Читать книгу Disconnected - Sherry Ashworth - Страница 10

Was it a week later? Or two weeks? I forget, and it doesn’t matter now. I had to see you to discuss my progress at school, or lack of it. It wasn’t my choice. I hadn’t asked you for help. The fact I had stopped working only made me panic occasionally. For the rest of the time I enjoyed feeling slightly mutinous. There was something brave about not working, a kind of passive resistance. Only none of my teachers saw it like that. I presume that was why we had to have the little talk.

You tried to make it as cosy for me as possible. You borrowed the deputy head’s office and took her chair – with its extra cushion giving support for her bad back – and carried it round to the front of the desk, so you could sit close to me, but at an angle. So I knew you cared, but that you meant business.

First there was the small talk about the weather and the noise from the builders who were constructing a new Chemistry lab. I joined in but wished you’d get down to it for your own sake – seeing the uneasiness in your tired, puffy eyes.

“Well, Cathy,” you said. “You know why I wanted to see you.”

I decided to act along with you, feed you the lines you wanted to hear. It was easier that way, and besides, I didn’t want to upset you. It wasn’t your fault.

“Because I’ve got behind with all of my work,” I said.

“Yes. Yes, that’s right. Do you want to run through with me what you’re owing?”

You didn’t mean to, but you made my essays sound like deposits in a bank. Things that I owed. A debt to my teachers.

“Well, I’m late with an Othello essay, and I don’t think my poetry assignment will be ready tomorrow. There’s a couple of pieces of History, and one of Economics, and a Geography test I haven’t revised for.”

“This is not like you, Cathy.”

That was such a weird thing to say. As if you knew the real me I wasn’t being. But I didn’t want to argue.

“No, it’s not like me,” I said.

Vertical blinds shading the window. A smear of polish along the ledge where the cleaner hadn’t done her job properly. The distant sound of drilling. In-trays and out-trays full of files and folders and papers and a blotter spattered with coffee stains. My shoes, regulation black but with high platforms and frayed laces. Your shoes, flat Hush Puppies, distorted by the shape of your foot. Your black skirt just fringing your knees, which were pointed towards me. Your hands clutched tightly in your lap.

“Is there any problem, anything you want to talk about? As far as possible, I’ll keep any confidence. And if I have to pass on what you say, I’ll tell you first.”

Standard school counselling stuff. I remained silent, playing for time. I debated whether to try to make something up. I could say I hadn’t been feeling well, but the trouble with that was having a doctor for a mother. She’d know I was pretending. And even if I was ill, she wouldn’t take me seriously. I could go on about some boy letting me down, or say I wasn’t eating. If it were any other teacher, I probably would have. It can be fun to lie. But because it was you, and despite your pathetic fear of not conforming, I liked you. I had to try to hit at the truth, and see what you would make of it.

“I just can’t seem to work at the moment.”

“Is there a reason?”

“Not really. I just… There’s so much of it.”

“Believe it or not, Cathy,” you said, laughing, “I know how you feel. I feel like that most evenings. But do you know what I do? I break it down. I don’t let myself think, I have three sets of marking as well as lesson preparation and dinner to make and the boys to pick up from swimming and the examiners’ reports to look through – I tell myself I can only do one thing at a time. One thing at a time. So I ask myself, what shall I do first? OK, I say, just the Year Eight stories. So I get those out and mark them. One thing accomplished. So I feel better already. And maybe I don’t read the examiners’ reports. And I’m learning not to beat myself up if I don’t manage to complete everything, and instead to acknowledge what I have achieved.”

Poor old Mrs Dawes, I thought. What a crap life.

“I know work can seem overwhelming at times,” you went on. “But see if you can break it down.”

You were repeating yourself now. Teachers always do. They’re terrified you didn’t quite get what they said, or you might forget it. Never mind about boring you rigid. I wondered what sort of people became teachers. Were they control freaks, or people whose own lives were such a mess that they tried to impose order on everybody else? Or kids who never really grew up and wanted to stay in school for ever? Or sadists? Our Maths teacher in primary school was a sadist. She wanted someone to get the work wrong so she could have the fun of punishing them. Sorry, Mrs Dawes, you weren’t like that. You were one of those women who wanted to mother everybody, to care for us all. It was why I agreed to talk to you. I knew you didn’t have it in for me.

“Cathy – would you like me to help you construct a timetable so you can catch up, and see your teachers so that they know you’re working at it?”

No, I didn’t. For a moment I hated you, loathed you. Felt you had gone over to the enemy. All through my life, people had been telling me what I had to do, giving me orders. Learn your spellings for a test, draw a picture with your story, do these sums, copy out these notes, then later, learn for your exams, and afterwards all that comparing marks and totting up averages and bitching. Then GCSEs and all those nameless, faceless people with power of life and death over you. And the sheer cheek of it, people asking you all these questions and making you jump through hoops so you could be like them.

