Boy Who Made It Rain Read online

  Rosie and Cora had been pals since primary school. I liked wee Cora, but she was worrying me of late I have to say. In this place you can’t go to Tesco but everyone knows what you had for your dinner, and wee Cora had started to get herself that bad reputation that no lassie wants. Well, it’s plain to see, isn’t it? That she was putting it about a bit. And that’s up to her, as long as she’s being careful, but in my mind I was wondering what our Rosie was up to while Cora was gaining that reputation. Was she just standing around a corner waiting for her? Or was she with the guy’s pal? I tell you, my nerves were shattered. Don’t get me wrong I don’t expect her to be a saint or anything like that. Sure, I did the same when I was that age, well, just kissing and the like. What I’m saying is that, like any teenage girl, I was into boys and relationships, and first loves and going to the pictures and the discos. It was normal. But now it’s all about sex, sex and more sex. I blame that bloody internet. Another worry was that in our day there were few cases of disease. Nowadays loads of girls have got something wrong with them, haven’t they? I don’t know. Well Chlamydia is the main one these days, isn’t it? In my day we didn’t even know there was something called Chlamydia. I was just waiting for the day when Rosie came in and told me that Cora was pregnant. I wouldn’t have been that bit surprised one iota.

  It wasn’t as though I was over the moon, or anything like that, when Rosie brought Clem home for the first time. Obviously I noticed his strange name and his posh accent. But he was a nice laddie. You get that instinct about things. My first impression of him was that he was well mannered and charming. I could see why Rosie had gone for someone like him. You see, our Rosie has always thought most of the guys at her school were stupid, whereas Clem was the opposite. I’ll tell you what was more important to me: Rosie seemed to be a lot happier after she met Clem. They became inseparable pretty quickly. He was always around at the house, always polite and friendly. I also noticed that she started listening to different music... Well, for example, I could hear her in her bedroom listening to The Smiths, who I remember from before I even had Rosie. I didn’t much care for them then; all that dancing with flowers and old men’s specs wasn’t for me, thank you very much. It was all the weird people who were into them. But it was a welcome departure from that other garbage Rosie listened to. Our own relationship grew stronger too, I think. We would talk more about things, not their relationship of course, but maybe what they’d seen at the pictures, or she’d tell me about a gig they had been to. We communicated better, but I was always aware not to probe too much or those bridges would have been destroyed.

  There was nothing to suspect. On the surface it appeared to be like any other teenage relationship. Normal. It starts off as a form of infatuation but we all know how quickly that can change and, before you know it, your world has caved in. There was no change with them two. They were good together. They were a good couple. The one concern I had about the relationship was that Clem told me he was returning to England when he finished school. I don’t know where exactly. Where was he from again? Eastbourne? Well, I presumed that’s where he was heading back to then.

  Naturally I didn’t want our Rosie to go to England, so a part of me was hoping that the relationship would collapse. Selfish I know. But it’s just the two of us. Always has been really. There has been no one else since Rosie’s dad. Regardless of what I felt, or what I secretly wished for, I didn’t want it to collapse quite in the way it did. No way did I expect that. No mother would want that. No person would want that. With what’s happened now I wish her going to England was the only concern I had.

  I always regarded myself to being a good judge of character, how wrong was I?

  Pauline Croal’s First Impression of Clem

  Clem was a welcome addition to my class because he was, first and foremost, interested in the subject and showed a keenness and thirst for knowledge. He was obviously well schooled down south. He had picked up some good habits. I think he was somewhat frustrated at the level of his peers. Perhaps not the level as such, but certainly the apathy that surrounded him. Before Clem entered the class, discussion and debate was practically non-existent. It was reduced to a case of ‘what does this mean, Miss?’ and ‘why is he saying this, Miss?’ Not very adventurous I’m afraid. Clem’s level of enquiry was far and away more advanced than anyone else in that class. I liked having him there.

  Yes, I suppose he did become one of my favourite students.

