Caryl Phillips - A Distant Shore

The next day she leaves a note for him in his pigeonhole. A simple note, thanking him for coming over to dinner and wondering if he is free this weekend. She reads and rereads the note a dozen times before folding it and putting it into an envelope. The sealed envelope she places between memos and other mail, most of which looks to be of little import. In the staffroom she makes an extra effort to be polite to those she encounters. However, she informs a disappointed Sally that she will not only have to miss next week’s game, but tennis will have to be indefinitely postponed because of her private music lessons. Sally has already anticipated this, although she does her best to seem both surprised and disappointed. Clearly Sally wishes to keep things amicable.

“You’ll let me know when things change, won’t you?”

“Of course,” she says. And so the day begins. It is her heavy teaching day. No free periods, and three classes of beginners. Before the cutbacks there used to be a part-time music teacher to steer the younger classes through recorder lessons and basic music appreciation, but now she has to endure the discordant tones of “Green-sleeves,” and tolerate their blank faces as she explains the difference between a concerto and a symphony. Boy groups, they understand. Girl groups, they understand. Rap. Hip-hop. But this generation has finally forced her to accept the possibility that the pleasures of the classical world are in danger of becoming extinct. After her last class she gathers up her books and then finds some extra chores to do in the classroom. In due course, having exhausted all possible tasks, she makes her way along the semi-deserted corridors to the staffroom. She looks first in her box, but there is no note. And then in his, where her note, together with his other mail, has disappeared. She is dumbfounded. She feels the sap of rejection rise in her throat, but not wishing to be discovered lingering by the mail boxes she turns quickly and walks away.

The following afternoon she goes again to her box. He has had the whole of the previous evening to frame his rejection letter, but there is nothing. Only a letter from the union demanding dues, an invitation to apply for cheap travel insurance, and a note from a parent explaining why Jenny Sommerville will be away for the next three weeks. But nothing from Mr. Waverley. She is tempted to rifle through his box in an attempt to discover any clue as to his silence, but on reflection she decides to quickly pen him another note and leave it for him to discover. In the staffroom only the two new games teachers linger. She sits at a table and writes quickly, urging her friend to contact her. She feels uncomfortable, but she desires no awkwardness between them. Almost anything else she can tolerate, but not awkwardness. She considers making a plea based on the fact that they work together, but she decides against this. After all, he is a supply teacher and he will soon be leaving. She plays the awkwardness card and leaves it at that. As she gets to her feet Sally bursts into the staffroom. She apologises to the games teachers for keeping them waiting. Clearly she is going to help out, probably with hockey practice. Then Sally sees her former tennis partner.

“Hi, you’re here late. Waiting for anyone?” Before she has a chance to shake her head and deny that she is waiting for anybody, Sally laughs and continues. “Mr. Waverley is on a field trip, if that’s who you’re looking for. Quite like the look of him myself. Half my Shakespeare class have gone with him.” Again she laughs. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining.” The games teachers are becoming impatient and they hover by the door. “Look, I’ve got to rush. See you.”

Sally leaves the door open as she disappears down the corridor. She waits until Sally is out of sight and then she steps outside and puts the note into Geoff Waverley’s box. She does not bother to close the staffroom door.

At ten o’clock that night the doorbell rings. She goes to the door and sees his dishevelled person standing before her. His hair is rumpled and he looks as though he has not slept for days. She wonders if he is angry with her for leaving a second note, but as she scrutinises his face she can see that he is more tired than angry.

“Can I come in?”

She steps to one side.

“Of course. What happened?” She pours a glass of red wine and sets it before him at the table. He takes a mouthful and then looks up at her.

“Do you have any food?” She makes him some pasta while he in turn pours himself a second and then a third glass from the bottle. He eats quickly and then pushes the plate away. “Thank you.” She pours herself a half-glass.

“Do you want to talk?”

He looks at her.

“My wife. I’m not sure if it’s going to work.”

“You mean the reconciliation?”

“I went there yesterday. And then again today after the field trip.” He reaches over and makes contact with her hand. “Can I stay here? Just for tonight, I mean.” She nods. “On the sofa. I don’t think we can do that again, not if I’m still trying to go back with her.” Again she nods.

“I’ll make you up a bed.”

As she puts a fresh pillowcase on the pillow she looks over at him. He is exhausted and he sits with his left elbow on the table top, his face cupped into his left palm and his tired eyes closed. As much as she wants to go to him and slip an arm around his shoulders, she knows that she cannot. This is his misery. By respecting this she hopes that she will, of course, make herself necessary.

The next day, after school, she pours herself a cup of tea and then she calls his wife, Vivian. Her voice is young, and thin; a blonde voice full of good cheer mixed with bemusement. “Who am I speaking to?”

“I am a colleague of your husband’s and I’m slightly worried about his behaviour.” There is silence on the other end of the telephone, and for a moment it is difficult to determine what this silence means. She continues. “Mrs. Waverley?”

“Ms. Ford.” The voice fizzes with indignation. His wife continues. “What exactly do you want?” She draws a deep breath.

“I suppose I just want to let you know that your husband’s behaviour is causing many of us some concern. He seems to be upset all of the time.”

“And what is it that you want me to do?”

“I’m not sure. I just thought you might like to know.”

“And so now you’ve told me.” The silence lingers in the air for a few moments, then she hears the click and the irritable burr of an open line. Ms. Vivian Ford has hung up on her. For a few moments she holds the telephone in her hand. She strikes a pose, as though performing before an audience, and then she runs a hand carefully back through her grey hair and gently replaces the telephone on the receiver. Dignity has been restored.

He waits until most people have left the staffroom before speaking to her. The few who remain can see that this is an encounter that is fraught with tension.

“Don’t you have some explaining to do?”

She looks surprised, as though not sure what he is talking about. She deliberately keeps her voice lower than his. This will be her tactic. Whatever he says, she will reply in a whisper.

“I thought I was helping. You seemed so helpless the other night, and I was worried.” She sees the anger flare on his face, and she worries now, for she has no desire to have a public confrontation. He stares at her. She is aware that others are watching them and there is a sense of relief when he utters his one word, “Outside,” as though he were a schoolboy inviting her into the playground for a fight. They go into an empty classroom. Religious studies, judging by the writing on the blackboard. The names of the prophets are listed, somewhat strangely, in alphabetical order.