I dash to my office and phone Michael. It goes straight to voicemail. I leave him a curt but polite message and switch my phone back onto silent. I have to interview a prospective teacher of English now. Harry-the-Harrovian has appeared, just in time, and the two of us confer before inviting the first of the three shortlisted candidates to come in. Two are women and one is a man. The first one, a woman, is very strange. She has squeezed herself into a navy dress; has unkempt hair and her shoes need re-heeling. Harry doesn’t warm to her either. Her interview is very short to the point of rudeness. Next, we interview the only male candidate. He has an impressive application but his manner synonymous with a ring master; his banter is excessive to the point of irritation and his three-piece suit is pretentious. Neither Harry nor I consider him a contender which makes it easier for us to reject him. Finally, we meet the third candidate. Her name is Samantha Fox – not the buxom model from the tabloids– and she’s ideal. We spend a disproportionate amount of time discussing literature; the AQA syllabus; her style of teaching and how she differentiates when the classes aren’t in sets. Her answers are straight from a textbook. I ask her whether she is prepared to take on the School Magazine; no one else in the department is foolish enough to agree to it two years running. I might as well hold a pistol to her head. She agrees. Harry-the-Harrovian comments on her sleek black dress and her high heels. I remark on her suitability for the department. We invite her back for a second interview on Friday. She will also need to teach a lesson. I decide to give her my Lower Sixth as she has taught Frankenstein before. I’m considerate that way.
After the interview, I try calling Michael again; it still goes straight to voicemail so I have to give up. I need to allocate some time to our four Oxbridge students, all of which are worthy candidates this year. I take the time to read through their personal statements and try to extrapolate any anomalies or oversights. I can only find one. I sort through the Oxbridge references in my inbox and print them out. I find it hard to use my screen the whole time. I am conscious that my recycling bin is almost full. Other people’s bins are almost empty. One of my students is applying to read Maths at Oxford. This is an extract from her personal statement:
UKMT Olympiads served as an introduction to sophisticated problem-solving and taught me to link distinct areas of the mathematical realm. The second time I competed in the British Mathematical Olympiad, when participating in BMO2, I had to prove that a real-to-real functional equation was a polynomial, and, further, that it was linear. Here, my knowledge of bijective and surjective functions enabled me to make significant progress.
I feel a complete fraud. I have little concept of what she’s talking about but know that it’s erudite. I extrapolate what I can from the various teachers’ references and make the whole thing sound like it’s from me. I add a note in my calendar on my mobile: buy croissants for the Oxbridge meeting.
I have back-to-back meetings with parents of existing pupils and also with two members of staff. Nothing sensational. I sit back in my swivel chair and relax. I open my new miniature fridge and remove a very cold Diet Coke; it tastes so good. I look at my mobile under the desk. There are three missed calls from Michael. I immediately phone him back. We finally talk. It transpires that he has made another mistake. I am beginning to think that I should check the spreadsheet he prepared for me, otherwise the Governors will think that I am incompetent and suffer from dyscalculia. But Michael doesn’t make mistakes, not significant ones. Neither of us can believe it. Previously he was so defensive when I tried to intervene that this time I listen and nod. He is anxious that his job is at risk. He has been at his firm for over twenty-years and has a remarkable track record. I’m no employment lawyer but I suspect he will be due a decent pay-off. I start having visions of an early-retirement and holidays in the Seychelles. A bell rings and I am sharply brought back to reality.
I’m itching to go home but I have one more meeting at 4.30 pm It’s with Dr Enderby, Fran’s mother. I’m dreading it. She tells me that Fran has recently become very religious; she’s a born-again Christian, and that Freddie (the sperm donor in this case) has too. I’m completely shocked. Don’t observant Christians desist from anything below the waist? I wonder how long this phase will last.
Fran’s mother talks a great deal for someone whose profession is mainly listening. I think she finds it liberating. She notices my unfinished Diet Coke and gives me a slightly disapproving look. I feel about ten. The psychiatrist – mother – soon to be grandma, requests a great quantity of homework; past papers; revision packs and a list of all her daughter’s teachers’ emails so that she can liaise with them directly. I feel as though I am part of a police investigation. I readily concede to all her demands.
