The Interview
The first thing Peter Piper noticed, on entering the room they had grandly designated the conference suite but which was plainly the staffroom with the kettle hidden, was that there were three chairs on one side of the table and one on the other, and that the single chair was lower than the rest.
‘Mr Piper,’ said the Headteacher, rising. ‘Gerard Finch. So pleased you could come.’
Beneath Gerard Finch’s chin, in letters Peter could not help but read, appeared the words:
Please be the one. Please be anyone. We have advertised this post four times.
Peter blinked. He looked again. The words faded, as subtitles do, and were replaced by a fresh line as Finch continued speaking.
‘Do sit. This is Mr Pull, our Chair of Governors.’
He has the unmistakable look of a man who will leave by Christmas.
‘Lovely to be here,’ said Peter, and sat. The chair received him with the soft hiss of a cushion that had given up.
Beneath his own chin, had he been able to see it, the room read:
I have not taught for eleven months and my overdraft has developed a personality.
Sam Pull leaned forward. He was a large man who had dressed for the occasion in the manner of someone attending a funeral he privately welcomed.
‘Thank you for coming all this way,’ said Sam.
The car park has been vandalised again. I do hope it wasn’t his.
‘Not at all,’ said Peter. ‘The train was very straightforward.’
The train was a crime scene with windows.
There was a small pause, during which all three men appeared to notice the subtitles simultaneously, and all three decided, with the silent unanimity of the English, to pretend they had not.
‘So,’ said Gerard Finch, consulting a sheet of paper that Peter could see was upside down. ‘Tell us. What attracts you to Marsh End Academy?’
Specifically. Itemise it. I have forgotten myself.
‘Well,’ said Peter, sitting forward with the brightness of the genuinely desperate, ‘I’ve always believed that the most rewarding work is done in the most challenging environments. I’m drawn to schools where I can really make a difference.’
Beneath his chin:
It was the only post within commuting distance that did not require a reference from my last Head, who is not speaking to me.
Sam Pull made a note. Peter could not see the note, but he could see the subtitle that accompanied the writing of it.
Says the right things. Eyes slightly haunted. So are mine.
‘That’s marvellous to hear,’ said Gerard. ‘I should say, in the spirit of honesty—’ here a subtitle flickered, no, not that spirit, not really— ‘that Marsh End has had a, ah, a turbulent few years. We’ve turned a corner, of course.’
We have turned several corners and are now lost.
‘But the children,’ he went on, warming, ‘are wonderful. Truly. Underneath everything.’
Underneath everything is more everything.
‘I’m sure they are,’ said Peter.
The phrase “underneath everything” has done a great deal of heavy lifting in my career.
‘Tell me,’ said Sam Pull, with the air of a man arriving at last at the question he had been sent to ask, ‘how would you handle a difficult class? Hypothetically. Year Nine, say. Friday afternoon. Last period.’
The room seemed to hold its breath. Even the kettle, in its hiding place, was silent.
Peter folded his hands.
‘I’d establish clear boundaries from the outset,’ he said. ‘Consistency is everything. The children need to know exactly where they stand. I find that firm, fair, and—’
I once locked myself in a stationery cupboard during a wet break and considered remaining there permanently.
‘—and warm, that’s the approach that works for me.’
Sam Pull nodded slowly.
He’s frightened. Good. The fearless ones don’t last the term.
Gerard Finch, who had been gazing at Peter with the open hope of a dog at a dinner table, said, ‘And if a pupil were to be, shall we say, confrontational? Verbally?’
Please do not ask which words. The words are extraordinary. They have a craftsmanship to them.
‘I never take it personally,’ said Peter smoothly. ‘Challenging behaviour is almost always a form of communication. A child lashing out is a child asking for help.’
A child once threw a chair at me with such accuracy that I respected it.
For a moment the three subtitles hung in the air together, overlapping at the edges, and the men looked at one another across the table with the dawning, terrible recognition of people who have been seen.
It was Sam Pull who cracked first.
‘Oh, this is intolerable,’ he said, and his subtitle, for the first time, agreed with him exactly: This is intolerable. ‘Look. Mr Piper. May I be frank.’
Beneath Peter’s chin: He is going to be frank. This rarely improves anything.
‘We are in difficulty,’ said Sam. ‘The last three teachers in this post left within a year. One within a fortnight. One did not return from the October break and communicates now only through a solicitor. We need someone. You appear to have a pulse and a teaching qualification, which puts you ahead of two of our shortlist.’
Beneath his chin: I have not slept properly since the Ofsted letter.
Gerard Finch looked at his Chair of Governors with something close to love.
He’s said it. Thank God. I have been smiling for forty minutes and my face has begun to ache.
Peter Piper looked at the two men. He felt, oddly, the first genuine thing he had felt since arriving: not triumph, not relief, but a small, warm, ridiculous fellow feeling.
He decided to stop performing.
‘I need this job,’ he said.
I need this job.
The subtitle and the man, for once, said the same thing, and the agreement of them seemed to settle something in the room.
‘My last post ended badly,’ Peter went on. ‘I won’t pretend it didn’t. I lost my nerve. I’d like to find it again. I don’t know that Marsh End is where one finds nerve, but I’d rather be useful somewhere hard than comfortable somewhere that doesn’t need me.’
Beneath his chin appeared, slowly, a subtitle that surprised even him:
This is true. I had not known it was true until I heard myself say it.
There was a silence. Sam Pull’s eyes had gone slightly glassy. His subtitle read simply: Oh.
Gerard Finch stood, came round the table, and shook Peter’s hand with both of his.
‘The job is yours,’ he said. ‘If you’ll have us.’
Do not run. We are not as bad as we look. We are exactly as bad as we look, but you are clearly used to it.
‘I’ll have you,’ said Peter.
God help me.
‘Marvellous,’ said Gerard. ‘Marvellous. You start Monday. Period one is Year Nine.’
The three men smiled at one another, and above each smile the truth hung plainly in the air, and for the first time none of them looked away from it.
Beneath all three chins, in perfect unison, the room offered its final line:
We are all going to regret this, and we are all, for now, content.
Outside, in the car park, something expensive-sounding broke.
None of them mentioned it.