Love Is a State of Mind: Nobody's Life is Perfect (5 page)

So … getting back to my career choice, when I started, I was terrified of the children, useless at discipline and felt completely out of my comfort zone.  The only way I survived was to work twice as hard as David and prepare every minute, of every lesson.  This was exhausting and after a time, I did relax a little, but it was always stressful for me.  Teaching was not what I should have been doing all these years.  Unless you’re in total control of your classes, it’s a hell-hole.

Why couldn’t I swan into school, like him?  He was universally liked by pupils and staff alike, seemed to do his marking in his free periods and was hardly ever seen preparing lessons, but he got brilliant results.  How did he do it?  I’ve no idea … but hence, the fast track to Head.  I, however, floundered around, barely coping, with a reputation for being a push-over.  When the kids told me their dog had eaten their homework, I’d believe them.  If they arrived late to class, I’d believe some half-baked story about another teacher keeping them late, in a previous lesson.  If someone in my class wasn’t wearing the correct uniform, I didn't demand that they left the class, I’d say lamely, ‘make sure you’re wearing it tomorrow’, and of course, they never were.

I was too trusting to be a teacher – you have to question everything a kid tells you and believe nothing.  You have to pretend you’re angry, when you’re not.  You have to start the way you mean to go on, not go into a class like a right old softie.  You also have to like kids – and for the vast majority of my career, I’ve disliked them intensely. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love my own children, but other people’s children, en masse, are another thing altogether – like marauding pack animals, who’ll eat the weakest one alive – and I was the weak one.   You try teaching ‘Black Beauty’ to a classroom full of fourteen year old boys, half of whom can’t really speak English.  To be fair, that didn’t happen at this school, but it happened on my teaching practice, all those years ago.  I was told to read a book about a girl and her lovely black pony, to a load of kids who lived in the roughest area in Birmingham and whose relations were often living at her Majesty’s pleasure in the prison, opposite the school.  Not a good start – and I don’t think I’ve ever recovered from it.  I was set on a path towards a career where I was permanently … bewildered, for want of a better word.

So, all things considered, I wasn’t cut out to be a teacher, but I’d done it for years … and survived.  My results were average, my attendance was good and I was conscientious – David had helped me through … bolstering me up when I’d had a particularly bad day, telling me I was a good teacher, even though I wasn’t. 

Without his backup and with the situation now so impossible, I began to wonder why I was doing it. 

The end of term was always such a relief – I’d walk out of school on the last day with my heart lighter and my head, stress-headache free.  David, on the other hand, would always miss school and find the holidays ‘too long’.  This seemed unbelievable to me – surely most people go into teaching for the long holidays, don’t they? 

This particular end of term was a two-edged sword, however.  It was going to be so good to get away from David and Suzie; so good not to have to mark endless essays … but so odd to be on my own for six weeks.  What would I do with myself?

That swim was the start of my new regime.  To get out, to get fit … to get a life.  The other part of my plan was to face the fact that I didn’t want to do it any more – teaching, I mean.  Surely, I’d tried long enough?  Surely … enough was enough? 

My only real friend at school, Lisa Parsons, a colleague in the English department, put the idea into my head.  Lisa is also single – she got divorced five years ago and lives with her two sons of twelve and fourteen.  She's a good person to talk to about my current situation; she's younger than me, but her husband left her for someone else too, so she knows what I'm going through.  I think we became friends originally as we could see in each other a fellow soul – neither of us found ‘Macbeth’ particularly riveting and we both regarded trips to the theatre with thirty teenagers, pretty much like torture.

We were talking in the staffroom one Tuesday afternoon, when we both had a free and should have been marking; she said, “Well, if you hate it as much as you say, why don’t you leave?  What are you waiting for?  Death in the classroom?  Life’s too short to do this, if you really hate it.  It’s a big world out there – think of all the things you could do?  Why don’t you take early retirement?  I’ve heard you can get a lump sum, if you want.  And if you didn’t find something else to do, it wouldn’t be a disaster – they’re always crying out for supply teachers or you could find a part-time position somewhere else.  You need to get away from here, Anna, you really do.  You can't stay here with David and Suzie ..."

