housemaid. I am mindful that we have two black pupils in the class and don’t want to offend either of them. I set a very simple homework. I even award them two house points each. I slightly regret this momentous act of generosity as it involves logging into a spreadsheet; it’s called Rewards and is not to be muddled up with Punishments. On a previous occa­sion – when the screen was linked to the interactive white­board – I accidentally gave Freddie a demerit for smoking cannabis. His mother was outraged. His father was amused.