From a Safe Distance

by Bishop, Julia

  I lived on the top floor of a forties semi, near the railway line. It belonged to one of the other teachers and I paid a low rent because one room was full of his stuff. All the bedroom furniture was in dark wood and there was a flimsy camp bed in the corner. Everything seemed to be tidy today. But now here was Tony’s car. My heart jumped and I went down to let him in. He was married, so we had to be discreet, but right now discretion was the last thing on our minds. The kissing was powerful, our clothes went everywhere. It was sheer lust and it felt good, perhaps because of the guilt.

  Then one day Miss Henshaw came into the computer room and we had to put our hands away. ‘Ah, Miss Gates. I didn’t know you were interested in computers!’

  I knew I looked guilty. ‘I … I’m having lessons,’ I managed.

  ‘I see. How’s she doing, Mr Brown?’

  ‘Oh,’ Tony gave a nervous laugh. ‘Shaping up nicely!’

  This unfortunate expression didn’t help at all; Miss Henshaw looked at each of us in turn, raised her eyebrows, nodded sagely and walked out. I sighed. I suppose she could hardly say, “Keep it up!” could she?

  Tony and I met regularly for a while at my flat, but with Christmas coming, he would be needed more at home. And my downstairs neighbours complained to my landlord about the bedroom noises. A camp bed on bare boards. Rather embarrassing to recall.

  But worse was to come.

  ‘I heard of two teachers once,’ began Mrs Selby, science, as she addressed the group round the staffroom table one lunchtime. ‘They used to meet once a week – oh, yes, and at the end of term, after the sherry.’

  Luckily I had my back to them, but I sensed that the others were smiling as they got the message. My skin tingled.

  ‘He was married, but his car was seen outside her flat.’

  I dared not try to catch Tony’s eye. It would have meant turning my head and it was not difficult to imagine that I was being watched.

  ‘They thought nobody knew, but you could tell which day of the week it was – at least, so I’m told.’

  When the time came for afternoon lessons, I found it hard to know where to look and wanted to escape from the staffroom as unobtrusively as possible. But I nearly knocked over the Christmas tree in the foyer. Nowadays I would probably have smiled at Mrs Selby as if I hadn’t recognised myself.

  Ben’s motorbike pulled up. Tony and I were in the bedroom. I knew Ben fancied me, but I wasn’t expecting him. I panicked, threw on my dressing gown, Tony grabbed his clothes and fled into the bathroom. ‘Let him in, Vee! Tell him you were just about to have a bath!’

  ‘But he’ll see your car!’

  ‘Yes, and you can say I’ve only just turned up. Something needed fixing or something. Go!’ He slammed his feet into his shoes.

  But I couldn’t carry it off. Ben went home. Tony was furious. When we started the new term in January, I knew that Ben had worked it out. They spoke to each other but not to me: I was the scarlet woman. There was not going to be any more hanky panky on the camp bed: shame is a big obstacle to passion.

  I had never fallen in love. I’d had lustful flings, but that was about it. I couldn’t really see a future with the expected husband and children. That world was closed to me and I did not deserve to enter it. Marriage signified a higher level of being, of acceptance in society than I could ever hope to attain: if you failed or you weren’t tough, you were unworthy of love. I just had to accept this fundamental truth. I was simply inferior. Even though the wound from my first job had healed enough for me to succeed at Castlebrough, there was a scar. My guilt over the affair with Tony made things worse in the end. And keeping in touch with Mum, Ron and Jim was difficult as I was not on the phone in my flat. I was lonely. But as I said, not once did the black wave threaten. The whole thing seemed to have gone for good.

  Joan Gibson hardly ever interfered with what I was doing in the classroom; if she did have something to say, it would always be with her apologetic, panting laugh. Because I felt strong in this environment, where I had control, it was easier for me to deal with any minor misbehaviour. One day in my first term, I picked up my books and headed along the covered way to House 3. I know you’re not supposed to have favourites as a teacher, but everyone does. You just have to be careful.

