Rhinoceros 7
One or two of the Greenlands staff, perhaps steeped in the culture of labels, had diagnosed their Head as having borderline autistic spectrum difficulties, or some form of attention deficit syndrome. He was not a man to sit in the staffroom and crack a joke over pasta salad. But he might, and frequently did, email staff with a concern about the slackness of duty cover outside the gym. There was also a view that it was necessary for him to have a certain proportion of staff always in some form of Formal Procedures in order to maintain the carrot-and-stick machine of Greenlands School.
So when the Head encountered Alan in the corridor and asked to meet him at the end of the school day, Alan was, at least, very clear where he stood in the Head’s scheme of things. There was no grey area of uncertainty for Alan; it’s true, this meant no surprises, but also very little hope of escaping any pre-planned doom.
Alan wearily and warily made his way to the Head’s office. It was situated at the front of the school, by the reception, mostly so that he could conduct blitzkrieg assaults on the office staff armed with sheaves of statistics in need of a spreadsheet. But also, Alan suspected, so that he could sit in relative peace and contemplative silence as far away as possible from the maladjusted who provided him with his employment.
The other thing that annoyed Alan was the tidiness of the Head’s office. This always struck Alan as suspicious. Leaders should never have the time to clear their desks. This wasn’t a theory backed up by any empirical research, but it was a hunch Alan placed reverently in the category of fundamental beliefs, alongside: ADHD does exist, but in most cases is exacerbated by environment; teenagers will always drink and smoke so we should only worry about those with addictive personalities; teaching isn’t a quantifiable concept, but a complex interaction of relationships that sustain whatever orthodoxy is currently in vogue; and, giving eighty-two boys the label ‘EBD’ and then sticking them all in the same building every day is a strategy doomed to failure. How absurd are our ways of organising society. Alan had always presumed that if he had bothered to read Sartre he would have been able to call himself an existentialist.
He arrived at the Head’s neat and hushed den in a state of philosophical reflection and other-worldliness, though still watchful in his tiredness.
“Go in, go in,” the Head quickly directed Alan without quite looking at him. He was, as usual, rushing up and down, fussing over the supply sheet, the staff calendar, an argument over which boy had kicked a door in yesterday and a fax to Transport Services to cancel a taxi.
The Greenlands machine constantly needed adjusting, tightening and lubricating by the Head to forestall, a catastrophic breakdown.
Alan sat resignedly in the chair furthest from the Head’s large swivel item. There was ample time to scan, once again, the family photos (‘How on earth did he get around to procure children?’ Alan always thought), pupil’s work, safeguarding information and certificates. He knew them all by heart. The Head slipped in and quietly closed the door. “A modicum of privacy, I think.” Ominous, thought Alan.
The Head sat and placed his hands in prayer, looking not at Alan but at an apparent version of Alan sat on his shoulder. “Alan, Alan, yes.” He removed his pristine glasses and polished them. Alan waited. The Head took a gulp of air, as though preparing for an arduous dive into murky waters.
“I am hoping, Alan, that you have reflected on our previous conversation when we – ah – outlined a stratagem for progressing your – ah – skills and practices in the field of English teaching.”
Alan waited. The Head continued to consult with the Alan poised on Alan’s shoulder. “I hope you will agree with me, Alan, that we are in a situation of – ah – stasis. And this, by implication, is not, intrinsically, a situation contusive to progress.”
Alan attempted to paraphrase in his head. But the Head went on. “In consequence, Alan, and in accordance with the Local Authority proceedings – “ the Head patted a ring-bound folder open on his desk reassuringly, “ – I am duty bound – and let’s remember that the process is the driving force here – duty bound to move us on to the next level of – ah – “ and here the Head pretended to read the folder for the first time, “ – here we are, Stage One Formal Capabilities. Yes.”
Clearly this required a response. “Presumably you have the evidence to back this up.”
The Head looked sharply at Alan’s shoulder. “I might refer you, Alan, to your last three lesson observations – “
“Conducted by you.”
“ – lesson observations which – and again my position, onerous as it is, beholds me to personally see this through – which demonstrate quite clearly – and don’t forget, Alan, that my judgements are moderated by – ah – OFSTED – quite clearly that there is a consistent tendency of teaching and learning to remain in the overall area of – ah – inadequate.” The Head glared at Alan’s shoulder as though daring it to challenge.
Alan felt the need to hold onto his dignity, like a piece of wreckage from a sunken ship. “Still, I think I am entitled to a second opinion.”
A flicker of shock passed across the Head’s face, as though someone had sabotaged his favourite toy. “I see, I see. I was hoping we would see this through with the minimum of fuss, but there we are. I am, of course, bound to remain strictly within the remit of the process outlined here, whatever – ah – obstacles are laid in my path. I will – and this is right and natural – I will consult and propose, Alan. Yes, consult and propose.”
