08/08/2024
Today’s writing for next book (unedited). Comments welcome (but be kind …)
She bade me into her office. I sat before her big mahogany desk littered with papers, pictures, paperweights and an assortment of office stationery. My seat was a little on the low side providing a view of her face from the top lip upwards. She had a hairy upper lip. I was reminded of Frida Kahlo, although she looked nothing like her.
Beryl leaned back in her chair, her plummy voice booming, ‘So, tell me Frankie, how are you liking Peru so far?’
I cleared my throat, my mind racing. Should I mention my near prison experience because of her precious history teacher or just talk about my trip to the pizza shop? My fingers fidgeted with the hem of my shirt.
‘Well,’ I began, trying to sound confident, ‘it's early days yet. I haven’t really had much chance to...’
The phone rang, cutting me off mid-sentence. Beryl raised her eyebrows and picked up the receiver, quickly covering it with her hand. ‘Do excuse me,’ she mouthed before attending to the call.
As she spoke on the phone, I took the opportunity to glance around her cluttered office. The walls were adorned with pictures of yearly school line-ups, trophies of every size, and certificates. The bookcases were stuffed with books stacked haphazardly. Somewhere deep in the school, a bell sounded. Doors squeaked and slammed, children’s voices spilled into the corridors, feet shuffled, and above all, teachers shouted orders. Out in the playground, a noisy netball match was taking place with energetic enthusiasm. This brief burst of activity soon quieted, indicating a lesson change in the school’s schedule.
Beryl finished the call and rubbed her hands together. ‘Now, where were we? Ah yes, what do you know about our school?’
I opened my mouth to speak but hesitated, unsure if it was a rhetorical question.
‘We’re one of the oldest private girls' schools in Lima. The best of the best, and we pride ourselves on that,’ she continued, not waiting for my response. ‘As I’ve already explained, we’re a teacher down and need an English speaker who can cover. Now, do you have any teaching experience?’
She picked up a pen and scribbled on the pad before her, then looked up expectantly. My heart sank as I pressed my lips together, realizing I wanted the job more than I initially thought, even though I couldn’t fully understand why.
‘I’ll take that as a no then,’ she said, her pen scratching the pad again.
‘Qualifications?’ She inquired, and I shook my head.
‘Degree?’ she asked, and I raised my eyebrows and pursed my lips, my heart sinking further as I saw my teaching opportunity slipping away.
‘Anything?’ Her voice trailed off on a high note.
‘No,’ I whispered, thinking it best not to mention my swimming certificate.
She put her pen down, folded her arms, and gave me a measured look. ‘Ah well, never mind. At least you speak English,’ she said with a smile that hinted she had another idea in mind. ‘I take it you haven’t tried the local brew, Pisco Sour yet?’
I hesitated, unsure if it was a trick question to test me. She opened a drawer and pulled out two shot glasses, placing them with purpose on her desk. Then she produced a brown, dimpled bottle, uncorked it with a certain panache, and poured the liquid into the glasses. Pushing one towards me, she gestured for me to pick it up.
‘Down the hatch,’ she said, throwing back her drink with practiced ease. I followed her lead, but as the liquid burned down my throat, I doubled over, coughing and gasping. She grinned, ‘It can take a bit of getting used to. Practice, my dear, practice.’
Placing her hands on the desk, she stood up. ‘Now, if you’d like to follow me.’ She strode out of the room with a purposeful gait, I had to half-trot to keep up with her quick pace. As we moved down the long corridor, my eyes darted around, taking in the quiet classrooms. Children bent over their books, teachers brandishing chalk at blackboards. I hoped she was giving me a tour of the school, but as we neared the end of the corridor, the sound of raised children’s voices grew louder, pulling me out of my thoughts. My heart raced as I realized we were approaching my first teaching challenge.
Beryl hesitated outside the door; her presence quietened the pupils. Half turning, she looked at me with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Here we are. Good luck.’ She gave me a perfunctory pat on the shoulder, opened the door, and inclined her head in an in-you-go, kind of way.
Fear locked me, my body completely stiff for a moment while my head computed what was happening. Holding onto my small handbag, knuckles white and eyes wide I shuffled a couple of hesitant steps into the room. For some reason my mind threw out an image of Julie Andrews from Mary Poppins. She was warm, firm and funny – it seemed to work with her charges.
Upon my entrance the whole class stood, chairs scraping on the floor and a chorus of voices shouted, ‘Good morning Meeesssss.’
Somehow, I prized my voice from its hidey-hole at the back of my throat, ‘Good morning class, now please sit.’
I hadn’t a clue about what subject I was supposed to be teaching or what age the class was – nothing, this was some baptism of fire. In equal parts it both terrifying and liberating. I put my handbag down on the large table in the corner of the room, the teachers desk I presumed and, with a faux confidence, picked up a piece of chalk and went up close to the blackboard. Head tilted, I proceeded to write my name on the board and when finished stood back to admire my handiwork. The writing was higgledy-piggledy and at a tragic slant. Shrugging, I brushed the chalk dust from my hands and turned smiling, at the sea of faces looking at me with fierce wide-eyed concentration. Suddenly as I took in the sight before me, I felt giddy with a sense of play.
‘Okay,’ I crossed the room, ‘who’s going to tell me where we are at?’ I picked up a textbook from a child’s desk and flicked through the pages. Geography and cloud formations, I groaned inwardly. Now, how to fill the next thirty minutes?
