Proof of Life

by Steven Suttie

  It was Darren Jenkins, or Daz Jenks, as he was better known around the school community. In the staff room he was known simply as “dickhead” to many of the teachers. This was the third time Jenkins had been sent to see Mr Pollard that week. And it was only Wednesday.

  “Oh my God!” said the teacher grumpily as he opened his office door and saw Jenkins standing at his familiar spot, trying the complicated combo-look of innocence, victimisation and bafflement in one facial expression.

  “What now?” said the smart, grey haired Head of Year 10.

  “Mr Briggs sent me, Sir.” Replied the pupil, manipulatively trying to make it sound as though it was no more than a simple errand he’d been sent on.

  “Okay. Let the charade begin. What have you done now you little doughnut?” asked Mr Pollard, though he looked completely disinterested as he waved the teenager into the office.

  “Don’t know Sir. He just sent me out.”

  “For nothing?”

  “Well, not really for nothing. For messing about.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I don’t know Sir.”

  Mr Pollard rolled his eyes at the ceiling and let out a long, exaggerated sigh. He paused for a painfully long, awkward amount of time before speaking again. The scenario was all too familiar to Mr Pollard, and he knew that this first part of the conversation was to be the most frustrating, just trying to ascertain exactly what Jenkins had done, that had warranted him to be sent to the most feared and respected teacher in the school.

  “Do you know what Darren, I can’t be arsed. Go and get Mr Briggs for me.”

  “Sir.” Jenkins turned and casually walked back towards the class he had been excluded from. He jumped and skipped slightly as Mr Pollard’s door slammed violently shut behind him. The frightening “boom” sound echoed all along the corridor as a sudden fear caught up with Jenkins. The pupil suddenly found that he was walking very quickly, his heart in his mouth from the terrifying shock of the slammed door.

  Inside the office Mr Pollard sat down at his desk and stared at his computer monitor, willing himself to open Jenkins’ disciplinary file. Mr Pollard was the school’s longest serving and most feared teacher. His nickname amongst the pupils was “Well’ard” and it was a well-known rule that he wasn’t to be crossed. But each year, a small handful of kids would ignore the advice and would foolishly gravitate towards him.

  School legend had it that a pupil had once died because Mr Pollard had shouted so loudly at him. It was nonsense of course, but Mr Pollard kept the rumour alive by never actually denying that the incident had happened, when quizzed about it by curious kids. “It wasn’t pretty.” He’d mutter vacantly.

  After a moment, the veteran teacher double-clicked Jenkins’ progress file and looked dismayed as the red marks appeared on screen. He was on a final warning. One more red mark, and he was going to be expelled. There was a gentle tap at the office door and Mr Briggs appeared as the door slowly opened. Jenkins was stood behind the young teacher, looking slightly embarrassed. The cock-sure attitude was gone, Jenkins was beginning to realise that he couldn’t argue and wriggle his way out of this one.

  “Hiya Mark, come on in mate. Bring the school gimp in with you.”

  “Hello Mr Pollard. You wanted to see me?” Mark Briggs was a relatively new member of staff and was making great progress within the teaching staff.

  “Well, Master Jenkins here said that you sent him out, and I just wanted to hear directly from you what exactly happened?” Mr Pollard gestured his colleague to sit down opposite him.

  “Yes, well, he’s in a silly frame of mind today, continually making a nuisance of himself. He kept shouting out in the class and was just being a pain. He had several warnings, but he’s not up for any learning today. Sorry to send him to you Mr Pollard, but I had no alternative.”

  “No, no, don’t apologise.” Mr Pollard turned to Jenkins who was standing awkwardly beside Mr Briggs’ chair. He was fidgeting with his hands behind his back and leaning to one side slightly.

  “What were you shouting out?” Mr Pollard’s voice was raised. He wasn’t shouting, but he had just the right amount of volume to command the room as he stared psychotically at Jenkins. When angry, Mr Pollard had a piercing, frightening glare that cut straight through most people who faced him. But Jenkins was past caring about that, he had been through the ritual so many times that it was all becoming quite mundane. He just shrugged.

  “What were you shouting?”

  “Can’t remember.”