  ‘I think you’ll find they’re in room 9,’ a colleague whispered to me in the corridor as I searched for 2H, normally in room 4. She smiled knowingly and patted me on the arm. As I got nearer to room 9, I heard “ssshh! ssshh!” There was silence as I walked in.

  ‘Bonjour la classe!’

  Their reply was punctuated by giggles and snorts of suppressed laughter. ‘Bon … jour, Mademoi … selle!’

  I turned to the board. ‘Now copy this down in your rough books: “I must stay in the right classroom so that my teacher knows where I am.”‘ I gave them a few moments, then when heads started to come up, I added: ‘And … translate it into French.’ Of course I knew that they were only having a bit of harmless fun, but I still had to have the last word.

  ‘Miss?’ Caroline had her hand up.

  ‘Yes, Caroline?’

  ‘Miss, it’s … it’s too hard.’ There was a murmur of agreement.

  ‘Well now, I thought that perhaps being in a fifth form classroom might make it easier. Ah, yes. It needs a subjunctive. Right, will you all, quietly, go back to room 4.’ I allowed them to see a slight smile. We understood each other.

  They soon turned into 3H, then 4H, and they started their ‘O’ Level work, blossoming into young women. Once the summer exams were over, all the classes relaxed and some even had their lessons in the school grounds under the magnificent spread of the old trees, or were allowed to use the pool more often. These slow and lovely years almost lulled me into forgetting about change.

  It was rare for Miss Henshaw to come into the staffroom. One lunchtime I saw Tony holding the door open for her. We all fell silent. She looked round the room and invited us to sit down if we could. She looked at her watch, then began:

  ‘I have something very important to tell you. As I expect you know, the school is suffering from falling rolls.’

  Somebody coughed. Someone else whispered to a friend.

  ‘It has been decided therefore,’ she went on, ‘that Castlebrough will amalgamate with Stoneleigh College down the road. This will take effect from January next year, and we will be moving into the buildings you have no doubt seen under construction next to the College. The new school will be called Stonecastle. Let us hope it will last as long as its name suggests.’ There were anxious murmurs. ‘If any of you wish to discuss your options, come and see me.’ With that, she swept out of the staffroom.

  ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’ exclaimed Ben. ‘It’ll be all the teachers competing for half the jobs!’

  ‘Thank you so much for that, Ben. What it is to be good at maths!’ Mr Gray, history, slammed down a pile of books and stomped out of the room.

  The anxiety spreading like fire around the room left me untouched, because it had only taken me a matter of seconds to decide that I would leave. For one thing, I knew it would not be difficult for me to find another job now and for another, I had learned not to get too attached to places, hadn’t I? I kept a cool head and let Miss Henshaw know what I was planning. I must admit, though, that the tension in the staffroom was unbearable at times. While I did feel sorry for those nearing the end of their careers in this quiet backwater, I took no part in any more staffroom business, focusing on my lessons and my interviews.

  Interviews. The travelling and keeping smart is bad enough, but the worst part is always waiting for the result, especially if you’re not told at the time. Every time the phone rang I felt a fizz of nerves. Then it came. Ben handed me the receiver. A deep male voice was at the other end:

  ‘Miss Gates? Ah, it’s the headmaster of Arnold College, West Pluting here. I am pleased to tell you that we would like to offer you the post of French teacher. I shall of course be writing to confirm this. Do you a
ccept?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  ‘In that case, we look forward to your joining us in September.’

  I needed to keep a lid on my excitement for the time being, however. Quite apart from the fact that it would not have been very tactful to start celebrating at work, there was something I had to do which was not going to be easy.

  When 4H had settled, I gave them some written work. As I walked round the desks, the dark floorboards creaked like an old ship and I thought about what I would say. For the first time at Castlebrough, I realised, I felt the presence of the black wave. It was nearly time; I asked them to close their books.

  ‘Girls, there’s … I’ve got something to tell you. At the end of term, on Thursday, I shall be leaving.’