I am anxious to return home and talk to Michael face-to-face. I don’t want him to do anything rash or stupid. People do. I can see from my Life360 that Michael is already home. It’s beginning to be become a habit.
October
It’s nearly half-term and the twins have been away for five weeks. We have received countless messages since they arrived in Queensland – a contrast to the beginning of their adventure in Sydney. I am delighted to see so many pictures of both Olivia and Eddie. They’re mostly with other young people, none of whom I recognise.
It will be half-term soon. I can’t wait. We seem to lurch from one catastrophe to another at Bond Street School. Jeremy-cum-Joanna is having a personal crisis. S/he isn’t convinced that she’s in the wrong body anymore and regrets cutting off her hair. I try to be sympathetic but I am not sure what the right reaction should be. I offer Jeremy three complimentary sessions with the School Counsellor. Kris, however, has started hormone treatment and is receiving counselling. Jake – the gender fluid child – has joined a Transgender Group for Teenagers. I am a bit alarmed about this and fear that he will be on hormone blockers before the end of term. I am neither in favour nor anti trans people. I just think thirteen is too young to make a lifelong decision. I am not alone in this.
My main concern today is Fran. Her waist has disappeared and the rumour mill has circulated the news: she’s pregnant. She is taunted, regularly, and sadly very few of the pupils seem to appreciate that carrying a baby is a huge responsibility for a sixteen-year-old girl, let alone an adult. She can’t even vote yet. I find her at break time and invite her into my office. I offer her a glass of water, in a real glass, not a horrible paper cup. She’s going to be a mother, after all. I ask her a few questions about her pregnancy – insofar as I can – and I tell her about mine, albeit many years ago. I try to imagine Dr Enderby’s face in the hospital ward. I can’t. I ask Fran if she wants to stay in the Sixth Form and, to my surprise, she does. I reassure that we will do everything we can to accommodate her. She’s very pale. I tell myself that her dyed black hair makes her look anaemic but then wonder whether she is. I send her back to her lessons and decide to email Fran’s mother. She fobs me off with a hasty email (she’s with a patient, so can’t send a more detailed one) and tells me to concentrate on Fran’s academic work, not her personal health. I feel a bit affronted. I was trying to treat Fran as if she were my own daughter. She isn’t. And I won’t. Note to self: stay professional.
It seems ages since we were reclining and relaxing in the Croatian sunshine. Michael and I have just about come to terms with living as a couple, like we did before the twins. It’s a major adjustment. I tell myself that it’s for five months. It’s not permanent. We don’t know what to talk about other than our work. It’s grim. He is still wandering around the house like a wounded puppy. He cries quite a lot too but he doesn’t know why. We still have a loving marriage but I am not hopeful. We spend less and less time being intimate.
Whist at work, Michael is busy and focused. But at home, he can’t concentrate on anything, not even the television. He is restless to the point of being irritating. I suggest he takes up running. We both should. But I would never be able to keep up with him; his stride is double tha
t of mine. He has decided to leave his firm. Twenty years is enough. I am very troubled by this. It would be better if he were made redundant. I urge him to hold on. Think of the redundancy package. We aren’t mortgage free yet, and we still have to fund the twins through university. I love Michael but he is stubborn. He is a kind man but occasionally I feel he throws his intellectual weight around. He knows that I cannot compete with his mental agility and that I do not understand the complex nature of his work. In contrast, he thinks he knows plenty about mine. Everybody does, of course. Everyone has been to school.
Another week passes by and we celebrate the Harvest Festival at school though the majority of pupils tell me that Halloween is more important to them. I sympathise. Halloween was always a big deal in our house. I have a very lengthy parents’ evening at school and don’t manage to leave until 9 pm. I am always the last to finish. Most of the parents are easy to talk to and appreciate my input. Freddie’s father is charming but he his aftershave is overpowered by the distinct odour of marijuana. He erroneously thinks I am too square to recognise it. I am not.
