The Girl With The Faraway Eyes

One thing I want to make clear from the outset is that I’m not generally known as the kind of person who makes other people’s business their business. I don’t go in for idle chit-chat or water cooler conspiring, and I’d certainly never break a cast iron confidence, although at this point I’m more than prepared to make an exception. For this isn’t a case of wanting to but rather one of having to. Don’t ask me why, because I simply can’t tell you. But then again, don’t go getting me wrong – it’s not that I really want to tell you for, as must be plainly obvious even at this early stage in the proceedings, we don’t know each other from Adam. It’s rather that…well, if I don’t tell somebody…anybody…I think I’m going to go lose a part of me I didn’t know I had. In short…I think I’m going to end up like him.

Trevor Cavendish used to be the type of bloke who could teach with his eyes closed. A natural. The kind of chap I always wished I could have been. Easy going, effortlessly friendly, terminally cool in an unhip kind of way, with a dry sense of humour and a genuine interest in trying, in his own unique style, to improve the lives of the young people in his charge. He got on with everyone, and everyone got on with him. Even the toughest of the tough kids. Believe me, where Trevor came from, that was really saying something.
Now I say ‘used to be’ as the Trevor I saw a few weeks before what I still choose to call ‘The Event’ was anything but. He’d lost that spark; the energy, enthusiasm and love for a job he’d been doing seemingly no handed for over a decade. In its place was cynicism and ennui; a sense of world-weariness that hung from him like a heavy overcoat. The welcoming smile had vanished from his lips, to be replaced by a lop sided sneer, the fiery spark that once lit up his pale green eyes now little more than a dull flicker, and although we’d always been colleagues as opposed to friends, it saddened me to see the change in him. We all grow old, and ten years is a long time for any man, but the difference in the Trevor I had first encountered as a wide eyed rookie in the English Faculty was not the gentle erosion brought about by the slow passing of time, but rather a landslide, a major tectonic shift, replacing sunshine and warmth with an icy coldness that blew like an artic chill. To say Trevor was a changed man would be an understatement of immense proportions, although even now, months after ‘The Event’, I still find it hard to put my finger on exactly what I mean, which may sound, to those of you who never knew the man, to be something of a failing on my behalf. But I want you to believe me when I say that the Trevor I knew and respected – the self-affecting all round Mister Nice Guy who had taken me under his wing all those years ago – well, he wasn’t there anymore. In his place was a doppelganger, a shadow, an imposter even. I don’t really know….although I sometimes lie awake nights listening to the roaring of the silence as the darkness descends and one word keeps dancing in that empty space behind my eyes.
FINISHED.
That’s what it was.
Trevor Cavendish was FINISHED.

The Creative Writing class had been dreamed up by some Senior Manager not, as you may expect, to enrich the lives of would be J.K.Rowling’s but rather, as is often the case in these times of economic constraint, a means of generating extra money for the school via a series of local government grants, a slow but steady trickle of cash from an as yet unaffected income stream, although as to how long it would be before some hatchet wielding beurocrat at the Department Of Education sliced it down in the interests of austerity was anyone’s guess. The staff at the school, already battered by the winds of change howling through the corridors of power were, as may be expected from those who can see their very livelihood being caught up in a riptide of new initiatives designed not, as may be surmised, to further enrich the lives of poor, underprivileged students but rather, as seems all too often be the case these days, to further the career of government ministers, were somewhat reluctant to get involved. Which, to cut the cookie before it crumbles, is how Trevor ended up there, spending his Tuesday evenings manfully attempting to both enlighten and enrich the lives of a bunch of bored teenagers in attendance not, as probably should be in these cases, because they had a burning passion for literature and an overwhelming desire to improve their creative writing skills, but rather because they had been forced to attend, a set of circumstances designed to benefit absolutely no one. In short, a recipe for disaster. And a disaster it was for, despite drawing on every trick and technique he’d picked up over the preceding years, Trevor Cavendish failed dismally, a fact that did not go unnoticed by those who scale the lofty heights in order that they may inhabit higher places. Meetings were called, words were exchanged, and ultimatums issued. As is often the case in these situations, blame was apportioned unequally, with Trevor being informed in no uncertain terms that his job…no, I’m making too light of this…his whole career, his very existence, the one thing that defined who he was and what he was about, would be pulled from under him if there was not an immediate improvement. Even you, as one who never knew him as I did, must recognise the harshness of this decision.

