Caryl Phillips - A Distant Shore

“Are you listening to me?” he asks. She turns back to face him.

“You know,” she begins, “I really don’t need your anger or your hostility. You come to me when you’re in trouble and you need help, and I stay up all night worrying about you, trying to find a way to help you. If I made a mistake, I’m sorry. But I want to help. That’s all.”

“So you call my wife? And where did you get the number?” She laughs now.

“For heaven’s sake, Geoff. These days you don’t need to be a detective to find things out.” He stares at her with a malevolence that she knows she has elicited. But he shouldn’t have slept with her if he couldn’t face the consequences. Maybe his past escapades have involved having a quick roll with whoever happened to take his fancy, but if this is what he’s bargaining for, then he’s made a terrible mistake.

“You have no right to call my wife, and you have no right to enter my life in this way. Have you any idea how much damage you’ve caused?” She realises that at the present time there is nothing that she can do or say to defuse his anger. However, she will continue to be there for him. He will need to come and see her, and she will help him to understand that although he has begun this relationship by being led by blind desire, it doesn’t mean that he’ll end up being trapped. She’s not that kind of woman, and after all he will need somebody to take to La Spiaggia. He will need somebody to guide him. A firm hand. This will be her role. Although tempted to smile, she understands that such a gesture will be misinterpreted, so there will be no smile. Suddenly she is conscious of her blank expression, so she turns back to the blackboard and wonders just why the prophets are listed in alphabetical order.

“Are you listening?” She nods, but without turning her head. “You and I are finished. I want you out of my life.” She waits until she hears him storm purposefully out of the classroom, and only now does she turn around. The truth is, there is something comforting about hearing that they are finished, implying as it does that they were actually started.

Her letter is short and to the point. She reminds him that abandonment is a state that is not alien to man. That throughout the ages people have voluntarily or involuntarily left behind people in their lives and gone on to higher and better things. There is nothing unusual about this. She stops short of rehearsing her own story with Brian, but it is all implied. She is making a plea for him to see himself in a bigger context and move on. She does not say who he should move on to, but again this is implied. She reads the letter through, correcting the odd ambiguity in the shaping of her letters and making sure that it is absolutely legible. Then she reads the letter through for grammar, and once she is satisfied she folds it neatly and tucks it into an envelope. She stands and walks to the door, where she unhooks her coat and steps into her walking shoes. His lodgings are easy to find, for on their first “date” he had described them as a big corner house on Manor Farm Road overlooking the park. There is only one big corner house, and it has the look of a place that takes boarders, for the front garden has been dug up and replaced with gravel. Guests can park off the street behind the hedge. She stands by the gateway and realises that she will have to be stealthy, for the house is ablaze with lights.

She walks back by a different route, aware that she is simply killing time. At this time of night the streets are relatively empty, and even pleasant to walk through, but at 10:30 p.m. there will be a sudden rush of people from the twin-cinema complex, some making their way home, but most dashing to the city-centre pubs for a final drink. Of course, these new pubs with their security staff, and sawdust on the floor and loud thumping music bear no resemblance to what she recognises as a pub, but mercifully she is under no obligation to enter such hovels. At 11 p.m., when the places finally close, the unwashed rabble will slouch out into the streets, full of drink and spoiling for trouble, but she will be safely tucked up in bed. However, at the moment everything is quiet; the lull before the storm. And then she sees him. In the window of La Spiaggia with a woman. She stands across the road and looks at them, sitting at the table right next to the one that they had sat at. She should have brought the letter here. Delivered it to him personally, in front of this woman. She steps back into shadow in order to gather her thoughts, then her mind is clear and she knows what to do. She steps out and crosses towards them. When she is halfway across the road, he looks up and stares directly at her. The woman follows his eyes and turns and looks out of the window. The woman sees her, then looks quickly across at her date, then back at her. He looks angry, and moves as though he is going to get to his feet, but he remains seated as she walks by with her head held high. She is going home. She just happened to be passing La Spiaggia. Nothing planned or premeditated. This is a genuine coincidence. She just happened to be passing by. She continues to walk on her way and she wonders how Geoff Waverley will explain this to his friend. In fact, the more she thinks about it, the more she realises that this could not have turned out much better for her.

She is telephoned before she leaves for school.

“I’m afraid I need to speak to you on a matter of some urgency.” She waits for Mr. Jowett to go on. “This morning, after assembly, in my office.” He pauses and clears his throat. “I’m sorry for disturbing you so early, but as I’m sure you understand, I would not do so unless it was important.” She finishes her cup of tea and dresses slowly, as though for a funeral. Why would he do something like this? It’s between the two of them, and it doesn’t concern anybody else. It’s nobody else’s business. She draws the curtains and can see that it is a grey, overcast morning, the type of day that will refuse to change its character. Across the street she sees that the paper boy is doing wheelies on his bike and it occurs to her that she could always have the Daily Mail delivered. She misses her morning paper, and there’s really no reason why she should have to go without. Especially if the paper boy stops messing about and can actually be bothered to stuff some of the papers in his bag through people’s letterboxes.

When she gets to school Miss Arthurton, Mr. Jowett’s tall angular secretary, ushers her into the head’s office and pulls in the door behind her. Trapped. The deputy-head, Miss Mitchell, is seated to one side of Mr. Jowett’s desk. It is an awkward place to sit, for she has no place to rest her papers, which she balances uncomfortably in her lap. However, she knows that this suits Miss Mitchell, for she’s the type of career woman who likes to cross and recross her legs in the hope that she might accidentally reveal a bit of stocking top.

“Please.” Mr. Jowett gestures to the single chair in front of the desk. She sits and looks at him in his smug little cardigan and corduroy jacket, with not a button under pressure. “I’ll get straight to the point, although I suspect that you know what this is about.” He waits for her to reply, but she says nothing. “Very well. I arrived at school this morning to discover Mr. Waverley outside my office. I’m afraid he has lodged some very serious complaints at your doorstep and they will have to be fully investigated. Luckily we have a local-authority code of behaviour and Miss Mitchell here has brought a copy of the guidelines.” Miss Mitchell fishes through the pile of papers in her lap and hands her a flimsy document. “Now what two consenting adults do outside of this school is, quite frankly, none of my business. Mr. Waverley informs me that you two have had a full relationship, but this is not the point. At issue here is harassment, which is preventing a fellow member of staff from doing his job.”