Boy Who Made It Rain Page 2

  I mean she was distant and resentful for some reason. We didn’t really develop much of a teacher/student relationship it has to be said. I had the impression that she felt that I had a different agenda other than that of getting them involved in the subject and success in their exam, which was in fact my only agenda. I have no idea whatsoever why she felt this way. I certainly wasn’t going to challenge a sixteen-year-old girl on such matters. After all, I was the one who was in the position of responsibility. I had to show maturity, leadership and integrity; confronting a student simply because you have a distinct feeling that that student doesn’t like you is unprofessional and short-sighted. I am afraid I wasn’t that insecure about myself, or my methods, either.

  Having said that, my understanding was that Rosie was a clever girl, sharp as a tac as well. I believed that she was more than capable of achieving anything she wanted to achieve. Actually I liked her individuality, or her desire to be individual. She seemingly didn’t subscribe to what her peers were interested in. As regards her dress sense, the music she listened to or her general attitude, she was what you would call an emo girl. Which means emotional. It’s related to that type of music. Emotional music, I’d imagine. It goes further than that, obviously, in the sense that it’s linked to the general aesthetic and attitude. Iconoclastic, and subversive with a small ‘s’. Rosie certainly fell into that category; she was a fusion of these things. It’s not as though we teachers don’t listen to music. It should be a prerequisite that we have to garner knowledge of popular culture. If anything we are more attuned to teenagers than any other profession. I’d advise all teachers to watch the X Factor, Big Brother or The Inbetweeners. It’s about trying to engage. It’s not rocket science, you know.

  Rosie had a flair for English; however, I don’t think she could comprehend this. At times it’s tough to be objective, to have that ability to stand outside yourself and analyse successes and areas for improvement. Maybe that’s where teachers come in handy. I could tell that she had real potential. My understanding was that she enjoyed Macbeth and some of Shakespeare’s sonnets.

  I thought Cora Kelly was a noose around Rosie’s neck. It was obvious that she was a bad influence on her; perhaps it was based on some intellectual inferiority complex or, indeed, a visual one. You know how teenage girls can be. I understood there to be a hint of resentment within that friendship. Cora could be an odious character, but there was something charmingly heartbreaking about her at the same time. She required an audience; if Rosie wasn’t in class for whatever reason Cora was like a morose dog without its owner. There was something more profound going on with that girl. None of my colleagues had a good word to say about her, but please don’t take that as any kind of barometer. There was no way on earth that she was going to pass her exam. Why? Simply because she was weak, and indolent. I think it was suggested to her that she was maybe better off leaving school and enrolling in the local technical college to study beauty therapy. In my mind it was a good idea. I am not sure why she didn’t; my theory is that she enjoyed the comforts, camaraderie and security that school provided her with.

  Clem Curran? Well, that’s the story, isn’t it?

  Conor Duffy’s Insightfulness

  He spoke dead posh man. An that name, what’s that all aboot? Did his maw an da no like him or somethin? He couldnay understan half the things we said, which made chattin a nightmare. Coz we wir the senior guys we wir asked to show him the ropes, like aroon the school and in the common room an that. Tell him the unofficial rules an codes an all that.

  Where the smokers’ area wiz.

  Where you could dogg it in the school withoot gettin caught.

  Who wir the good teachers an who wir the drongos. The clowns.

  What students wir alright to hing way an who wir the total nerds an geeks.

  Who the maddies wir.

  Aye, the students who we thought wir mad. No mad fir a laugh, naw, these dudes wir mad fir doin real mad stuff. A dunno, happy slappin folk. But much worse. Much worse. Slashin an all that gang stuff. Anyway, the mad squad wir the important ones tae watch oot fir, coz they would hiv nae qualms aboot chibbin an English dude. A wrang word or lookin at somebody the wrang way wiz all it took. They needed nae excuse. Wee Sean actually told him tae keep his trap shut aroon the psychos just in case they took exception tae his accent. We’d’ve knocked any of them out if it came tae a square go, but it wiz nae worth it coz they’d just cut ye up when they got the chance, so it wiz always better to stay schtoom, don’t face up to them. That wiz the mantra man. An it wiz actually easy coz none of them wir in any ay oor classes. They wir in the remdems. Oh, it means remedial.

