Chapter Six
Through the Mist: Blood and Gore
Through the mist into the womb of winter. College is shrouded in damp mist, auguring watery sunshine and clean night skies studded with freezing stars. Reflecting I wonder how the rest of term will progress, pray it won’t be too chaotic. Optimistically, I expect things to quieten down. I’m supposed to plan ahead and be clear in my mind what I’m doing. In reality it’s Henry V’s battles: gore and mess everyplace.
Ruhina, my new student, arrives today. She appears quiet and introverted, but there’s substance beneath her dark sleepy eyes, sallow skin, and infrequently brushed teeth. I give her a brief tour of the college following enrolment. She’s introduced to the staff who’ll teach her and wonder how she’ll fit in, suspecting she could be a positive influence.
The computer class begins at 10. 30. Paddy’s fiddling with his mouse as I introduce Ruhina to students asking them to say some positive words about college. Hard work this and the inevitable word play jokes about her name begin, “Hello Ribena”. In her soft spoken voice she’s not easy to hear. Sunil wants to know where the microphone is, apologising when others tell him that’s not a nice thing to say. Is this the self same Sunil who refused to introduce himself to his fellows, turning his back to them the first day? Well, some progress, I guess. I ask Ruhina to join Paul on his weather assignment, and they begin to work well together. Dean, however, is unable to concentrate, so I remind him of the assignment on cars he’s doing, only to discover he’s forgotten his portfolio as he listlessly drifts from activity to activity. I give Sunil and Lee a basic list of household items necessary to furnish a bed-sit so they can price the cost of home making. They work well together, unlike Tricia who’s upset and shaking, unable to articulate her feelings. After the class Chung locks himself in the disabled loo hiding from the strident advances of Ruhina. A swoosh of arrows tipped in poison are heading my way. Monday’s gone and normality is returning. Artificiality has faded, the mist has cleared and leaden clouds hang over what was once an aerodrome during the Battle of Britain. It’s normal once more and I’m feeling happy.
On Tuesday Chung tells me Tricia’s no longer his girlfriend. I want to know why beginning by asking him about his half-term break. “Well”, he stops, taking a pausing breath, to continue with great speed, “Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday were boring, the rest of the week wasn’t.”
“Why?”
“The rest of the week I saw Tricia.”
Perversely he doesn’t volunteer why he’s finished with Tricia, and don’t press him, asking instead, his plans for Christmas. He tells me he might go to Kuala Lumpa. “But I might not”, he states, “it rains too much.”
Chrissy, from the second years’, is having tutorials with me to improve her literacy, and, excited with beaming eyes, asks, “Can I read you my story?” A sad tale of a mother unfolds asking her daughter to do something, who replying in anger, tells her mother to “fuck off”. Chrissy didn’t want to read these two words to me, she merely pointed to them at the end of the sentence. “We need to work on it”, I suggest, “keep it for next week and we’ll go through in more detail.”
“Look”, she interrupts me, “this magazine is where I got the idea from, pointing to a grainy black and white photograph publicising the NSPCC. A child sits in a corner, bare floor boarded room peeling wallpaper. On the opposite page of the spread a doll lies discarded. “That’s me”, she chirps gleefully with no sense of pain, or loss, in her voice, “I was like that once, and that’s the doll I threw away.” Through the mist the womb of winter’s entered. All I’d done was suggest she builds a story from pictures. I didn’t think her fertile mind would work so graphically translating images to her own half conscious dramas of damaged childhood.
I pass Tricia in the corridor, stopping awhile to talk. She’s near to tears, but can’t open her eyes to cleanse the pain. She becomes over talkative when she needs silence and reflection. Most of all she needs to stop smiling and shape her mouth to the sadness she feels inside. Not much chance to escape quivers of destruction this week.
Paul, he of the bomb checking fame and disco madness, decides to leave college and sign up for Youth Training, though his careers officer knew nothing of it. The second years feel relieved he’s gone, but uncertainty pervades the group, especially as Tony, another prime mover of “money for dogs” isn’t with us.
“Can we still do the disco?”
