by Bowes, K T
Hana tossed her red hair and bit her lip with a smirk as Sheila’s words filtered over the partition, “What do you mean, you thought you farted?”
Hana tried not to eavesdrop and made an attempt at gathering the newspapers from the floor and stacking them in the brochure rack. Sheila returned sporting a rubber glove and the hint of a smirk. “Did he tell you?”
Hana nodded and then dissolved into giggles.
“Stupid idiot,” the faithless wife remarked as she went back to the rotten apple. “I told him not to come in with a stomach upset, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s gone home to change his underwear.”
“Where’s Rory today?” Hana asked, referring to the Year 13 dean and Sheila’s son-in-law.
“I don’t bloody know,” Sheila replied with venom and Hana winced. Evidently things weren’t going too well in their shared home.
The peace shattered at the sound of a loud booming voice, which split the air like an axe and left the molecules vibrating. “Mrs Jennings, what the hell’s going on? I’ve just found 9MJ without a teacher and they were trashing the place. Where’s your husband? I swear I saw him ten minutes ago unless I’m going senile.”
Sheila gave the angry male a disarming smile, using her Swedish charm to good effect. She used his outstretched arm to raise herself from her awkward kneeling position, then completed her manoeuvre by placing the disintegrating, fly infested apple remains into his open hand. The deputy principal stared at the rotting apple and considered its slimy vileness for a split second before dropping it into the bin. He looked at Sheila without repeating his question, his face unreadable. She smiled sweetly at him. “He isn’t well. Would you like me to cover for him, Alan?”
Alan Dobbs grunted and breezed out of the common room as quickly as he arrived. His incredible hairpiece wobbled on his head as he stalked away, in danger of blowing off as the doors slammed. It was blonde and curly, stark against his dark features and black eyebrows. Hana knitted her brow and turned to Sheila. “Does his wig look as if it’s on back to front today?”
Sheila shrugged with disinterest, used to the incongruous appendage. She muttered something under her breath and strutted off, disappearing through the double doors which slammed behind her. Hana’s eyes widened in horror. “Sheila, the glove! Take the rubber glove off!” When there was no reply, Hana poked her red hair behind her ear in exasperation, “First Martin leaves the classroom with diarrhoea and then his wife turns up wearing a rubber glove.”
Sheila returned at the end of lunch, flustered and still wearing the rubber glove. “I made those unruly Year 9 boys stay in for a lunchtime detention,” she complained. “It’s the first bloody day of term and already they’re cranking up! I’ve had to coerce other staff members to cover Martin’s classes.” She sighed. “He can’t get off the toilet.”
Hurling herself into her office chair, she reached into her desk drawer and retrieved her sandwiches, staring at the gloved hand as though it belonged to someone else. She pulled it off and dropped it into the dustbin. She sighed and bit into her sandwich. “That has to be the worst class in the school!” Airborne crumbs flew across the desk and hit the computer monitor as Sheila berated the class she had just come from. “I think I’d prefer diarrhoea to teaching them.” Chutney oozed from the sandwich wrapper onto a significant memo which already sported a coffee cup ring over the words, ‘For your urgent attention.’
Hana smiled to herself. “Thank goodness I don’t have to teach,” she commented. “I’d be rubbish at it.”
“Ooh, talking of teaching, or teach-ers,” Sheila grinned, unaware of the blob of chutney on her chin. “Have you noticed the new English teacher? Logan something. He’s fit!”
“Oh.” Hana looked embarrassed. “Tall, dark...”
“Yep, yep, that’s him. Did you see that body? He uses the school gym during his free period. I might join so I can watch. When did you see him?” Sheila peered up at Hana as the redhead hovered in the doorway.
“I sort of dropped my handbag on the floor right in front of him. The nurse said a car tried to run me over but I didn’t see it. I crawled around in the Chapel carpark putting the crap back in my bag and only saw his shoes.”
“Yummy!” Sheila exclaimed. “He wears cowboy boots. So sexy. Did he help you?”
“No.” Hana shook her head as her embarrassment grew. “He just kind of watched, like he’d never seen anyone grovel on the ground for a lipstick before. It was mortifying. I laddered my tights.”
