Books Kill

Books Kill

Monday morning sun bounced off the red brick of The Headmaster’s office, imparting a comforting glow onto Anne Wolsey’s favourite place, The Assembly Hall. The parquet wooden floor held forty years of memories for the teacher; happy and sad, but all had been worth-while. Her elevated position as Head of English placed her next to Mike, the Deputy Head, at this morning’s assembly. He turned giving her a wintry smile that looked out of place at the start of the sunny September term. The Headmaster stood with his face to the pupils and his back to his staff, delivering the message that Anne had been dreading for months. Mike smiled again. She saw veiled chilliness in his young blue eyes and felt an ill-defined nastiness in the air.

             Her gaze caught that of Phil Webster. Gentle Phil in his casual slacks, coloured shirt, and old school tie. His shoulders shrugged up to hairy ears; palms raised and turned outward. He tapped the chest pocket of his shirt, concealed underneath a threadbare cardigan, and Anne nodded. She pushed her way out of the hall, forcing herself to smile at her young colleagues. She had been aware, last term, of the plot that had finally achieved today’s result. It had followed her around for the summer holidays, resulting in a visit to her GP, who’d advised her to ‘embrace change.’ The prospect kept her awake most nights.  Repressing the urge to barge into The Headmaster’s office and kill him with her bare hands, or at least give him a piece of her mind, she escaped to the sanctuary of the outside store. Phil had already inhaled comforting chemicals from his first cigarette of break. Anne, despite sticking to her guns for a week, eagerly accepted his offer.

            ‘Well, that’s sealed my fate. Told him I couldn’t cope with it. It’s okay for you, Phil. You’re much more computer literate. I might as well hand my notice in now.’

            ‘You know I’m happy to give you IT lessons. All schools are moving towards pupils submitting work electronically. We’ve got to move with the times.’

            ‘Thanks. You are kind. I knew it was coming some-day. Just hoped not yet.’

            Anne cried black mascara tears onto Phil’s shirt. She sensed his unease, catching sight of his tarnished wedding ring, and removed herself gently from his hold.

            ‘Sorry Phil, I’ll explain to Carol if she says anything about your shirt.’

            He told her of his plan to bring her up to speed in IT. Carol wouldn’t mind if she came around to their house for a few evening IT lessons.

            ‘You two can have a natter,’ he said. ‘She’s not seen you in ages.’ She could almost hear Phil’s mind formulating lesson plans. Anne watched his nicotine-stained fingers fasten the wooden buttons on his cardigan. His soothing voice and chocolate eyes worked their magic on her for a while. He turned to the door.

            ‘Better go and buy some more fags. We’ve smoked the last two. Go and eat something before your next class. Don’t worry we’ll soon have you up to speed.’

            She slumped in the chair at the back of the storeroom. Phil had closed the door to prevent tell-tale smoke fumes attracting unwanted attention. To her, the lingering smell of smoke mixed in with the familiar aroma of old, slightly damp paper was sheer indulgence. Alone in the comfort of her woolly fleece she could escape from Progress for a little longer. She surveyed this old glove of a refuge. There used to be five or six of them meeting here. This place was where they’d solved, amongst other problems, how to handle Paul Williams’s anger after his mum’s death and Joanie Slater’s lack of new uniform, after her dad lost his job. They called it, The Outside Staff Room. Most of the others had all retired or taken redundancy. Neither option tempted Anne. She’d never married or had children of her own. Her schoolchildren were her life. Everything was PC now. Politically Correct. Personal Computer. Perfect Confusion! Phil could take part. He’d be vaping soon, along with the rest of them.

            He didn’t understand. With his help, and a great deal of perseverance she could conquer her IT failings and probably manage to retirement. That wasn’t the main issue. This was. Anne surveyed her surroundings. There were countless years’ worth of old children’s exercise books with faded pink, blue and neutral cardboard covers. Some were re-covered in brown paper, magazine paper, even wallpaper. All were handwritten, allowing her to see into the souls and aspirations of former pupils. How could she hope to gain such rounded knowledge of her charges? Certainly not from the sterile screen of a computer. Here too, was the school store of course books, reading books and reference books. They’d been shunted out, whilst the library was being refurbished with new, top of the range computers. Books were back-up now. Everything could be resourced online. Anne was part of the back-up. No longer required.

            Despite the bumpy concrete floor, she climbed onto the old wooden chair. She reached up for English exercise books from her Year ten class of the year 2000. Ben Staniforth and Jodie Strickland had been her gifted pupils that year. Ben’s handwriting was scrawny, but his ideas were strong and bold in black biro. Jodie had neat, precise lettering. She was a lawyer now. Joe Kirkham’s book contained little writing. He never quite got the hang of it. It was full of number puzzles he made up in English class. Joe had his own accountancy business. He lived in one of the big houses at the other side of town and always sent a Christmas card. Anne felt a warm, comforting glow, remembering each child through their written outpourings. It was like being snuggled up in an armchair next to a roaring fire with the man of her dreams. She’d had that experience, just once.

             Susie Bottomley had a big heart drawn on the front of her woodchip wallpaper covered exercise book. ‘Susie and Glenn 4 ever’, it said, with a red dagger piercing through the writing. Whatever became of Susie and Glenn?

             Ah, the reading books. Ten well-thumbed copies of To Kill a Mockingbird tumbled onto her head as she reached for her teacher’s copy of Pride and Prejudice, with all her scribbled notes in the margins. Could you make scribbled notes online? Phil would need to show her. She ran a finger over the tea stain on the inside cover. Mark Ainsworth had disturbed her during break-time, needing to access his locker for his PE kit.

             Anne climbed through one of the temporary metal storage shelves further back into the treasure trove. One of her shoes fell onto a pile of books. Her stomach rumbled in protest, but food and time were of no consequence.

            There, in a little dip, was a place to settle whilst she recovered from the climb. Anne settled, cross-legged, in a mass of dislodged books. Her heart sang as she dipped in, devoured and discarded bits, like a child in an ice-cream parlour surrounded by hundreds and thousands. Catherine Earnshaw, Elizabeth Bennet, and Becky Sharpe, all joined her private party, Far from the Madding Crowd.

            The heavy metal door groaned as it eased open. Unmistakable footsteps echoed across the concrete, like taps on a computer keyboard. Anne remained silent with Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar warning about the Ides of March, open on her lap.

            ‘Are you there Anne? Mike told me you ran off after assembly. I’m here to help.’

            It was her nemesis, The Headmaster, new in post last term. She imagined him, tall, angular, tie-less, no worry lines, yet! He stood for Progress. She couldn’t disagree. But her mind was made up. She’d hand her notice in, electronically if necessary. She tried to stand. An avalanche of shelves and books, unstoppable in its force and progress, buried Anne Wolsey. She’d reached heaven before dying.