  “Can you remember, Mr Briggs?”

  “Yes. He was shouting “beans-on-toast.” Said the junior staff member, in a manner so blasé and dismissive that it made Jenkins feel stupid. Mr Pollard raised an eyebrow and stared at Mr Briggs for a few seconds. Eventually, he looked over at Jenkins and began shaking his head.

  “Beans-on-toast? Is that really the best you could come up with?”

  “Sir.” Said Jenkins, acutely aware that in this setting, the hilarity of the sentence was lost on these old people who clearly didn’t possess a sense of humour. The rest of the class thought it was hilarious.

  “Can I get back to my year tens now Mr Pollard?” asked Mr Briggs, hoping to move things on.

  “Yes, of course. Thank you for coming down here Mark, sorry to pull you out of your class. Now, just before you go, can you remind me what your priority is this year?”

  “Well, I need to get decent exam results from my students, in order to get a full-time contract.”

  “So, you’re not actually employed by the school yet?”

  “No, I’m still a probationary teacher. If I can prove myself with my results this year, I’ll get the job full time. If I fail, I’ll have to leave in July.”

  “And just out of interest, how many years have you been working towards getting this job?”

  “Six years.”

  “Did you know that Jenkins?”

  “What, Sir?”

  “That if Mr Briggs here doesn’t do a fantastic job of teaching your class mates, he won’t have a job in a few months time, despite investing every day of the last six years into it?”

  “No Sir. Sorry, Sir.” The young lad looked genuinely bothered by the statement.

  “How is Mr Briggs supposed to teach and get good marks from his students when there’s a tit shouting “beans-on-toast” out all the way through his lesson?”

  “I don’t know, Sir.”

  “Well, the point is, I can’t do it Mr Pollard. It’s physically impossible. Once the class are distracted, it can take five minutes to settle them and get them back to where they were, and that’s why I sent him to you.”

  “And how are the rest of the class?”

  “They are fine, they are trying really hard, and if we could just settle this one down, they’d be learning and gaining a lot more from the lessons.”

  Mr Pollard nodded sympathetically as he considered the difficulty that his junior colleague was facing.

  “Okay! That’s fine, no problem.” The veteran teacher slammed both hands down on his desk and stood. The sudden movement and noise made Jenkins jump, forcing him to stand straight momentarily. “You get back to your class, Mark.”

  “Thanks Mr Pollard.”

  “Sorry Sir,” said Jenkins as Mr Briggs stood from his chair.

  “Thank you, Darren.” Said Mr Briggs calmly, gently patting his hand against Jenkins shoulder before he left and closing the bright green door softly behind him.

  “He is a lovely young bloke him, you know.”

  “I know Sir.”

  “Hard working, committed, enthusiastic, popular. He is first in every morning, last to leave at night. Brilliant bloke, he could become a head teacher one day with that work ethic. But not if his pupils don’t score highly enough at the end of term. He’ll be sacked. He’ll be going home to his lovely fiancé and telling her he’s got no job. God knows how he’ll pay for the wedding. And all that, just down to the bad luck of getting you in his class. Po
or bastard.”

  Jenkins didn’t have anything to say. He looked down at his scuffed shoes and felt guilty about the seriousness of what Mr Pollard was saying.

  “Funny though, beans-on-toast!” Mr Pollard fixed his glare on the teenager, daring him to laugh. Jenkins did not dare to laugh.

  “Tomorrow morning, I’m getting you up in assembly. You’ll come to the front of the school and stand beside me, and you will shout out ‘beans-on-toast’ to the rest of the school, all the way through. Is that okay?”

  “Why Sir?” Jenkins began to look concerned, panicky almost. The colour drained from his face.

  “Trust me on this, you’ll love it. The whole school will be looking at you, the kids, the staff, all looking directly at you, all thinking you’re a legend.”

  “Sir, they’ll all think I’m a dick.”

  “Nah, don’t be so ridiculous. They’ll all think you’re absolutely amazing! Trust me on this. Tomorrow morning, nine o’ clock sharp, I want you stood next to me in that assembly. Each time I go silent, that’s your cue to shout out ‘beans-on-toast’ at the very top of your voice. It’ll be a riot!” Mr Pollard laughed and rubbed his hands together. “This is going to be brilliant!”