I’m conscious of the time here and I apologise for rambling a bit back there but you see I really need you to understand that Trevor, despite wrestling manfully with his conscience, was forced into doing what he did next. Don’t get me wrong…in no way am I condoning his actions but….well, I sometimes ask myself the question…if I’d have been in his position (and God willing, I trust I never will) well…would I have acted in the same manner, took the same course of action, made the same fatal mistake? The consummate professional in me says categorically NO…but maybe I’m not as consummate and professional as I first appear. Oh, I know to you, with my M & S suit, shiny black shoes, crisp white shirt and powder blue tie, complete with name badge hanging from my neck and all round demeanour of authority and self assurance seeping from every pore, must look the epitome of THE TEACHER YOU CAN TRUST but…well am I? Are any of us? Or are we all just charlatans; mere extra’s in someone else’s movie? I wish I knew the answer, I honestly do. But the more I think about Trevor, the more I see my own imperfections being magnified before my very eyes.
You see Trevor, finding himself painted into a very tight corner, did what no teacher should ever do but which many have considered and fewer attempted. He doctored the scripts and took the half formed, inane ramblings, the literary turds, and polished them until they shined, being careful in each instance to replicate as close as possible the individual idiosyncrasies of the authors, right down to the odd spelling mistake and inappropriate application of text speak. Then he formally assessed them against the exam board criteria, ensuring that each achieved a minimum of a C Grade, the last rung on the Holy Grail of government targets. The management were suitably impressed…by the results, I must add, not by Trevor’s unconventional strategy of which, I assume, they knew little of, although I sometimes have my doubts. Anyway – if they did they certainly weren’t letting on. Trevor was patted heartily on the back and congratulated on a job well done and told to keep up the good work while somewhere in an anonymous office boxes were ticked, targets were met, and progress was made. But, you may well ask, at what price?

They say a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, and Trevor most certainly did. But in doing so he embarked on a path that would lead to his own inevitable self-destruction. Don’t get me wrong…I’m not comparing him to Robert Johnson at the crossroads just outside of Clarksdale, signing away his soul to The Devil…it’s just that…well, not long after, something happened that you could put down to fate. Or maybe just plain bad luck.

The girl was tall, slim and painfully shy, all wrapped up in understated elegance, with an intense look in her eyes that burned like an asteroid in the midnight sky. She’d appeared a week or so after Trevor had embarked on his script-doctoring mission (for he was nothing if not evangelical in his desire to spread the word, or in this case, HIS WORDS), and promptly positioned herself at the rear of the room. If I’m honest, Trevor was too far up in his subterfuge to pay much attention to yet another Year 11 who would no doubt spend many solitary hours churning out sub-Stephenie Meyer monologues in her bedroom, ensconced beneath a poster of Robert Pattinson, dreaming of being Bella to his Edward, though she did strike him as being different although, outside of a general lack of noisy demeanour that marked her out from her peers, he struggled to nail down exactly what he meant. I remember him speaking of her in a somewhat detached manner, as if she were somewhere else, if not in body then certainly spirit. As a teacher I like to think I can spot talented students the minute they open their mouths, but Trevor said that was something she very rarely did. Open her mouth, that is, although he spoke of how later, when he began to converse with her at length, she appeared to communicate back through a series of furtive flickers from her deep brown eyes which, although seemingly spending most of their time gazing intently at the floor beneath her feet, occasionally glanced upward, briefly meeting his gaze and…well here it gets a bit hazy, although I’m sure he said she had an aura about her that was somehow other worldly, possessing a voice so quiet as to be almost incomprehensible. Yet her words…or at least the few she chose to impart, were bathed in a confidence and maturity way beyond those of her peers. Surprisingly, for one so articulate as Trevor, he found himself almost lost for words when attempting to describe her to me, although I do remember he bestowed a title that somehow seemed to completely sum her up.
He called her THE GIRL WITH THE FARAWAY EYES.

