A. L. Bird - The Classroom

Plus, the fridge is calling to her. She walks over to the kitchenette and opens the door. The glow illuminates the room and she realises she’s been working unlit. Terrible for the eyes and the mood. Happy thoughts, please – dream job, dream children, dream future. That’s what it’s all about.

She fishes out some noodles from the fridge, adds a bit of extra soy sauce. She contemplates the desk/table, wondering if it’s worth the effort to clear stuff away just now so she can eat. Probably not – sofa’s just as good for dining alone. She picks up the school-issued A4 picture sheet of the children she teaches, and takes that and the noodles to the sofa. Gingerly, she puts her feet up on the edge of the bucket that’s meant to be catching the drips. (Seriously – when is her so-called landlord coming over? She needs to text him again later.)

How unalike so many of the photos are to the children they’re trying to capture. Harriet, for example (of course). She looks so washed-out, so wall-eyed, and her hair dulled. In the picture, that is. In the flesh, she is so much more … nuanced. A living, breathing child, not just a mark on a bit of paper. Look at all the others. So beautiful to their parents – and not unbeautiful to Miriam, either. Or each other, as time moves on. Miriam wonders who Harriet’s little friends will be. The ones she’ll stay friends with in future, right through high school. The ones who’ll mess her life up if she lets them.

She’ll be asleep by now, probably – they all will. What will Mr and Mrs – sorry, Mr and Dr – White be doing? Hold on, maybe she doesn’t want to know! But no, maybe more likely sitting downstairs with a big glass of red wine each? Reminding each other all the ways Harriet is wonderful? Such a cosy notion of parenthood. Is it like that, being in a marriage like theirs, with the little one asleep upstairs? Or is it just tapping away at smartphones, preparing for another working day? Where Miriam’s work involves teaching Harriet, their work involves palming her off on teachers. Not that it would do for her to be home-schooled. Certainly not.

Miriam places the photo sheet carefully on the floor and exhales. Come on. Enjoy this. It’s what you’ve been working for. It’s a success! First day in a new job, no disasters, all the kids are compliant, the other staff are fine. You have your special child to make a project of. All good.

She looks up at the ceiling. No stars to gaze at here. Perhaps she could catch a shooting star out the window? Make a wish on it? Because unfortunately for Miriam, a good day isn’t enough. The anxiety never goes away. What if the kids are unhappy? What if they aren’t treated right? What if they end up … well, like her?

She needs to take her mind off this. So she does her other usual favourite/least favourite thing. She summons up Facebook on her phone and looks into other worlds. Or rather a specific world. A woman with her young daughter. A girl she’s no longer allowed to look after. Apparently Miriam’s judgement is ‘off’. But look at that girl. Such a pretty little thing, eating an ice cream, hair all done up with ribbons. Miriam would so love to be the one posting those pictures. She remembers holding the little baby, how small and precious it was, how she wanted it to be with her for her own, always. It wasn’t meant to end that way. So she’ll just have to Facebook stalk. For now.

KIRSTEN, SEPTEMBER 2018

It was bound to happen.

Kirsten just wishes it hadn’t been so public. That it hadn’t been in front of Harriet.

Ian wasn’t without fault. He knows the pressure Kirsten’s under. Knows that this plus a little bit too much red wine on a school night – yes, she’s a doctor, she should know better – isn’t going to make the school run any smoother. Just don’t take the piss. Not unless you want a fight.

But yes, she knows the rest is down to her. She messed up, big time. Again. She sits down at her desk and puts her head in her hands. Someone cancelled – thank God – so she has ten minutes between appointments. She pops another ibuprofen and chases it down with some sparkling water. The hangover’s been replaced by a stress headache.

‘Maybe you shouldn’t have had that extra glass of wine,’ was Ian’s suggestion this morning, while Kirsten was struggling with the idea of wrenching herself out of bed.

She had to retaliate, right?

‘Maybe you should have been there to stop me, rather than doing whatever the hell you were doing.’

‘Putting our daughter to bed,’ he told her.

‘What – you do one thing, and suddenly I’m the alcoholic; you’re the caring responsible one?’

And then, of course, Ian tried to play the grown-up. Kirsten could see him counting to ten, his jaw pulsing, nostrils flaring.

‘Look,’ he said, finally. ‘Let’s both try to get home on time tonight. Cook dinner. Spend some time with Harriet. Maybe we could watch a film. Like the old days.’

Sounded nice, didn’t it? Of course it did. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe it would mean allowing herself to relax. So instead, she flew off the handle.

‘These aren’t the old days, Ian. We have a child. I’m trying to set up a business. When would I have time to watch a film?’

So he muttered under his breath: ‘You don’t seem to be trying very hard.’

Come on, really? She built up that place from scratch – selected the premises, painted the walls, did all the marketing, chose the sodding cushions, for goodness’ sake! And she’s got to keep on climbing; she can’t just bail. She’s committed too much, borrowed too much from her parents – they need to be repaid in the pride of being able to send cards to their ‘Dr’ daughter.

So they got on to listing what the particular demands on their time were. Kirsten recalls they were shouting by then. That may or may not have been what woke Harriet. But either way, she was at their bedroom door just as Kirsten was yelling: ‘Of course I wish there was someone else to look after Harriet – I do not have time and you don’t have the love!’

And he nodded to the door. And there she was. Harriet. Holding a little pile of bread on one of her toy plates, perhaps meant for one of her parents. But she didn’t offer it to them; she just stood very still for a few moments then bolted, crying.

Exactly what Kirsten had promised herself she wouldn’t be like as a parent. Her mum and dad fought constantly but refused to divorce ‘for the good of the children’. She wasn’t sure how their snarky, bitter quarrels, interspersed with crockery being thrown at each other was good for anyone, particularly the children. The great lesson Kirsten learnt from them was how to retort in a fight, how never to let things drop. But Harriet deserves better. Even Ian deserves better, probably.

So of course, Kirsten flew out of bed, sort of assuming that Ian would follow. But he didn’t. Which meant it was Kirsten, going to explain to Harriet, tears in her voice, that sometimes adults say things they don’t mean when they’re angry, and that they both love her very, very much. Then she read her some books, played with some dolls – the usual. By the time they all met again on the doorstop, Kirsten had needed to resign herself to leaving home unshowered, badly dressed and carrying her make-up bag.

Then, the worst bit: Ian looked her up and down. He looked her up and down. And he said, ‘Are you going in like that?’

Bastard. Kirsten, too, was sorry she wasn’t ten years younger and couldn’t slide on some lip salve, throw on a T-shirt and be voted ‘Doctor with bedside manner of the year’. Sorry that looking professional and suitable for the outside world took time.