Hearts of Stone

by Scarrow, Simon

  Chapter One

  November 2013, Kent

  ‘Why do I have to do this, miss?’

  Anna had been walking back towards her desk, between the tables of the year nine class, and stopped to turn towards the voice. Jamie Gould stared at her with a questioning expression. She was aware that a number of other faces had looked up from their worksheets, waiting to see how she reacted. Anna knew the class well enough to identify those characters who were disruptive rather than simply clueless; Jamie was not one of the latter. Instantly her guard was up.

  Anna cleared her throat softly. ‘Do what exactly, Jamie?’

  ‘This.’ Jamie nodded at the worksheet, and his dark wavy hair shimmered momentarily. He was an undeniably handsome boy and Anna knew that many of the girls in the class were attracted to him. Including, regrettably, Amelia Lawrence, a studious girl who would be sure to get an A* in history, provided she chose to study the subject for GCSE. Anna hoped very much that she would. She felt genuinely protective towards Amelia in that way that female teachers did about those female students they hoped would go on to achieve a decent future for themselves, unencumbered by children, and boyfriends or, God forbid, husbands and partners like Jamie Gould.

  ‘The worksheet is part of the assessment process, Jamie,’ Anna replied patiently. ‘You need to complete the tasks so that I know how much you have learned about the topic.’

  ‘But it’s boring, miss.’

  Anna smiled. ‘There’s no guarantee that everything you learn in school will be entertaining. Some of it is merely important. I’m sure you’d understand that if you gave your full attention to the subject, Jamie.’

  There was a beat and she saw the hostile gleam in his eyes and instantly regretted her put-down. Anna despised those teachers who derived satisfaction from slapping down their students. As if there was the smallest kind of achievement in humiliating a younger, less educated and experienced human being. And yet she had just indulged in the same practice. Almost instinctively. There was no excuse for it, she admonished herself.

  ‘Why should I pay attention, miss?’ Jamie set his biro down with a sharp tap and leaned back in his seat, stretching out his legs. ‘History’s boring. There’s no point to it. Why make us do it? It ain’t like there’s any use for it once I leave this dump.’

  And that day can’t come a moment too soon, my dear Jamie. Anna approached the table Jamie shared with five others, carefully selected to surround him with positive role models as if their work ethic might somehow be viral. She kept her expression neutral as she met his defiant gaze, hurriedly trying to decide how to deal with this latest assault on her authority.

  ‘My, what a lot of issues you have raised. Where should I begin?’

  ‘You should know, miss. You’re the history teacher.’ Jamie glanced round as some of the class laughed nervously and others regarded the confrontation with curiosity. Anna saw Amelia’s lips flicker in a smile as she regarded Jamie. That smile, small, thoughtless gesture that it was, wounded Anna and she turned back to the boy with a cold expression.

  ‘Yes, I’m the teacher, and it is my job to try and teach you. For your sake. What do want to be when you leave here, Jamie?’

  ‘I want to do somethin’ interesting. Something well paid. Not like being a teacher.’ He paused. ‘That’s boring.’

  ‘I see. Boring, is it?’ There were so many responses desperate to find expression. The first, and most necessary to hold in check, was to tell the arrogant teenager that, on current form, he would leave the school with a clutch of poor qualifications that would be little more than attendance certificates and let him see how far he got with that during the present recession. Then there was the urge to explain what education was all about. How important it was, for Jamie, for everyone. How it underpinned everything that made civilised life possible. Anna decided it would be best to restrict herself to a more narrow argument.

  ‘You say history is boring.’

  ‘Boring.’ He nodded. ‘It’s just stuff that’s happened. Long ago. We can’t change it. Means nothing to me. Nothing to anyone around now. We shouldn’t have to waste time on this rubbish.’ He stabbed a finger at his worksheet where Anna could see that his answers amounted to little more than a handful of words, begrudgingly scrawled in the spaces provided. A scribbled-out doodle extended down one margin.

  Anna’s gaze flicked up to fix on the boy’s eyes and she saw there the peculiar hostility towards female teachers that she had seen in many boys in the five years she had been teaching. She tried to ignore it as she framed her reply.

  ‘I find it impossible to share your opinion, Jamie. For me history is not boring at all. Far from it. History is like a great story, and it explains everything. It tells us why things are the way they are. That’s why it’s important. To all of us. Even you, Jamie. It’s my job to try and make you see that.’

  ‘You can’t make me.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘You can’t make me do what you want. And if I don’t want to do history then you’ve no right to make me. Why can’t I learn some proper stuff? Stuff that’s going to help me find a real job?’ There was a dangerous glint in his eye now and he leaned forward as his voice rose. ‘What’s all this about?’ He picked up the worksheet and waved it in front of Anna. ‘A load of crap questions about some bridge that fell down in Great Yarmouth over a hundred years ago. What’s the point of it?’