Well, it was like a light switching on in my brain.  I’d never really considered it before – I thought I’d go on till I dropped; David and I would retire at the same time and go off into the sunset together, as two old pensioners. 

But what’s to stop me?  I’ve worked long enough to have an okay pension and it would mean that whatever I did, I could do it part-time.  I could get some perspective on my life – I’d have time to think …

*

I said I wasn’t sure if Holly was coming home on Sunday or not – well, I was feeling really pathetic that Saturday after the swim and I was really praying she’d come.  All this bravado about leaving work … starting a new life … boiled down to me feeling lonely, vulnerable and in desperate need of seeing my daughter.  I kept checking my phone – had I got it on silent?  Had I missed the sound of a message arriving?

It wasn't until 7 o’clock that night that my phone made a sound.  Grabbing it, I read: 

Hi Mum.  Will be on the 11am train.  Can you pick me up?  Should be in at 12.15.  Will text if a prob. xxx

I felt ridiculously pleased that I wouldn’t have to spend a Sunday on my own.  What was it about Sundays?  How can a day of the week have an atmosphere?  To me, it did, and this would have been the second one on my own. Sundays felt as if everyone else, in the entire world, were happily ensconced with their family: having walks together; sitting round the table eating roast pork and playing games round a roaring fire.  Probably an over-exaggerated view, but that’s how it felt.  Not to mention the thought of him and her snuggled up together …

My first Sunday on my own (after Adam had left on the Saturday) had been awful.  Staying in bed till midday and then feeling guilty for being so lazy; walking Gaz in a solitary fashion – even he chased his ball in a rather desultory way; reading the Sunday newspapers for a couple of hours and then watching ‘Countryfile’ and ‘Antiques Roadshow’ on the telly – designed to be comforting Sunday night viewing, an end to a cosy family day, which just served to show me how sad I really was.

I texted back immediately.  I wanted to sound pleased, but not desperate. 

That’s brill.  Will be there.  Can’t wait to catch up.  Are you going to see Dad while you’re back? x

Another one from her:

No way.  Can’t face him.  Will talk tomorrow.  Love you. xxx

Me:

Love you too. xxx

*

Since David left, the gap on the left-hand side of the bed seems huge.  His body was always so warm – we’d cuddle up together, legs entwined, every night.  In the winter particularly, I’d regard him as my human hot water bottle; my feet were permanently freezing and he was so good about letting me put my two blocks of ice, on his legs.  We’d always read before turning off the light, we’d talk about the day, we’d discuss problems.  All that’s gone – now, there is just me with my thoughts and a sea of space, that no one will fill again.

The night before Holly came, I slept particularly badly.  I went to sleep okay and then woke about an hour later.  I couldn’t believe it when I saw the time on the clock – 1.30 am.  The night spread before me like a long, dark tunnel of nothing, swallowing me up in its choking darkness.

I got up several times and gazed out of the window; the amber street lights made the road look eery.  A fox barked, a sound that gave me the creeps whenever I heard it and then there he was, walking down the centre of the road, like a sly old ghost.  He peeled off into my neighbours’ front garden, no doubt on a mission to kill something.  The scene made me shiver.

The sky was clear – the stars pulsed and glittered, even through the light pollution.  Looking up made me feel totally insignificant …  and I longed for David to be there in my bed when I turned.  But, of course, he wasn’t.

I eventually fell asleep around four, but it was one of those sleeps full of disturbing dreams where you feel you’ll never wake up again.  I was lost in a huge city.  Like all dreams, it made no sense; I was trying to get somewhere and everything was stopping me: I couldn’t get out of the car; the train I was suddenly travelling on, never got to the station; when I did get to a street, my legs wouldn’t work – I was trying to walk, but my feet were stuck in some sort of mud.  Holly was shouting at me, from a window high up on one of those buildings like the Gherkin – all glass and metal – and when I looked up and saw her, I tried to shout back, but nothing came out of my mouth.  I woke myself up, trying to shout; my heart was beating fast, I was sweating and exhausted.

