Dreaming to Distraction

The morning sun of September's fourth day came bright through the classroom window. Its light held a promise, but I knew it would only deliver the ghost of summer warmth.

I stood at the front of my empty classroom, inspecting the product of my summer toils. I had complete confidence in my seating plan; the desk layout carefully planned to avoid bottlenecks; the children I knew to be disruptive artfully insulated from one another. Each desk tidy held precisely the correct number of supplies: just enough to prevent wandering trips to neighbouring desks in search of a good eraser, but not plentiful enough to encourage waste or carelessness. Each pencil stood sharp and ready. I should know, I had honed each one with meticulous precision.

Colour leapt from the back wall in the form of vividly painted spheres. Menacing Mercury, vibrant Venus, and stylish Saturn hung in a solar system suspended in swirls of purple and navy. Many of the other staff had complimented me on it, but I knew the true mark of its quality lay in the overheard snippets of jealous staffroom muttering.

Delicate white script painted between Earth and Mars read, take a step into the unknown. My intention had merely been to craft a phrase that might inspire my class, but now I wondered if my subconscious had been guiding my hand.

My eyes drifted up to the worn metal bell on the wall. In a few minutes an electric current would zip through the ancient circuitry and its spindly arm would bring its spherical bludgeon to bear. The start of the school year announced with the violence and insistence of a starved woodpecker.

I wondered how many lives had found their rhythm set within the brisk, tinny beats of that bell. Mine had been lived almost exclusively within its dictatorship. Pupil, trainee, now three years as a full-fledged teacher, each day governed by the bell on the wall.

My mind, as it had many times that summer, ran back to the last time I had heard it ring. The moment when everything had started to go wrong.

*

The last day of the summer term always goes the same way. The children come in casual dress, toys and games under their arms with smiles on their faces. No work is planned for the day. The goal, as much as there is one, is simply to set a golden anchor to sink in their tender memories. You may also be lucky and receive enough cast-off wine in gifts from the parents to sink one of your own come the evening.

Of course, the bonhomie of it becomes frayed around lunchtime. A toy will break, a game lost unjustly. The sun brings everyone too close. You police the rabble with empty threats of punishments to come next year, but any tempers eventually settle again as the promise of the holidays rises with each passing hour.

The bell rings and the children go gaily to their parents. You wait with a smile until their laughter has faded and take a moment to reflect on the year that was, sipping the gifted merlot and tasting the relief of not having to think about the next year for at least two weeks.

Or, that's usually how it goes, on years when Mr Shiloh is not found waiting outside among the parents.

My old English teacher's hair had thinned and was now fully committed to grey. A few more lines had been drawn around his eyes. Yet his face still carried the same warmth and twinkle that had enraptured my teenage self as my desk partner had doodled in the margins and rolled ill-conceived cigarettes using pages from Great Expectations.

- Mr Shiloh! I announced his name with the unfamiliar loudness borne out of genuine surprise. What a pleasure to run into you.

- Erm, yes, I suppose it is... I'm so sorry, I'm struggling to place you, were you one of my students?

- Jane Devine, I continued confidently. You taught me English when I was sixteen.

- Ah yes, Jane, of course, how could I forget... well, you know what it is like now I suppose.

Mr Shiloh gestured at the school buildings.

- Though I suppose you don't yet have your ex-students come up to you and make you feel so old.

I laughed courteously in the absence of knowing quite what to say. Fortunately, I was spared choosing the next remark by an interruption from Imogen, one of my class stars.

- These are for you, gramps.

Imogen pressed a tiny fistful of freshly yanked daisies into his palm and then ran away at full pelt. Mr Shiloh smiled.

- Or your grandchildren doing much the same thing, he observed wryly.

I laughed again.

- Yes, I've got it all ahead of me... I had no idea you were Imogen’s grandfather; I’ve not seen you at pick-up before.

- Being grandfather to that little cub is my very favourite thing to be guilty of. I’m looking forward to seeing her more now that I’m only teaching part-time.

- She’s an excellent student, you’ll be pleased to hear. And I’m glad you’re still teaching... erm, I don't want to come across awkward, but I would love to take this opportunity to really thank you. You were my absolute favourite teacher, you made such a difference with me.

Mr Shiloh blinked and smiled politely.

- That's very kind of you to say, and it makes it all the more embarrassing that I couldn't place you just now. Do you remember what I did that was so memorable?

