The day’s sun shines down on my dirty white van as I idle for just a moment. Just a moment to remind myself not to say anything controversial, not to make any jokes, and not to waste their time.
I’m meeting the Head at 1.50 pee em.
I’ve spent the day playing with my youngest daughter. Coffee in town at the coolest coffee bar: we chill and chat. This place, Kommunity, is known as the drop-outs’ coffee stop, or the fringe characters’ haunt. Over the road is the new, and very cool upgrade to another loved local barista, but it’s too cool for me and I don’t do yoga. They all look like they do yoga, and everything, everything, is vegan.
So we sit and chill and chat to the strange and familiar. All comment on my daughter’s curls and perfect behaviour. Nothing strange here.
Play in the library’s free toddler session follows, then walks around the gardens of our local asset, before dropping her off with the grandparents.
All these moments hone my desire for this job. I applied years ago, as it happens. For the same job. Recruited to another school, I now call ‘Elsewhere’, the day before, I turned down the interview. The prospect of my first year of marriage with the responsibility of Department Lead in a school with notorious behaviour issues and a rather limp Ofsted report didn’t appeal.
As it happened, Elsewhere nearly killed me. Elsewhere became the ever-present nudge to jack it all in. All in. And, jump, drown, hang: disappear. I would drive in, the road’s edges closing in, the road becoming tunnel-like as I drew closer to that little hell. A third of the way into that contract depression set in, those thoughts, unwelcome and far away now, were a constant presence.
I righted myself though. I got out. I thought for good. The path wound around, serpentine until it brought me back to teaching.
Back to my starting place.
I was welcomed as though I had never left and recuperation began.
Now, I’m here. In this car park of Milk and Honey. I remove the key. Lock the van and walk to reception to get the tour.
The tour doesn’t take long. It’s a small school. Smaller than I realised. An all-through, so they have a primary unit too. I try, as subtly, as I can to check I wouldn’t be teaching primary kids. He catches my meaning and, his words don’t say it, but his tone says, Kenobi-like, ‘Don’t worry’.
I’m impressed with the building, with the Head, with the kids we see. There is one English class on, but he doesn’t linger. I get a glimpse of the teacher in his pink trousers and wonder if this is why.
We spend a long time talking about curriculum. They use a core curriculum. This is the done thing in a forward-thinking multi-academy trust.
“So I wouldn’t design curriculum?”
“No.”
It’s enough to give me pause.
Curriculum design is one of the best aspects of the job.
A quick pros and cons list check dismisses this worry, and like time-honoured friends, everywhere, sympathising and advising one half of a break-up, I hear “Just move on.”
So, I move on.
That night I write my application.
It gets my wife’s approval.
It gets shortlisted.
I have an interview.
The following week is full-on.
I have the day before to write my lesson for interview, go over the school’s online profile, Ofsted report and any other gossip I can glean.
The next day I have 30 minutes to impress in the classroom. There’s an in-tray exercise, too. I google ‘in-tray’ exercise.
And, the interview.
I’m ready.
Everything seems to align. I’m ready. In fact, I go to the pub the night before. It’s sea shanty night. If tomorrow goes well it’s not South Australia I’ll be bound for, but a promised land slightly closer to home.
I sleep well.
The girls sleep well.
We breakfast.
I arrive, slightly late, to see the competition in attendance already. There’s an awkward moment when there’s nowhere to sit because one of them has their bag on the only spare chair. Then, I realise I know her. I know her and she’s really good, and I really like her. She moves her bag and I sit down to the inevitable awkward conversation. There’s nothing to do except make the most of this.
A lady across from me nods to someone coming through. Shit. This one knows people here. The other one has come down from up-country and stayed the night before. She’s older. I dismiss her. The blow-in won’t get it. No one down here wants a frumpy blow-in looking for a role they can run into retirement.
So it’s between me, the really good lady, and the one who knows people. She asks me if I’m here for interview.
I’m sat in a three-piece with my nice shoes on. I can’t resist. I tell here I’m here for the caretaking job. She says, “Oh.”
I couldn’t help it, the other two get it. It’s not funny. It’s the nerves. I quickly apologise.
The Head suddenly appears and whisks us away. I hang back to think about the competition, the really good lady whispers, “That one’s a governor, that’s why she knows people.”
Shit.
Shit.
Sheeeee-ittt.
At the end of the day, I’m the last to interview. I did my lesson. I did behaviour. I did my in-tray exercise.
Now I have the interview.
Something about this interview is odd though. It’s actually going well. The governor loved the lesson, she takes it apart like a pro. She doesn’t hate me. In fact, loves the nuances between learning, teaching and relationship-building in 30 minutes.
We wind up talking about pay.
Everything seems to be aligning.
This can’t be right.
I remember the interview I had for another dream school when I said, after being asked, how much I liked the school and how well run it came across. The feedback:
“Yeah, the Chair of Governors thought you were a loose cannon.”
“What? Wait, what – why?”
That comment.
“Yeah. He inferred that you were criticising your current school. It’s a shame. It was yours to lose.”
“Bullshit.”
A momentary pause.
“So, who did you appoint?
“No one. We’re going to readvertise.”
“Can I reapply?”
“No. We’re looking for NQTs.”
I put the phone down.
I remember the irony. The same school employing a new head who was sacked over bullying. An investigation by the Teaching Regulation Agency and summary judgement by the, then, Chief Executive.
Interview skills on point Mr. Chair of Governors. On point.
Back to the present. My glass is almost empty, my lips dry.
“So, how much would you want to be paid?”
I state my current salary and the bump the head was kind enough to give me.
“And, are you still a viable candidate for the post?”
“Oh yes. Oh yes, I am.”
You cannot, probably, appreciate the feeling. Driving home. I think this has gone in my favour. I think I’ve done it. I hold onto every moment from the day I can and analyse.
1000110100010010001001010100001101001010010010101001001010100100010110100.
Yep. Think it went okay.
So much past failure tempers this. I don’t dismiss, just yet, the need to carry on living in a van during the week, working away from home, missing the girls grow, missing my wife, missing out on life. I might need to carry on with this. I’m in the fifth year of it. I can keep going. If I need to. I will.
The appeal of my current situation has waned though. This year has lost all its sheen. The gloss isn’t so glossy and not just because of the commute.
That night I receive the call.
My wife has been debriefed.
Even the baby-sitter has had the blow-by-blow of the day.
The phone rings and I scamper to good signal, my heart knocking, the space around it cold like a vacuum, and everything slows down.
When I re-join the family it’s quiet. All is quiet. Except for the girls. They are not quiet.
I’m not quiet for long either.
I’ve got it.
I start after Easter.
I start in eight weeks.
My imagination never really met the reality of this moment, but by imagination we live.
Tin Can Teacher 