“What about raising money for the dogs?”
“He said we’d have to pay him two pounds if we left. He’s left and paid nothing”.
It’s Wednesday’s visit to Southmead Special School where the second years are to talk to its pupils about their plans to raise money “for the dogs” as they innocently phrase it. Chandra and Mark, ex-Southmead pupils, hope to re-establish old contacts, and we rehearse our spiel. They’re terribly nervous, and it shows, chattering one moment, pensive and withdrawn the next.
“We’ll do all right won’t we?”, Mark asks nervously.
I expected maybe a dozen or so pupils, instead there are at least forty, arranged in neat rows, eager to discover why they’re missing a lesson. With a cup of tea in my hand, kindly provided by the headmistress, I’m comfortably sitting on the far side of the room, isolated. I’m not going to say anything. It’s the group’s show - let battle royal commence. Mark kicks off after a teacher introduces the students: Hendon’s ambassadors. He explains to them what they want to do, but soon becomes tongue tied. Chandra steps into the breach riveting the pupils with his apocalyptic message.
“Man thinks he can kill the animals and that’s not right. They have a right to live on this earth. When men blow themselves up it’s only the animals that will inherit the earth. So we are helping to save the dogs.” But Chandra, I think, if man has such a precarious hold on life shouldn’t the dogs be helping us? However, pupils laud him a standing ovation!
The group perform better than I expected. Nish mentions the disco but quotes the old price of ₤2.50, rather than the pound to which they’ve changed to. The Sunday date for the disco goes down like a dead lead dog. A Southmead teacher asks the pupils for ideas to raise money, how quickly they come: sponsored swim, assault course, bike ride, a drinking contest , “With water, sir!”, somewhat shouts to giggles.
“Do you remember who came last week?”, she adds, desperate to calm said giggling mass They do, “the lady with the guide dog”, who visits anywhere to talk about the work of the Guide Dogs for the Blind Association. Suddenly I have an idea. The group wind up and receive a long and extremely loud applause for their efforts - their first public accolade, I reckon.
Safely ensconced in the base room we discuss the visit, agreeing they didn’t need Paul to speak for them. Electing a new committee they talk about raising money for the Guide Dogs for the Blind Association, agreeing to invite the blind woman and her dog. Even Socorina, on her once a term visit to collect her cheque, smiles benignly - I’m amazed. Jools has vanished, yet again, though Tony’s decided to turn up just as the group splits for lunch.
Harry’s ever so strange and angry. He approaches me, and without warning, says, “You shouldn’t have done that to me. I hope you get terribly burned on Bonfire Night. I hate you. You’re mean and I hope your dad beats you!” I have no inkling as to why he should fire another tirade on me like this.
2
Lee and Dean accost me as I’m finishing my lunch. More indigestion, ulcers and burps.
“Sunil’s just pushed me down the stairs!”, cries Lee, obviously in pain, very flushed, exceedingly flustered. Dean, for dramatic effect, sloganises, “Sunil must go!”
“Right, let’s see Sunil. Where did this happen and when?”
I corral Sunil and Lee to the base room with Chung, chain mail aggressive, ready to explode claiming he’s witnessed the outrage. “Yes!”, he says firmly, “I saw Sunil push Lee down the stairs from behind. I just about controlled myself. I wanted to hit him hard!”
“Where did it happen? No one’s told me, yet. O.K., how did you fall, show me.”
“I didn’t hit him! I wasn’t here”, responds an agitated Sunil.
“Yes you did! I saw you”, spits out Chung.
Tricia arrives telling Chung to calm down.
We return to the scene of the crime to re-enact the incident. Lee moving from left to right on the concrete staircase, twisting around and banging his side on the steel banister so we’re clear as to what happened. “Lee, lift up your shirt. I want to see if you’re bruised”. There it is, a long fresh red mark on his ribs. “Right, don’t move mister!” I need to find a witness, a colleague. “Sarah, can I borrow your eyes for a minute?”
“What?”
“Lee, show Sarah.”
“That’s terrible, what happened?”
I tell the claimant and perpetrator I’ll discuss the incident with my manager.