  Any teacher who tells you that they don’t have a favourite student is lying; usually it’s a student who is an academic high achiever and one who gives them no behavioural problems. In my experience certain people equate good discipline with good teaching methods. Of course, it’s related, but we can all scare a first-year class into submission and then not teach them anything. That’s what a lot of teachers do, I have to say. The trouble is, they believe themselves to be good teachers. However, in my opinion they are nothing short of lazy teachers. They fear change, being knocked off their pedestal, or having their knowledge put into question. Or doubt.

  In a sense I could relate to some of the students better than I could some of my colleagues. One reason would be down to the age gap. I was closer in age to the students than I was with the vast majority of my peers. I like teenagers. Well, mainly because they have a vibrancy and vivacity that rubs off on me. Maybe I involuntarily missed my teen years. No, I didn’t hanker for them. I had no designs to return to those days. None whatsoever. What I am trying to say is that I think teachers should actually like teenagers; they should enjoy the company of teenagers, should they not? I don’t see any transgression in this, or any conflict with my profession. Naïve maybe, but it’s my belief.

  Is that my charge?

  It wasn’t a question of attraction; it’s not as simplistic as that. As a human being I could understand why he would have been regarded as attractive, why many of the girls found him fetching. Yes, of course, I thought he was handsome. That’s not a crime, is it? I didn’t for one moment think to myself, how lovely his eyes were, for example, or anything else for that matter. Yes, there were a few comments by female staff members, but nothing that could be construed as sinister or underhand. They were more like complimentary and gracious observations really.

  He was the kind of student I took up teaching for. The one who keeps you on your toes; the one who delves below the surface of literature, trying to grind it down and deconstruct it by any means possible. Getting their teeth into it, in a snarling way. Gnawing away at it until it concedes defeat. I had always viewed it as a game, a competition, between the books and myself, a competition in which I was always victorious. We shared a commonality in our analytical approach of the subject. Of course, I am speaking about a sixteen-year-old’s approach here; I know that, most definitely, mine was much more refined. Let’s just say that we were on the same wavelength.

  No teacher sets out to get close to his or her students in that way. These things tend to evolve from areas such as respect and reverence. Clem was intent on gaining an A’ pass in his end-of-year exam and I was going to try and facilitate this. I told him if he was willing to put the work in, then I would help him. Yes, that meant outside the classroom environment, but within the boundaries of the school building itself. Let’s see, there were the homework clubs, special study groups, late night library opening…all these things were school initiatives. I was just one of many teachers who gave their time to assist. Yes, we were paid. Clem used to come to the Tuesday and Thursday special study group. They could take various forms, from the student doing their own homework, collaborating with other students on a task…like essay writing and structure, for example. Sometimes it could take the format of a teacher led discussion or lecture. The numbers fluctuated, sometimes as much as fifteen other times as low as two.

  Rosie Farrell never came along. Clem always did, alone. I was impressed with his drive. He was a determined young man and I had no doubts in my mind that he would gain his A’ pass. He told me
he was eager to return to the south, I don’t think he was enjoying his experience in Glasgow. That’s an understatement really, given what we now know. I did have sympathy with him as this place can be pretty unforgiving, especially if you come from the wrong side of the tracks. It wasn’t necessarily an anti-English sentiment he was fighting, it was the desire to improve his standing; he was also a victim of his class status. He was from a middle-class background, that was apparent, and he was battling against that. I could empathise with him there. I thought he appreciated my understanding. I offered support one specific time, but only because he had been injured. Nothing too serious, just some bruising around the eye. But it was plain to see that the psychological damage was much more profound. I bumped into him in the corridor one morning. He appeared troubled, frustrated and upset. As I said, I offered support and, perhaps inadvertently, a hand of comfort. It wasn’t anything that could have been misinterpreted. Naturally I felt sorry for him, he was my student. I liked having him in my class and he was in a bad place, a vulnerable place. All I wanted to do was help him. He declined. At the time I didn’t know who did it, however I did have my suspicions. And in light of events, these suspicions proved to be pretty accurate.

  Sometimes we spoke about potential universities and courses. Literature was his course of choice. Yes, I think he did value my opinion.