You’d probably be forgiven for wondering as to where all this is leading, and at this point I’d like to thank you for your patience while assuring you that we’re almost at the end of our tale, because at this juncture, and in the interests of making my point as succinctly as possible, I’m going to put my foot on the gas and speed things up a little.
So, as I was saying, by now Trevor had his eye on a different ball, and paid little, if any, attention to the new addition to his flock of willing sinners (I say this not in the sense that the kids were intrinsically bad, but rather that they were inherently lazy and, as such, should they have known, would have been more than willing to allow Trevor to churn out work on their behalf) until, that is, one evening in early February when the hordes of unruly sixteen year olds had departed and Trevor was straightening out the carnage inflicted upon his classroom, he glanced up to see The Girl standing almost directly in front of him, a look of uncertainty on her face, clutching half a dozen sheets of paper which she thrust urgently in his direction before hurriedly exiting the room in what Trevor could only describe as a state of gracefully heightened anxiety, painful to behold yet strangely intense in its application. He glanced down at the smooth white paper, noticing the neatly typed pages, and decided to sit down and read the words imprinted upon them, thinking it was best to get yet another pointless chore over with as quickly as possible before packing up and heading back to an empty house.

What transpired next and, it has to be said, over the intervening few weeks, was nothing short of a revelation. The stories weren’t just a cut above the usual Year 11 efforts; they were so far ahead as to almost inhabit another dimension. He read them again and again, astounded by their depth and design. Of course, being a teacher, he felt duty bound to annotate them accordingly, pointing out the odd grammatical error and offering an occasional suggestion as to a more appropriate application of syntax, none of which, I remember him saying with a wry smile, he remotely expected to be acted upon. But, as is sometimes the case, in thinking ourselves to be so right we serve only to reveal how truly wrong we are.
The Girl, still shy and hesitant, but with the kind of dedicated look one would normally associate with born again Christians or radical terrorists, took his suggestions and duly acted upon them. And this, in essence, became the pattern of their relationship; she handing him a first draft, he suggesting and correcting, she reworking, polishing and perfecting. Here, at least, was one student who would not require the assistance of his anonymous hand.

As I said, this went on for a number of months, and I remember him saying that he’d experienced a true sense of invigoration, where work stopped being a chore and instead became fun, to the point where he actually looked forward to Tuesday nights.
But then it all ended just as suddenly as it began. Not, as is often the case in education, with a whimper, but rather a very large bang.

Trevor had arrived as usual to be greeted by the same old reluctant faces, although on this occasion their poorly executed lack of interest was the furthest thing from his thoughts. His focus was on a story he held in his hand entitled DEAD OF NIGHT; a crime story narrated by a nameless world weary detective who walked the mean streets of an anonymous city in the hunt for a crazed killer. A slice of dark noir evoking the true spirit of classic pulp fiction. This was the one. This was what they’d been working towards. This was her masterpiece. The first of many. Of that he was sure.
As he eagerly awaited her imminent arrival Trevor Cavendish, a middle aged man with three pets, two grown up kids and one divorce to his name, struggled to recall the last time he’d felt so inspired by a student. He could sense the anticipation. Taste the excitement. Feel the power of the words; black and white in his visibly shaking hand. For this was truly what it was all about. Forget the money, six week summer holiday and early retirement. This was what he had got into teaching for.