I finally leave the building just after 9.15 pm. Mercifully, there is very little traffic. This is the ideal time to cycle home. All the lights are blazing. Michael is hunting for his passport. I ask him if he’s going on a business trip. I am sure that he isn’t. He looks confused. I notice that he is unshaven and he is wearing odd socks. He admits that he quit his job today, totally against my advice, and is apparently going to Rome for a three-day break. He will look for a new job after that. For the first time in twenty years, I feel that he has let me down. And that his behaviour is selfish. What with Brexit and all the instability, I find it almost incomprehensible that an actuary doesn’t bother to assess the risk factor of being unemployed this year. And yet, the truth is, I am not sure if he is genuinely capable of holding down any job, let alone a high powered one. But despite this feeling, I resent him for giving up. Michael knows that I totally disapprove of his self-inflicted jaunt. There is something childish about his expression. He looks crestfallen and hurt. I am not sure what I have done to offend him. I wrap my arms around his neck and shoulders and kiss him, gently. I suppose it must have been unbearable for him. He immediately responds with caresses and cuddles; it’s like the old days. Just for a moment. But the passport hunt rears its ugly head again. He won’t rest until he has found it. I take it out of his desk drawer and hand it to him. I tell him that it would be nice to go to Rome together but for some bizarre reason, he has to go now and can’t wait. He has already booked a ticket online. He leaves tomorrow. Apparently, he is on half-term.
I have been so wrapped up in other people’s problems, particularly those of my pupils’, that I have failed to give Michael the attention he deserves and needs. He has been a faithful and generous husband for more than twenty years. And a good father too. Until recently, he was well liked at the office, and much respected. I am beginning to think that there is something wrong with him and that it’s not depression. I decide to make him an appointment with our GP. Michael says the appointment is something to look forward to when he returns from Rome. At least he still has a sense of humour.
He leaves the next morning. Suddenly I am bereft of both my children and my husband. I am not sure if I deserve this. I try to bury myself in my work; this is what I usually do. Sometimes the work buries me. Everyone at school is worn-out. It has been a long six weeks. Most teachers have broken the back of the syllabus; half-term tests have been set and marked; parents’ evenings and induction afternoons have come and gone. Fran is looking huge – I wonder if she is expecting twins – and no one has been suspended for drug offences.
It’s Friday and half-term is nearly upon us. There is talk of going to Jak’s Bar later but I decline. Michael should be coming back tonight. I am wondering whether I should plan a romantic weekend away together. Something spontaneous. I decide to look into this: a castle maybe? I log onto TripAdvisor and read some reviews. I also re-read my own. I have 147 followers. I don’t think this is much. Peter is gesturing to me through the glass panel of my office door. I quickly switch the screen to my emails. The enormous man looks agitated. Something has happened in the Art Studio. It’s Fran. She has fainted, fallen off the stall and landed awkwardly. The ambulance and her mother have been called in that order.
There are twelve First Aiders in our school but I have the most experience, first and second hand. Besides, half the staff aren’t much older than my children. I rush up to the Art Studio. Fran is lying on her back with her bump protruding over her unbuttoned trousers. We all fear the worst. There is a small pool of blood. I immediately establish that the blood has come from her head, and not the baby or babies. It’s a very small cut. Someone fetches the First Aid kit off the wall; it’s above the sink, and I press down on the open wound with a white pad. The blood seeps through and makes a perfect red spot; it’s like the rising sun on the Japanese flag. I enlist the help of Annie (the art teacher) to help me roll Fran into the recovery position. She’s breathing quietly. She doesn’t respond to us verbally but she squeezes my hand. I know she’s conscious.