- It was, well, so many things… Your enthusiasm, the way you made everything so fun. ... And... well… I wrote this short story about a girl who swaps places with another girl in a refugee camp. You told me it showed real potential. You made me want to be an author that day.

- Did I really?... Gods, I wish I could remember the piece.

He shook his head.

- Time will rob a bad memory of everything I'm afraid... but I do know that I only say that when presented with very special work. Do you still write?

- Not really these days, I said, giving my own gesture toward the school.

Mr Shiloh followed my hand and his eyes settled on a point beyond my shoulder. I tried not to read the disappointment I thought I saw on his face.

- A pity, he said at last. It seems nothing can run more quickly than our dreams.

I tried to smile but wasn't sure I succeeded.

Imogen would interrupt us again before we could speak further. This time more permanently, as her mother was rounding up the troops to leave and begin their summer.

Mr Shiloh smiled and bid me farewell as Imogen insisted on riding his shoulders. I waved exaggeratedly to her and kept my cheerful pretence until the last child had gone home. I then retreated into the shade of my classroom, washed up my coffee mug, and splashed some wine into it.

It tasted different to how it had last year.

*

- What do you think he meant by it?

It was two weeks later, and I was visiting my mother who had just returned from a solo break in Malaga. I had promised myself I would not discuss my encounter with Mr Shiloh with her, so naturally I brought it up within twenty minutes.

- Sounds like he was just making conversation, she replied distractedly as she put the kettle on and hunted through the cupboard for her favourite mug.

- But about dreams getting away from us? Sure, I wanted to be an author when I was a teenager, but I'm a teacher now, I thought he'd be proud of that.

- I'm sure he was, love, but he'll know better than most that a teenage fantasy doesn't often end up being realistic.

- What do you mean a teenage fantasy? I could have pursued writing.

My mother looked through the window and made a face I knew well; an expression where you could see scales balancing somewhere behind her eyes, carefully weighing whether her next words were better left unsaid.

- I’m sure you could have.

- You don’t think that’s true, do you?

- Of course I do, I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t. But aren’t you glad you went for teaching instead? I think it’s a much better fit for you.

- I could have written though, Mr Shiloh said my work had real potential.

My mother made the same face as before.

- What grade did you get in English again?

- I got a “B”.

- Well then, I’m sure your writing had lots of potential, but I think you picked a better path with teaching.

- You know grades don’t mean anything, right? Shirley Jackson got kicked out of college.

- Well, you best not share that opinion with your school lest they agree and put you out of a job. Now, one lump or two?

- I don’t want sugar, I said impatiently. And you know what I mean, lots of great writers didn’t do well at school. It’s more about their experiences, their motivation, wanting to say something interesting.

Again, my mother pulled the same face. 

- What? Are you really saying I have nothing of interest to say? Thanks a lot.

My mother paused for longer than I would like.

- I’m saying that being a writer requires a lot of… vision. You have to have real ideas, and the determination to see them through.

She snatched up a paperback from the countertop.

- You see this, I read it on holiday. It says in the back there are thirty-two books by the same author, and I’ll bet each one is just as big a scream as this one. That takes a lot of doing.

- I don’t think Jackie Collins did well in school either, I said drily.

- Maybe not, but you took a year out after university to work on your novel and I never saw you writing. I only ever saw you binging junk TV.

- I think if I had written something it would be better than a Jackie Collins novel.

My mother shrugged

- We all find our place in the world. I think Jackie is a great storyteller, and I think you’re a great teacher. You put blood, sweat and tears to get where you are, and you should be proud enough of that. I stopped caring what fuddy-duddy teachers thought the day I left school. Could we please have our tea now?

*

That evening I opened a blank document on my laptop and typed out Chapter One and underlined it. A few hours later I went to bed.

The next day I took my laptop to school with me. I was beginning work on setting up my classroom for September and told myself that an empty classroom would be the perfect place to focus once I had taken care of the tasks I planned to complete. I ended up making such great progress with the room that the sun was setting when I finally decided to call it quits. My arms were aching, so I settled for trying to plan out my novel while taking a bath rather than trying to get any words down that night.

A week later my lesson planning was taking shape, and my classroom was really starting to shine. I hadn’t managed much more on the novel but that was understandable given how much time and energy I had invested on the space mural. The next week would be different though, I had a cabin booked in the woods, no work to do, no internet. Just me and the pages ahead.

