Twenty Something (24 page)

Stuart looks at me even more uncertainly.

‘Well, those are unsubstantiated rumours, but Roddy has taken a leave of absence to clear his name.'

‘I see,' I reply.

‘Well, I was wondering whether you might like to step into his shoes after half term, see us through till Christmas. See how it goes?'

‘Stuart, I am a failed banker who has been sacked twice in the last six months. I have a mediocre degree in Classics and no teaching qualifications whatsoever.'

‘Jack, this is a private preparatory school. You're perfect. You can start on Tuesday.'

‘Boys, welcome back to the second half of the Michaelmas term. I have a couple of notices before you go off to first period. The first eleven is playing our main rivals Summer Meadows this afternoon. It's a half-holiday, so I would like as many of you as possible to come and watch. Tomorrow there will be a nits inspection for all boys in West and South houses who don't have chits signed by their mothers or by Matron. North and East, it will be your turn on Thursday, unless you're in the away match at Brock Hill, in which case you should ask your form master what to do.'

‘And finally, I'm sorry to announce that Mr Lewis is unwell [
sniggers from the staff
] and won't be returning for the rest of this term. Fortunately, we are very lucky to welcome Mr Lancaster'

I feel a hundred and fifty pairs of beady little eyes turn round and stare at me. I'm wearing a battered corduroy jacket and chinos. I look like a tosspot. These little ankle-biters terrify me.

‘Turn back round, boys. As I was saying, we're delighted to welcome Mr Lancaster, who will be taking over Mr Lewis's responsibilities for Forms IV, V and VI French. He will also be helping out with the sport and music. Mr Lancaster is an old boy of Morley Park and he comes to us via Bristol University and a very successful career as a city banker.'

I manage to catch Stuart Ackland on the way out of morning assembly.

‘Stuart, I haven't done French since A level. I thought I was going to be teaching Latin. There's not a chance that I will know how to teach French.'

‘Jack, they're only ten years old, for God's sake. How hard can it be? I did Sports Management at university — I'm now the head and teach Geography. Just take them through the textbook. Norris will show you the ropes.'

‘Norris?'

‘Yes, Norris Beaumont. He used to teach you, didn't he?'

He certainly did. Mr Beaumont had been a teacher at Morley Park for forty years. He was there as a boy himself. He hated leaving for secondary school, did his national service and then came right back to where he belonged. I assumed he'd retired long ago, but there he was storming down the corridor towards me, all tweed and paunch and eyebrows. And to think I used to be terrified of him!

‘Ah, Lanky, old boy.
Bonjour
. Or should I call you
Mr
Lanky now? Fancy having you back here. What fun. Right, French — bloody easy language. English has over 800,000 words; French has less than 100,000. I hear you're a classical scholar these days. French is the same language as Latin, really — just a bit more modern. Don't worry about teaching them a French accent. They'll just speak English like everyone else when they go there on skiing holidays and booze cruises.'

‘Right-o, Mr Beaumont.'

‘And, just call me Norris.'

‘Really, sir, I can't. I spent five years of my life peeing in my pants every time I saw you.'

‘Norris, Lanky, Norris. And none of this “sir” nonsense, either. Right, what else do you need to know about teaching?'

‘Er, how should I plan a lesson?'

‘I recommend the five-step plan, Lanky.'

‘And how does that work?'

‘Five steps before you go into the classroom, work out what you're going to teach them. One step — vocab test? No, too boring. Second step — grammar test? No, takes too long to mark. Third step — show them a video? No, Mr Lowson's got the bloody machine again. Fourth step — reading comprehension?
No, none of them can read. Fifth step — wing it. You'll get the picture.'

I think I'm going to enjoy this.

I
am
enjoying this. I'm happier than I've ever been in my life. It's the first job I've done when I haven't watched the clock and longed for the end of the day. I am getting paid to do something I actually enjoy doing.