  Utter silence. I found it hard to look at them. Then one girl flung herself forward on her desk and wailed, ‘Now I will fail my French ‘O’ Level!’ The bell sounded and they filed out with scarcely a sound, avoiding my gaze: collectively they knew that to appear hostile was the easiest option. When they had gone, I cleaned the board, then sat at the front for a moment, feeling cold on a warm day.

  9

  Party and Parting

  The view from Diane’s garden was breathtaking. The sun was setting, flame red, into the sea, bathing the guests and the marquee in an exotic glow and making the unlit side of people’s bodies look blue, as if they were part of an impressionist painting. Diane taught PE at Castlebrough. Her fiancé, Jeff, sold expensive cars for a living and had bought the grand Victorian house for them six months earlier. I watched them now as they set about lighting torches around the garden, defining it in the dusk.

  The engagement party was getting underway – an excellent end to the term. About forty people, most of them unknown to me, were here to celebrate. Every so often a cheer would go up above the general noise with the pop of another champagne cork. I was wearing contact lenses nowadays and my favourite smart outfit tonight, though I soon ditched the heels because of the grass.

  Diane came towards me, smiling, her eyes and necklace catching the flickering light. She was wearing a long, sleeveless cream dress and her hair was up.

  ‘You look lovely,’ I said. “Lady in Red” was playing.

  ‘So do you. Have you met Jeff?’

  He joined her and she put her arm round him.

  ‘You must be Vee.’ He smiled. ‘Sad the old school’s going, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but we have to move on sometimes, don’t we?’ I replied.

  Diane now linked her arm in mine. ‘Excuse us, Jeff, but there’s someone over there who’s itching to meet you, Vee!’ She steered me towards a small group who’d just opened another bottle. ‘Hi Steve, nice to see you; this is Vee. Vee this is Mark, and his wife Louise. And Max, this is Vee. Vee, meet Max Greenwood.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Max. ‘Shall we go over there and sit down a minute? Oh – would you like some champagne?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  His extraordinary blue eyes spoke of a kindness and intelligence which startled me. Max brought me a glass and we sat by a small table, facing out to sea. The water was dark now and peaceful; only the wavelets breaking on the shore were visible by the streetlamp on the promenade below us.

  ‘So. I teach French. What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a doctor,’ said Max. He smiled, his eyes shining in the torchlight. With the sunset, the glow on the faces had shifted from coral to amber yellow. ‘Vee. Is that short for anything?’

  ‘Yes. Victoria, but that’s what my mother used to call me when –’

  ‘– you did something wrong. I know. I can still hear it: “Maxwell!”‘ We laughed.

  ‘So where do you do your doctoring?’ I asked, feeling the champagne.

  ‘At the hospital here in Lexby. Well, for the moment.’ We looked in the direction of the latest cheer, but quickly returned to exploring each other’s face again.

  ‘I’ve just been offered –’ We said this together, then laughed again.

  ‘You go first!’

  ‘OK. I’m off to a new job down in West Pluting. D’you know it at all?’

  ‘No, not really,’ he replied. ‘Teaching French again?’

  ‘Yes. Your turn.’ I couldn’t suppress a giggle.

  ‘My new job’s in Edinburgh; it’ll be my first consultant’s post.’

  I felt a thread of disappointment which I couldn’t quite explain. ‘Wow! In what field?’

  ‘Psychiatry.’ There was a pause. Max smiled again. ‘Does that put you off?’

  ‘Not at all. When do you start?’

  ‘Next month. Are you looking forward to your new job – in September, I take it?’

  ‘Yes. It looks like a challenge. It’s a much bigger school.’

  Max poured some more champagne, then we looked at each other again for a moment, this time with a smile which refused to fade. Strangely, I felt no embarrassment, no need to look away. He was a few years older than me, his dark hair thinning slightly at the front. Then he went to get us some food. I noticed Diane looking at me from across the garden. She had CDs of all the ’eighties hits.

  ‘So how come you know Diane, then?’ I asked when he got back.