  “I can’t, Sir.”

  “Well you will, Jenkins.” Mr Pollard raised his voice as he hammered home his authority. “This isn’t a debate. I’m not asking for a favour.”

  “Sir, please. I’ll never hear the end of it. It’s stupid.”

  Mr Pollard turned around slowly in his chair and faced the window overlooking the lush, green hills which extended right across to the valley towards Mossley, and Saddleworth Moors in the distance. He stared out across the view that he loved so much for what seemed like an age. Finally, he spoke again. When he did speak, he had his back to Jenkins and continued to glare out across the picture-perfect landscape.

  “I’m just trying to work out why you don’t want to do it. I’m offering you an attention-seekers dream-come-true here. The eyes of the entire school will be fixed on you tomorrow morning. But you don’t want it. You like to shout out during class, despite being asked loads of times to stop. But here is the chance to do it to a much wider audience, with full permission, and you don’t want to do it.” Mr Pollard span back around slowly in his chair and faced the troubled pupil. “That’s a massive contradiction isn’t it?”

  “Sir. I just don’t think that it’s a good idea.”

  The teacher stared at his shabby looking pupil for a moment, Jenkins black hair looked greasy and his acne problem was getting worse. He had a few stray black hairs on his top lip which looked more like chaotic ball point pen marks underlying sore looking zits, than the grown up, moustache-look that Jenkins was obviously going for.

  “Well, you know me Jenkins, I’m a fair man. I’m going to offer you a deal. You can either turn up and shout beans on toast all the way through my assembly, or you can write me a two-thousand word explanation of the reason why you don’t want to do it. It’s your call.”

  Jenkins didn’t look at all phased by the mammoth project that Well’ard was offering him. It was his passport to freedom.

  “Thanks Sir.”

  “If there is any repetition, I’ll rip it up and you’ll be shouting ‘beans-on-toast’ for half an hour.”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “If it’s not on my desk by 8.45 tomorrow, you’re doing the assembly. If you don’t turn up tomorrow, you’ll be suspended for a week, and as you’re on your final warning, you’ll be excluded for good, you’ll be gone. No more school, no chance of sitting your GCSEs. No future. Clear?”

  “Sir. Thanks.”

  “Right, now go and stand outside my office until bell.”

  “Sir.”

  Jenkins turned slowly and walked out of the office. Mr Pollard began typing notes onto the computer as the door closed.

  The brown envelope from Tameside Metropolitan Council still sat ominously on his desk, unopened. Mr Pollard continued to type, once again fighting a nagging desire to just open it and read the potentially life changing news that might be contained. He didn’t quite feel ready to unseal his fate just yet.

  *****

  “So, come on, out-with-it, what did Well’ard say, Daz?” asked Jenkins’ best friend Michael Donnelly, as the two made their way out of the school gates surrounded by a six-hundred-strong scrum of excitable kids eager to get home to their computers and televisions.

  “Nowt really. Didn’t seem that arsed. He thought it was pretty funny I reckon.” Said Darren, though he didn’t sound too convincing. He followed his remark up by saying “beans-on-toast” in a squeaky voice which received a big laugh off Michael.

  “Eggy bread!” replied Michael, to the amusement of Darren.

  “Hoi Daz, you spaz! What did Well’ard give you?” shouted Paul Coates, the much feared fifth year who was “cock of the school.”

  “Nowt!” said Darren, smiling over his shoulder as the well-built sixteen-year-old caught up him, and Michael.

  “You are such a twat mate. Honestly, I bet Well’ard wishes you were dead.” Paul Coates’ small entourage laughed mockingly as Darren tried to shrug the remark off politely. “In fact, we all wish you were dead, you absolute shit-splash.” Paul Coates leant towards Darren and forced out a big sweaty burp, blowing it right into Darren’s face. It smelt of fizzy Vimto and cheese-and-onion crisps. The hot stench made Darren retch, which delighted Coates and his gang of grinning, boisterous followers.

  “What a twat!” said one.

