Angel Avenue Read online

  I teach in a very respectable Catholic school. And no, I am not Catholic. Not even Protestant. Not even atheist. I expect Dad had more pressing things to worry about to even consider instructing his daughter in the ways of the world. Things such as how he would stretch his dole money to beer and frozen pizzas that might last the week. R.E. was never thrilling enough to entice me and Sex-Ed classes weren’t up to much, either. All I needed to know about life ‒ religion, and birds and the bees included ‒ was garnered from books.

  Though the school is, as I mentioned, respectable, it is inner-city. Which means diversity. It means you get children from the roughest areas of town to the more prosperous, leafy banks. It means challenge, unexpected surprises and often, a clash of the titans. Not just between pupil and pupil, quite often between student and teacher too, because these are streetwise kids who know how to break you down if they want to. I have one modus operandi and it is ‘bollock’. If they step out of line, they get a ‘bollocking’. My mode never changes, I never step outside of it or skirt around it, I stick with it. It works for me.

  Staff meetings over with, I charge through South Block to reach the English Department, my back ramrod straight, head held high. I have a pack of books lodged under my arm, a steaming cup of tea in my hand and a bag over my shoulder. I am important, in charge and have respect in this place.

  When I get to a small nook off the network of corridors that precedes my classroom, the children are in packs, their little cliques clear from their circular patterns. Immediately they spring back against the walls of the offshoot corridor that’s like the leg of a spider diagram, and they allow me passage through.

  Silence falls.

  “Year Ten, take your places.”

  I know the children warn each other, passing my reputation down the generations, so that fresh batches are aware of what they may come up against with me.

  Aw, yeah, you know that Miss Simonovich, she’s roit strict, she is.

  Mate, aw maw gawd. She’ll av ya reading Shakespeare in class if ya breathe!

  Miss Simonovich, more like Snooty-right-bitch... You can’t get away with make-up in her class.

  I hear the masses turn to their designated leader, new girl Hetty, who organises them into an alphabetical queue. They’d be lost without her.

  I seat myself at my desk and know I have a few moments. I casually sip my drink and look out of the window while I hear them finally pile in, all in order, without any need for me to watch and check. Out of the corner of my eye, I see them move like a wave of pennies dropping in a spinning coin machine, seating themselves in name order around the six rectangular tables of six chairs. By my desk are the As, by the furthest one the unfortunate X, Y or Zs, who have to deal with the draught from the door.

  The last one in, Gina Young, knows to shut the door before she sits down. I spot one empty seat and mutter, “Where’s Ashwaraj?”

  A hand shoots up. I nod.

  “Sick Miss, he weren’t in tutorial,” Sienna tells me.

  I mark all present on the electronic register, except Ashwaraj, of course.

  “Josef, read from Gatsby. Wherever we left off last time.”

  Another thing they hate ‒ random calls to read out loud in class. I don’t mind scaring a few of the little buggers.

  He begins mumbling and I shout, “We can’t hear you at the back!”

  He coughs awkwardly and keeps going, bringing his voice up but retreating back to his barely audible din when the stage fright takes him.

  “Thanks Josef.”

  I stand with my own copy and read using hand gestures, as I carry on from where he left off. I dramatise the words and the class perks up. Sometimes it’s what they need on a Monday morning. Maybe it makes me feel good too.

  When I tire, I sit back down and let someone else take the load off.

  “David E., you do the American accents so well. Your turn!”

  “Aw, but, Miss‒”

  I shoot him down with a look and he realises it would be easier to tarry with a bear than me. I sneakily sip my tea and look over the lessons I have today, letting the plans sink into my brain so I can run mostly on autopilot.

  When he’s done his bit, I find myself needing a bit of down time, so I announce, “You can all read in silence for a while. It is Monday morning after all. I’m generous.”

  They begin reading while I move between their tables, hovering over them. I look out of my second-floor classroom windows and watch children playing sports in the fields. I see distant flumes of power station smoke fly up into the sky and the beginning of a rain shower tinkle against the glass.

  My face crumples as I get lost in thought and when I regain my concentration, I look to see Hetty staring at me. She’s studying me closely. I stroll back to my desk and pretend like I am not reacting, even when I know, she caught me looking glum.

  Miss Simonovich isn’t sad; she’s mean, strict, foul and will bloody get you an A star if you only turn up and do as she says.

  I never laugh and joke with the pupils about my weekend forays or haphazard social life, like a lot of the other teachers do. They probably sense some sad cloud hanging over me and feel sorry for me. Either way, whatever gets me through the day.

  I watch the class and see that some of the spunkier girls have already set their books down and done with. Boys are laughing and glaring at pages still and some others are just pretending to read.

  “Five minutes boys and girls.”

  I get impatient and tell the class to put their books down. I pace the front of the room, clasp my hands in front of myself and put a question out to the sea of fifteen year olds in front of me.

  “So, who enjoyed the book?”

  Of course, my most vocal clever clog Hetty sticks her hand in the air and begs an audience. I nod to give her the go-ahead.

  “I did. I thought it was really good, Miss.”

  “Why really good?”

