School Of Thought

A teacher learns a lesson in this poignant short story by Sharon Gosling.

If Charlie could get through to just one of his pupils, he knew it would make a difference . . .

CHARLIE rubbed a hand over his face and put a red tick on the bottom of the crumpled piece of paper before him. A moment later, as an afterthought, he added a scrawled Well done, on the basis that encouragement is often better than censure.

He dropped the pages on to the pile already on his left and dragged yet another essay towards him from the pile on his right.

He swallowed a mouthful of tepid coffee, and tried to concentrate on what Cassie Stevens had to say about “Romeo And Juliet” that could possibly be different from what her classmates had already said.

It was after seven o’clock. The end-of-day school bell had rung hours ago, yet here he was, at his desk, with an apparently endless stack of essays to mark.

He didn’t want to take them home.

Charlie had the feeling that by the time he reached his front door, the pile would have mysteriously multiplied, as if he’d become trapped in some strange Kafkaesque nightmare.

Charles Davies had only been at Elphinstone Academy for six months.

He’d arrived as part of a shake-up in the wake of a terrible OFSTED report from which the previous head had not recovered.

“The Elph” was in one of the most depressed areas of the country, where children came from families who were most likely to be suffering from second- or, in some cases, even third-generation unemployment.

Ambition, hope and plans for the future were dismissed as fantasy here.

In fact, any suggestion that there was anything more beyond school than basic survival was met with incredulity, not least by the students.

They already knew how tough life was. They knew, too, that doors didn’t open for the likes of them, no matter how many Well dones they got on essays.

Still, the new head teacher, an effervescent woman called Cariad Grey, had blasted in like a breath of fresh air, bringing with her bags of enthusiasm and a slew of new teaching appointments – though, sadly, no extra budget.

Everyone had told Charlie not to take the job, even though it would make him head of English at the age of thirty-two.

“It’s a poisoned chalice,” his previous colleagues said. “No-one else wants it, that’s why she asked you.”

He hadn’t listened, enticed by Cariad Grey’s energy and conviction that all the Elph and its students needed was enough people to believe in them.

Six months in, Charlie recognised how idealistic he had been. How arrogant, in some ways.

He loved the kids, even the most difficult of them, but believing they had potential was very different from being able to make them see it in themselves.

Even if they did, there was nothing he could do about their lives beyond school.

Charlie always came in early and left late.

He hadn’t had time for a single date since he’d started his new job.

The garden that had come with his new house was a state and he didn’t have time to run any more.

And what had he achieved? Nothing at all.

All he was doing was spinning plates, trying not to let any of them drop.

He scratched another tick on yet another essay.

There was a knock at the door.

He looked up to see the head teacher, a sheaf of paper in one hand and her other against her hip.

She was wearing a tailored trouser suit, paired with a crisp white shirt.

To Charlie she seemed to be one of those women who never had a hair out of place.

He’d never worked out how old she was. Older than himself, perhaps, but not by much.

The look on her face now

– serious and unsmiling – plunged a well of misgiving into his gut.

“Mr Davies,” she said. He stood up, suddenly awkward. He indicated the paper in her hand.

“Is that for me?”

She glanced down at it. “Yes. Although I’d like to talk to you about something, if you can spare the time. I know it’s late.” “Sure.”

“I think my office might be a better idea.”

She turned and he heard her heels clicking away down the corridor.

Charlie’s misgivings grew worse. He followed her down the dim hallway, and by the time he reached her office door she was already seated.

She indicated for him to sit on the sofa by the window.

“I wanted to go through a few things from today with you. I spoke to the canteen manager earlier.

“She said something about Jamila Baker. I understand you had a chat with her at breakfast club?”

Charlie sat down. He’d forgotten that entirely.

Jamila was one of their most challenging students – sharp as a tack, but angry with it.

She probably had every right to be.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“You weren’t on the roster of supervisors this morning, were you?”

“No, I was just in early so I was grabbing some breakfast. She was in front of me in the queue.”

Miss Grey looked up at him, her blue eyes watching him steadily.

“What do you remember about the exchange?” Charlie shifted in his seat. “She seemed unhappy. I asked her to tell me about it over breakfast.”

“What was she unhappy about?”

He tried to recall the exact words, but couldn’t.

“Her extended family is in Algeria. It’s her cousin’s birthday next week but she doesn’t have any money to send a present. It was obviously upsetting her.”

