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‘Stephen, what the hell are you doing? You can’t talk to people, let alonechildren, like that! So what if he’s gay. He’s entitled to his own life.’
‘I have absolutely nothing against gay people. But I can’t have my students drawing genitalia all over their planners. And by the way, I’m not having you contradict me ever again in front of one of my students.’
‘Contradict you? I was trying to save you from yourself.’
‘I also think that you should call me Mr Stone when we’re not alone.’
I laugh. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Of course I’m serious. Look at the cock-up you just made in front of Joe. Now go and write your report.’
‘Imade a cock-up? You’re the one who offended him and his presumed sexual orientation. I’ll be surprised if you don’t get a visit or an email from his parents tomorrow.’
‘Ha! You’d love that, wouldn’t you?’ he seethes.
I sit up. ‘Of course not. Why would you even think that, Stephen?’
He wipes his face with his hands, blowing air through his cheeks. ‘No. I know. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ve got meetings coming out of my ears for the whole of the next two weeks and I’m already exhausted.’
‘Then why don’t you take a day off?’
He snorts. ‘Yeah, that’s happening. Headmasters don’t take days off.’
‘They do if they’re exhausted. Just one day will do you good.’
‘One day? I’d need a month to sleep it all off. Can you believe that one of the governors called me at eleven o’clock last night? I had a mind to tell him off.’
‘But you didn’t.’
He snorts. ‘Can you imagine me doing that? No. I’ll just turn off my phone after work.’
‘But what if I need you?’
‘Just leave me a message. I’ll be checking for them.’
I clamp my mouth shut. It’s useless arguing. Stephen’s going to do whatever he wants. Maybe I should start doing the same.
One period later, I’m back at my station in the staffroom. I sit and stare at a blank screen. I’m getting sick and tired of writing reports every single time a kid does something slightly out of the ordinary. OK, drawing penises in a planner isn’t exactly someone being on their best behaviour, but why did he have to humiliate the kid? Where is the compassion, the dialogue?
Stephen’s administration does little to ensure that there is any and I’ve heard rumours about some not being happy with him. Should I mention it to him, or would he take it the wrong way? He’s not one to take positive criticism lightly. Even now, what with his stress levels and all, I can hardly talk to him. Better to wait until he’s in a better, stronger place.
I look out of the window up to the bruised sky that looks as if it’s about to burst into tears. I’d feel the same, having to look down at the mess of a modern city all day, with all its cement and grime and loneliness and violence. Everywhere I turn there’s a weirdo talking to himself or eyeing someone strangely or even following them home. It’s like a monster out of control.
After the longest bus ride in history, I finally get home to my flat and kick off my shoes.
I switch the kettle on, peel off my work dress and tights and slip into my leggings and an old T-shirt. I wind my hair up into my usual chill-time ponytail, which Stephen says makes me look like a syphilitic pineapple. Charming, I know.
I brew myself a cup of tea while searching for the biccies that will be the only thing to get me through this evening of marking and in the end I find a forgotten stash of my favourite chocolate digestives. Eyeing my marking pile and putting it off for just a little longer, I procrastinate by sharpening my pencils, re-stacking my stapler and even reorganising my desk drawers. What’s the matter with me? Normally I’d have done it all by now, but I’ve been putting it off for days, since before Cornwall, and every day that goes by sees me deferring the work to yet another day.
I’m definitely not in the mood to deal with my students’ weaknesses, wondering how on earth they’re going to get on in their lives if they continue this way. I can barely deal with my own shortcomings and doubts, let alone theirs, and when I’m like this (hardly ever), I’m better off leaving them. When I’m in this mood I can’t help but see the world at its darkest and gloomiest. And tomorrow I have another two batches on Shakespeare to mark. But tonight, not even the Bard can get me excited.
And then my wandering eyes spot my Cornwall wheelie suitcase and I get up to open it wide, inhaling it as if any lingering scent could take me back. And it does. The scent of the inn lingers on the inside of the lining, as if the Cornish air has hopped in as a stowaway, just to follow me to London to see for itself why I’d even contemplate leaving Cornwall. Excellent question.
*
It’s Friday night and I’ve prepared a conciliatory dinner for Stephen back at my flat. I watch him as he slips off his tie, opens the wine and begins to eat, obviously going through things in his head. I know this because he’s actually talking to himself under his breath. The fact that we haven’t spent a night in the same bed in months doesn’t seem to be on his worry list, judging by the fact that he hasn’t mentioned it. He always mentions the things that bother him.
‘Stephen, why do you want to marry me?’ I ask him out of the blue.
