The Teacher
January 13th
Mordred and I sat sequestered at the back of the inn like a cabal of thieves. Initial mutual shyness meant we were uncertain how to proceed, like a courting couple left unchaperoned for the first time.
We watched the coming and going of guests whose damp mud-stained cloaks and sodden hats offered scant protection from the persistent bite of Winter. Every face was sullen, every nose, rosy red. A log fire crackled in the hearth, and a peal of laughter drifted down from the guest rooms upstairs.
It was Mordred who broke the ice. “I am pleased that you responded to the advert. It is not often that we attract teachers of your calibre—an Oxford man! Trinity College, too! Tell me, what is it that attracted you to the post?”
I frowned, thinking him sarcastic, guessing that he must know my salary and be able to guess at my impecunious state from the state of my clothes. What was being offered by Loundes was twice as much I could hope to make—even if I became a head of department at my current school. But his face was an impassive mask; with two, straight, full and unsmiling lips beneath a steel coloured walrus moustache. His coal coloured eyes stared dead ahead at me. He was serious.
“Well, what caught my attention was that the advert specified a male teacher. That seemed unusual for an all-girl’s school. But, I won’t deny that the remuneration seemed very generous.”
Mordred broke into a hacking cough, and I watched his shoulders heave as he drew a hand to his mouth and curled over the table until the convulsions had ceased.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said. “The cough is one of the unfortunate by-products of the great flu pandemic. I imagine those who lived through it are lucky to be alive. Now, what was I going to say? Ah yes, male teachers. Well, I like to think that we are a forward-looking bunch at Loundes. It is far too easy to go on living in the past. But this isn’t the only reason I am interested in you. What my girls need is someone who can stimulate their minds, keep them out of mischief and that requires a bright mind. If there’s one thing a Trinity man will be, it’s bright.”
He carried on talking animatedly about his school, almost without pause—except for when he had another coughing convulsion; and for this he refused both wine and water, even though a pitcher was close to hand.
As the shadows gathered, and the shroud of night began to wrap itself around the outside courtyard, we began to bring our conversation to a close.
“I suppose the only other question I have for you, is about family,” he said. “Are you married? Do you have children? Parents?”
I shook my head. “My fiancée died two years ago, and now I am a confirmed bachelor. I have no living family; my parents also died in the great pandemic.”
“Ah,” said Mordred with a look of sadness. “You have my sympathies. Still, I am sure that if you come to Loundes you will find plenty to keep you occupied. My girls are always in high spirits.”
“I think that sounds just the tonic,” I said, before thinking I ought to be a little more circumspect. “I hope this does not sound disrespectful, but would it be possible to arrange a visit, before I agree to anything?”
Mordred looked at me, and for the first time his straight lipped demeanour cracked; out of the shell came a beaming smile. “But of course, why not come this Saturday? By carriage, it is just a two-hour journey from where you are.”
We stood up and he shook my hand. “I promise you, once you come to Loundes, you will simply be unable to leave!”
. . .
January 15th
My charges left me feeling defeated today. There was scant appreciation for the glory of Shelley’s “Ozymandias”. The words, though imbued with a power of their own, even when augmented with all the energy my voice could muster, would not rouse a flicker of interest in these surly and uninterested boys. By the end of the lesson I found my mind drifting off: I imagined Ozymandias and his:
Two vast and trunkless legs of stone.
Then I imagined the glorious brick of Loundes standing on a hill—a new Jerusalem. I imagined a sea of attentive faces staring up at me as I taught them about sonnets and stanzas and quatrains.
Though it was a leap in the dark, I came to a decision, right there and then. I would go to Loundes; if I liked what I saw, I would agree to Mordred’s terms immediately.
. . .
January 23rd
I now sit down, an ironic smile upon my lips, to recount the tale of how I came to start my new life, of sorts, at Loundes.
The morning mist had dissipated, along with a veil of cloud cover, when I stepped out of the carriage and bid farewell to the driver. “I will be ready to depart at one,” I told him.
“Yes, sir,” said the driver. “I’ll see you then.”
As the sound of the departing carriage ebbed away, I stepped through the great, wrought iron gates of the school. Standing silently, I looked up at the ivy-veined, brown, brick-work body of Loundes. There was something watchful about it. Perhaps, it was just the many leaded windows that returned my gaze with stares of their own.
