The Learning Curve (44 page)

‘Oh, just talk to me,’ she said, taking off her glasses. ‘Why the job, my dear? Tell me Why The Job.’

Mr Godfrey-Smythe’s eyebrows trampolined ecstatically.

‘Well,’ Nicky started, sitting forward. She began by headlining her qualities, explaining how each one matched what she thought were the qualities of a good head teacher. Then she went back to each in turn and elaborated. All the while, Miss James stared intently at her, nodding slowly. Nicky concluded by repeating her headlines and underlined them with a hopeful smile. Miss James continued to nod slowly. Then she stopped nodding and sat back in her
chair. There was a moment of pure silence. The moment expanded.

And then, ever so slowly, into the silence, came the low, quiet whiffle of a hedgehog making its way across the office. When Miss James looked briefly down at her notes, Nicky took the opportunity to glance at Mr Godfrey-Smythe. He was out cold, head back, mouth open. He was now displaying nose hair that competed admirably with his eyebrows.

‘Are you happy?’ asked Miss James suddenly.

Now, there was a question Nicky had not prepared for. She felt as if she’d turned over a Maths exam paper and found a question on Henry IV. Her body went into shock. God knows where her blood was rushing to, but it wasn’t her brain.

Focus, focus, focus.

If she answered yes, would she come across as too content and therefore not in need of promotion? If she answered no, would she come across as someone too unhappy to be a headmistress? She opened her mouth to speak, as intrigued to hear what she was going to say as Miss James appeared to be.

‘It’s such a strange time of life, isn’t it?’ asked Miss James. ‘Your thirties. Isn’t it? You’re not young any more, but you’re not old yet. You’re not really anything. You’ve still got to prove yourself in the world, yet you should already be halfway there.’

At this point, Nicky still believed they were having a conversation and saw a tree-lined avenue of conversation that would lead them both to the perfect glade of Nicky Hobbs, Headmistress. She liked Miss James’s style. She opened her mouth with every intention of talking.

‘Of course,’ went on Miss James, ‘it was all very different
in my day. I was a rarity. Still am, mostly. At least you’re among others like you, young feisty women, all climbing up that long, slippery pole – that sharpest of sharp learning curves – together.’

Nicky decided now was not the time to ask why feisty was an adjective only ever used to describe women or pets. Meanwhile, she tried hard not to stare at Mr Godfrey-Smythe. Had Miss James fixed his drink? Or had he woken up and started taking notes?

‘And none of you,’ said Miss James, sitting forward, ‘not one of you poor dears can have any idea how far you’ll get up that long, slippery pole. Or what life’s cruel hand will throw at you on the way up.’ She sighed. ‘By my age, of course, you know a little bit more. Even if you haven’t got very far up that pole, and you’ve made a complete mess of your life, at least you
know
. There’s something very reassuring about that.’

Nicky had lost sight of her avenue. She nodded with great enthusiasm and tried to ignore the bubble of stress rising up into her chest.

‘But then, of course,’ sighed Miss James, ‘all too soon, along comes retirement. And suddenly, you’re right back at the beginning again. Right back at the bottom of another long, slippery pole. Will you get to the top? Will it all work out? Have you finally stopped learning or is there still loads more to learn? Will you be on another sharp learning curve? What will life throw at you while you’re climbing up your retirement pole? Illness, dementia and death, or long sunny afternoons and boules tournaments? Will you be allowed to finish the journey of fulfilment? Or, in some cases, start it? Will you even recognise it?’

‘Hmm,’ said Nicky thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I –’

‘I suppose,’ said Miss James, ‘we never really know the answer to any of those questions until we are, literally, on our deathbed. And up until that moment, that very last moment of our lives, that very last breath we take, we are all just climbing up one slippery pole after another.’

Nicky didn’t move. Mr Godfrey-Smythe spluttered slightly, stopped and resumed whiffling. Miss James didn’t look, but merely waited for it to end.

‘Look at your poor little pupils, for instance,’ she went on. ‘They’re finally about to reach the top of the long, slippery pole of primary school. To plant their own Year 6 flag right at the very pinnacle of that pole! They’ve lived through a whole year of being the big fish in a little pond. They have reached the top. And what reward do they get for that? They get to go right to the bottom of the next slippery pole. The long, slippery pole of secondary school! To be the bottom of the dung-heap. The smallest fish in the biggest pond they’ve ever seen. The bottom of the sharpest learning curve of all. Poor little mites! And then they’ll struggle up that pole – falling in and out of all the pitfalls of adolescence, exams, first heartbreak, parent problems – and for what? Another bloomin’ pole. Sixth-form college! Then – if they’re “lucky” – university. Then a career. Then their first job. Second job. Third job. It never ends, does it?’