  The girl is eager. This is why it’s better to work yourself silly and have the top sets, which are full of dreamy, clever swots who turn up on time and do their homework.

  “It just was. It seems a bit of a dream.”

  “It does indeed seem that way doesn’t it, boys and girls, like a figment of the author’s imagination come to life.”

  The swot continues, “I really thought that too, Miss.”

  I nod appreciatively, enticing her to let someone else have a go. I turn my attention to a lad who’s notorious for flunking mock exams and refusing to read a word, though he still gets the grades in the finals. Closeted genius.

  “Kris, can we have your thoughts?”

  “Err. O, well Miss, it was a bit weird. Like, what was wrong with that fella?”

  “Well, he was of questionable morals… of the time,” I say tentatively.

  When Kris sniggers with his friends in response, I stand staring at him like I am Darth Vader. I have the power to strangle him from afar. I have no emotion on my face, I make sure of it. The class falls absolutely silent and he sinks in his seat.

  “Finished, have we?”

  He nods frantically and I take my stony stare away from him.

  I continue to pace the floor and hold my chin, appearing to be deep in thought. I beg the question, “How easy do you think it is to create those scenes, that atmospheric imagery, with far fewer words than other authors? I think not easy. When we write, how do we transfer the images to words, to paper, to black and white?”

  “Not easily Miss! He uses words frugally dun’t he?”

  Hetty, again, blurting. How can I admonish such a go-getter? She’s a nightmare sometimes, for someone like me who prefers to be firmly in control of her flow. I’ve never taught her before because she only started at this school in September, a few weeks ago. It’s clear she’s got something, it’s clear she is eager to please, but she always wants to please just a little too much.

  “Thanks Hetty. Now, homework… write two A4 sides on that very question. Take your pens out now so
I can dictate…” I wait for the class to do so, “…how does Scott Fitzgerald transport us to that time and place?”

  They all begin scribbling like lunatics, eager to leave the room and head off for lunch. It’s been a double period and now it’s nearing 12.15p.m. I hear stomachs grumbling, girls desperate to get to the loos and others just gagging to go behind the bike sheds for a smoke. I might have to do that myself, though I only puff and never take it back. I will never admit to being a ‘smoker’.

  “I want you to think about those three questions on the board while you do so. I also want you to read the first three chapters of To Kill a Mockingbird so you can get a head start for next week.”

  They all shuffle their books and start talking over me, but I don’t care.

  “I do not want any oversized handwriting,” I demand, “nor any one-sentence paragraphs. One word paragraphs… well you know how blasphemous they are to me! I expect those pages to be filled to the edges with your beautiful words. All words are important and meaningful. Don’t forget that. Next lesson, we’ll watch the Robert Redford film and make some comparisons…”

  They all groan. The bell goes and within seconds, my classroom is empty. I sit back in my chair and take a minute, slouching without a care. All those kids and their various body odours, perfumes and whatnot. They don’t half know how to stink a girl out! I decide I really do need a fag.

  I stand at the bus shelter thing that us teachers have to smoke under and I am joined by Kev, a maths teacher around about the same age as me. I know he doesn’t really smoke either so he’s just here to talk. Or ogle.

  “What’s up Jules?”

  “Nothing much,” I respond with a shrug.

  I take a few more puffs and give him the silent brush-off.

  He kicks the ground and I sense what’s coming. He shuffles on the spot and jerks his head as if going to speak, but then decides against it.

  “Do you want to get a drink sometime?”

  “No thanks, I don’t date.”

  “I know. It wouldn’t be a date. Just a drink. Unless you don’t drink?”

  I need to put him straight. I butt out my fag and smile. The cigarette was much needed and cleared my head. I was feeling on edge the moment I woke up this morning.

  “Kev, you’re nice. Really nice. Good looking. Sweet. Find yourself a nice girl, yeah?”

  I start to walk away when he exclaims, “You’re nice!”

  “I’m not.” I scowl.

  “Lesbian, then?”

  He really is clutching at straws.

  “Yeah you got me,” I fain.

  “Jules…”

  But before he can question me further, and before he makes me want to actually slap him, I am indoors and heading back to my classroom. I’ll eat a salad at my desk and scan my iPad for the latest world news before the next batch of hormone-fuelled darlings arrive for another hour of Miss Simonovich and her unique brand of teaching.

  ***

  Walking home in the dark, I feel grumpy. It’s been a day jammed with lessons and two meetings after work. I am Head of English so I can hardly escape them.

  Top on the list of discussion was the new headmaster who’s taking over soon. We have someone being shipped in from somewhere else, new blood, they say. Strange, seeing as though it’s late September and the most awkward time of year to be starting something new. I detect a few things have gone on behind closed doors but I’m not going to ask.