“So it was just you and Jamila eating breakfast together, was it?”

Charlie frowned, not entirely sure or comfortable with where this was going.

“No. I’d arranged to meet Adrian Thomas before the school bell rang, because I’ve been trying to get him to read more. I said I’d lend him some graphic novels.” “Graphic novels?”

Charlie shrugged. “Superheroes, that kind of thing. He’s got a great imagination, but he won’t read.

“Comics would be a good way to get him into the habit. He can’t afford to buy them.”

Miss Grey nodded. “Jamila and Adrian sitting at the same table together? I can’t imagine they’ve got anything in common.”

Charlie smiled a little. “Actually, the sight of the comics cheered up Jamila. Apparently she’s a fan.

“Then she pulled out her phone and showed Adrian a free app that lets you make your own comics.

“I had no idea she liked drawing, but apparently she does.

“Adrian asked her why she didn’t make her cousin a comic for her birthday

– it wouldn’t cost anything and she could e-mail it.

“Jamila said she’d never think of a good story, but Adrian said he’d help.

“I think they were planning to meet up at lunchtime to work on the idea.

“Either way, Jamila seemed a lot happier,” Charlie finished.

The head teacher nodded again.

“Has someone made a complaint?” Charlie asked. “I don’t understand what –”

“This appeared in my pigeon hole at the end of the day,” Caraid said, cutting him off as she placed the sheet of paper in front of him.

“It’s a proposal for a school newspaper, complete with its own comic strip, I might add.”

Charlie stared at the piece of paper.

“A school newspaper?” “Yes. Apparently Jamila and Adrian did meet at lunchtime and this is an idea they came up with. What do you make of it?”

Charlie looked up at her, completely flummoxed.

“I . . . That’s amazing!” The head teacher smiled. “Isn’t it? I think it deserves a toast, don’t you?”

Charlie watched, perplexed, as she retrieved a bottle of whisky from her desk, along with two crystal glasses.

She opened the bottle and poured them both a measure.

“This bottle does not exist. Understand?”

“OK.”

She passed him a glass and raised hers in salute. “Cheers.”

He paused, turning the glass in his hand.

“I’m sorry, Miss Grey, but I’m not sure what’s going on.”

Cariad Grey pushed herself back in her chair.

“We’re celebrating a major breakthrough with two of our students,

Charlie, that’s what.

“That’s quite an achievement for something that started out as an act of kindness from a man whose schedule is so cluttered that he’s still struggling to leave his classroom at . . .” she checked her watch quickly “. . . seven thirty.

“And it’s about time you called me Cariad.”

Charlie opened his mouth and then shut it again.

Cariad watched him carefully.

“Accomplishment cannot always be measured in terms of a single act.

“Sometimes it can’t even be measured by what we do, but by what we enable others to do for themselves,” she observed, dropping her gaze.

“Often small gestures, pivotal though they are, are lost beneath the bigger ones that are easier to quantify,” she added.

She looked up. Their gazes met.

He was suddenly overcome by the urge to smile.

He took a mouthful of whisky and grinned at the burn that was spreading slowly through his chest. “Something funny?” Charlie shook his head, still smiling.

“You, Cariad, are a clever woman.”

She arched an eyebrow at him, but he could see the twinkle of humour in her eyes.

“You’re just figuring that out?”

“No,” he told her slowly. “I think I realised that within the first five seconds of meeting you.

“But I enjoy seeing the proof of the theory in action.”

She let the lurking smile show then, and it lit up her face so brilliantly that he found himself catching his breath.

He’d never noticed how attractive she was.

“You are essential to me, Charlie,” she said.

“You are essential to this

“What you accomplish every day gives everyone hope”

school and to every single student within its walls.

“What you accomplish every day gives everyone hope. Don’t forget that. Even if none of us tell you outright, it will always be true.”

Charlie smiled again. “Thank you.”

“No,” she said softly. “Thank you. Now, I think it’s about time you clocked off for the night.”

“I’ve still got –”

“Go home,” she insisted. “Put your feet up and relax. Those essays will still be there in the morning.” Charlie nodded.

“You’re right.” He was halfway to the door when he turned back.

“Would you like to join me for something to eat?”

Cariad glanced at her desk, where there was a pile of papers.

“They’ll still be there tomorrow,” he told her.

She laughed, shaking her head.

“Now you’re getting the idea.”

The End.