Then you’re in the sixth form, and they expect everything from you. History, Geography, English, Economics, and maybe, Catherine, you could keep on all four for your A2s. And the school orchestra – important for putting on your UCAS form. And remember to read round your subjects. And spend some time in the careers room so you have an idea what courses and universities appeal to you. Oxford or Cambridge maybe? The mad glint in your parents’ eyes when the teacher mentions those two magic words at parents’ meetings. Of course, there would be extra lessons, extra work, but Catherine can manage it. The Economics project. One whole day out at a History day school so I have to catch up on the poetry notes and I don’t understand Seamus Heaney anyway Or Gerard Manley Hopkins. Somebody translate, please. And the Geography teacher slagging us off. You’re lazy, the lot of you. The mid-year test will sort you out, show you how you’ve been sitting on your backsides.

Oh, and I forgot. It’s important to be a well-rounded sixth former too – you must do more than just work, otherwise you’re boring. Read the papers, watch documentaries, get a job, help at school events, do some voluntary work, and work experience – that’s vital. These days, when it’s so much easier to do well at exams, work experience and your hobbies and interests count as never before. You need to pay more attention to your technique when you’re answering questions in exams to get those few all-important extra marks. It can mean the difference between an A and a B! But make sure you have time off too. Take up yoga. Exercise. Listen to music. Read. Read lots. Here’s a reading list, two reading lists, three.

“Cathy – you’re not crying, are you? I’m so sorry – I’m not very good at these things. Here, have a tissue. It’s OK to cry – look – you’re starting me off! Come on, you’ve got so much going for you. Nobody’s angry with you – I can promise you that.”

You didn’t realise they were tears of rage.

“I don’t think I want to work any more,” I said, testing you.

I could see you floundering. It was a terrifying thought to you, that someone could choose not to work. Work, work, work. It was the teachers’ mantra. Hard work and moral virtue were interchangeable.

“I know how you feel. We all feel like that from time to time. I know I do. But stick in there, Cathy! Remind yourself how much you love what you’re doing. And good A-level grades could open the door to any university!”

Your cheery tone didn’t deceive me. You’d snapped the handcuffs tight. So I should start working in order to get the opportunity to work more. It all made perfect sense.

“English Literature is your first love, isn’t it?”

I knew what you wanted me to say. I didn’t have it in me to disappoint you.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” I replied.

“Cathy, listen!” you said, bending forward intently so I didn’t have the choice. “If literature is what you want to study, then you MUST. It’s a myth that’s there’s no job at the end of it. There’s advertising, business, law conversion, publishing – even teaching. Look – I’m going to suggest something really naughty, really unprofessional!”

I could hardly wait. The most unprofessional thing I had ever seen you do was end a lesson twenty seconds before the bell.

“Go home tonight and do nothing but your English. Do something you love and rediscover why you’re studying in the first place. You’re in the sixth form – you chose your AS-levels yourself, you’re not following the National Curriculum any more.”

You were breathless with excitement.

“OK,” I said. Because I wanted to please you. I wanted to enter into the fantasy that I could go home and get turned on by Shakespeare and write and write and hand in an inspired essay. And if I believed I would, maybe I would. Maybe I’d just lost faith in myself. Your optimism boosted me like a dose of caffeine. I didn’t want all your hard work to be wasted. I knew you’d given up a free period to talk to me, and that you’d have even more marking that night as a result. The least I could do was make you think your efforts had been worthwhile.

“Perhaps I need to prioritise a bit.” I knew this was talking your language. I saw you smile.

“That’s absolutely it, Cathy. I hardly know why you need me, you’re so good at analysing your own problems. Prioritise. It’s just to do with your time management. Sometimes very clever people find difficulty with the simpler skills. That’s you all over.”

And like an ebbing wave that rush of optimism left me. It was the words ‘very clever’ that did it – don’t ask me why. They made my limbs ache.

“Just try the Othello tonight – or the poetry – either one will do. Even if you only spend half an hour. As long as you enjoy it. That’s what counts. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

So you do understand, I thought. There is no point, because I’m not sure I enjoy working any longer. The panic returned. And I gripped the base of the chair I was sitting on, and tried to breathe steadily and deeply. No good. I had to change the subject.

“So both your sons swim, then?” I asked. It was a lucky hit.

“Yes. Michael swims for the county – he’s the butterfly champion. Only I do wish they’d call it something else. He’s fourteen now and it doesn’t sound very macho. The butterfly champion. Though when you watch him you can see the power that goes into that particular stroke. Once he almost dislocated his shoulder. You don’t have any brothers, do you? But perhaps you have a boyfriend?”

“Not exactly,” I said. And thought of Taz.

“You will,” you said, with an inward smile. Then you asked shyly, “Has this little chat been helpful?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “Very.”

I could see you looked a whole lot better.