  ‘It’s not Diane I know but Jeff. We were at Oxford together – a few years ago now, of course. Then I came here and wanted to buy a car and who should I meet but Jeff.’ Max raised his glass to Jeff, who noticed and came over to join us with Diane for a short while, bringing up a couple more chairs, those lovely white metal ones which look like frozen lace.

  ‘Vee,’ said Diane, turning her head conspiratorially to one side for a moment and beckoning me to do the same. ‘You seem to be getting on well with Max. We must keep in touch. Ring me when you start your new job – or if you don’t!’ She had a mischievous glint in her eye as she smiled and flapped her hand, pretending not to want to know any more and moving on to another group.

  I watched Max, deep in conversation with Jeff. Why did I have to meet him right now, when our lives were going in completely different directions? I glanced at the sea and wondered how anyone ever finds stability. How do people ever feel good enough to spend their lives with someone else? Come to think of it, how does the chance come along which allows them to do that? I spent the rest of the evening with Max, talking, dancing or noticing changes in the tide. It was one of those times which shine in the memory, but I could not trust myself to relax even then. I had to take control, go for the certainty of West Pluting, not … Suddenly, I felt I should leave.

  As though he sensed this, Max put his hand on mine. ‘Can I see you again?’

  ‘I’d like that, Max, but … ’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It can’t last, can it, in the circumstances.’

  He leant back in his chair and gave a brief laugh. ‘But we could still have some fun, couldn’t we? We’ve got about … three weeks!’

  I hesitated. ‘Everything good ends. People move away. They die. Nothing lasts.’

  ‘Oh, Vee, what a pessimistic outlook! Are you saying, then, that it’s pointless doing anything because life is finite? What about carpe diem?’

  ‘If I’m a pessimist, then I’m never disappointed. That’s life. Anyway, I don’t deserve you, Dr Greenwood.’

  ‘Why? Because I’m so good-looking, accomplished – and modest …? Live a little, Vee. Let go, trust your instincts! Yes, we don’t have long, but who knows where it might lead? We should make the best of the time we have left.’

  We saw each other nearly every day for the next two weeks, and my soul sang with happiness and with the rightness of being with him. But as our parting grew nearer, I did not know how to convey my anxiety to Max, even when I had the chance. The fact remained that I was meant to be alone. I was a weak person who didn’t deserve what Max seemed to be offering. His life was far too important to waste it with me. If I let things go on and he found out what I was really like, that would be it. The day before he was due to leave, we ended up at his flat
with a Chinese takeaway. There were cases and boxes everywhere. I needed to try to explain.

  ‘Max, I … don’t think this is going to work.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I can’t miss this opportunity,’ I replied quietly. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s me. I can’t do this. Sit down a minute and let’s eat our food before it gets cold. I want to tell you something.’

  We sat on the sofa and Max began unwrapping our meal on the table, putting out forks and a cloth for our fingers.

  ‘Sorry, the other bits are packed.’

  ‘It’s alright.’ I looked at him. ‘I owe you an explanation. It involves a little story. Is that OK?’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘I remember when I was little, before Dad died, going to a fair with Mum. I don’t know why, but we got there a bit late. It was just the two of us. I stood looking at all the brightly coloured stalls and watched a merry-go-round coming to a halt, with lots of flashing lights. The man in the blue cap and apron helped the last children down and they ran to their parents as he switched off all the lights. At that age, you’re just a pair of eyes, aren’t you?’

  ‘Where’s this leading, Vee?’

  ‘Just then, I turned round to find Mum wasn’t there. Where was she? I was terrified. I was alone in the darkening street, with litter blowing about. Then Mum appeared, and I burst into tears. “Oh, Vee!” she said, “I only went to get you a lolly before they closed!” Ever since then, if I see papers blowing around, I get a strangled feeling, as if I shouldn’t be there on my own. I call it my “empty town” feeling. I don’t need to see litter about, of course; I get the feeling as well when a market is packing up at the end of the day. Some of the stallholders are pulling down their clanging poles while others are shouting their last-minute bargains to a dwindling public. I always feel a sense of urgency, as if I should be getting home too, as if a storm is brewing.’