  Some of them played in the fitball team as well, so we wir alright with them. After big Niall got injured we asked Clem tae be in the school team, but the guy had no interest in fitball. Strange, man, innit? He looked as if he could handle it though, but we foon oot he wiz intae rugby instead. My da always told me tae never trust someone who didnay like fitball. He had nae interest in it at all, don’t git me wrang, it didn’t make him a bad person or anythin like that. The guy wiz just different. For one, he didnay like any of the bands that we wir all intae. Well, loads really, but a suppose The Killers, The Fratellis, The Kaiser Chiefs, 50 Cent, Kanye an bands like that wiz what we banged oot. My da said that you can tell a lot about someone by the music they listened tae, so a asked him: ‘Wit music are you intae, my man?’ It wiz all these bands a’d never heard of an some other stuff that your granny would pure listen tae man. Each tae our own, eh? Aye, a suppose it wiz like all that stuff Rosie Farrell listened tae as well. A dunno wit it wiz, but it wiz pure mince. Whatever it wiz.

  A didnay mind the guy. It wiznay like we wir goin tae be best buddies or anythin, but the impression a got wiz that there wiz somethin weird aboot him, an a’m no just sayin that coz it’s easy tae say that now. If ye don’t believe me, you can ask any of the boys a roll with. We all hid the same impression. A wiznay jealous coz Rosie fancied him, no way man. Loads of girls fancied him, that’s the way of the world when a new guy or girl comes tae a new school. Unless they’ve been dookin for chips they’ll attract some sort of attention; it’s no big revelation man. A didnay sweat it. A think Liam wiz a wee bit jealous coz he’d snogged Rosie a couple of times, but he said she wiz way too oot there for him. Like in her heed. A bit of a looper. Naw, a don’t mean she wiz like any of the mad squad looper. Looper in a good way.

  A think it wiz actually her that told Liam tae sling his hook; the bold Liam told us that he didnay want anythin tae do with her because she wouldnay let him…erm…sleep with her. Aye right Liam! You cannay really blame her anyway. See all that terrible music an emo or goth look, a cannay be doin with all that. A mean she’d’ve been a pure stunner if she’d’ve scrubbed all that black shite aff her face an dressed properly an no like a pure tinker. But sayin that there wiz somethin cool aboot her as well. She wiz different. She didnay slap it on like the rest of the socks in our year. A liked Rosie, but a think she thought a wiz a bit of a nonce. Probably coz she hated fitball an me doin the boys thing. She wiz one of them men haters. A think a wiz the only one who wiznay surprised when Rosie an Clem got the gither. Actually, a wiznay surprised by anythin that happened. Especially in here. A said tae the lads, ages ago, that somethin like this wiz goin tae happen. You kin ask them if ye don’t believe me. A’m just glad we nivir really let Clem roll wey us, you nivir know how it couldiv ended up fir us.

  Aye, a do think Cora wiz put out by it all. Well it meant that her best pal wiz no aroon as much as she wanted.

  Resentful? Aye, that’s the word.

  She wiz awright, wiz Cora, but a nivir fancied her or anythin like that. The lads used tae call her a pure mad stalker burd. She used tae have a thing for me, but a wiznay intae her at all. She wiz alright lookin, a mean she wiznay a dog or anythin, but she had a wee bit of a reputation aroon the school. The wee second- an third-years used tae shout, ‘Cora Kelly, could gobble a welly.’ But, if you believed
all the stories you’d think Cora wiz out…erm…sleepin wey a different dude ivry night ay the week. Actually a know of one guy thit shag…erm…slept wey her coz he wiz shoutin his mouth aff aboot it. He plays for my fitball team. Naw, he’s no a mate of mine, he’s a bit ay a pleb if truth be told. Naw, it’s a team ootside school. He’s at college or uni or somethin. He hid no idea that a knew Cora. Anyway, that put me well aff her. Naw, she’s alright is Cora, a good laugh at times, but there’s no way a’d ivir go there. No way.

  A’m glad a kept my distance fae that lot.

  Yiv no idea how glad a am.