My colleagues are a happy bunch of eccentrics who love their jobs. Sure, there are the usual inevitable tensions of any group of people. Geoffrey Aitken, the Latin teacher, thinks he should have been made deputy head over Bob Lowson, the Science teacher. Norris Beaumont is an implacable snob and hates the idea that Stuart Ackland — a former PE teacher — should be Headmaster. Rupert Pearce (Maths) is jealous that Simon Reeve (English) gets to coach the first team football and he's stuck with the under-9 D team. And there is an intriguing little love triangle between Alice Price (Matron), Charlie Blackwell (gap year teacher from South Africa) and Amy Barbour (Junior Form Mistress).

But there is none of the horrendous competitiveness of most other jobs. They tease each other in a light-hearted way. There are no Arabellas or Mr Coxes or Buddy. They are here because they love teaching, not because they love money. It's something that they've chosen to do and not something they've drifted into. It's all about the boys.

And what a bunch of little characters the boys are:

‘Thsir, thsir, are you sexing Miss Barbour?'

That, my little chestnut, is not a proper transitive verb.

‘Thsir, thsir, why does Mr Beaumont call you “Mr Lanky”?'

None of your business, Fereday. It's Mr Lancaster to you.

‘Thsir, thsir, is it true that you're a zillionaire with a really fast car?'

Well, Blenkinsop, you can tell Miss Barbour that if you like.

‘Thsir, thsir, how long have you been teaching French for?'

Shit, is it really that obvious?

‘Thsir, thsir, why don't you have a girlfriend?'

Boys, how long do you have?

They're young and they're inquisitive and they're full of fun. There is respect behind their cheekiness. Their enthusiasm is infectious. The older ones have told me how much they liked my dad.

And I even love the teaching. My only previous experience was on my gap year in a village in Syria with classes of sixty to seventy kids of mixed ability. The headteacher there was a carbon copy of Hitler and almost as ruthless. He claimed that he only hit the pupils because he cared for them, but it was not an uncommon sight to see the playground strewn with those he had laid out unconscious. The kids thought I was weak because I refused to hit them. Their desire for English stretched no further than ‘Sleep with me, pretty girl' to my fellow gap volunteer.

Morley Park is something of a holiday camp in comparison.

And that's all I have time for. Mr Lancaster (still haven't got used to that) is off to prepare the games pitches for bonfire night.

Flatmate Fred rang. It's my birthday on Wednesday and he wants me to go back to the old flat in London, where he and Jasper are going to cook for me.

Flatmate Fred 'n' Jasper. They're beginning to sound like a bit of a roadshow. They've made it clear that I can have my old room whenever I want, but I'm really quite happy in the countryside.

Flatmate Fred is still Flatmate Fred, whoever's flatmate he currently is.

‘Surprise!'

It certainly was. I'd let myself into my old flat with my own key and found myself in the dark. Just as I turned the light on, twenty people jumped out from behind the sofa. I'd never had a surprise party before. I'd always wanted one.

Twenty of my best friends in one flat and the first person to collar me was Buddy.

‘Jacko — very long time, no meet, as you guys say.'

‘Buddy, wow. How are you? This really is a surprise.'

‘Yeah, well me and your Flatchum Fred have stayed in touch a little bit. Thought I'd pop down and see how ya doing. I heard you've sorted yourself out a bit. Got a teaching job, eh? Those who can't, and all that.'

‘Yeah, and those who can put numbers in Excel boxes?'

I managed to sidestep him and talk to Rick and Mrs Fielding, who didn't look quite as heavily pregnant as I'd expected.

‘Drinking on a school night?' said Rick.

‘Literally,' I groaned. ‘Have to be back in time for morning assembly at 8.30 tomorrow.'

‘So how are the provinces?' replied Rick. ‘To tire of London is to tire of life? Do you agree with Oscar Coward?'

Marriage had done wonders for his conversation.

‘It was Noël Wilde, wasn't it?' replied Lucy.

‘My dear Fieldings, it was Samuel Johnson and he was spouting utter bollocks as usual. I'm bored shitless of London and I've never been so energised by life.'

‘But you must miss it. All the theatre, and the culture and the opera. And all the best jobs are here. Everyone is in London.'

