Chapter 24
I didn’t grow up wanting to be a teacher.
I don’t think most teachers do. They say teaching is a vocation, but for most teachers I know, it’s an accident.
A fall-back. A second or even third choice because either the thing we wanted to do didn’t work out, or we simply didn’t know what we wanted to do.
I thought I wanted to be an author. I grew up on a diet of Stephen King, James Herbert and Dean Koontz.
I watched Halloween, Evil Dead and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre dozens of times.
As a teenager I spent most of my time scribbling ghostly and gory stories.
I felt confident that all I had to do was keep writing and one day I would complete a novel and become a bestseller.
Except, there was the small matter of earning a living.
While I became a bestselling author, I needed to do something to support myself.
A friend had applied for teacher training, and I figured teaching English was still close to my desired ambition.
I pictured myself as an inspiring intellectual: classically ruffled teacher by day, aspiring novelist by night.
It turned out I was more teacher by day, homework-marker and assignment-setter by night, not to mention emotional crutch, occasional breakfast-feeder, detention-taker, afterschool-club overseer, sometimes sick-cleaner and fight-breaker-upper.
The time left for my own writing shrank. And over time, so did my ambition.
Perhaps more importantly, I liked what I did, saw that I could make a difference.
It might sound trite, but I enjoyed the challenge of getting kids who hadn’t read anything aside from the subtitles on YouTube interested in a great book or play.
I liked seeing shy kids who wouldn’t say a word explode with language on the page.
I liked inspiring a class. In truth, I knew I could write.
I was good. But I wasn’t great. And I think it was Stephen King who said you can make a bad writer good, but you can’t make a good writer great.
But teaching, yeah, I was great at that.
At least, until I fucked it all up.
I pull into Serenity High School staff car park at just gone 1.
40 p.m. I’m supposed to meet Lockhart at two and I’m keen to be on time.
I’m not sure I made the best first impression last time around, and it would be good to portray my more professional side, at least until I’m more settled in the job.
To that end I have eschewed my normal uniform of T-shirt and cut-off jeans and dressed in a pair of cargos, pale blue shirt and newish Converse.
My hair and face I can do little about. Sadie once told me I have a face that just looks kind of crumpled.
She’s right. However well rested I am, however alert I feel, my face always looks like it’s just been woken up from a deep sleep. The irony is not lost on me.
I feel bad about leaving Sadie on her own again.
My daughter has always been self-sufficient, happy in her own company, a bit of a loner.
A bit like me, I guess. But as a parent, you still worry.
Especially after the business with that shit Decker.
Hopefully here things can be different. We haven’t had the best start, but the only way is up, right?
Feeling imbued with an unfamiliar and completely unfounded sense of positivity, I climb out of the SUV and stare around.
The car park is huge. Aside from my bright yellow monstrosity (the epitome of ‘seemed like a funny idea at the time’), there are only two other cars here – a small Dodge truck and a larger Toyota.
I’m pleased to see Lockhart’s Cadillac isn’t here yet. Gives me a little time to acclimatize.
I’ve seen American high schools before. But only on screen.
The reality is … well, pretty much exactly as I’d imagined.
I stroll around to the front of the building, which is an imposing structure of red-brick and white stone pillars.
Further down, a new wing of glass and steel has been added, making it feel both traditional and modern at the same time.
It’s a far cry from the concrete and breeze-block atrocities back home.
I never understood why the basic blueprint for most UK schools seemed to be an institutional building from the former USSR. Bleak, grey, unwelcoming.
It never seemed to occur to anyone that a school could look nice as well as being functional; that the environment we learn in is just as important as the lessons.
But then, bearing in mind the government hadn’t provided councils with enough budget to make sure schools weren’t going to collapse, leak or stay warm in winter, aesthetics was probably right at the bottom of the list.
I don’t imagine there are any of those concerns here.
I stand and take in the grounds. Acres of lush green grass.
A football pitch with staged seating. Picnic benches arranged beneath mature trees, providing shaded areas for students to enjoy lunch.
I think back to the crappy concrete area that constituted outside space at my previous school.
