The Headmaster's Office

I push my the palms of my hands into my eye sockets, relishing the combination of suction and warmth around my eyes. The pressure of my knuckles on my brow-bone forces a type of calm into my brain and, after this pause, I resume staring, disappointed but somehow unsurprised, at my phone. The voice of the caller still whips around my mind,

“It’s about Isla. She got into a fight with another girl. Can you come in?”

We sit, side-by-side, a mother and her daughter in silence. Isla fidgets in her seat, her legs, covered by black tights (themselves covered with holes, ladders and gravel - the remnants of a playground scuffle), swing loosely. The toes of her shoes graze the floor with each lank movement. Her hair, which was in a neat bun when I last saw her, is half pulled out - curls and fluff poke from the top of her head and edges, that were once slick, frizz in a faux-halo around her face. Her cheeks are red. Her eyes are down. She is scared.

The hallway waiting area outside of the Headmaster’s Office has not changed in 20 years. I feel certain, as an all too familiar sweat creeps down my back, that this green chair with its bobbled cushions and cracked arms is the same chair I sat in next to my own mother years ago. The off-white walls opposite have surely been painted since I was last here, and yet they remain as stained and scuffed as I remember. The carpeted floor, although worn and greyed by a thousand footsteps, is the only notable difference: the brown leaf pattern that met my teenage gaze has been replaced since I last sat here.

A bell rings. Not immediately, but quickly, the sound of giggles, shrieks and footsteps fills the hallway. I feel Isla tense beside me and notice that my heartbeat is suddenly heavier in my chest. The laughter of children, even teenagers, is usually relaxing, but as this laughter gets closer I feel my own anxiety (and that of my daughter) increase. A sharp intake of breath as ten to fifteen children storm towards us. Time slows to an awful crawl as their eyes scan my face and scramble to recognise me. Isla does not look up. I make eye contact with each child, finally able to be defiant and confident in the face of teenage judgement. This is the worst place for the Headmaster’s office to be, I think to myself, and not for the first time.

Isla’s face reddens. I want to put my hand on her knee or arms around her shoulders, but know that any physical comfort I could give would only add to the shame and embarrassment she is feeling. “It’s ok,” I whisper knowing that, for her at least, it isn’t. There is nothing else I can say. After a five minute eternity, a second bell rings and relieves the tension. The glances have passed, voices and footsteps fade away, silence and my own breathing are all that I can hear. 

“So,” the sound is only half a word as it leaves my lips, “what happened?” 

“Mum,” she whispers. I force myself to look at her, unsure of what I will see. The look on my Mother’s face, that first time outside of the Headmaster’s office, is at the forefront of my mind: weary, angry, disappointed. Even Dad says I have my Mother’s face and, knowing myself, I know that today is no exception. I lift and lower my eyebrows, hoping this movement will soften my face. Our eyes meet and I see myself reflected back to me. Her hair, her pride, undone by the battles of the day. Her eyes, teary and tired. Her face, red with shame and anger. 

“It’s ok,” I smile. I smile hoping to break the tension and to stop my mother appearing on my face. “Does he always keep you waiting this long?” 

“I don’t know,” Isla shrugs, “he probably does it on purpose.”

“Probably.” I agree and we both laugh-snort and shake our heads, “the ceiling didn’t feel this low when I went to school here,” I think out loud.

“Didn’t Granny beat you, that first time you got called to the Headmaster’s office?” Isla avoids my gaze; she knows the answer.

“Not just the first time,” I shrug and then laugh, “I got into a lot of trouble when I was your age.”

Now the silence is mine. I don’t tell her that I was always in trouble. In trouble at school for my attitude, talking back, my hair, taking on the bullies and the teachers. In trouble at home for the trouble at school, for being untidy, moody and loud. My daughter doesn’t need to know that her mother was a “trouble-maker” whose mother begged her to fit in. Instead, I smile and make an attempt at reassurance.

“Granny and I are similar in a lot of ways,” I finally put my arm around her shoulders, “but not like that. I hope…” my words trail off and Isla rolls my arm away.

“No one could ever be as strict as Granny,” a smile creeps onto her lips, “not even you!”

There is a smell that accompanies the waiting, a mixture of furniture polish, hot dust and something like feet. It is instantly recognisable and now, as we resume our silent sitting, I feel its heavy tickle in my nostrils. I breathe heavily through my nose, forcing it out and in, eager to remove it from it but also to hold it again in my lungs. It is familiar and comforting, like baking bread or freshly ground coffee. The balls of dust, some small and some not, that seemed to gather around the radiator are still there and I recognise them as the source of the smell. The mother in me wants so sweep them up and tidy them away, when I was thirteen I just wanted to blow them and watch them float up and then land lazily back where they started - achieving nothing. Both then and now, I am frozen into my seat and only the Headmaster can give me the permission I need to stand and move.

The door to the left of us creaks open, “ENTER,” a voice from within commands.

Rising to my feet, I reach for Isla’s hand and clasp it within mine. “It’s ok,” I whisper once more as we walk hand-in-hand into the office. The door closes behind us.