Later that afternoon the phone rings. It’s Sunil’s mother wanting to know what happened. “Sunil told me Lee’s accusing him of pushing him down stairs. He says it’s not true.” I pause to think, but she continues to talk. “I phoned Lee to ask him if it’s true.”
“Pardon!?”
“I phoned Lee. When I asked him if he was pushed by Sunil he told me he didn’t know, he couldn’t remember.”
“That’s intimidation, he’s in shock.”
“Sunil says he didn’t do it.”
“There’s a witness and I’m meeting my manager to discuss it further”.
“O.K., I have to go now. Goodbye.”
Crawling in the womb of death, through mist and confusion Wednesday draws to a close. Club feet stumble, and ribs, padded by thick woollens and winter jacket, turn red, black and blue. A witness to terrorism fumes. Unconscious, strange voices arguing over who did what, not why. Circumnavigating the college for advice. Shooting from the lips. Damp mist increasingly caked with gore and bloody mess. Arrows homing, it’s only a matter of time before the target falls beneath whining and swooshing feathered hail.
Lee pops his head around the staff room early Thursday morning.
“I’ve a letter for you from my mum.”
“Yes, I know what it’s about, it’s o.k., I’ll see you later.”
I slipped the letter from its blue envelop. As expected Lee’s mum is furious about the “cheek” of Sunil’s mother phoning her son. She intimates that if nothing is done about it she’ll withdraw Lee from college, and, with a final flourish, adds, “Sunil’s kicked Lee before and I’m not happy at all.”
In their assignment lesson students are furious, a halberd cutting a blunt swathe through unexpressed sour feelings. They’re not interested in the worksheets. I ask if anyone can tell Ruhina what we’ve done for the past six weeks. Dumb silence. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”, I demand, though I’ve suspicions.
“It’s the phone call. Lee’s really upset.”
Chung, tight lipped, seething anger let’s go, “I want to start World War Three!”
“Now there Chung”, intervenes Tricia with a forced smile, “calm down.”
“I didn’t push him!”, asserts Sunil.
“Yes you did”, explodes Chung, as a thermonuclear device is lobbed across the room careless of consequences.
I’m silenced, thoughts race through my mind. Let’s benefit from this teenage irresponsibility. In the womb of winter an acorn fell beneath barbarian feet. “What makes us angry?”, I begin, “Why do we get annoyed? There must be some reason for it. It doesn’t just happen, does it?” Spinning to avoid the barbarian I select each name in turn with the same question, “What makes you angry?”
Sunil denies he ever gets angry, “Maybe, when I get my hair cut.”
Dean doesn’t like the noise from his neighbour, “The dog’s always barking and the radio in the morning drives me mad. I feel like throwing myself out the window.”
“Do you want to break your bones and lacerate your skin Dean?”, I ask.
“I’ll tell them, I will.”
“Dean, is this person a man or a woman? What would you like to tell them?”
“A woman. Silly old bag!”
“Pretend Tricia’s the woman and tell her your feelings about the noise.”
“Bloody government!”
“Does the Prime Minister live next door?”
“I can’t”, he declares, stumbling into silence. Trying to get angry with Tricia in the role play he’s unable to find his voice.
“Paul, what makes you angry?”
“When I’m nagged. All the time being told do this, or do that. Not having any peace. Especially when I want to bring a girl friend home.”
“Lee, what makes you angry?”
“I’ve got a headache, I need a rest. Can I go upstairs?”
“Paddy why do you get angry?”
“I never do.” Doe frightened eyes not conscious of it avers.
“Never?”
“No, I never get angry.”
I don’t have to ask Chung. “My uncle, who looks after me, makes me angry. He tells me what I can do and what I can’t do. He did last week during half term. He never takes notice of me.” Tricia places her arm around Chung’s shoulder.
“Ruhina, what makes you angry?”
“My life. People don’t understand how difficult it is for me. I don’t think you should bottle things inside. It’s not healthy.”
“I’m the opposite”, says Tricia, “I find it difficult to let go and express my feelings.”
“That’s not true”, adds Chung.