Nicky shook her head. There was a long silence. Should she just start talking? Or would that wake Mr Godfrey-Smythe?

Miss James leant forward, her eyes sparkling. Nicky leant in.

‘I want to learn how to scuba-dive,’ whispered Miss James.

‘Ooh!’ breathed Nicky.

‘Of course, they don’t teach it at my local pool.’ She leant back again. ‘I’m ahead of my time. Like my mother before me. Maybe I’ll just go on some advanced swimming course first. And of course I’ve got so many books to read. That’s one thing a head never gets time to do.’

‘Ah,’ said Nicky.

‘Ah,
reading
,’ sighed Miss James luxuriously. ‘Reading is wonderful. It’s one of life’s joys, isn’t it? And yet how often do we do it? I mean, it’s ironic, isn’t it? We teach our children how to master this exquisite language of ours – the language of Chaucer, of Wordsworth, of Shakespeare – and then, as adults, we don’t do it, do we? Do you? Do you read?’

‘Um . . .’ Christ, what on earth was the correct answer to that? She’d just been told that a head never has time to read. ‘Um . . .’ she repeated. ‘Well –’

‘Of course,’ went on Miss James, ‘you read books for work, but do you ever have time to read for
yourself
? Really read for your own pure pleasure? To exercise those little grey cells? To escape! To let your imagination run wild? To get inside someone else’s head? Now, here’s a little secret I can let you into. Ah, dear me. The last book I read was the first
Harry Potter
. Don’t tell anyone else that. Shocking, isn’t it? Shocking.’ She tilted her head slightly and gave Nicky a small smile. ‘Anyway, where were we?’ she asked kindly. ‘Gosh, I do rattle on, don’t I?’ She put on her glasses and looked up at the wall clock. ‘Oh my goodness me!’ she exclaimed. ‘You should have stopped me. Now
that’s
something a head
has
to be able to do. Absolutely imperative. Take control!’ She hit the desk forcefully. ‘Take control!’ she repeated.

Mr Godfrey-Smythe woke with a jump. His eyes landed on Nicky. She tried to give him a reassuring smile, but it was hard when you weren’t feeling very reassured yourself.

‘Yes . . . well,’ said Nicky, ‘I –’

‘Now, my dear. Have you got any questions?’ asked Miss James.

Oh dear God, thought Nicky. She was stunned. How on earth had she and Claire not thought of that question? She hadn’t rehearsed for the only real question she’d got. What questions do you ask a headmistress about being a headmistress? Will I be able to afford Clarins?

‘Um . . .’ she murmured.

Miss James smiled at her. ‘Take your time, poppet,’ she said, kindly. ‘This is your moment.’ She turned and grinned at Mr Godfrey-Smythe who gave them both a kindly look, his eyebrows jumping for a bone.

Nicky’s heart hammered against her chest.

‘No need to be nervous, my dear,’ said Miss James softly.

This isn’t nerves, thought Nicky hotly. This is hate.

‘Actually,’ she said.

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t think I have, really. I just think you learn the important things on the job.’

Miss James sat back in her chair and just looked at her as if she’d said the most amazing thing she’d ever heard.

‘Interesting,’ murmured Miss James, nodding slowly. ‘Interesting.’

Afterwards, as Nicky’s hand was vibrated sideways by a smiling Mr Godfrey-Smythe, she felt her body go light with relief and her head go heavy with tension. She watched Ned follow Miss James like a lamb to the slaughter and wanted to
reassure him that all he’d have to do was listen and occasionally, if he felt like showing a streak of assertiveness, nod.

‘Well? How was it?’ Rob asked her, Amanda hovering close by.

‘Fine,’ said Nicky. ‘How was yours?’

‘Fine,’ said Rob. They nodded at each other.