After I returned from my holiday, I called a therapist.

*

Caroline saw me at her home. The first session had been about her background as a therapist, completing some forms, and getting to know each other. I’d had to wait a further week to actually discuss what I needed to. Term would start in just a few days.

Caroline looked down at the notes she had made on her kitchen table.

- So, to confirm with you what I’m hearing; you want to become a novelist, but you find teaching too restrictive to pursue this?

- That’s right. I mean, I did have a week recently where I had time, but I couldn’t get anything done. I could feel the clock ticking and knew that window would be my only chance. Even Stephen King can’t crank out a novel in a week. When term begins, well, I’ll be lucky if I can surface again before Christmas.

Caroline paused for a moment.

- You’re still very young.

- Erm, thank you?

Caroline smiled.

- I mean, is there not a simple solution to consider here?

- How do you mean?

- Leave teaching. Orient your life around your passion. How do you feel when I say that?

- Thrilled, I said, swallowing a lump of terror. But it isn’t that simple. I have rent to pay and I’m trying to save a deposit. I’d like to have the time to meet someone, to date, have a social life. And there’s the children too, it wouldn’t be fair to leave them days before term is due to start.

- Could you start making a plan? Leave in the next six months perhaps?

- I could… I could do that… but I’ve also worked so hard on preparing the year, and I’ve invested so much in becoming a teacher. My course tutor told me they weren’t sure I was going to make it, but here I am. This year I got the best reading sub-level progression in the school. Ofsted inspected us and rated my lessons as outstanding; no-one else got that. I feel I’ve really arrived as a teacher.

Caroline didn’t say anything. I sensed she was waiting for me to continue but I wanted her to speak.

- It sounds as though you might be conflicted, she offered with a hint of reluctance.

- I just don’t want to wake up in twenty years and not have done what I really wanted to do.

- And you are sure that thing is writing?

- Yes, I want to make the most of my potential. I feel I’ve taken a wrong turn and trapped myself in the safe option.

- And now you’re not sure if you can change direction?

- That’s right. I want to, but I’m not sure that’s how life works as you get older.

Caroline’s expression fleetingly reminded me of the one my mother liked to wear.

- I think… we should speak again next week, and in the meantime, you could set aside some time to reflect on what you would like the next three years of your life to look like.

- Another session would be helpful, I agreed. But term starts next week; I don’t know if I will be able to find time.

- I work evenings and Saturdays. But, of course, it’s up to you.

- No, this is important; I will find the time.

There was the flash of my mother’s face again.

*

September fell. Its cold, inevitable, light pouring against the tarnished speckles of the bell on the wall. My new class and I both awaiting the ring that would bring us together for a year of learning, discovery, fretful school trips, late night marking, parent drama, and plenty of staffroom gossip.

I began pacing, my eyes shifting every few seconds to the phrase on the back wall.

Take a step into the unknown…

How could I spend even a week teaching with those words staring back at me? Mr Shiloh may as well have been standing there shaking his head, muttering about what a pity it was. I made up my mind, finally.

I scrambled for my laptop, fired up my email and let my fingers loose on the keys. I knew when that bell rang it would be too late. I would lose my nerve.

Dear Paul

I am sorry to write this on the first day of term, but I am afraid I must tender my resignation for entirely personal reasons.

I will be committed to ensuring an orderly handover and smooth transition for the children and will be happy to work up to the autumn half-term. We can discuss further detail later.

Thank you for this opportunity and all of the support you have shown me.

Sincerely

Jane

I went to click send, my cursor hovering over the button that would change my life.

Then the bell rang.

I heard my class lining up and I went out to greet them. The email would remain on my screen for my first lesson before I saved it in drafts for a later that never came. I saw Caroline for another two months, on each occasion insisting that we discuss fretful school trips, late night marking, parent drama, or staffroom gossip. I tried never to look Mr Shiloh in the eye whenever he came to collect Imogen.

I realised that you don’t just wake up in twenty years without doing what you really wanted. You do that the very next morning and just kept on going. It gets easier. Life will always find a way to distract you and I can’t even say it was at all unpleasant. Though, I suppose I never found out what the alternative felt like.

My mother was right, we all find our place in this world. But sometimes, when I go to sleep at night, I dream of the world where I wasn’t too afraid to try and prove her wrong.