Chapter 45
SPENCE
‘OK, OK…’ I hold my hands up like I’m about to be shot by the class of fifteen-year-olds. ‘You’ve got me.’ I turn back to the whiteboard and add another tally to the screen. ‘That’s twenty for Kendrick Lamar and—’ I throw a dramatic hand to my chest ‘—a disappointing thirteen for Shakespeare.’
I turn back to the room, while laughter and fist pumps are thrown and the other half of the class speaks up in the bard’s defence.
I lean back against the wooden counter running at the edge of the room, giving them a moment to get the victory off their chests.
I don’t look to the far corner where Mr Jenson is assessing my teaching skills.
After a beat, I push off. ‘So…’ I raise my voice slightly, not overly assertive, but loud enough to get their attention.
‘Time to put your money where your mouth is.’ I tap the whiteboard and bring up the main activity for the lesson.
‘You’re going to write a rap about A Midsummer Night’s Dream. ’
The rest of the lesson goes well. Closing it by saying Shakespeare was the original rapper, how he created sayings that are still used today, in the same way as rappers hone their own phrases.
How he flipped meanings, used metaphors for the world he lived in.
‘The only thing that is different—’ I turn back to the class ‘—is he dropped a quill instead of a mic.’
The lesson is good. I know it is. Though I might be getting off easy. This is a class of kids who are coming in over summer voluntarily. English Boot Camp.
The kids file out, a few of them saying, ‘Bye, sir,’ which is like getting an Oscar in teacher terms.
Walter Jenson is smiling as he walks towards me. Good sign. This is the perfect job… and it’s landed in my hands after the woman who had been appointed pulled out last-minute. Like it was fate. Scratch that. I sound like Alice.
It’s for the head of the English department. Heather’s house is only a quick walk away. And it’s just another fifteen minutes away from the school Georgia wants to go to.
After she’d come back from Edinburgh, I’d sat her down.
Told her about the possibility of moving.
I’d waited for her to say no. That she didn’t want to leave her home, Ruby…
Alice. But the next morning, she had been buzzing with excitement.
Talking about how she could still play online with Ruby, that she could even come and stay over in the holidays, the cool places Heather could take them.
‘Nicely done.’ Jenson brings me back. ‘Not many can get Connor Mackenzie on side.’
‘He’s a clever lad.’
‘Och, it’s not his brain that’s the problem. So, Spencer… can you tell me why you want to work at St Pauls?’
I sit on the end of the desk. ‘Honestly?’
He tilts his balding head.
‘It’s close to where I’m going to be living. Don’t fancy a long commute.’
He laughs like I’ve just delivered a punchline.
‘What, no line about how you’re going to elevate the department? How you’re going to inspire young minds?’
I smile, head tilted.
‘You’ve read my application and seen my results.’
He nods, growing serious.
‘Aye. It’s an impressive résumé. What I need to know is if you’re moving here is permanent or if I’m going to have to find a new head of year before the term’s out.’
His question knocks the wind out of me for a second. This is the worst time for Alice’s face, as she leant back on my bed, to pop into my thoughts. I cross one foot over the other.
‘It’s permanent.’ My voice sounds much more confident than I feel. ‘I’ll be moving here before Autumn term starts.’
* * *
I step out of the old building, turning around and looking up.
Turrets. Actual turrets. Nothing like the glass-windowed, blue-squared secondary I’ve been teaching in for the last six years.
This is… fancy. Reeks of old money. Privately educated kids.
Not what I’m used to. It’ll be a big change in more ways than one.
I shoulder my laptop bag and pull out my phone. A video message from Heather and Georgia wishing me good luck, both creasing into giggles as the phone tilts and falls to the floor. Their heads hang over the screen, hair falling down as they shout bye!
I take a breath, reassured. This is the right choice. And if the back clap and promise to get in touch by the end of the week is anything to go by, I’ve got the job.
Christ, I should be skipping down the wide brick steps. Instead, I find a park bench. Close by, workers have the radio blaring. The DJ laughs, ‘So you’re telling me, you were locked out. And in the street in just your boxers?’
‘Festive boxers.’
The sound of a drill cuts off the anecdote. I feel sympathy for the guy. I feel like that. Like I’m locked out of my house in a pair of novelty pants.
I sit with my head in my hands.
Don’t do it. Don’t do it.
But I take out my phone. Because I’m a dick.
My thumbs sit either side of the screen. I bash out the message I want to send.
Think I’ve got the job. Tell me not to take it.
Pathetic.
I look at the screen: Alice is typing.
…
…
I panic. Did I…? No. Christ.
For a second I worried I’d fat-fingered and hit send. But my sad, desperate words just sit there. I wait. Willing her to reach out. But the three dots disappear. I delete my words, exit the app, and head towards the train station, before I do, or say, anything stupid.