  Anna felt her heart beating faster and the familiar sick feeling swirling in the pit of her stomach as the boy challenged her. In truth she shared his dislike of the worksheets, with their tired old evaluations of primary and secondary evidence, but that was what the head of humanities at the school insisted on using. It was depressing to watch students working through coloured folders, differentiated by ability, year after year.

  Anna tried to tailor her lessons to share some of her passion for history with her students but for a small proportion of them it was a challenge that would have exhausted even Sisyphus. She wanted to tell Jamie that she shared his opinion of the worksheets. She wanted to tell him about the great stories that filled the pages of history, about the characters, heroes and villains alike, who strove against each other or pursued daring courses of principle and enlightenment. To share with Jamie the powerful lessons of the past. A quote came to mind, a few lines on an index card she had pinned above her small workstation in the staffroom: ‘Those who don’t study history are doomed to repeat it. Yet those who do study history are doomed to stand by helplessly while everyone else repeats it . . .’ She had put the card up to remind herself every day why she had chosen to become a teacher of the subject. One day, perhaps enough people would value history enough to break the cycle. Until then, she must contend with Jamie, and those like him.

  A sudden movement caught her eye and she glanced aside quickly enough to see Lucy, a heavily made-up blonde girl, gesturing towards the clock above the whiteboard and making a winding motion with her hand. Jamie had seen it too, and then noticed that his teacher had shared it as well and he gave a thin smile of defiance.

  So that was it, Anna thought to herself. The familiar game of engaging the teacher to waste time until the bell rang at the end of the lesson. She felt cross at herself for falling for the ruse. She slowly drew a deep breath. It was all part of the give and take of the profession. It would balance out in the round, she told herself. There would be better lessons, where Jamie would simply content himself with being bored rather than disruptive, or better still, content himself with yet another unauthorised absence. She leaned forward and spoke in a calm voice.

  ‘Jamie, there is no getting out of this. So you might as well make the most of it. Finish the worksheet, and don’t disrupt the lesson any further, understand?’

  Even as she spoke Anna mentally winced at the admission he had extracted from her. He had disrupted the lesson. That was his prize. His fruitless reward in his ongoing struggle against an authority that would grind him down in the end. And now the little idiot was grinning.
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  Turning away from his table, Anna made her way back to her desk at the front of the class and glanced at the clock.

  ‘Ten minutes left. I don’t want any more talking. Just finish the worksheet. Those of you who complete it can hand it in at the end of the lesson. The rest will finish it for homework and let me have it first thing tomorrow. Get on with it.’

  For a moment Jamie did nothing but stare defiantly back at her. Then he shrugged and picked up his biro and began to make small circular motions. Anna considered confronting him again and insisting that he do as he had been told but realised that it would only mean a renewed disruption to the lesson and even less work being done by the rest of the class.

  It was with relief that she responded to the shrill ring of the school bell announcing lunch break. Before she could utter a word there was the customary shuffling as the students reached for their bags and began to put their stationery away.

  ‘Finished sheets on my desk. I expect the rest first thing tomorrow, in my pigeonhole.’ Anna had to raise her voice as chairs scraped across the worn vinyl floor and shoes and bags clattered against the metal legs of the tables. Jamie and most of the others made for the door. Only a handful headed for Anna’s desk and hurriedly placed their work in a rough pile to one side of the class register. Amelia was the last to leave and she flashed a quick smile as she handed in her sheet, each answer box filled in neatly and fully. There was something about her smile that told of the embarrassment she felt for her teacher, and Anna nodded her head subtly to share the brief moment of understanding.

  Then Amelia was gone and Anna was alone in the classroom. She wondered why so many schoolkids found it difficult to share her passion for history. It was hard enough battling a system that seemed intent on marginalising the subject in favour of ‘relevant skill sets’. It was even worse when politicians used history as an opportunity to ram home some patriotic ideology, or to raise awareness of whatever contemporary social issue vexed the more progressive members of parliament. Sometimes it seemed that there was no love of history for its own sake.

  Anna opened her eyes and stood up, sweeping together the thin sheath of completed worksheets, and paused. There was a sheet of paper still on the table where Jamie had been sitting. With a sigh she crossed the classroom and picked it up. A series of ink swirls surrounded two lines written diagonally across the sheet. ‘History should be fucking history.’

  Anna shook her head, then considered reporting this to the headteacher for him to take further action against Jamie.

  ‘What’s the point?’ Anna asked herself quietly. She tucked the sheet under the others in her hand and turned to leave the classroom and make her way down the corridor to the staffroom. When she opened the door the scene was as familiar to Anna as the living room of the small terraced house she rented. More so, in many respects. The same people were sitting in the same chairs opening their plastic tubs and taking out their sandwiches, fruit and crisps. The sharp tang of filter coffee wafted from the short stretch of kitchen counter where the staff stacked their mugs. A few faces looked up and nodded a brief greeting.