“No it’s not is it Chung.”
“What do you mean Tricia?”, I ask, “I’m confused.”
“When I get angry I hit the walls at home.”
“Do you do that a lot?”
“Yes, a lot”, she says, then laughs.
“But you should get annoyed”, says Ruhina.
“When I get mad I want to hit my computer.”
“When I get angry with my mum and dad”, says Paul, “I want to commit suicide.”
“Do you?”
“Yes”, jumps in Tricia, “I feel bad inside when nobody listens to me”, her smile now fading.
I put in my twopennyworth, “I suppose we all feel bad when nobody listens to us. Do you think we need a witness, you know, someone who listens to us, doesn’t ignore us?”
Dean’s unusually quiet, he’s hiding his face by slumping across the table.
“I get angry when my brother hits me”, says Sunil forgetting his earlier insouciance.
“Is he older than you?”
“Yes.”
“What do your parents do?”
“Nothing. He hits me if I don’t do things for him. He carries me upstairs and throws me across the bed. It’s better when he goes away to university I don’t get hit then.”
“Paul says he thinks of suicide. Has anybody else thought of killing themselves?”
“Yes! I tried it”, says Ruhina.
“Would you like to tell us?”
“Everything got me down. My mum had a breakdown and I had six children to look after. I couldn’t cope with it anymore. Why should I have to? I was placed on tranquillisers.”
“Does anybody know what tranquillisers are?”
Ruhina explains. “They made me feel dead inside. They made me feel awful. I didn’t like them. I had to force myself off them.” Slowly Ruhina begins to cry warm tears of desolation. Tricia moves closer and placing her arm around her shoulder, hugs her.
“When I feel bad I cry myself to sleep”, says Chung opening his soul for others to listen. The atmosphere becomes quiet, they need to pause. Silent mists kiss us with human warmth. I’m not immune. Tears are welling up inside of me. Nobody’s bullshitting. Gone are the puerile comments of previous. “Yes, life’s awful at times isn’t it, it’s shitty. Nobody listens so we feel awful inside.” Tricia’s tears begin to fall.
Chung holds his back, trusting what he’s admitted won’t be thrown back to him in mocking laughter.
“Do you cry yourself to sleep Richard?”, asks Chung. I’m totally thrown, though why should I?
“No, that’s not my way. I get depressed and sometimes can’t bear to face the day in front of me.”
Paddy’s Morse coding his briefcase.
“Let’s have a break shall we.”
I need an adult to talk to and approach Carol. I’m overwhelmed by the revelations I’m hearing and could cry at my students honesty. I don’t feel like going on. Dean comes in to the staff room crying Chung’s punched him on the chest. World War Three’s exploded its second thermo-nuclear device.
“I'll make a pot of tea”, I tell them, “we’ll talk and sort things out. Sunil, Lee, can you help me please. I’ve no sugar and only powdered milk.”
“That’s fine.”
We ease ourselves gently recapture where we broke off, talking generally about life, asserting no one wants to end their life prematurely. Ruhina begins on the difficulties of her life. Sunil, returning to normal, butterflies his fingers over her head as she speaks, but quickly stops when told to show respect. As we wind down, relaxing over the tea, students express a doubt, “Teachers aren’t supposed to be like this are they?”, they tell me.
“But don’t you think it’s important to talk like adults? We’re not at school anymore, are we? Shouldn’t we tell the truth about our lives? Most of us spend the time hiding from the truth not admitting the pain and sorrow. It takes real guts, real bravery, to talk the way we have.”
“I feel much better”, adds Ruhina, and Tricia laughs.
“Let’s lighten the mood. Let’s talk about the funniest thing that’s happened to us.” We spend twenty minutes in pure flippancy, until, as we’re about to close, Ruhina seriously informs the group, “Everything’s my fault.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything goes wrong because of me. I cause all the problems.”
“What problems?”
“The problems today.”
“But you were fantastic. You really helped us to be honest.”
She shuts down to hide behind silence. Tricia and Chung are holding each other firmly and crying. We split and I seek further solace in colleagues.
