Sign of the Times (9 page)

Chapter Eleven

“Morning,” Akbar acknowledged Maggie.

“Mmm,” grunted Maggie.
 
Not usually the most communicative, after a heavy session she was even less so.
 

“What can I get you?” Akbar beamed at her.

Maggie pointed to the poppy seed loaves behind him and said she’d have a root around to see what else she needed.

“Right-o,” Akbar’s sing-song voice rang out.
 
“Let me know if I can help.”

It never ceased to astound Maggie that an Indian had opened a German food store in Glasgow.
 
An Indian delicatessen she could have envisaged, but German?
 
She had once asked Akbar if he had German relatives, to which the reply was negative.

‘So, how come you opened a German store?’ she had dared to ask.

‘Oh well, every other Indian family either has an Indian restaurant or an Indian deli. I wanted to be different.’
 
Maggie was one of his better customers.
 
She was in here practically every day.

“So, how did your protest go?” Akbar asked.

“Not great,” admitted Maggie

“Does that mean the poor wee badgers are homeless?” Akbar teased.

“Akbar, it’s not funny.”

“No, of course not, but if we worried half as much about people as we do about badgers, the world would be a better place,” he pronounced sagely.

“I do worry about people,” retorted Maggie indignantly.

“Not you. Some of those wildlife lovers treat their own children as if they don’t exist, yet they’ll defend animals to the death.”

“Well, I don’t have to worry about that.”

“You’d make a fine mother,” offered Akbar.
 
“But I suppose you’ll need to find yourself a good man first.”

“I think not,” Maggie’s tone was cold.
 
Much as she liked Akbar and saw him for her sins, on a daily basis, she wasn’t going to discuss her childlessness with him.
 
Besides, he had six.
 
Although Maggie thought six was a bit much she would rather have had six than none.
 
Dragging herself back to reality, she handed her basket to Akbar, who began totalling up her purchases.
  

“£14.67” said Akbar.
 
“Where to today then?”

“I have an exam, so I’m going home for a bit of breakfast from this lot,” she held up her shopping, “and then I’m off to uni.”

“Which is it today?” Akbar asked.

“History of Art.”

“No problem.
 
Weren’t you an art teacher?”

“Yes, hopefully I should pass.
 
See you.”

Maggie headed out into the street, now full of schoolchildren.
 
It must be nearly nine.
 
With a pang of regret, Maggie thought back to Akbar’s words,
weren’t you an art teacher?
 
Yes, she had been an art teacher and a damned good one.
 
She loved working with kids, seeing their progress, encouraging them, even advising some to enter competitions.
 
She really wanted them to do well, to make the most of their talent.
 
But the toll of not being able to keep her babies had been too severe.
 
Initially she had simply withdrawn from the children a little.
 
She wasn’t sure if this was normal or not, as she had expected to become even closer to them, since it looked like she wasn’t going to have her own.
 
Up until then her classes felt like large family gatherings and the kids genuinely seemed to enjoy them.

She remembered the day she had to fail the best student in the year for all other subjects, as she really was dreadful at Art.
 
She should have given her an E, but couldn’t quite bring herself to do it, so gave her a D instead.
 
The girl was gutted, but what could Maggie do?
 
She couldn’t even draw a square, much less the still life she was to draw for the exam.
 
In fact, it was almost impossible to tell if she
had
been drawing a square or a bouquet of roses.
 
The girl was close to tears, explaining how disappointed her parents would be.

Maggie sat her down and told her she mustn’t think like that.
 
How could her parents be dismayed when she was the top student in her year?
 
Not everyone was made for Art, she explained.
 
In fact, it was the less academic who usually excelled at it.
 
The girl looked cheered at this and asked in a quiet voice, “You don’t think it will affect my plans of going to Cambridge then?”

“Of course not,’ Maggie smiled at her.
 
“Anyway, next year you have to choose your options for third year.
 
Were you intending to choose Art?” Maggie asked her, already knowing the answer.

“No,” the girl admitted.

“Well then.
 
That’s settled.
 
Your mum and dad have no reason to be upset and you can always back it up by saying you’re dropping Art next year.
 
Anyway, aren’t you really good at Music?”

“Well, not good, but I play piano and a little clarinet and oboe.

“You’ve nothing to worry about then,” Maggie finished.
 
“Not only are you the top student in your year, but you have a creative gift too.
 
Do you know how many people I know who can play piano, oboe and clarinet?”

The girl shook her head and Maggie replied, “One.”

“Oh,” the girl said, “Who?”

“She’s sitting right in front of me,” Maggie smiled and the girl smiled and she knew the girl was going to be all right.

It was a shame Maggie had blown it, not long after.
 
His name was Paul.
 
He was thirteen, always trying to play the big man and had no interest in any class, never mind Art, which he proclaimed was for poofs.
 
Initially it irked her that he just wouldn’t try, as he obviously had an aptitude for art and indeed was an intelligent boy, but just didn’t want to let it show.
 
She had spoken to other teachers and they had all given her the same story.
 
Undoubtedly bright, he just didn’t want to apply himself.

However, as time passed and he didn’t respond to any stimulus, she gave up.
 
She
had
to concentrate on the rest of the class.
 
Her priority became to ensure Paul caused as little disruption as possible.
 