He never did get to return the story. Instead he spent the evening ignoring the rabble while simultaneously staring at an empty chair, slotted neatly behind the desk at the rear of the room where she always retreated, away from the noise of the crowd. The desk that would remain unused for the remainder of that term and the ending of the course. The desk where Trevor sat and read the letter that turned up one day in late spring. The letter from The Girl, unsigned yet intensely personal. The letter that told him a little of what he already knew and a lot of what he didn’t. The letter that acknowledged his help and assistance and thanked him for his belief.
HIS BELIEF.
Two words that, in the dark weeks that followed, would shine like a beacon of hope across the vast ocean of insecurity he found himself drowning in. You see, the cat crawled out of the bag when an eagle eyed invigilator noticed a number of, how shall we say, stylistic similarities in the scripts entered by Trevor. Concerns were raised, investigations launched, accusations thrown. He was hauled before the Head Teacher and dismissed on the spot not, I believe, for what he did, but rather for the fact that he was found out.
That’s when I last bumped into Trevor, a few days after he’d had the push. He looked shattered, broken, totally washed out. We went for a drink in some anonymous theme pub, but the cold beer, warm tales of good old days and hot smile of the barmaid did nothing for either his demeanour or disposition. We shook hands in the car park like two sailors about to walk the plank. He wished me luck in my new post as Head Of English at a recently opened Academy, and then we parted ways, with me promising to get in touch shortly.

But I never did. Instead I immersed myself in my work and again, if I’m truly honest, consigned my old friend to a compartment labelled LOOK UP SOMETIME AROUND CHRISTMAS. In short, I forgot all about him.
Until, that is, a policeman knocked on my door.

Not many people showed up for Trevor Cavendish’s funeral. I guess many of his old colleagues were worried about guilt by association, opting not to be seen by their respective masters as having any connections whatsoever with a man who had tarnished not only his own reputation, but that of his employers. There was an elderly priest from the local Catholic church, a middle aged woman from the funeral directors, and me from who knows where, although I swear that from the corner of my eye I caught a fleeting glance of a tall, slim, elegant looking girl with strawberry blonde hair and a look of deep sorrow etched across her finely sculptured face. She looked angelic, with her shy smile and deep brown eyes. She looked like the kind of girl who could easily get mistaken for a writer. She looked like life itself, and for a moment I had an overpowering urge to walk across the overgrown graveyard, take her by the hand, and thank her for what she’d done for my friend. But it was dark and overcast, and the late afternoon light was beginning to fade, so I could have been mistaken. Then again…well, who am I to say?

But the truth is not always where you find it. You see, Trevor Cavendish died in the front seat of his car, not on some icy highway or narrow country bend, but in the darkness of his garage, with the engine running, the windows closed, and a rubber hose pumping a deadly cocktail of toxic fumes into the vehicles interior. In his hand he clutched the letter; so tightly that the police pathologist had to crack his fingers with a hammer in order to retrieve it from the vice like grip. It seemed that, even in death, he somehow needed the comfort of her words. Despite their best efforts, the officers of the law were unable to trace the whereabouts of the author for, as I think I’ve already mentioned, the note was unsigned. Furthermore, examination of the register revealed no additional students admitted to the class. Don’t ask me why, but Trevor had never added her name to his list. Maybe it was what the school liked to term an ‘administrative oversight’. Perhaps he just plain forgot. Who knows? Certainly not me. But what I do know, which is why I feel this need to unburden myself to you, is that something happened in that classroom that changed Trevor Cavendish’s life forever; a seismic shift so profound as to alter the trajectory of his very being, to the point where he ceased to exist.
If you’ve stuck with me this far then you’ll know exactly what I’m getting at.
Trevor Cavendish didn’t die for a cause, a flag, or a nation.
He certainly didn’t die so that sinners such as you and I could be saved.
For let it be remembered that Trevor Cavendish died for one thing, and one thing only. The thing that meant more to him than any long service award or lottery win. The one thing in life that truly inspired him, engaged him, and gave him the reason he needed to get out there and face another day.
The thing that was The Girl With The Faraway Eyes.