The playing fields had been sold off a few years prior for new housing.
Students that wanted to play sport had to share a community playing field a couple of miles away.
I turn and walk up the steps towards the front doors of the school. Lockhart told me that my Serenity bracelet is configured to provide access. I press my wrist against the entry pad on the wall. There’s a buzz, a click and the door opens.
I step into a huge atrium. It’s light and airy, with corridors running off either side and a beautifully curved wooden staircase in front of me which leads to the first floor.
Comfortable-looking chairs and small tables are artfully arranged in the centre of the atrium.
On the walls between the large windows, artwork has been hung.
Some of it looks like school projects and coursework.
There are photographs of Serenity through the years and abstract paintings like the ones in our house.
It feels more like a hotel reception than a school.
Although one thing is familiar. The smell.
Sweaty trainers, floor polish and hormones. Some things are universal.
‘Mr Barker. You beat me to it.’
I swivel. Lockhart walks through the doors, smiling widely. Today, he’s dressed in a beige linen suit and pink shirt complete with a small red bow tie.
He walks over, shiny shoes squeaking on the linoleum. ‘I’m so pleased you could make it. I’m very excited to show you all our school has to offer.’
‘Well, I’m very excited to see it,’ I say, truthfully. ‘This is a wonderful space, by the way.’
‘Oh yes.’ He looks around. ‘Our architect wanted students to experience a sense of freedom upon entering, not a feeling of restriction. We want our students to want to be here.’
‘Well, that’s a great ethos,’ I say, even as I can’t help feeling (a little uncharitably) that he doesn’t have to sound quite so smug about it.
‘Indeed.’ He nods enthusiastically. ‘It’s something very fundamental to our beliefs here. Making someone want to belong is so much more powerful than trying to force someone to belong.’
‘The carrot, not the stick,’ I say.
‘Exactly.’ He chortles. ‘I’m so glad we’re on the same page.’
And momentarily I wonder if we are still talking about the school.
‘Now,’ he says, placing a chubby hand on my arm.
‘I thought I could give you the guided tour, show you your classroom, and then we could retire to the staff quarters to meet some of the other members of staff. I have some paperwork for you – the school curriculum, rules, lesson plans for next term.’ He smiles.
‘All the boring educational stuff, I’m afraid. ’
‘Well, I like the boring educational stuff,’ I say, also truthfully.
I like stacks of notes, curriculums, lesson plans. I like them because I like to dismantle them and reshape them into how I want to teach my class.
‘That is music to these ears,’ Lockhart beams. ‘Shall we?’ He holds out an arm.
We walk down a wide, shiny corridor lined with brightly painted, rainbow-coloured lockers.
‘They used to be grey,’ Lockhart says. ‘But a student suggested we repaint them for Pride month.’
I look around in appreciation. ‘That’s great.’
Lockhart glances at me. ‘Not what you were expecting?’
‘Well,’ I say a little awkwardly, ‘I didn’t really know what to expect.’
Lockhart nods. ‘I think you’ll find we’re very inclusive here in Serenity. Harold Winsom was a keen proponent of diversity and equality.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ I say even as I think the words might carry more weight were they not coming from the middle-aged white man in charge.
It takes us another half an hour to walk around the school. Lockhart takes me through the various departments as well as the cafeteria and gymnasium. Everything is clean, spacious and modern.
‘And this will be your classroom,’ Lockhart says with a flourish.
I stand and take it in for a moment. Tall windows overlook the playing fields outside. The desks and chairs are all shiny and graffiti-free. There’s a projector with a pull-down screen, a sleek flatscreen TV and the walls are lined with bookshelves brimming with books.
‘This is … amazing,’ I stutter.
‘I’m so very glad you like it,’ Lockhart replies.
I walk into the room and place a hand on the teacher’s desk. My desk. Not a scratch, a pen mark, a scuff. I wander over to the bookshelves.
‘We try to ensure every teacher has exactly what they need,’ Lockhart says.
I stare at the books. Back in Manchester I bought a lot of books myself, second hand, to lend to students who wanted to read stuff outside of the curriculum.