  Mr Goldsmith’s Astonishment

  It’s all extremely bewildering, how does one comprehend such a thing? As a schoolteacher it is one of your worst nightmares. It’s the utter waste of it all that saddens me terribly. In our position sometimes we have the ability to foresee things, hypothesise and make accurate predictions about our students. But this! This is something that happens elsewhere. I had absolutely no idea at all, no inclination. Even if I delve into the deep recesses of my own mind, which I have subsequently done, there is no intimation, no caveat, no clue that I could pinpoint or signify. Nothing. If anything it makes one question the validity of one’s profession, and just how qualified one is within it. I can tell you I have questioned myself many times over this issue. I am astounded by it all, if truth be told.

  I recognised that Clem wasn’t altogether charmed by the idea of heading up north. Well, who would at such a tender age? Leaving behind all his friends, his school and, in actuality, his culture. It would take a much determined and strong willed young person to cope with such a drastic alteration in life. Don’t get me wrong it wasn’t as though he was dreading the prospect either. I found him to be a young chap full of wanderlust and inquisitiveness. I can recall a conversation we had about the impending scene in which I openly encouraged him to approach his new life in Glasgow as a kind of anthropological adventure. I strived to remove any notion of trepidation he had in his mind. I saw this counselling, if you would like to refer to it as such, as an integral part of my position. I suppose in many ways I failed in that respect. I have subsequently cursed my prognosis.

  Oh, yes, yes. A model student. A model student. He, along with a great many of my students, had an impressive appetite for knowledge. He devoured books, all kinds of literature. Like many boys of that age, he had a considerable zest for the work of the beat poets, however he wasn’t limited to that. He approached their work with a great deal of fervour. What was impressive was that he didn’t make the mistake that many others have made over the years, in that he didn’t eulogise over the poems and/or the poets. He respected the writing, certainly, but he was also astute enough to distance himself from the work with a critical eye. He could effectively articulate why he liked a certain book or poem and, conversely, why he didn’t.

  Oh, my apologies. Unfortunately pounding the desk is an insufferable habit I have picked up over the years. It generated enormous hilarity in many of my classes. How can I hope to instil passion in my students if I myself have none? For my wife’s sake, I am happy to report this habit doesn’t extend to the family abode. Passion is important. Yet, there is a marked distinction between passion and, well, passion. A notable dichotomy. Excuse my floundering.

  He was a joy to teach. A joy. An energetic participant in class, always active, always consistent in his comportment.

  It’s all unfathomable, isn’t it?

  In trying to account for a significant raison d’être I can only assume that, perhaps, too many of my lessons were rather too male orientated, aggressive and testosterone filled. I am referring to the writers and the literature studied. I have therefore posed the question to myself: were we, I, subconsciously objectifying the female and, in doing so, heightening masculine prowess and control? If that is the case then I fully acknowledge and accept responsibility. Mea Culpa as they say. Furthermore, on a more philosophical level, is one inherently bad or is it merely a question of nature or nurture? It certainly is food for thought I should think. What is to become of our education structures? Of our professional integrity? Obviously, I have no expertise on the education system in Scotland, but I am still puzzled how this could have happened. In fact more astonished and saddened than puzzled. It’s the waste of future hopes and aspirations. Saddened indeed.

  Mr Cunningham’s Mistrust

  Listen, I’m not a fool. I can probably tell you what Pauline Croal said. Obviously not verbatim but I’d wager I’d get close to the gist of it; that we were all a shower of unfriendly dullards, set in our ways, devoid of any enthusiasm with regards to our profession. As Head of English at the school for years, I've heard this many times. I’d like to see the state of her after five, or so, years in this job.

  Christ, these new teachers make me laugh, they waltz in here with their glistening teaching diplomas still warm in their pockets, revolutionary methods and heads full of ideology, then one of the first things they do is start shouting their mouths off, barking complaints at anyone unfortunate enough to be in close proximity, they have the temerity to point the finger at seasoned and experienced professionals; teachers, valued colleagues, who have had to wade through the turbulent seventies and eighties and emerged on the other side somewhat tarnished but gifted individuals nevertheless. Okay, so some of them are embittered and threadbare, but they are entitled to be after years of strife, are they not? It’s hardly their fault now, is it? Don’t expect me to sit here and perform some sort of self-flagellation because it won’t happen.