  I’m carrying my satchel full of books to mark and my shopping ‒ trashy mags, frozen pizza, chocolate mousse and a small pack of fags. It has been one of those days and I know why, though I do not like to admit it…

  After Ted left my flat the other night, I had to wash all my sheets and I still couldn’t get the scent of him out of my nostrils. Now I look back, I am not sure he was even real. Was he really in my flat? Was he a figment? Did I conjure him? Loneliness is a disease and sometimes, even when you have company, you can feel lonelier than ever. Sometimes, it’s easier to think of life as a fiction to guard myself against hurt. The people in my life could all be side characters in a story for all I care. Their tales imprint on my heart today but tomorrow, I will have forgotten about them. However, Ted is refusing to slink off back to his own life; his ghost remains and his cologne (or something) has left an impression I’m loathe to admit. On Saturday after he was gone, I argued with my subconscious – we debated whether it was a pillow or a hand towel he left his smell lingering on – but the stench remains. Maybe he got up to no good while I was sleeping…? I may need to seek the knickers he used to aid himself, the knickers now buried behind a cupboard or something. Or maybe, there’s a serious reason why I refuse to let go.

  These young men I seek every Saturday are the only people I ever really interact with and after they are gone, and once the euphoria of that momentary cuddle has worn off, they haunt me enough to make me ache for a man’s arms around me once more.

  I hate the slump.

  I am left frustrated. I need sex. I want sex, but not enough to break my ban, and not as much as I just need that cuddle. I am rerunning what happened with Laurie and I do not know how to stop. I’ve been so brutally hurt so many times, I’ve sectioned myself off, planted myself in a state of guardedness where nobody can get me. I’m Miss Havisham, refusing to admit life goes on.

  I get to my front door and drop my bags on the step. The old lady arrives behind me and huffs impatiently while I search for my keys. I make her wait. I do not give her an inch, knowing she would happily take a yard, the lonely old crone. I am sure she means to coincide with me on the doorstep sometimes, just to see what I may give up.

  Anyway, I begin walking up the stairs when I hear her whisper behind me, “Miserable cow.”

  I am not a bad person. I tell myself that it doesn’t matter if I don’t interact with the human race. What difference might it make if I speak to an old woman and stop being so unapproachable?

  I get inside my flat and nothing can stop the tears. They come freely and fall down my face. I don’t make a sound; I don’t want people to know I feel. Feeling only gets me hurt. I fall on the floor and rest against the door for who knows how long. Her words hurt.

  Chapter Three

  Jules

  One week since Ted…

  I am on the corner again, this time in the pouring rain. It’s pretty miserable and I have no idea what I am doing here. I really don’t. The sewers are bubbling up and stink, I can barely see three feet in front of me and drowned rat is hardly my best look. Cats and dogs it ain’t; pianos, buses and lorries don’t even cover this. It’s torrential, it’s reminiscent of the floods of 2007, and it’s entirely reflective of my moribund state.

  The splashes falling at my feet are so pronounced, they are like drops of syrup into hot milk. I count them to pass the time and it distracts me for a while. The entire area of pavement is overflowing with this rain. I don’t think, in the year or so I have been stood here, it has ever been this badly bucketing it down at this precise time of day, on this particular day of the week. This is eating into my plans and I feel, a bit lost.

  The hood on my heavy black mackintosh is pulled up over my head and passing objects, whether human or otherwise, form a definite blur. I lift my head occasionally if someone walks close by but nobody with any sense is going to bother coming out in these conditions, not unless they are demented like me. Water is starting to seep in through the seams of my coat, under the armpits and at the neck. I will be drenched through to the skin within no time. It’s an unkind day, matched only by my horrid mood.

  I am not going to get my hug today.

  Images flash through my mind; men I brought into my home I didn’t know from Adam; a man I loved who betrayed me. My lip trembles and I will it to stop. This is all becoming hateful. I know it is. I can’t keep existing and not living. It’s horrible. But the person who gave me the window into happiness left and didn’t return and I have no idea how to be a good person. It hurts so much. He was
there, then the next minute, gone.

  I look down at the floral Wellington boots I am wearing and I hate them. Damn the little red flowers decorating the white rubber. Why am I doing all this? What is this all about? Why can’t I manage a normal life? I know why and it is going to catch up with me. I feel it. I even consider going up to the homeless man who’s standing in front of Sainsbury’s and asking him for a hug. Just a hug. Anything. A smile. A word or two from someone who doesn’t think I am lonely, sad, weird, cold, afraid or just downright frigid. I know people at work talk about me behind my back and I hate it. I am on the edge of despair here and I know it won’t be long before I implode again. I had a nervous breakdown not so long ago and I went to hospital.

  I look at my watch and find it is 3.14p.m. I consider giving up and going home when two feet pull up right next to mine. The rain stops and I consider I have slipped into a dream. They will disappear in a few moments and leave. Everything will be back to normal again. But moments pass and they are still there.

  “You are going to catch your death out here.”

  His voice is scratchy and coarse. I determine he is a local from his accent. I raise my eyes and through the haze, I see he’s holding a large fisherman’s umbrella that shelters the both of us. He’s wearing a green raincoat the colour of pond water and all I see is the vague outline of a tall man. His presence aggravates me and I do not know how to respond. He’s questioning me and I don’t like that.

  “What do you want?” I wish he would just leave.

  “I come by the bookies every Saturday… the one on the corner across the street there. My dad likes the horses and we always meet for a flutter and a pint at the pub next door. It’s not done these days, is it? But we don’t care. We do it anyway.”