Borderline

THE BACKGROUND

Excerpt from JANE’s old diary, APRIL 1985.

It no longer matters if I’m a failed teacher.

Now the worst has happened, what’s left to fear?

So, here I am. Living with one of life’s great paradoxes. If my body has betrayed me by filling my lungs with unwanted cells, my mind is super charged. Where once I trudged through life, now I have a purpose. The way I move, speak and hear things, the way others respond to me, feels different. As if I’ve been transformed!

If only the knowledge had come another way.

***

Today, I was conscious of my stilettos tapping along the grey-green terrazzo floor of the school’s main building. They sounded like staccato beats playing out to a life of disappointment. Brenda, my best friend, once described them as my only concession to vanity.

The interesting thing is my declining lungs haven’t affected my sense of smell. I was aware of something mothy clinging to the school which I suspect all the cleaning agents in the world would fail to successfully mask.

How often I’ve trodden these well-worn corridors. Every so often, the walls curve into the odd alcove featuring faded photographs of former students holding up long-forgotten trophies.

Ahead of me, the usual gaggle of girls were hovering outside the headteacher’s door, no doubt waiting to be reprimanded for some minor misdemeanour. On seeing me, they parted like the red sea. That’s a first! Normally, I’d have had to squirm my way through.

This new me feels different. No longer dry-mouthed on approaching the classroom door, I was almost disappointed to find my nemesis, Stell Hartless, wasn’t on the other side to greet me with that air of heavily cultivated youthful disdain. My much younger Head of Department informed me earlier that Stell, a clever pupil who torments anyone she sees as weak, including me, was off sick with glandular fever.

Delightful thought! For once I didn’t have to look her in the eye and catch a glimpse of the troubled soul that surely lurks beneath the showy façade. I’ve always wanted to strip away the hard-as-nails veneer and expose the real person within. Someone owes it to the school and humanity to deconstruct her and rebuild her piece by piece like a Meccano set. Alas, not me.

My eyes lit on Nicky, a student who wants to learn, perched on the edge of her seat, as if waiting for a bomb to drop. Stell has always derived a perverse pleasure from tormenting Nicky over her cleft lip. She’s in there like a rocket any chance she gets. I discovered this when I caught the goddess of spite drawing a cartoon featuring the lip in a grotesque parody of how it really looks on the blackboard.

Not wanting to make things worse for Nicky, I wiped the image away without comment. Now, I wish I’d spoken up!

***

“Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.”

They never fail to disappoint, do they?

Upon my entrance, one of Stell’s followers glibly started the familiar classroom chant, albeit a little half-heartedly (it didn’t have quite the same resonance without the ringleader being there to cheer her on). However, I’m no longer willing to let a minor setback flatten me.

“Settle down,” My once timorous tone had been replaced by an authoritative one.

They did as requested, slightly chastened. As I handed out sets of well-thumbed Romeo and Juliet plays, thirty or so faces were raised expectantly waiting for the lesson to commence.

But I paused.

“Before we start, there’s something I need to address. What does that mean? Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down. Tell me.”

Another of Stell’s followers, whose name is as insubstantial as her character, said.

“It’s from the Weeble toys, you must have heard of them, Miss. They wobble but never fall down.”

More sniggers but they quickly dried up.

“I’m aware of where the name comes from. What I want to know is why you feel the need to repeat it ad infinitum, rather than learning something useful which is why you’re here.”

“It’s just a lark, Miss.”

“I assume you are referring to my head tremor. If you paid a bit more attention, you’d realise I can’t help it. It’s one of the symptoms of multiple sclerosis.” It seemed ironic telling the class this, considering my most recent and terminal diagnosis.

“What is multiple sclerosis?” someone asked.

“It’s a condition that affects the brain and spinal cord. There are a number of symptoms, but it often causes fatigue; or in my case, tremors.”

“Will you die from its Miss?”

“No, I’m not likely to die from it. It’s usually a slow progressing condition. It’s different for everyone. It’s possible to be in remission for several months, sometimes much longer.”

A truly ironic conversation, but there it was.

I let my breath flow over me like gently lapping waves.

“What you call having a laugh is actually cruel. There’s nothing funny about laughing at people’s disabilities or how a person looks. Just because someone is a little different from you doesn’t make them less than you.”

By the time the lesson ended, I like to think the students had learnt something more than the intended lesson plan. Shakespeare has much to teach us, but this made a nice change.