  Well, it’s not as though I walked about the school with my eyes and ears closed. I had heard and seen things. It was no secret that he and Rosie were an item. I felt neither injury nor delight. It was a perfectly natural occurrence.

  Support? I neither supported nor condemned it. It wasn’t my place. I have absolutely no idea why Rosie disliked me. Really, I don’t consider my looks to be the catalyst for her abhorrence of me. Clem didn’t have a crush on me! He was far too astute, and mature, for all that nonsense. Rosie had nothing to be jealous about. If I was a threat to her then it was all in her adolescent imagination.

  Rosie Farrell’s Love of Games

  My mum was dead protective. She was mad scared that I was going to get up the duff or something. She kept going on about Cora and how she was doing herself no favours and all that. I didn’t have a clue what she was going on about half the time. She used to turn into a pure psycho mum sometimes. Burst your arse so it did. But she was alright with Clem. She didn’t mind him coming round the house so often, we’d just go to the room and listen to music…I don’t know all sorts. The Shins, Gorky's Zygotic Mynci, he liked them, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Belle and Sebastian I liked them. Loads of stuff. He said he was going to teach me the guitar. Be waiting for a long time for that one.

  We’d talk about stuff and do other stuff…you know, other stuff.

  No way, I’ve got my head screwed on. I knew what I was doing. I’d like to think we influenced each other. I’m not a pure mad dafty spa who just sat there and swooned over him. That’s not my bag. I’ll leave all that carry on to the wee lassies with hula-hoop heads. I’ve got a Scooby. Scooby Doo…Clue. Well, I’m clued in. Just coz he knew all these big fancy dan words and had a posh accent didn’t make him the brain of Britain. He could be thicko of the week as well, you know.

  We just started talking about music and gigs we’d been to and things like that. It was alright. He was sound. Then after he stopped all that emo-chick crap we got on like Ken and Barbie. Well, the main reason he was different from the other guys was coz he was clever, we’d all pure look at each other in class when he spoke, in that what-the-fish-is-he-talking-about? look. We really didn’t know what he was gibbering on about most of the time. And that was in all the classes. He was way above us. In schoolwork, I mean. He told me his last school was totally different, everybody like did their work, studied hard and didn’t mess about in class. Sounds a hoot! But I liked listening to him prattle on and on about stuff that I didn’t need to know. When he was shouting it off in class I was like dead chuffed that he was my type of bf. Maybe you could call it pride, but I don’t think it was. Some of the teachers didn’t have a Scooby what he was on about half the time. He showed the teachers up so he did. I also felt sorry for him a wee bit as well because he had no pals up here. Some of the sixth-year guys started chatting to him, but I could tell they thought he was a bit of a zoomer. I saw one of them on MSN slagging him off. The funny thing was the guy who was doing it is a right space cadet. The guys don’t generally do irony in here. But it wasn’t out of any sympathy that we started spending time with each other. I did sort of fancy Clem. We just sort of clicked and the rest fell into place.

  We’d chat about tonnes of stuff. Mad stuff. Like if someone was playing you in a film, who would it be? The person had to look a wee bit like you and have a similar attitude, so there would be no Jude Laws or Angelinas. I picked that guy from Brick for Clem. On that day I remember talking about band names on our way to school. It was freezing. Both of us made breath circles from the cool air. Mine were bigger and better. His were wee baby ones. I think he let anxiety get in the way of a good breath circle. I started talking about the most crappy things imaginable. Pure red neck stuff. But that was me, I suppose.

  ‘What would you call your band if you were in one?’ I asked him.

  ‘I don’t know.’ At that stage I was thinking, where’s your spontaneity man?

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish. You do. Everyone has played that game, come on, what is it?’ I could see his thought processes at work. I liked it when I could see him think. You know, deeply. But this time he was thinking about something else. We know what that was now. But I could tell at the time. I should be a blinking psychologist or psychiatrist or something like that. I didn’t know the difference actually. I bet Clem would have.

  ‘It’s Approaches to Learning,’ he said. I puffed my cheeks out and made this raspberry noise.

  ‘That’s pure mince.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘A hundred percent.’

  ‘Okay, smart arse, what’s yours?’ he said.