I lay back, trying to recover, feeling wrung out.  The digital numbers on my alarm clock read 7.15.  I got up and made myself a cup of tea, now a solitary and rather sad event that used to be David’s treat for me.  Every day, he’d say, “Would you like a cup of tea?” and every day I’d say, “Oo, yes please,” as if it was the first time he’d ever asked me.  He brought me one, even on school days.  He was like that.

I took my tea back to bed and lay there listening to the World Service on my mobile.  I’ve learned so much about the world over the years, listening to the radio in the dead of night – I’d plug in my ear phones, so as not to wake David and drift off to other countries and hear about lives that made mine seem okay.

*

I catch sight of Holly in amongst other people getting off the train.  It’s like my eyes are drawn to her – I’ve always been able to pick my kids out of a crowd so easily, as if their DNA drifts through the air to me.  She looks as gorgeous as ever, her hair catching the light as its blond waves flow around her shoulders.  I enjoy watching her as, oblivious of me, she strides purposely along the platform.  She’s wearing a floaty floral top over washed out blue jeans and, despite the warm weather, she has on a pair of clumpy boots.  How does she manage to look so stylish in jeans, I think to myself? 

She disappears up the steps that take her up and over the line towards the car park where I’m waiting in my car.  Gaz is sitting on the floor of the front seat and when I say to him, “Can you see Holly? Where is she?” he starts to look interested.   He stands up with his front paws on the seat and sticks his head through the window that I’ve opened for him.  His whole body begins to wag, as he catches sight of her, emerging from the steps.

“Hey Gazza!” she calls as she walks towards the car, finally running the last few steps.  She leans in the window and kisses his head, his whole body now trembling with excitement.  Who says dogs don’t have a sense of time?  If they don’t, why is he so excited to see her, after a gap?

She opens the door, saying, “Get down, old boy, let me squeeze in next to you.  Hi Mum,” and she sits down, leaning over to kiss me.  “Okay, Gaz, calm down … no more slobbery kisses, please.”  She pushes him down so he’s now in the well of the seat, crammed in, next to her legs.  He manages to get his head wedged between her right thigh and the gear stick, looking up lovingly at her.

“He’s so pleased to see you, Holly.  I swear he knew you were coming – I told him where we were going and he definitely understood.”

“How are you, Mum?  Are you okay?”  Her voice sounded more serious now.  “I’m so sorry I haven’t been down before, but it’s …”

“Don’t worry … it’s fine.  You’ve been great to speak to on the phone, anyway.  I
can
remember what it was like to have a social life, you know.”

“Yea, it’s been manic at work too and with Fiona’s hen do last weekend, there just hasn’t been a moment.  Still, I’m here now,” she says with her warm smile lighting up her face.  She gently squeezes my arm.

We drive back home and decide to take Gaz for a walk, before lunch.  Holly misses him in London.  She insists on taking his ball thrower and we set off together, Holly holding Gaz’ lead.  The sun is out, there’s a light breeze – and for the first time for what feels like weeks, I begin to feel a lifting of my spirits. 

We’re walking, as we often do, arm in arm, and talk about trivial things for a while – the latest developments in Albert Square, the owners of the shop down the road that’s changed hands and Fiona’s hen night.  It feels like old times … as if Adam is just out with his friends and David is playing tennis at the Club and we’re going to go back to have Sunday lunch, all together.  We both avoid the subject … it’s not as if anything’s changed since we last talked on the phone.

Down at the rec, we pass the bench and I can’t resist saying, “That’s where he told me, you know.”

“Oh, Mum … really?”  She looks at it, as if she can visualise the scene.  “How horrible.  I just can’t imagine what you must have gone through.  I’m so sorry …”

I look away.  Her words manage to bring tears to my eyes, but I don’t want her to see.