Sheila poked at her squashed sandwich and then hurled it into the bin next to her. “I can’t stop looking at him. He’s got the nicest backside I’ve ever seen. Just like two little peaches in a...ah back again Mr Dobbs?”
The afternoon whizzed by with administration jobs, keeping the budget straight and making posters advertising a visiting speaker next week. Hana left it until just before five o’clock to make her way back to the leafy suburb in the north of the city, to her empty house and equally hollow life.
Chapter 3
The first week of term passed smoothly. On Friday, the staff and students assembled outside in the courtyard for the first of the whole school assemblies, to welcome new students and remind those from last year what he expected.
The day loomed hot and humid. Tempers snapped amongst the staff, even before the exercise of aligning six hundred chairs outside was complete. Alan Dobbs ran around booming orders and introducing his unique brand of confusion. One minute there weren’t enough chairs and then too many. The invited guests arrived, but nobody remembered to greet them. A beaming set of new parents sent in the wrong direction were later discovered sitting in the stands by the swimming pool.
So began the lengthy powhiri, the colourful welcoming of new students and staff by the impressive Kapa Haka group. Garbed in their traditional feathered cloaks and loin coverings, the group of older boys performed their school haka, filling the airwaves with their guttural noises and fearsome display.
The principal’s address to staff and students was rousing as always. He conducted his whaikorero, or formal speech, in his flawless Māori and repeated in English – or Scottish. A gentle man, Angus Blair spoke with conviction about his vision. “It is our intention to make the young men in our care into valuable contributors of society...”
Hana’s mind wandered as the principal outlined his expectations for the year, having heard it for the last fifteen years. Angus had made Waikato Presbyterian School for Boys into one of the best schools in the North Island. Parents boarded their children in the St Bartholomew’s boarding house from as far afield as Australia and Germany, to enjoy the strong academic and sporting acumen of the school. Angus’ strong Christian principles permeated every fibre of the school ethos and he was a man with infinite patience. Hana once overheard him say to a troublesome student, “You may have bounced out of every school in the district, but you’re here to stay. You’ll leave when your time is up and this school has turned you into the useful young man I know you can be. I have all the time in the world and nowhere else I’d rather be!”
When Hana’s husband died unexpectedly in a car accident nine years before, Angus called round to her house. She opened the door to him with reluctance, accepting his visit as the rudimentary five-minute-duty-call. He stayed for five hours, consumed most of a large bottle of red and shared his own experience of losing his wife to cancer months before. “We have to press on, dear,” he told her in a slurred Scots accent, the wine working its magic on both of them. “Otherwise, what’s the point of anything?”
The ceremony went without a visible hitch from the perspective of the enamoured new parents. Those members of staff unfortunate enough to be sitting near Sheila Jennings and son-in-law, Rory Kingston were privy to the resounding slap she meted out to him somewhere between the whaikorero and the waiata, the latter of which drowned out the argument with its rowdy singing. Both had faces like thunder and from her distant viewpoint, Hana could see the day going downhill.
Bor
ed, Hana stared at the new staff members seated on the steps whilst fanning herself with a programme. Angus favoured male teachers in his elite school for boys and this year they looked fresh out of university. Apart from one. The new head of English was part Māori and handsome. He looked in his late thirties with jet black hair and olive skin. Even from the other side of the courtyard, Hana noticed his striking eyes. She shifted in her chair to admire the shapely rear end Sheila had described but unfortunately, he was sitting on it.
Hana peered too long, trying to see if the man’s eyes were blue or green. The new head boy gushed his acceptance speech at the lectern and sweated ribbons of fluid which left wet patches under his armpits. The handsome male teacher moved and Hana should have averted her gaze out of decency, but was slow on the uptake and discovered his full attention turned on her, as though he sensed her gaze. Hana gulped. Perched on a small library chair behind the Year 12s, she bobbed her head quickly, sensing the pink blush begin in her cheeks.