  Anna made for the doorway leading through to the narrow room lined with work cubicles. She had been allocated one as a newly qualified teacher when she first came to the school but no one had thought to re-allocate it and now Anna regarded it as her spot. She placed the worksheets on the shelf above the cluttered desk space and sat down. The school’s IT technician had replaced the usual screen saver with a cosy animated fireplace surrounded by holly and Christmas stockings with a digital clock on the mantel counting down the seconds to the end of term.

  The image vanished as Anna flicked the mouse, and then moved the cursor over to the login box and tapped in her email address and password, and the folder containing her applications appeared. She moved the cursor on to Facebook and double tapped. The familiar blue masthead appeared with the drop-down timeline and she quickly scrolled down the newsfeed. There was the usual round of personal updates, adverts and offers to join games or take part in a quiz. Anna read them without interest and then turned her attention to the three red icons at the top. Two friends of friends wanted to be accepted. She hit the not now button and moved on to the messages. There was one new item, from someone named Dieter Muller. Not a name she recognised and she opened it with a mild sense of curiosity.

  > Is this the Facebook account of Anna Thesskoudis? Daughter of Marita Thesskoudis. Granddaughter of Eleni Carson (née Thesskoudis).

  Anna was surprised. She did not know anyone called Dieter Muller, and she felt uneasy that he seemed to know something about her family. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard and and then tapped out a quick reply.

  > Who wants to know, and why?

  Chapter Two

  Once the reply was sent, Anna switched to the BBC news website and glanced over the headlines before she went back into the main staffroom and made herself a coffee. Strong, black and sweet, just as her mother had always made it. The Greek way. Returning to her workspace, Anna set her cup down and went back to Facebook. There was another message from Dieter Muller.

  > I meant no offence. Just trying to track down a lead concerning a thesis I am preparing here in Munich. I should introduce myself. I am a German research student studying the expeditions to the Ionian islands that took place before the Second World War. I am looking for descendents of a Greek family who lived on Lefkas at the time. I came across the name of Eleni Thesskoudis who came to England shortly after the war as the wife of a British officer. Is Eleni your grandmother?

  Anna read the message again, more slowly. She was innately suspicious of Facebook, having seen how it was routinely abused by students to play tricks on each other, and occasionally bully. Not even the staff were immune from such acts and she wondered if this was anything to do with Jamie. Better to be careful, she reflected as she composed a response.

  > I don’t know you and I am not in the habit of giving away personal details to strangers on Facebook. If you are for real then send me your email and proof that you are who you say you are.

  She sat back and clicked her tongue. It was brusque to the point of rudeness. But despite wanting to know more about how this person, who claimed to be German, knew about her family, Anna was not going to be lured into some pathetic student prank or, worse, some kind of scam. She typed again.

  > How did you find my name?

  She saw a prompt indicating that the stranger was typing then one word came up in the message box.

  > Google.

  ‘Bloody Google,’ she muttered. ‘Is nothing private any more?’ More words appeared in the box.

  > Google led me to genealogy records and I guessed you might be on Facebook. Tried your name and so . . . Are you the person I am looking for? If not, my apologies. If so, then you might help me with some small details about your family’s history in Lefkas. That’s all. You might find my research of interest . . .

  Anna raised an eyebrow thoughtfully. Her grandmother’s family owned a small supermarket in Nidhri. She had met them a handful of times when some distant cousins of her mother had visited England to see Eleni, and she had been there just the once, for a wedding, two years ago. They seemed to be a typical Greek family: loud, proud and warm-hearted. At least as far as any blood relative was concerned. Beyond the immediate family there seemed to be a number of ongoing feuds whose causes were so ancient that no one recalled what the original grievence was. Quite unremarkable, Anna decided.

  So why were they of interest to Dieter Muller? He had found her through Google, and two could play at that game. She switched to the search engine and typed in his name, together with Munich University, and the list of references appeared. There were over three hundred hits but luckily only seven that combined the name and the institution. She clicked the first likely link and the page of the Archeology Department came up, with the option to view the contents in English. Another click and a short delay and there was a page listing, alphabetically, the graduate
students and their research project outlines. Anna scrolled down until she saw the name and opened the entry.

  A fresh page appeared with a small portrait image of a young man who appeared to be her own age. His hair was short and dark and he wore rimless glasses above a neatly trimmed beard. There was an attempt at a smile to save himself from looking like a passport picture and Anna noticed a small red star stud in his ear. His expression was gentle enough, she decided. Certainly not threatening or unsettling. She turned her attention to his research statement and the translation was clear enough to get a grasp of his field of study. Sure enough, Muller was examining the programme of excavations carried out by German archaeologists on Ithica and Lefkas in the years before the outbreak of the Second World War.

  ‘All right, then, Dieter,’ she said under her breath. ‘You seem to check out.’

  She typed a fresh message.

  > What can I do for you?

  > I would wish to interview Eleni Thesskoudis, if that is possible. Also, I would be interested to examine any photographs, diaries or other records of the era that I might be permitted to see.

  Anna typed.

  > You don’t want much then! My grandmother is in her nineties.

  > I understand. But, may I ask, is she sound of mind?