Teaching Year 6 that day was a blessed relief. Nicky performed one of her most enjoyable science lessons, that of mixing sodium bicarbonate with water first, then lemon juice, orange juice and, finally, vinegar. The results were increasingly exciting, finally resulting in bangs good enough for any kid, let alone a Year 6. The children were beside themselves with excitement at the reaction to vinegar. And Nicky was beside herself with teaching them something she knew was fun and that they’d never forget. It was such a lovely lesson, and compared with her interview, such a sane interlude, that it really did help her forget the madness of her morning interview and fear of her afternoon one with the governors, due at 5.30. She loved all her children today – their eager faces, their spontaneous laughter, their unbounded joy when they got the answers right, their team spirit and support for others – but most of all she loved Oscar. It was a small reminder that, even if she’d wanted to, she couldn’t rush into Mark’s office and collapse in a small heap all over him. All her kids were a tonic; Oscar, though, was something bordering on therapy.

At lunch, the gang reconvened, but there was a new awkwardness to it due to this morning’s interviews. Neither Rob nor Nicky were spilling any beans, no matter how much the others asked, and Ally and Pete were not impressed at
being left out. Pete tried to change the subject by asking how Ally’s morning had gone.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Ally curtly, ‘but I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘No, of course,’ replied Pete. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’

‘What about your morning?’ asked Ally.

‘I couldn’t possibly say,’ said Pete. ‘It might jeopardise my entire career. Although I did have a Lion bar at break.’

‘Did you?’ asked Ally in shock. ‘Tidy your desk this instant.’

‘I don’t have a desk.’

‘Well, tidy mine then.’

‘You don’t have one.’

‘I don’t? Right, that’s it. I’m resigning.’

Conversation turned to something bland and none of them were interested in it at all.

By 4.30, Nicky had developed a headache so big she was convinced it was meant for someone else’s head. She resisted taking any tablets until after school finished, when she finally had no choice. In desperation, she took three. By 5 p.m., she felt high, but barely awake. She made it to a café near the school where she ordered two double espressos. By the time she was on her way back to school her body didn’t know which way was up.

As she walked back in, she passed Mark and Oscar coming out. She beamed at Oscar and gave Mark a fast, friendly smile. They smiled back. After she’d passed, they stopped and turned to watch her.

‘Is she all right?’ Oscar asked his father.

‘I don’t know,’ murmured Mark.

At 5.30 Nicky was called into an interview with six governors. As soon as she walked in, she realised this was
going to be a very different experience from her first interview. For a start, she got a chance to speak, and even to speak about the vacancy of Head Teacher at Heatheringdown. Secondly, it soon became clear that no one was going to fall asleep in this meeting. Mr Godfrey-Smythe had clearly done his part for the interview effort and was now doubtless at his gentlemen’s club whiffling and displaying his nasal hairs over a whisky. The only problem was that the room was so full of underlying tension that she felt like the least important thing in it.

Before the second question had been posed to Nicky, it became clear that she was merely a pawn in a long-term battle of wills between Governor Smith and Governor Atkins. Governor Smith was Brutus to Governor Atkins’s Caesar. Everyone else in the room was a key member of the senate. She was some guy in a toga. The political and personal conflicts were impossible for Nicky to predict or overcome. All she could gather was that they all seemed far more interesting and important than her answers. When Governor Atkins asked a question, Governor Smith’s eyes rose skyward or he smirked secretly behind a bony finger or sat back elaborately in his chair. He would then, rather pointedly, ask the next question and Governor Atkins would sit, motionless, his face reddening with every second of Nicky’s answer. By the end of the interview, she almost didn’t want the job any more.

‘Now then, Miss Hobbs,’ said Governor Smith, ‘we’ve heard a lot about your ideas for the future and all very sensible it sounds. I only have one more question for you and that is to ask you whether you have ever held any similar positions of responsibility in any other aspects of your life?
Your private life, for instance. I mean,’ he pointed to her CV, ‘it doesn’t say here if, for example, you have children of your own. I think it goes without saying that motherhood is –’ he bestowed a gracious smile on both female governors – ‘the ultimate responsibility.’

Nicky looked at the female governors. One was busy writing, the other stared back at her. Was this a trick question? Legally, he couldn’t ask her if she was planning to start a family within the next few years, but there was every chance he wanted to know. Despite the irregularity of his question, she had rarely found her single status a selling point and she wasn’t going to let that one go.

‘You’re absolutely right,’ she said with a smile. ‘No, I’m not a mother. But I am very content and I’m sure we’d all agree that that’s the best role model for children.’