‘Rick, when was the last time you went to the theatre? And actually, for that matter, when was the last time you had one of London's “best jobs”?'

Lucy giggled. Rick looked momentarily hurt and then
guffawed, too. We raised our glasses and drained them. Lucy was on orange juice. Rick seemed to be drinking for the two of them.

‘You must be due any day now, aren't you?' I asked Lucy, performing some rapid mental arithmetic.

Lucy looked at Rick, who broke into such a fit of unsubtle coughing that she was forced to answer.

‘Hmm, yes. Jack, well, the thing is, Rick got me pregnant in March, actually I got my dates slightly confused. I'm due some time next month.'

So there you had it. Valentine's Day — the day of commercialism, despair, desperation, love and inventing stories. I stared at Lucy. She looked back at me evenly and then broke into a small, private smile of apology. I decided to leave it be. We all do stupid things in the name of love. That was all in the past now.

I carried on mingling, but it wasn't until after midnight that I finally managed to talk to Leila. Buddy had been monopolising her all night.

‘So, happy birthday, old man.'

‘Ah, thanks Leila, but you've just missed it. I've now been twenty-six for fourteen minutes. You'll have to wait till next year.'

‘Never mind. Timing never was my strong point.'

I laugh. Slightly bitterly.

‘Hmmm, me neither. Actually, speaking of which, there's something I've been meaning to say to you for well, er, for, let's say roughly forty-two weeks and six days and a couple of hours.'

I can remember exactly what I said next, because I'd rehearsed it in my head a million times. I'd muttered its clauses to myself while stomping up the escalators on the Underground. I'd honed its inflections while running round the games pitches with the under-9 C football team. The monologue had become part of me. It had kept me up for hours in bed at night and awoken on the tip of my tongue in the
morning. The curtain was lifting on the first dress rehearsal. My seventh seduction attempt and I wasn't going to bottle it this time

‘Leila, to me you are beautiful in every way. You're funny, you're kind, you're sweet and you're stunning. But it's not simply that you're the most amazing girl in the world — which you are — or that I fancy you to bits — which I do — or that you make me unbelievably happy whenever I'm around you — which you do. I think there's something even better there. There's a hidden side of Leila of which I've caught tantalising glimpses. A Leila I'd like to get to know better. A Leila worth fighting for. Nothing in the world would make me happier than to be your boyfriend.'

I pause, waiting to see the effect of my little oration. She's half-crying, half-smiling.

‘Oh fuckity fuck it, Jack. You weren't joking about your bad timing. I've been wondering for months whether you were ever going to say anything.'

She hasn't said no. She hasn't said no.

‘So you feel the same way? Why didn't you say something yourself?'

‘Because I wasn't sure. And I couldn't work out how you felt. I'm the girl. I'm old-fashioned when it comes to this sort of thing. You know how shy I can be. It's your role to hunt us, isn't it?'

Girls have no idea how difficult our self-appointed role is.

‘You're so hard to read, Jack. I mean, one moment you're sleeping with your ex-girlfriend again, the next you're having a one-night stand with the bridesmaid at your ex-girlfriend's wedding.'

Who told her that? I never told her about Katie
.

She continues. ‘You tell me that you “fucking love me” when you're being thrown out of the bank by security guards. The next time we meet up, you deny it completely. A month later you're running naked across a polo pitch. Then, at the end of August, just as I think you're becoming a normal human being,
you come round to mine for dinner. I think it's all going well. I'm bursting inside wanting you to kiss me, and then my flatmate Catherine finds you, well, finds you doing something you shouldn't in the loo. Then you disappear travelling without even telling me that you're going. I mean, you've acted extraordinarily. Is there any explanation for all of it?'

There is one explanation: I'm a dickhead. There's another: I love her. But I'm too scared to say it
.

‘No, Leila, that's just not true. It was a long-distance release Well, anyway, never mind. I can explain everything. Can't we just put it all behind us? We can still be together.'

‘Jack, you're incredibly special to me.'

‘What does that mean?'

‘It means that you're incredibly special to me, but I can't go out with you.'