Curiosity got the better of her and she peered between boys’ shoulders for another look. Hana stared straight into a pair of piercing grey eyes, which seemed to cross the entire distance between them and drill straight into her soul. She took a sharp intake of breath, causing the boys to look round as an unsettling déjà vu washed over her. The man smiled, an awkward, lop-sided expression, more from his eyes than his mouth, before disconnecting and looking back at the head boy. Hana missed her opportunity to return the smile, convincing herself it was directed at someone else. Much as she wanted to appraise the striking man more, she resisted the urge in case she got caught again, distracting herself by making a mental grocery shopping list.
Chapter 4
A study class was in progress in the common room, overseen by the tall Māori teacher. He stood with his hands in the pockets of expensively cut trousers, his shapely backside resting against the wall. The sole of his black cowboy boot rested against the wall behind him and he looked casual and yet dangerous.
Hana dashed past carrying a box of university brochures and sensed a small electrical current go through her body. She stopped, perplexed. Grey eyes met her green ones and she had that odd sense of déjà vu again. Hana faltered, her brow creasing, suddenly unsure of herself and the man’s attention was diverted by a student needing help. Hana was drawn to the teacher in some inexplicable way, instantly dismissing the schoolgirl-crush-type feelings that rose inside her; as ridiculous in a woman in her forties.
Hana flung her wares onto her desk and eyed the back of her colleague’s head. Peter North snoozed with his wet cheek welded to a pile of reports. “Pete!” Hana shouted, wincing as he woke up with a start.
“What? What?” he screamed, standing up, his eyes wide and his wispy hair on end. “What happened?”
“It’s half past ten in the morning, that’s what! If Alan Dobbs catches you napping at work again, he’ll make sure Angus sacks you,” Hana warned.
“Oh, yeah. Right.” Pete sat with a thud, shedding a storm of dandruff around his chair. He pulled the reports towards him and peered at them.
“Pete?” Hana walked to his desk and stood next to him, pushing a few pieces of random paper with a slender finger. “Who’s that new teacher in the English department, the tall one?”
Pete’s eyes lit up with a mischievous smirk. “Why? Do you fancy him?”
Hana jumped back as though slapped. “I’m a happily...widowed woman.” It sounded wrong and she cringed. “Forget it, I was only interested to know where he came from and stuff.” She floundered. “He looks Māori and I wondered what tribe he was affiliated to.”
“Whatever!” Pete snorted with derision. “What would an Englishwoman know about tribes?”
Hana slapped him on the top of his fluffy head, regretting it as she unleashed another snow storm. She wiped her hand on her skirt. “I’m half Irish and half Scots and if you call me English again, I’ll never cover for you with Dobbs for as long as you live!”
“Ngapuhi!” Pete shouted, spinning his chair as Hana stalked back to her desk. “Ngapuhi but he’s from the mountains in the north of the Waikato. His family has links to Tainui and Logan’s fluent in four languages. He was brought up on a farm and can teach sport, English, French, accounting and maths.”
Hana hugged the knowledge to herself, a flush creeping up her neck. She faced her computer screen and tapped out a memo Sheila asked her to send. Sensing Pete still looking at her, she glanced in his direction. “What?”
“Nothing.” He smirked. “I’ll tell him you were asking.”
“Don’t you dare!” Hana hissed. “That’s mean! I’m not interested, in fact, I wish I’d never asked! I should’ve known I couldn’t trust you.”
“Hana!” Sheila’s voice issued from her office in the corner and with a glare at Pete, Hana trotted over to the partially closed door and poked her head in. “Have you balanced that budget from last year yet? We need to close it off and I can’t get it to tally.”
Hana’s shoulders sank. “No, I’m still a hundred dollars short and I can’t work out where it’s gone.” She bit her lip in nervous anticipation.
“Well neither of us enjoyed a surprise holiday in Fiji over the summer, so it must be here.”
“I’ll keep looking,” Hana said, pulling her head from the gap and turning away.
“Oh, Hana! Gwynne Jeffs from media studies has offered to fix the centre’s computers for free. I’ve told him if we’ve got money left, he can have that photographic equipment he asked for last year.” Sheila came to the door, biting at her thumb nail as realisation dawned. “I know what it is!” She fanned her face with her hand. “I got that strange Korean student, James, onto the barista course last term at late notice. We had to pay upfront so there wasn’t an invoice. I bet that’s the extra hundred dollars. Sorry, I forgot to tell you.”
