Something Old, Something New. Darcie Boleyn

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       Chapter Three

      A Lesson Learned

      I shiver as I enter the chilly staffroom. It’s always dark and dank following the holidays, especially the Christmas break. The caretaker will only have turned the ancient heating back on this morning – about two hours before staff started arriving. I swear it takes a whole month to warm the school up and by the time the temperature’s just right, half-term rolls around again.

      I check my pigeonhole and flick through the same old junk mail as always. Courses, form group attendance tracking sheets, meeting agendas from as far back as 2010 and a nice big sticky cobweb. I am flicking my hand back and fore, trying to dislodge the cobweb, when a warm hand lands on my shoulder.

      ‘Hello, sweetheart. How was your Christmas?’

      I turn to face Laura, my port in the storm known as work, and throw myself into her arms. We rarely get together outside of school because neither of us has time but in work we’re as thick as thieves.

      ‘So good to see you! I relaxed… a bit,’ I say as I breathe in her distinctive and expensive perfume and admire her golden skin and glamorous highlighted hair. ‘But you look fabulous! How was your holiday?’

      She waves a hand dramatically, ‘Oh you know darling. Hot and sultry, just how I like my men.’

      We giggle like schoolgirls even though I’m almost forty and she’s in her mid-fifties. It’s also funny because Laura is happily married to Dean, and has been for the past ten years, so he’s the only man she has eyes for. They live comfortably, as she teaches and he has a successful career with a retail chain, and they’re devoted to each other.

      ‘Great to be back, eh?’ She gestures at the staffroom and I wrinkle my nose. It’s never great to be back, especially in January, but at least I get to catch up with her.

      We make coffees and find seats then exchange the usual pleasantries with other teachers and support staff. I like seeing how much healthier teachers are following a break but I also know you can guarantee that within two weeks, maximum, the rosy cheeks will have been replaced with pale gaunt ones and the sparkly eyes will be dull and dark-shadowed. It’s one of the saddest things about this profession. These apparently normal people can be reduced to ghoul-like creatures within just fourteen days because of the workload, the pressure to get that all-important C grade out of every pupil, and the daily grind of the job. No wonder recent trade union surveys claim that many teachers are thinking of leaving the job within the next few years.

      Just then, a loud throat clearing interrupts the murmur of sixty voices. All eyes turn to the towering form of our leader and we wait in silent, if slightly resentful, anticipation. I make an effort to unclench my teeth. It is too early in the term to be so tense.

      ‘Good morning everyone!’ she announces as she eyeballs us, checking that we are suitably attired, suitably awake and suitably humble. ‘Welcome back.’

      There are a few hesitant replies, so she tries again. ‘I said… Good morning, everyone!’ She flashes large, white teeth in an attempt at a smile and I know that if I was standing, I would have to fight the urge to take a step backwards. Grudgingly, like grumpy teenagers, we reply with forced gusto. ‘I hope that you all enjoyed Christmas and that you are ready to commence the spring term refreshed and raring to go.’ She grins again at the staff, daring anyone to show an ounce of dissension. We plaster on fake smiles and I even find myself nodding. I hate this side of me. I’m not a sycophant but I just want to stay below the radar. I have no desire to invite more scrutiny into my life, thank you very much, so going with the flow is much easier than trying to fight it. I guess I’ve always tried to stay below the radar, although not always successfully. After losing my father, I became an instant target for the school bullies and it took a lot of effort to keep my head down and my mouth shut. There were a few occasions when I almost lashed out and attacked my tormentors, but the thought of what my mother was going through always helped me to keep myself in check. The bullies soon tired of trying to get a rise out of me and found another more volatile target for their cruelty. I used to wonder if my dad was actually there somewhere, looking down at me, feeling guilty about what he’d done and about the after-effects of his actions. Would he have worried about what I’d have to go through, would it have changed what he did? I shake my head to dispel the unsettling thoughts.

      The head teacher seems placated and she launches into a monologue about termly plans, meetings, book scrutinies, lesson observations and pupil trails. It’s the same old story that every new term brings and I try to quell the fear that rises in my throat and threatens to choke me, or even worse, to draw attention to me by forcing me to projectile vomit across the staffroom. I can just picture the effect that would have on morning briefing; it would probably make the newsletter. English teacher Annie Thomas fired for defying the head! Because I do not doubt that this head teacher would see it as an act of defiance rather than as a bodily function that occurred as a result of work-related stress.

      I have to make an effort to stay upright in my seat as I listen to it all. I am so tired of the doubt, exhausted by the scrutiny of books, of lessons, of planning, and of me. I came into this job fifteen years ago and in that time it has changed so dramatically that I barely even recognise it any more. It was meant to be a stable job that I could fit around my child, then my children, one that would provide a good income and a pension whilst being sufficiently stimulating to maintain my enthusiasm.

      It has not been that for some years.