After class, the girls trooped out to their next lesson. One or two smiled at me shyly – - as if seeing me for the first time.

Nicky was lingering, packing up her books.

“Mrs Grange was pleased with your last three essays,” I told her. “I’m going to recommend you get put up a stream, at least in English. Your history teacher is pleased with your progress too. I think you can handle more advanced studies. If you put your mind to it, you could have a good future ahead of you.”

“Thank you. That means a lot, Miss Weeble. I hate being in a group where some of the students aren’t bothered about doing well. I think I must have done badly in the assessments when I joined this school. It’s made me feel a failure. Someone once said I was borderline. At best.”

“No one should be told they are borderline,” I told her firmly. “And eleven is rather young to be judging a pupil’s academic abilities in my opinion. Much can change in the intervening years before you leave school. If it’s any comfort, my father told me I was borderline in everything except academic ability.”

Your father doesn’t sound great, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Say all you like. It’s the truth. I was frightened of him, but I didn’t want to acknowledge how much it affected me.”

I thought of my downtrodden mother, the tussles between my father and my brother who had fled at the earliest opportunity to make a better life for himself in Australia. I thought of my other brother Bill, the only person I’d truly loved, who’d escaped my father’s grip by honouring his country and flying through the clouds in his Hurricane, keeping us safe during the storms of the London Blitz. Only Brenda knows about that.

“Anyway… just make the most of every moment. The education system may not be perfect, but it’s the one we’ve got. If you keep on like you are, you have a chance of a better life.”

“You sound like you won’t be with us much longer.” A good pupil always scratches beyond the surface when searching for answers. “I thought you said MS was a slow-progressing condition, Miss.”

“It is, but who knows what the future holds?”

EXCERPTS FROM BRENDA’S DIARY, MAY 1985.

I still can’t accept I’m about to lose my best friend! Jane is a good twenty years older than me, but the age gap and the differences in our characters have only enhanced our friendship. While she never had children, I got pregnant at the drop of a hat and had Jenny (who she’s never met) and was briefly married. As you already know, it was a relief to get divorced a few years later.

***

Maybe it was just as well that by the time Stell had recovered from glandular fever and returned to school, Jane was no longer teaching there.

Jane had asked me not to tell anyone about her cancer until “you absolutely have to.” The other teaching staff had their suspicions, of course, especially when Jane suddenly stopped smoking. Jane had always been a heavy smoker, and it was an activity we shared together, both in and out of school. We knew it was addictive, even harmful, but we cocooned our patterns around it. Jane amazed me when she told me she had shared her first cigarette with her middle brother in a bombed-out church, of all places, during the war, at the tender age of eight! I smoked my first cigarette at sixteen.

***

I’d managed to find a hospice for Jane as she couldn’t bear the idea of dying in hospital. My heart was silently breaking as I sat beside her in the final days. Clasping a tiny old doll to her chest, she told me it was a replica of the one she’d knitted as a child and given as a good luck charm for her older brother when he flew his plane on war missions. She must have kept it in the pocket of the blue cardigan she often wore; it made her look like a war orphan and was a source of amusement at school.

She looked so small and frail in that bed dragging out each breath, but the nurses reassured me the morphine had taken effect, and there was no pain. Her face had taken on a waxy hue, but to me she was beautiful. Her eyes, now the colour of faded cornflowers, shone when she smiled. Her hands were delicate like the rest of her and right up to the end, I felt an answering pressure to my own.

When it came to saying our final goodbyes I told her she was the best friend I’d ever had. I said I’d always loved her and would never forget her. How inadequate such words sound!

“My only regret is not to have been a better teacher,” she said sadly.

“You had your moments,” I said.

“Only in the last weeks at our school.”

I asked her if there was anything I could do for her and was surprised when she said there was. In spite of her breathing difficulties, her words were distinct. I leaned close, not wanting to miss anything.

“I’ve no family to speak of. I’ve left all my worldly possessions, such as they are, to you. I never forget kind deeds. I never forget anything.”

Jane had already told me she wanted me to cherish the wartime doll which I promised to do. Then she indicated two sealed letters in her bedside locker. When I retrieved them, the names Nicky and Stell were written with a fountain pen in a spidery script on the envelopes. “Please make sure they get them. I know one is likely to scoff, or even throw it away, but it’s worth a try. Even with the worst students, merit can be found if you know where to look. I can only hope some good comes from them.”

She was still thinking of others towards the end.

Brenda’s diary, June 1985

Not surprisingly, Nicky received Jane’s letter with tears in her eyes.