  “Ha ha ha, you sad bastard.” Jeered another as the small group shouldered rowdily past the pair and headed towards their bus. Darren stood there feeling embarrassed and vulnerable, his eyes watery from the retching.

  “God, I hate them bastards,” offered Michael. “Come on, forget them.”

  For the rest of the walk home, Darren seemed quiet and thoughtful, it was Michael who did most of the talking. Michael shared the same sense of humour as Darren, and the two had been friends since primary school. Michael had always skilfully stayed out of trouble though, where Darren just seemed to be in constant detentions and isolation periods. Michael instinctively knew when to wind it in and settle down in class, but Darren just never seemed to know when to stop joking about. It often caused a bit of tension between the friends, mainly because Darren felt that Michael was equally as bad as him, but never got caught.

  “You coming out tonight?” asked Michael as the pair sauntered slowly along the back-to-back, red-bricked terraced streets towards their homes.

  “Nah, can’t, still grounded. And I’ve got something to do for Well’ard anyway.”

  “What?”

  “Two-thousand word essay about why I said beans-on-toast!” Darren didn’t seem as gutted as Michael had expected.

  “Honestly? Shit, that sounds harsh.” Michael had never heard of such a tough punishment.

  “It’s got to be on his desk before school or he’s getting me expelled.”

  “Fucking hell, that’s a bit much isn’t it?” Michael stopped outside his house and leant back against the front door.

  “I know yeah. So that’s my night taken care of. Seeya tomoz.” The two friends fist-bumped, and Darren continued along the street.

  Once he arrived on his own street, Darren was dismayed to see his dad’s shitty old car parked up outside the terraced house. He let himself in the front door and closed it quietly behind him. After putting his bag in the cupboard, he crept quietly up the stairs to his room.

  “Darren! Is that you?” shouted his father up the stairs. Darren rolled his eyes at the ceiling.

  “Yes, hi dad, how come you’re home?”

  “Got an early dart. Why are you creeping upstairs? Are you in the shit again?”

  “No!” said Darren, a little too urgently, which inadvertently revealed his guilt as he shouted downstairs from the landing.

  “You better not be. Can’t be arsed with any more of your bullshit pal. Now come down here and make me a brew.
” Darren reluctantly went back down the steps he’d ascended and breezed into the living room. Mike was lay on the settee watching a TV quiz show.

  “You’re in the shit again aren’t you? I can tell. What have you done now, you little dick?”

  “Nowt dad, honest.” Darren didn’t sound very convincing.

  “Well summat’s up – why else would you go creeping off up the stairs like that? Do you want a smack?”

  “No. I didn’t even know you were in dad. I’ve got coursework to do, wanted to just get on with it, get it out the way.”

  “I’m calling bullshit on that! My car’s outside. Should have gone to Specsavers if you didn’t see it. Anyway, just make me a brew will you, I can’t be arsed listening to any of your shite. And do us a couple of rounds of toast, as well.”

  “Sure.”

  Darren did as he was asked, going through quietly into the kitchen as Mike shouted out answers to the television quiz. By the time the kettle had boiled, his father had loudly answered three out of three incorrectly. The teenager had a difficult job trying not to laugh, and could feel a dizzy excitement building up within him. Mike answered each question with such confidence that the awkward silence or tut that followed each of his incorrect shouts was irresistibly amusing and rewarding to Darren. He listened carefully to the fourth question, hoping his dad would get it right to avoid any awkward eye contact when he took the brew through. Darren dropped a tea bag in his dad’s cup as the host asked a bonus question.

  “Okay, for double points, who had a hit in 1978 with the LS Lowry inspired song, Matchstalk Men and Matchstalk Cats and Dogs?”

  “Houghton Weavers!” shouted Mike urgently.

  “Brian and Michael!” said the television contestant who had buzzed in first.

  “Brian and Michael is… correct! For 9 points! Well done.”

  “Fucking bollocks this!” said Mike, dismissively. Darren couldn’t help but laugh as he stirred the brew, trying hard to do it as quietly as possible. He disguised the laugh as a cough.

  “Where in the world am I? For six points, in front of me I see a perfectly symmetrical building, but where in the world am I?” asked the corny TV presenter.