He turned to his Local Authority folder for validation. Alan could see a flowchart on one of the open pages, and the Head tapped his finger at a box about a quarter of the way down the page. Presumably, the bottom of the page was dismissal, or rot in hell, or something.
“Shall I consult, too?” Alan asked. “With my union, I mean.”
“That is entirely within your personal remit and – scope – of possible actions. No pun intended.” Alan could believe that. “I cannot of course comment as to do so would be construed as having an opinion.”
God forbid such a thing occurring, thought Alan.
“As I have already stated, Alan, I shall consult and propose…”
This was apparently the conclusion of the conversation. The window of the Head’s office faced a path around the perimeter of the school buildings, fringed by trees, many of them stripped bare of branches used as weapons by the pupils, and out of the corner of his eye Alan saw Ryon slowly plod along the path. And as he disappeared out of sight he raised a hand, and then one stubby, yellowed, middle finger, and Alan, despite himself, had to smile.
***
The next few days offered little by way of disaster, but neither did they offer resolution or enlightenment. Alan saw Ryon on two further occasions, both of which presented him with a crushing sense of inconclusiveness. Exactly the same questions rotated in his mind – a kind of Powerpoint Presentation on repeat – and it seemed that without Alan asserting himself to take what he assumed would be an almighty risk this situation would remain in perpetuity. The Head was presumably in a state of consultation and therefore avoided both Alan and his alter ego on his shoulder. The staffroom went about its small talk and cyclical moans about the usual pupils. Alan traipsed rhythmically through the routine of his life. Late winter had settled into a pattern of wet, breezy days. Lampposts rang as they swayed to and fro, twigs flew from manically waving trees, and umbrellas threw themselves inside out and were abandoned like shadowy, washed up jellyfish.
Alan drove to work in the dark and returned home in the dark. He had made some efforts to tidy up the flat after an unannounced visit from Annie which, he knew, would become one of her shocked and despairing stories to her friends. She insisted he join her for a drink one evening at the White Lion, a pub they used to frequent in the early days.
Alan became immediately suspicious when he arrived, late, to find Annie without either her balloon-faced appendage or work colleagues (he wasn’t, though, expecting to see Jen again – and he shrugged off a twinge of vain disappointment).
He brought the drinks to a table in one of the Victorian cubby holes and sat opposite Annie, trying to read her face. She seemed able to read faces and body language in seconds, as though everyone carried profuse footnotes around with them. Alan remained blissfully clueless.
“I’ve been talking to few people, Alan.” He wondered which people. Not Robert, certainly, unless he had recently developed the knack of expressing a direct opinion in front of Annie. “We are worried about you.”
“We?” Alan pictured the milling throng of Annie’s social circle, almost as though they were present in the tiny, wood-panelled room, nodding and agreeing with Annie.
“Alan, where is your life going? Look at you. That jacket. You wore it when we met. I used to despair of you when we were together, but now… You’ve reverted to being a child. You leave your flat open to any passing thug, you shamble around like a man twenty years older, judging by your kitchen you won’t eat a thing unless you can phone for it, and what’s this about proceedings at work?”
“Who told you that?”
“Oh, Alan. What’s gone wrong? You used a care, at least a bit.”
“Is this the plan for the evening then? Alan on trial? Annie, all you need is a gavel and a judge’s wig.”
“Don’t be silly. You remember Jen? She liked you at first, but then you went all weird and put her off. You have no idea, Alan. Without someone in your life you seem to decay, lose all sense of direction. Stand up for yourself, Alan. They tell me that Head’s got it in for you. Well he can’t do that. You’re in a Union. Use it. Grow a backbone. You’re a good person, a good teacher; you care about all those hopeless cases you teach – god knows why – so care about yourself.”
There was an intrinsic rightness in Annie’s admonishments, Alan supposed, however irritating her persistence. Alan knew only too well it was useless to argue, anyway. And to save the evening from a dreary tennis game of counterargument Alan vaguely agreed that he would, without quite specifying what, Do Something.
“People do care about you, you know,” Annie said in her soft voice employed when she had successfully won her case. “I happened to notice in the paper, by the way, that there’s a nice job going at that private school in Broomhill. English teacher, 0.8.”
“You happened to be reading the teacher’s job vacancies?” Alan wanted to be angry, but swallowed down the bile and smiled weakly. She probably does read them regularly, anyway.
“It’s got you written all over it. Easy kids, all wanting to learn, normal parents. If you carry on working with lunatics you’ll end up an inmate like them.”
“Greenlands is not an asylum, Annie. It’s a school.”
“A school for psychos. Let someone else bang their head against a wall. Why do you think it has to be you?”