So, she ignored him.
 
Then he started getting personal and several times, she had to consult the headmaster.
 
Paul’s taunts ranged from, ‘you need a good shag’
,
to ‘nobody would want to shag you’, to the last straw, one day Maggie had kept him behind after class. ‘You think you’re something, don’t you?
 
What do you know about kids? You haven’t got any.
 
Thank fuck you aren’t my mother.
 
Thank fuck you aren’t anybody’s mother.’

Maggie, who had returned three weeks previously from recuperating after her hysterectomy, snapped.
 
She slapped Paul hard across the face.
 
They looked at each other in shock.

“You bitch!” he lunged at her, but Maggie grabbed his wrists, unable to believe she had struck a pupil.
 
Unfortunately for Maggie, at that moment, the headmaster walked in,
took in the situation and assumed Paul had tried to strike her.
 
She released him and Paul started yelling at the Head, “That mad bitch hit me!
 
She hit me!
 
Look at my face!”

The headmaster, appalled by the boy’s outburst peered at him closely and saw the tell-tale marks of Maggie’s slap.

“Paul.
 
Go to my office.
 
Talk to no-one.
 
Understood?”

Astonishingly the boy acquiesced and throwing a look of contempt at Maggie, left the classroom.

For the first few seconds neither said a word.
 
Then, calmly, the headmaster said, “Maggie, what happened?” and out poured the whole sorry tale.

“I see.
 
Maggie. I know you’ve been under a lot of stress recently.” Maggie raised her eyes to meet his gaze.
 
“However, much as sometimes we may want to thump the little darlings and God knows you wouldn’t be the first to want to take a swipe at Paul, we can’t.
 
Ever.
 
Perhaps if he’d held a knife to your throat, you could get away with it, but not otherwise.”

Maggie had looked at him, fearful of what was coming next.

“Maggie.
 
You know what to expect.”

Her superior
had looked at her with genuine sympathy and said “Maggie, I’m sorry, I really am,” before heading off to deal with Paul.

The hearing had been brief. It was an open and shut case.
 
Representatives from the school had tried to paint Maggie in a better light, had talked of how she motivated the pupils.
 
They explained about Maggie’s delicate problem.
 
The headmaster blamed himself, said perhaps they had let her come back too soon.
 
But it was all to no avail.
 
Her suspension officially became a termination of contract with the recommendation that she not be allowed to teach children again.
 
This had been the final nail in her coffin.
 
She had loved those kids as if they were her own.
 
It was so unfair.
 
She had never regretted anything so much in her life.
 
First she had her potential to be a mother taken away from her and now her career.

Things looked bleak for a while.
 
Unfortunately, much though Michael wanted to, he was unable to offer the solace she so required.
 
Three months later they split up.
 
She had thought about teaching adults, but it wasn’t the same.
 
She couldn’t nurture them in the same way.
 
So, she had tried to put it all behind her and spent several months trying to figure out what to do.
 
One day she realised the only other time she had been truly happy had been at university.
 
She loved studying.
 
She loved teaching.
 
If she couldn’t teach, she could study, but what?
 
She was twenty-seven.

Psychology had been her first choice on her return to Further Education.
 
She had discovered that grants were quite good for a mature student. Well, not good exactly, it was still a pittance, but it was more than other students received.
 
She applied for money from the Access and other funds to help her get by.

Her first year at Glasgow University had passed uneventfully enough.
 
Of course she had needed to adjust, but she managed it relatively painlessly.
 
After Psychology came Philosophy, after Philosophy, English.
 
Over the next few years she studied English Language, then English Literature, studying Keats, Milton, Shelley, as well as the obligatory Shakespeare.
 
She learned not to take novels, plays or poems at face value.
 
She learned the hard way
by failing the first paper she wrote, basing it on what
she
thought the author meant.
 
The tutors couldn’t care less what
she
thought it meant.
 
They wanted her to utilise the information available from the university library, the plethora of critiques on the various works, written by ‘experts’ and simply regurgitate their interpretation.
 
After implementing this strategy, she started to do rather well.
 
English was followed by a branching off into languages, Spanish, Portuguese and German to be precise.
 
Now, at forty, she was taking things easy, doing Politics and Art History, with European Business Management thrown in for good measure.
 
She didn’t intend to use it, but it came in handy for debates.

With a jolt, Maggie pulled herself out of her daydream.
 
She hadn’t even opened a book and was now hoping she hadn’t been too cocky.
 
But, she did have an excellent memory for artists and dates and their period and style, so after dropping her dirty dishes into a basin and with a glance in the mirror, she opened the door and was back out in the close again.
I really must do something about my hair.
 
Pigeon shit streaks went out a long time ago and it has never suited me
.
 
Nor did they bring out her hazel eyes, flecked with gold.
 
It was time she started taking a bit of pride in her appearance.
 
Since she was rather plain anyway, flat-chested, not that
that
bothered
her,
she really had to make the most of what assets she did have.
 
Her eyes were her best feature, although perhaps over-large in her thin face.
 
She was taller than most guys she fancied.
 
Unprepossessing, the type of person you’d walk past in the street.
 
She could scrub up quite well when she put her mind to it.
 
She’d go to the hairdresser after her exam.
 
That could be her starting point.