  ‘Don’t know, never really thought about it.’ I was taking the piss, wasn’t I? Cora’s band name was Aloud Pussycat. She was trying to mix Girls Aloud and Pussycat Dolls, both of whom are rank rotten and their severe names go hand in hand with their severe songs. Saying that, both names were much better than Aloud Pussycat. Conor’s was The Last of the Happymen. Enough said. I liked the band name game it was a good way to pass the time. An even better way to break long silences. I did have some of them with Clem as well.

  ‘Don’t talk crap, come on I told you mine.’

  ‘Okay, don’t laugh?’

  ‘Cross my heart.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘it’s Bedroom Busker.’ Inspired or what? At one stage I was going to buy a bass guitar, start a band and call it Bedroom Busker. Obviously. I even went as far as going into the shop and trying one out, but I didn’t have a Scooby what to do with it and the strings, I mean have you seen the size of those? They were like a baby’s arm, you’d need fingers like courgettes to play them. But the bass was what I wanted. All female bass players are cool as. Like Kim Deal from The Pixes and David Bowie’s bass player with the big afro. She’s dead cool. And Mo Ticker from The Velvet Underground, even though she’s a drummer, but it’s the same thing really. I could just see myself plucking away with Bedroom Busker. Or should it be The Bedroom Busker? Decisions. Decisions.

  ‘Utter utter crap,’ Clem said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’d never buy anything from a band with a name like that.’

  ‘You haven’t a clue.’

  Then there was this pure dead silence; Clem’s head was obviously in the horrors. He was rubbing his hands as if washing them, transferring sweat from one to the other. There was no way I was grabbing that, even if he did offer me it. All clammy and minging hand. No chance. I think he was psyching himself up for the big faceoff. The funny thing was I was totally calm on that trip to school. That’s ignorance for you.

  He picked Ellen Page for me. I was like, ‘who the hell’s Ellen Page?’
I hadn’t seen Juno at that stage. I was secretly hoping he was going to say Winona Ryder or Zooey Deschanel, but I was actually really glad that it wasn’t someone pure pot ugly.

  Mr Goldsmith’s Opinion

  It’s difficult to form an accurate opinion when one’s only reference point is a fifteen-minute parents’ evening twice a year. Nevertheless, one can draw particular conclusions and assumptions through their progeny. Mr and Mrs Curran were an impressive couple, Clem was their only child and they evidently transferred this impressiveness onto Clem himself. With some parents it can be an exhausting struggle of wills regarding their offspring’s education, many parents, you see, believe that they could do a superior job, or, at very least, a more productive one themselves. One conducive to their child’s specific requirements, I suspect.

  We are all specialists it would appear. The Currans were different in this regard; they were hugely supportive of the school and the tactics implemented by the staff here. They certainly did not possess the socially accepted and ubiquitous I could do better than that attitude that some of our parents shared. That is not to say they passively accepted the school’s stance on Clem’s education without enquiry either. They would ask pertinent questions and make regular enquiries regarding the advancement of their son’s education. During our brief discussions they intimated that they wanted Clem to study law or medicine. One of the elite professions. Don’t get me wrong, they were not elitist themselves. Like most parents they simply wanted the best for their child. Nonetheless I knew, from conversations I’d had with the boy himself, that he had no inclination or leaning for this area of study. I would go as far as to suggest that the sheer notion of studying law or medicine was abhorrent to the boy. Oh, no, no, no, I was in no position to dissuade the desire and wishes of his parents. As a teacher the powers I had in my possession would only allow me to put it to parents that their son or daughter was showing signs of encouragement in a specific field, and that it could be that he or she may wish to continue with their development in said field, but to disagree and discourage the will of the mother and father, well, that was not part of the remit of a school teacher. Also, these powers I talk of are docile at best. You have to remember we are dealing with adolescents here and teachers should not allow these sensitivities to vanish within the context of the classroom. It is also worth remembering that on the surface students can appear to be full of wisdom and maturity, however one has to consider that they are still very much at the emotionally pre-pubescent stage. Perchance it would go a long way in explaining this ghastly episode.