I followed a path across the surrounding lawns towards the great oak double doors. They were flung open violently as I approached.
Out stepped Mordred, dressed like a Don, his hand raised in welcome.
“Hello,” he said warmly, before gesturing me inside.
We spent the next hour ambling about the school premises. We passed empty classroom after empty classroom: their chairs stacked upside down onto tiny wooden desks, their blackboards swept clean of chalk. I tried to imagine the same scene, but shorn of silence, with schoolgirls sweeping up and down the empty corridors and filling the classrooms with conversation and laughter.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
“Most of the pupils are still away until this Monday. As a boarding school, our holidays tend to be a little longer than normal.”
“Oh,” I said, striking a note of dismay, “I would have liked to have seen some of the pupils.”
“Well, there are some here and there, but you won’t be able to see them, not right now at least. But I hope you don’t feel you have had a wasted journey. Children are much the same wherever you find them. They have the same needs and wants. They want to be taught by someone who is interested in them and who will show them love and warmth.”
I smiled. Love and warmth. It wasn’t the typical approach in most schools.
As the tour came to an end, we decamped to Mordred’s second floor office to sip tea. At one o’clock, he took me back downstairs; as we approached the entrance, I noticed a small stone statue to the left of the great oak doors. I had missed it on first entering the premises.
I stepped closer to inspect it: an angel was arched protectively over the body of a child. Words were carved on the pedestal beneath:
In memory of those lost to the great pandemic. With us forever.
. . .
We stepped out into the bracing air. I wrapped my scarf tightly around my neck before turning to shake hands with Mordred.
“Well?” he asked me, holding my hand a little too long, fixing me with a hopeful look.
What do I have to lose? What do I have to gain? The school is in a picturesque location, it will probably be easier teaching a bunch of girls compared to the silent, sullen beasts I currently deal with; and I will be making a healthy income.
“Sir,” I said. “I’m your man!”
He flashed that smile of his; it was like the sun emerging, fleetingly, from behind a crowd of clouds, and then a look of sadness seemed to pass across his face.
“I am pleased--oh, there is your carriage, coming up the hill. Now then, hurry, you don’t want to be late!”
I strode quickly towards the carriage, glancing briefly over my shoulder at the school and at Mordred, who waved to me before turning back towards the school doors.
As I reached the gates, a chill wind stirred; I heard laughter in the air. Without warning, two young girls darted out past me, making the horses rear up. Afraid for them, I ran in their direction, yelling, hoping to push them out of the way, but rather than hearing my entreaties they stood stock-still before the horses.
As if overcome by madness, as if they had never seen children before, the horses charged.
Charged, straight at us.
Yet, when they made contact, it was just with me. The children were gone.
. . .
I could hear, I could feel, but my sight had fled. Then, as my blood soaked the ground beneath me, I felt what little remained of my life fleeing from my body. Darkness took me.
. . .
Then I was back in the school corridor, standing outside a classroom, staring through a glass pane, which was set into the doorframe, and listening to the conversation within.
“Ladies, in a minute I would like to introduce you to your new and permanent form tutor, Mr. Grey.”
I could see how things had changed since I had last been there. The seats were now the right way up and occupied by at least twenty girls. They were of different ages, shapes and sizes, but all had identical pale complexions and intermittent hacking coughs.
Mordred stood at the front of the class as he spoke. “Mr. Grey has had a painful journey to get here, and so he will understand what it is like to be in your situation. He is a fiercely clever but kind young man who I am sure you will all get to know and like. Although he is a very experienced teacher he’s rather new to Loundes and to his new situation; therefore, you will need to teach him the ropes so that he doesn’t, well, cause a disturbance with the living’s arrangements.”
The girls laughed.
I watched as Mordred then turned around to fix me with his gaze. He ushered me in with a wave of his hand. I looked at the girls on entering. I knew who my new charges were: those who had not survived the Great Pandemic and who now lingered on.
Still, they were children, and all children needed the same thing: to be taught by someone who was interested in them and could show them love and warmth. I would do that. What other choice was there?
“Now then, ladies,” said Mordred with a smile. “This is Mr. Grey. He’s been dying to meet you.”
Munib Haroon
Munib is a children's doctor who lives in the United Kingdom. He has had three short stories published and is working on his first novel.