“I’ll treasure it,” she said. “Miss Weeble really helped me.”

Fearing she’d slight my friend with caustic words, I found myself acting against Jane’s other wish, by not handing out the letter addressed to Stell. Jane’s memory was too precious to be trashed by an ignorant schoolgirl.

Not long after this, I heard that Stell’s family were leaving the area, and she would be attending another school. At least, Nicky would be free from the cruel taunts about her lip.

***

I realise I’ve forgotten to write about the day before Stell left the school when she careered into me in the corridor.

“Hey! Watch where you’re going!” I snapped.

“Sorry Miss.” There was something brittle about her.

Suddenly feeling guilty about not honouring Jane’s wish, I almost told her that Jane had left a letter for her to read before she died, but the words stuck like a craw in my throat.

Instead, I asked her the name of her new school.

“Heathcliff Manor. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it.” The old archness had returned.

“Indeed, I have.” That took the wind out of her sails a bit. I omitted to mention I knew someone who attended the school very well indeed.

“Well, all the best.” I spoke through gritted teeth; glad I’d never have the misfortune of having to come across this unpleasant pupil again.

In the meantime, Nicky was moved up into another set where she was doing well. I knew her progress would have made Jane happy.

BRENDA’S DIARY, OCTOBER 1985

After visiting Jane’s grave earlier this week, I’m now asking myself why I acted so foolishly. I should never have involved my daughter. It was irresponsible. I’ll hopefully get a chance to rectify things when Jenny comes home this weekend. I’ll just say my asking her to do the prank was one of my sillier ideas and not to go ahead with it. I’ve already posted Jane’s letter to Stell. Hopefully, it will go some way towards making amends.

STELL’S DIARY, EARLY OCTOBER 1985

I still say this school is so much better than my old one. The girls here have class, money and style. There’s a tennis court and a swanky pool and a state-of-the-art gymnasium. It shows my old school up for the dive it was. One of the less popular girls has taken me under her wing. I had her in stitches when I mimicked the mannerisms of the batty old Latin teacher here.

STELL’S DIARY, LATE OCTOBER 1985

I received a letter in the post today. The envelope was written in a weird spidery scrawl. I was about to open it, but then the gong sounded for the evening meal, so I tucked it away in my dorm drawer to be read later.

This evening when the other girls were together in the common room, I rushed up to the dorm to be alone. Outside, the wind was howling and tearing at the branches of a nearby tree. This chill came over me which had nothing to do with the weather. That was I noticed a small figure in a pale blue cardigan tapping its nails along the windowpane. Terrified, I tried to pretend it wasn’t happening but then I saw my own lipstick had been used to draw this gross lip on the mirror…

I think I must have passed out.

The tittering began one evening while I was lying in bed. It started gradually, then grew into a high-pitched whine. Then came the pillows. Like vultures flying at me from all directions, pulverising me until I cried, and pleaded for them to stop.

From then on, it’s been considered fair game to hide my things, get me into trouble with the teachers and constantly mock my accent as common. I wrote begging mum to let me come home, but she said my schooling was costing a fortune and I should be grateful to have a chance for a superior education.

STELL’S DIARY, November 1985

The girls have been tormenting me for weeks now, but Weeble’s ghost (if that’s what it was) has yet to make another appearance. Perhaps it thinks I’ve been punished enough.

With every passing day, I have reason to regret my behaviour towards Nicky and all the others I mocked.

I’m not sure how I’m going to get past all this, but some kind of serious changes on my part are needed.

I’d almost forgotten to mention about that weird letter. It was unsigned and had one sentence written in Latin.

It said: “Ut sementem faceris ita metes.”

I think I’ll have to ask the Latin teacher what it means.

THE CONCLUSION

Excerpt from Jenny’s diary, June 2020

I’ve got to get used to the fact that Mum’s gone forever.

In her last weeks, she seemed confused and haunted by the past. She talked of having behaved in a way that was unprofessional and had led to the mental collapse of a former student. I think she must have been referring to Stell Hartless, a girl who attended my school in the 80’s. It’s a long time ago, but I actually thought better of carrying out the prank. At least, in full. In the end, I only wrote in lipstick on Stell’s dormitory mirror while she was in the bathroom.

Clearing out my mother’s belongings, I found a blue cardigan which looked like a raggedy war relic. Inside the pocket was a perfectly preserved knitted doll in the form of a pilot. I wonder what it means.