At the start of the year a new job is advertised. 2023 holds promise. The idea of sleeping in my own bed, with my wife, my girls next door. Breakfasts together. Stories. On call for nappy changes; night terrors; bath time; afternoons in the park or on the trampoline. Golden promises.
My school, my haven, has been just that, a haven till now – but it’s been 5 years. Five years living in the back of a van during the week, away from home, seeing the growth of the girls in spits and spurts. I’ve been looking for jobs closer to home. Teacher-level jobs. But I’m at the top of the pay ladder now. It’s cheaper to employ the newly qualified and pat the more qualified on the back and say well done.
You were great.
The kids really liked you.
You made a great impression.
We really liked how you xyzeed.
You have great subject knowledge.
The Head of Sixth Form really wanted to employ you.
If it was a head of year job, it would have been a shoe-in.
Never, sorry, we’re going to take a chance on the budget options.
So, up the ladder I ascended. It has been two years as Deputy Head of Department before the golden promise rose its head. An alert on my phone during a year 8 lesson flashed up during register. Goosebumps and register: a first. That night I sat in the van, laptop at the ready, as the noise of crashing swell grew and the wind began to catch on the hedgerow I was sheltering beside, gliding heavily against the van’s sides. Against the coming storm I tipped and tapped at the keyboard. A silent prayer over every syllable.
Head of Department jobs come oh so rarely. Well, at least that was the case. Out of curiosity I google how many there are at that moment. There are 200. But this. This post is the one. It’s a Head of Department job 20 minutes from the doorstep: rare. It has a view: cherry.
In the midst of my excited dance across the keyboard the phone lights up. Facetime calls. And, at the other end a pixelated daughter up three hours past her bedtime.
“What’s keeping you up?”
“Oh, the usual.”
“What’s the usual tonight?”
“Monsters again, Daddy.” She says with a big sigh. Exasperated. An echo, probably, of how her mummy is feeling right now.
“Which ones do we have tonight?”
“All the monsters: the wolf and the spider, and the buzzy bee and the fly and the dragon.”
The need to get this job just became more urgent. There has been a monster population explosion at home; after some reassurance they are gone, back to their holes and distant lands, and she is back in bed, tucked away: play resumes and by 11p.m. I’m a conclusion away from perfection before the party music emanating from the van alongside intrudes more proddingly than monsters.
Peeking through the blind I spy the usual culprit. A green Mercedes 308 CDI. Wood smoke pouring from the chimney top, Ibiza club classics from the chassis. I settle down as best I can, but at 1am, with little hint of abatement I clamber into the driving seat and drive down into town to park outside a friend’s bakery instead. Here, there is only the intermittent clangs of roller doors and intrusive slivers of streetlight to disturb.
Six hours later I am dressed and ready for the day ahead. A parents’ evening ahead of me, the waist coat is on. When I park outside the bakery I always pop in for a coffee with the owner, a long standing friend now. He sorts the day’s pasty orders and we deconstruct the world at hand. This morning, however, the topic is school. It often is, and he asks me why, in year 11, they still study Shakespeare.
“They should be learning bloody Harry Potter,” and adds as an after-thought, “nice waist coat.”
I’d actually like that. If I could forget the entire series and read them afresh, that would be a welcome knock to the head. Rowling is a genius, but I convince him as best I can that Shakespeare’s turn of phrase, singular wit and investigation of the human condition outweigh Snape’s dark allure, He Shall Not’s destructive desires and Harry’s genuine, and too often, ineptitude. Thank the gods for Hermione.
He packs me off with a pasty and bacon bap and the day rolls on.
That evening the parents begin to arrive. 4p.m. and the starter pistol sounds. The marathon is underway. 5 minute meetings until 7p.m. Realistically later. The head arrives halfway through with refreshments. I’m about ten minutes behind. Everything goes well. One parent tells me I’ve put the sparkle back in their daughter. I blush and wince ever so slightly at the thought I’ll be completing the application to abandon that sparkler this evening.
The following day, I phone the School of the Golden Promise and ask for a walk round before submitting the completed application. I’ve never taken this approach before, but I have a daddy day at the end of the week and grandparents are willing to step in and free me up.
By the end of my week I am ready. Books marked. Lessons planned. A free weekend ahead of me. I set off for home at about 6. I like to do a loop. It adds ten miles to the journey, but I feel like I’m getting somewhere, rather than endlessly repeating the same journey forward and reverse, forward and reverse. Twelve miles in the road is shut. A police sign instructs the line of traffic to turn back. This means time. My circular is now some nameless mathematical shape and takes an additional 45 minutes before I roll up the drive close to 9 p.m. Another reminder to impress tomorrow and I sit there for a moment considering whether to cancel the grandparents and take the youngest with me as charm material.
The next day, as charming as she is, I see sense and drop her off before heading to the School of the Golden Promise. Twenty minutes later, I’m there. That would be my commute: 20 minutes. I imagine the journey: if I was to leave at 7.30 I’d miss most of the sports update on the Today program, catch some of the news and Word of the Day before arriving in the car park of Milk and Honey.
Internal instructions to not mess up repeat over and over. Repeat over and over. And over.
…
Part Two is on its way and I apologise to readers enjoying this journey for the long break. Particular apologies to Ted Simpson who kindly contacted me to check up on me. Ted, this one is for you. I’m back.
Tin Can Teacher 