Chapter 24 #2
Don’t get me wrong – I love Of Mice and Men; there’s some mileage to be got out of understanding Shakespeare, and Dickens is brilliant in his depictions of poverty (and still relevant today).
But a lot of school reading material for teens is dry or a bit worthy.
If you want young people to get into reading, give them books that make them want to turn the pages.
My personal recommended library included King, James Herbert, Denis Lehane, Margaret Atwood, S.
A. Cosby, Toni Morrison, Michael Marshall Smith, Alice Oseman, Angie Thomas, cult classics like Catch-22 and The Dice Man, even some graphic novels.
I used to keep them on a table near the door, stacked in haphazard piles, the spines cracked, the pages yellow and water-stained.
I run my hands along the spines of the books here.
Unblemished, unbroken. The titles are familiar, some of them.
Classics mostly, some newer teen fiction, most of which seems to feature stars, rainbows or flowers on the cover.
I take one from the shelves – The Magical Girls’ Bakery – and open it.
The pages smell brand new. Like it’s never been read.
In fact, all the books here look new. I think about what Lockhart said about ‘constructive positivity’ and I determine to eventually clear out this whole library and replace it with more interesting reading material.
‘Anyhow,’ Lockhart says, checking his watch, ‘we should probably move on. We still have that paperwork to look at.’
‘Sorry. Just a lot to take in.’
‘In a good way, I hope?’
I laugh. ‘You have no idea.’
He beams again. ‘Well, I hope you’ll be very happy teaching here.’
‘I’m sure I will.’
‘Excellent. Onwards then.’ He turns and sets off down the corridor. I follow him.
‘This will be your daughter’s form class,’ Lockhart says as we pass another modern, cheery room. ‘Her teacher will be Mrs Andrews. A lovely lady.’
‘Great.’
‘You can rest assured we’ll do our utmost to make Sadie feel welcome. Any questions she has about anything, just let me know.’
‘Thank you,’ I say.
I remember my conversation with Sadie this morning. I mean, I’m sure Lockhart means questions about the school, but I might as well take advantage of the opportunity:
‘Actually, there was one thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s a little odd.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Trust me – I’ve heard most things in this job.’
‘Okay. Last night, in the early hours, Sadie thought she saw an ice-cream van driving down our street playing music.’
I wait for Lockhart to laugh or stare at me in puzzlement or maybe ask for my resignation.
Instead, he nods amiably. ‘Ah, yes. That would be the sleep patrol.’
I blink. ‘The sleep patrol?’
‘Yes, it drives around the neighbourhood keeping an eye out for anyone who might be awake and up to mischief.’
‘Oh. Right. I see.’
I don’t see. It sounds batshit crazy.
Lockhart regards me with his small half-smile. ‘I expect you want to know why the ice-cream van?’
‘I kind of do.’
‘Well, it started off as a joke. When the idea of patrols was floated – after some minor vandalism and teenage hijinks – there weren’t any spare vehicles.
But there was an unused ice-cream van. It seemed like the kind of thing Harold Winsom would approve of.
A fun way to keep things in check without involving official security.
The volunteers even give ice-creams to any teenagers they find out after curfew on the condition they head straight back home. ’
I consider this. I mean, it still sounds batshit crazy, but then batshit crazy is relative. In Serenity Falls I seem to be constantly adjusting my parameters.
‘The carrot, not the stick,’ I say with a weak smile.
Lockhart pats me on the arm. ‘Absolutely. Of course, most people never see it. Your daughter is obviously something of a night owl.’
‘Well, I guess she gets that from me.’
‘I see.’ Lockhart stares at me. ‘Well, please tell her it’s nothing to worry about. And hopefully she’ll be sleeping more soundly soon – we want her bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the start of school.’
‘Of course.’
The urge to go Columbo – ‘Just one more thing’ – and ask him about his visit to Jerry is strong. Before I can, he stops and extends an arm:
‘Here we are.’
We’ve reached a blue-painted door. In neat letters a sign reads: Staffroom. Underneath: Do not disturb – unless you’re bringing apples.
‘Nice,’ I say.
Lockhart chuckles. ‘Just a little teacher humour.’
He pushes open the door, and we walk into another large room decorated in warm hues and filled with squishy sofas and armchairs, plus a long table and chairs.
A group of around nine or ten people are sat at the table, laptops and notebooks out before them.
They all look smiley, efficient and smart.
Despite it being the holidays, they’re dressed in long trousers, shirts and jackets, the women in pencil skirts and blouses.
I blink. At our staff meetings in the UK, leisurewear was more the norm.
Hoodies and jeans or tracksuit bottoms. On one occasion our head of drama even came in a onesie.
Lockhart introduces me to all of them, and I try my best to stockpile the names in my head. I’m notoriously bad at remembering names and faces, so I smile and nod and hope I’m not called upon to test my recall.
Introductions done, coffee poured, and I’m about to take a seat when the door to the staffroom opens again and a dark-haired woman walks in.
‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ she says.
‘Not at all, Miss Hegarty,’ Lockhart says. ‘You’re just in time.’
Lockhart says something else. I hear my name. But the rest of his words are drowned out by the buzzing in my head. I can’t speak. I can’t move. I can’t breathe.
All I can do is stare at my wife.