  Oh God no, I’m not suggesting that’s any excuse for what happened.

  Pauline Croal was a hard worker. She had good classroom management skills, which is probably the biggest worry when the new intake come swanning in. In that regard I had no concerns at all, absolutely none. As head of department probationers can be a headache at times, but she coped admirably from day one. I never heard any negative feedback from the students. Similarly I never heard any positive ones either. She was a capable teacher, that was evident. Personally I found her a touch snooty and aloof.

  Undoubtedly, I thought that she was a good-looking young woman, I think most of the male staff, and the male student body, did also. Nevertheless I don’t appreciate the insinuation. I’m a married man. Happily. One thing experience has taught me in this job is to be a good judge of character and I can tell you one thing, I didn’t trust her. It was as simple as that. I didn’t give her a hard time or anything, she got treated like any other member of staff but, the fact remains, I didn’t trust the girl. As I said, I’m a good judge of character. With this incident the paradox is, on one hand, I was pretty much spot on while, on the other, I was way off the mark. That I’m well aware of. No, I don’t think there was anything I could have done. Even those with the foresight and inside knowledge couldn’t have had an impact. There was no indication whatsoever. You just don’t expect the unexpected. We’re teachers, not detectives, psychologists or mind-readers. You can’t apportion blame with this, myself and my colleagues are absolved from any finger wagging.

  Rosie Farrell’s Mum’s First Impression

  Well I have to say I was getting worried about our Rosie. She was dressing like one of them depressed lassies you see in the centre of town. You know, the ones who loiter behind the bookshop in Buchanan Street. I don’t know what they do, they talk about music and watch the young lads play on the skateboards. And have their tights all ripped to shreds. Is that fashion? To me they all look the same, all dressed in black. And that make-up they all wear! What they need is a good wash, so they do. Anyway, I didn’t want our Rosie to follow suit. It’s not any parent’s dream, is it? But I’d have rather her run around with that crowd than have her knocking about with a group of NEDs.

  It’s terrifying being a parent nowadays. You’re scared stiff to let them out of your sight, then there’s the whole teenage rebellion thing, not to mention the periods and growing up. As a mother you want to be pals with your daughter, good pals, you
know, talking about girlie stuff and all that, but Rosie was no into all that, she hated all that pink girlie stuff, she even hated me washing her underwear. Well, she hated it being on show…like when it was drying. She washed it all herself and dried it in her room, which was an out of bounds area in our house. I don’t think she was embarrassed about her body, I suppose she was just like any other sixteen-year-old girl in that respect. But we never spoke about things like that. We knew our boundaries. And I’m no stupid I knew she’d relax her rebellious streak. Sure, I was just the same when I was that age. My parents couldn’t relate to me when I was sixteen, but now we’re best friends and me and my mum tell each other everything, and I mean everything.

  I was into T.Rex and Bowie and they couldn’t understand why I dressed in platforms and had a face like an exploding rainbow. It’s no different with Rosie, she’s into all that miserable music, which I think is pure and utter rubbish. But I tell you something, you hear all these stories, don’t you? Well, about how teenagers get obsessive about the music they’re listening to and they carry out instructions they hear in the music. Look what happened in that school in America. Terrible that was. That was all to do with the music they were listening to, was it not? Anyway I was terrified that Rosie was becoming too dependent on that type of music. Not terrified as such, more concerned. She was becoming more withdrawn.

  Rosie’s dad is not on the scene. He used to say that it would have been better if we had had a wee boy instead of a girl because with a boy you only have one penis to worry about. Oh yes, that was a concern. A big concern. Every mother worries about that, don’t they? I used to play the scene over and over in my head. I know my religion tells me that you can’t abort, but, if I’m honest, if Rosie came in at that age and told me she was pregnant I’d march her down to the nearest clinic, I’m telling you I would. It’d just waste her life. You see all the young lassies around here pushing their buggies up and down with nowhere to go. The poor souls haven’t a clue about how to take care of themselves never mind a bloody wean. She doesn’t see her dad anymore. She used to, but no anymore. It’s mostly his decision. It’s not a major problem.