Within minutes, two jovial paramedics arrive. It’s obvious that they’re highly experienced which inspires everyone’s confidence in them. They check her vitals; go through the same routine that I did, and Fran responds to them with a weak reply. They easily lift the Year 11 pupil onto a stretcher and cover her with a thin red blanket. She is ushered into the school lift and blue-lighted to University College Hospital (UCLH). It is not my first visit to UCLH nor will it be my last. I am not sure whether to hold Fran’s hand or not. The female paramedic suggests that I do whilst she places an oxygen mask over her patient. Fran is so pale. I’m surprised her blood isn’t white. She has a very flat nose – I had never noticed it before – and I wonder whether this has impeded her breathing.
Dr Enderby (Fran’s mother) arrives. She is understandably flustered. And annoyed that she has had to leave her conference. I am slightly agog at this and wonder what her priorities are. As soon as the doctor gives Fran the “all clear” – though some additional tests are suggested – I feel that I can leave. I give Fran a reassuring smile. Dr Enderby looks a bit jealous of our rapport.
Back at school, there is only one conversation. I tell the teachers to bring all their Year 11 pupils into the hall, fifteen minutes before the end of their lessons. A few additional and curious staff appear at the back– even though they don’t teach Year 11 – and some of them don’t even know Fran, but they’re concerned for her welfare. I update everyone. I hate false rumours. There’s a sigh of relief all round. We are a small community. Everyone knows everyone else’s business; and if they don’t, they think that they do. That’s small independent schools for you. If you want to be anonymous, work in an academy comprising two thousand pupils. One day, I might just do that.
Half-term officially begins at 4 pm today. There’s much talk of holidays abroad; long weekends; sleepovers and hanging out with friends. I tidy up my office; switch off my computer and go home. I make contact with both Olivia and Eddie. I needn’t feel concerned. They’re having the time of their lives. I enjoy looking at their pictures on WhatsApp. Eddie has let his hair grow a bit wild. Olivia is looking blonder and browner. I’m pleased to see that neither of them has acquired an ugly tattoo that they might later regret.
I’m not really sure what to do with myself. I find a copy of Michael’s itinerary on our kitchen fridge; he’s stuck it down with blue tack instead of a magnet. He will be flying into Heathrow at 7.55 pm I briefly wonder whether I should meet him at the airport. I’m too tired so I don’t. Instead, I switch on the television. Pointless is on. I don’t’ know what the point is as I’ve never watched it. I’m never home alone this early in term time.
I feel restless and decide to have a bath even though my ride home doesn’t exactly bring me out in a sweat. I light candles and place them precariously around the edge; pour in copious amounts of Radox
and luxuriate in my surroundings: paradise. I have Radio 4 for company. My mobile buzzes offensively; it has a horrible sense of urgency about it. I have to get out of the bath to answer it, just in case it’s Michael. It isn’t. It’s a cold call. I’m awfully rude to the woman on the other end of the line. I tell her that I have not had a stupid accident and I don’t have whiplash. I tell the caller to “get a life” and add a few expletives whilst in the process. I am not proud of myself. I block the number. I step back into the bath, looking forwards to luxuriating once more, but the experience is no longer enjoyable. The water is barely lukewarm.
I put Michael’s blue bathrobe on instead of mine; it makes me feel closer to him. I am a romantic, really, beneath my hard carapace. I retrieve my slippers from under our bed and find various unexpected objects and papers. There’s a small carriage clock with the battery missing; an old copy of the Observer; a buff coloured file containing random documents and our wedding album. I obviously don’t look under our bed very often. The wedding album is quite dusty and doesn’t look as though it has been opened in a while. I lie on our bed and open each leaf carefully. It was a lovely wedding. Simple but profound. I wore white. I didn’t look like a meringue. We had two little bridesmaids, both of whom wore white with turquoise sashes. Nothing too fancy. My whole family came. None of Michael’s did. He only has one brother, and he lives in an institution somewhere in Newcastle. He chooses not to talk about Ian. And Ian is incapable of talking about him. We have been together since we were nineteen and married for over twenty years and yet I know so little about Michael’s family. His parents died in a car crash when we were at university. I barely knew them. There’s no “history”. No heart attacks. No strokes. No cancer. Nothing. They were too young.
Imprisoned by Love Page 5