Good question, thought Alan. Why? Not for a noble purpose. He wasn’t on some kind of mission to transform society. Well, maybe when he started, but that streak of idealism soon washed out. No, it was something more prosaic. He slowly drained his pint so he could think. What was so plain to him that others never saw? And he pictured his form: Alix either manically ferreting out trouble or asleep on a desk, Kerin permanently pissed off with school, home, life… and Ryon, the larger than life, looming presence, whether physically there or not. The others no longer turned up (on ‘programmes’ the school called it). These young people bored and angered and irritated him no end, but through all that they still interested him. They mattered, at least for that portion of the working week. And maybe they were not much different to the rest of us. In the game of Monopoly it wasn’t that they had used up their Chance and Community Chest cards; they didn’t get any in the first place. They’d been set up to fail from the start, given a dud hand, stuck on a snakes and ladders board without ladders. But they lived with the rest of us, in the same city. They sat on the same buses, went to the same cinemas, ate at the same Pizza Huts. It was a philosophical point, for Alan. He didn’t believe in the demonisation of people. They were all just people. They did stupid, pathetic, idiotic, crazy things. But then so did the rest of us at times, as Annie frequently liked to point out. And, just like the rest of us, once you’d peeled away the surface layers of bravado, pretence, abuse, smugness, assuredness, threat and indifference, you found the same amorphous object: vulnerability.
***
Then everything changed.
Registration. No Ryon. Nothing unusual there. Another ‘0’ in the register. Someone would turn it into a ‘B’ at some point by delivering a pack of work to Ryon’s house which would never be seen again. But it raised the school’s attendance very slightly. Alan sat and stared. He ought to update that attendance chart. Or perhaps clean the whiteboard. Alan looked at his form room. The Head had recently strode in and glared at the out of date displays and the drawing of a penis on his desk underneath the legend, ‘Porl is gay’. Alan could see he was making a mental list of damning evidence. “Can I help?” Alan had asked, smiling benignly. “A courtesy call, Alan, just a coutesy call.” Well show a bit of courtesy then, you tight-arsed gob-shite, was one of the many things Alan didn’t say.
Still, he should refresh the room. Perhaps it’ll cheer up the boys, Alan thought. And perhaps a pig might hang-glide over Sheffield simultaneously.
Alan almost rose from his chair to search for a roll of backing paper and a stapler, but his mobile rang instead. It was the shrill-voiced Margaret in the office.
“Are you OK to speak, my love? We’ve just had a call from Ryon’s Youth Offending Worker. He’s been in the cells all night. Arrested for breaking and entering. Can you call her back as soon as?”
***
Alan had a free lesson after registration, and he let himself into an unoccupied office to use the phone. There was nothing unusual in this. A collective sense of wearing multiple hats and shared spaces prevailed over special schools in a way that Alan had never encountered in mainstream schools. Alan knew the Youth Offending Team number off by heart.
“Alan, thanks for calling back. Listen, Ryon’s been arrested again, but it’s more serious this time. He was caught in someone’s house, somewhere up Fulwood way, pockets stuffed with money, iPods, that sort of thing. Owner was only at a neighbour’s, returned, stumbled across him, and an almighty scrap took place judging by Ryon’s face. Turns out the owner runs a series of fitness centres, made a lot of money from them. Lifts weights himself. Calls the police, and they take Ryon in. Of course he had a bit of bud on him too, so they’re throwing in drugs for good measure, though I think that’s just to scare him, it won’t stick. But there’s a lot of serious talk of custodial this time. He’s out on bail. Can we hold an emergency meeting at your school?”
“Is he back at home now?”
“Yep. His mum made a show of slagging him off, but that didn’t last long. Said she’d ground him. As if.”
“I know. Is he coming to school?”
“Well, judging by his last words – fuck school, fuck the police, fuck everyone – he may have decided to give it a miss.”
“When’s the case?”
“In court tomorrow, but they’ll probably confirm his details and adjourn for reports.”
“I’d like to go and see him.”
“Feel free, but don’t expect open arms and a cup of tea. I can’t get hold of his social worker. Can you have a go, get a date and time, and get back to me?”
“OK. Er, did any other burglaries come up?”
“Nothing mentioned. But the police did suggest they might be able to pin a few others on him. Clears up some of their crime statistics I guess. Why?”
“Just wondered.”
Alan almost jogged down to the office. He found Margaret dipping a ginger crunch into her tea. “I’m nipping out. I’ve got a free, then it’s break.”
“On a mission, love?” She did this coquettish thing which belied her advanced years, deafness and replacement hip.
“Just a home visit.”
“I hope she’s worth it, duck. I’ll still be here if it doesn’t work out.”
But Alan had already disappeared through the fobbed front door, oblivious to the swear words of encouragement from the pupils at the open window of the classroom upstairs.