Hana smiled with relief, faith in her budgeting ability restored. As she sat back at her desk, Pete leaned towards her and whispered, “He fancies you.”
Hana’s eyes widened and the flush began again, her heart dancing a wild tattoo. “Who does?”
Pete bit into a cookie and waited until his mouth was full before answering, muffling the words. “Gwynne Jeffs. That’s why he’s offered to mend the computers; he wants to see more of your lovely legs under the table.”
“Don’t be disgusting!” Hana snapped, the withdrawal of adrenaline behaving like a hideous sapping of energy. “No, he doesn’t.”
Pete spat crumbs into the gap between their desks as he leaned sideways again. His face held a knowing look. “You thought I meant him, didn’t you? You thought I meant Logan Du Rose fancied you.”
Hana’s face glowed beet red and she turned back to her screen, hating the silly sports teacher with every fibre of her being. “No, I didn’t,” she replied through gritted teeth. “I’ve had and lost one husband. I don’t need another.”
“Liar,” he replied, shoving another cookie into his mouth whole. “I’ve known you fifteen years and I know when you’re lying.”
“Go and teach sport or something,” Hana bit, dealing with the aftermath of her disappointment. “Or better still, finish writing those reports from last year! Dobbs was here looking for you earlier.”
“Was he?” The other half of Pete’s cookie plunged to the carpet and he looked terrified.
“No,” Hana said crossly. “I thought you could tell when I was lying.”
Pete turned around in disgust, halted by Sheila’s shout from her office. “Pete, Dobbs was looking for you earlier. He said he wants those reports you did wrong last year and they have to be on his desk by this afternoon, otherwise you’re fired.”
Pete inhaled in shock and looked at Hana in accusation. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish and Hana tried not to smirk. “I was making it up,” she sniggered. “How bizarre.”
The spindly sports teacher picked up the wad of rumpled reports and tucked them under his arm, ignoring the few which tumbled back onto his desk. “Fine then!
” he said, sticking his pudgy nose in the air. “I won’t tell you what Logan said about you.”
The smile disappeared from Hana’s lips and she turned back to her work, knowing she didn’t want to know. It wouldn’t be flattering; he was much younger than her. Pete stomped from the room in temper when she refused to retype his reports and disappeared for a few hours.
Lunchtime saw the return of James, the Korean exchange student and prospective McDonald’s employee. He greeted Hana with a beaming smile. “I guess that means you got the job?” she congratulated him.
“Yes, Miss, I will be doing buggers for my first week.” He seemed ecstatic with his success, so she didn’t have the heart to point out the obvious errors in his speech.
“Who told you that?” She enquired, her voice wavering. Her prayers for another Korean speaking employee perhaps didn’t work.
“Fat checkout girl,” he answered. “She has big baps. I happy there.”
“You mean she butters the bread rolls?” Hana’s voice wavered.
“No.” James shook his dark head and screwed up his face. He lifted his hands up in front of his chest and did an exaggerated squeezing movement.” She has big baps. I like.”
“Ok.” Hana swallowed and her mouth dried up.
“Oh! I have new English teacher,” James said, his face breaking into a wide grin. “He wonderful. He help me get scholarship.” The student pulled a sad face and patted Hana’s upper arm in kindness. “Mr Johal die. You should marry Mr...” He faltered over the name. “Marry English Mr.”
“It doesn’t work that way, James, but thanks for the advice. I’d need to fall in love and I think I’m too old and jaded for that to happen.” She’d said too much to a student and Hana’s colour pinked, highlighting her porcelain complexion.
“In my culture, parents choose partner. Ask your dad.”
Hana gulped and bit her lip. Robert McIntyre died long ago and Hana knew if he hadn’t, he certainly wouldn’t want to discuss her choice of partner. He made that clear twenty six years ago. She straightened her spine and smiled at the thoughtful young man. “I’m glad about the job, James. Make sure you write to your mother and tell her. It’ll take the pressure of the fees off her a little bit. Well done.”
