God Bless You, Mr. Heffer

You see, this is precisely why I despise parent’s evening. The relentless questioning, the headstrong parents telling me how to do my job. I know how to do my job. I don’t come to your office and tell you how to run your accounts, do I, Mr. Thompson? Thus, why do you get to come to my work and tell me how to teach your children? And Mrs. Prior, the ‘polite reminder’ that your son is having difficulty with geometry? Ma’am, if your dear boy spent less time skulking in the back of class, eating chocolate bars and distracting the rest of my children, I am certain that he would have cracked Pythagorean theorem months ago.

Teaching just isn’t the profession it used to be. I used to love nothing more than waking up next to you, Edith, darling, flipping some pancakes for us, then driving into work together. Hoping that, in some way, we could touch the life of at least one young person that day. I always offered those in need of extra help the opportunity to come and talk to me. To ask me questions. To pontify the meaning of life. Or perhaps, merely to ask for help with their homework. Nowadays, it’s just paperwork. I’m not even allowed to be alone with my students? That was always where I galvanized inspiration. My opportunity to share knowledge and passion. Alas, not anymore. You’d hate it, Edi.

I don’t like driving in the dark. It’s just not safe, especially at my age. It’s okay though, I have you watching over me, my love. As I drive home from school, and the evening’s barrage, I begin to reminisce. I think most do. The car is like a sanctuary from the wider world. A safe place. It used to be our place. The place you and I would spend time together. The place we would talk. Would laugh. We never had the opportunity to take that road trip we had always sworn we would do. You were taken from me before we could. I’m certainly not bitter, heavens no. But I miss you, Edi. Everyday. You were too young. It would’ve been your birthday next week. Seventy. I remember when you turned thirty. You told me you felt old. You laughed, sighed, cried, then laughed again. You said ‘well, at least I’m not seventy.’ I don’t think you expected never to be seventy. I promise, Edi, we will get to go one day. I will take you. I only have one more year left until I retire. Perhaps we could go to Stanford and visit Jennifer? Apparently, she’s doing just fine. And she has finally chosen a Major. Hospitality? A degree in being nice to people? In our day, we called that being a good person.

Once at home, I struggle to find the house key. I always do this. Why do I have so many darned keys? I must remember to remove some of these keys. Have a little, oh, what did little Jackie say she was doing? A detox? Yes, detox. Like a green smoothie for the keyring. But considerably cheaper than those smoothies little Jackie showed me when she was over here setting up the computer. I’m so grateful she did that. Now I get to see our great grandbaby whenever I want! Not once every other Christmas. No more of this ‘one Christmas here, the other with his other grandparents’ malarkey.

Finally, inside, time for a cuppa’. As the kettle boils, I unpack my briefcase. I do enjoy the feel of a briefcase. My children sometimes tease me about it. But this has served me well for the better part of, gosh, three decades. You teased me too, didn’t you Edi? You would tell me I looked like an old man carrying it. In that case, I’m glad you never had to see me like this. You’d have found it much too funny. I could only imagine your face if you’d have seen me lusting after that charming walking stick at the market last Sunday. I am getting old, I accept that, that’s okay. I’ve lived my life. I got to meet you, Edith. We had two wonderful children together. I’m just waiting for you to come and get me again. I can wait.

This part of the night is why I endure parent’s evening. We always loved it, didn’t we Edith? Sit in front of the fire, sip on a beautiful cup of tea and read our little black book. The parent’s feedback book. You would sit on my lap, and we would read, late into the night, laughing at the naivety of some of the parents regarding their kinship. They really had no idea just who their own children were. But then, we do spend more time with them than their parents. Do you remember the one boy, Sharif? His mother penning that her son was being ignored? Oh, how we laughed. I will never forget your words when you stopped laughing and wiped away the tea you had spat all over our new sofa. 'No one is ignoring him; we just can’t stand the smell of his breath.' Too right, you were.

Once tea is ready, I take my seat in front of the unilluminated fireplace. Still the left cushion. I know it’s silly, but it’s habitual. The right one will always be yours. I take a small slurp of tea, then place my glasses upon my nose and begin to read. Relatively ordinary responses, really. A scatter of self-gratified praise, a selection of pleads for extra attention be paid to their little darlings. More faux-adulation.

Wait! Aww, little Charlie’s mother. She just wanted to remind me of how grateful they were for encouraging their lovely boy to join the Scouts. Apparently, he’s made lots of friends, and has even taken up piano after hearing me playing in assembly! You’d have liked him. He’s such a good boy. You’d have called him one of your ‘Princes among the toads.’ Bless him, I hope he keeps it up. He told me last week that when he grew up, he wanted to be just like me! I know you would have been tickled by that. You’d have commented jovially that he certainly wouldn’t have wanted to be exactly like me...

I turn the page again, sipping my tea. This has never been as fun without you. I no longer light the fire either. It just seems wasteful, really. Odd, someone folded a page in the middle of the book. Hmm. That’s a little annoying. Everyone seems to believe their comments are more important than everyone else’s. I’ll leave that until last. Once I finish reading all the others, I somewhat reluctantly turn to the folded page. Oh jeez, something fell out. It’s okay, I’ll pick it up in a second. I take another sip of my delicious tea, the kind we bought from Morocco that one year, then placed the mug onto the saucer to read the comment. It’s longer than most others, written in a scrawl. If I were marking this, I would certainly be writing ‘see me after class’, then providing them with some handwriting improvement materials! I read thus:

“Mr. Heffer. You may not remember me, but I was your student back in 1996. My name is Thomas Manning. I used to come and talk to you during lunchtimes. I was the boy whose mother had cancer. You never told me everything would be alright, like everyone else did. You never really said anything. You just listened. You would listen three lunchtimes a week for almost a year. But you did say something, once. When she passed away, you told me that instead of being defeated by this, I should go on to do great things and make her proud. So, I did just that. I listened to you, just the way you would listen to me. I worked hard, was accepted to Cambridge University, then studied medicine for 10 years. I’m now an Oncologist, and I get to spend my days saving the lives of other boy’s mothers who have cancer. All thanks to you. You never lied and told me it would all be okay. You empowered me instead. And so, I wanted to leave you this, as a token of my sincere gratitude. You never know who you may inspire with your goodness. Seeing you today at parent’s evening, hearing you talk, even from afar, was overwhelming. My daughter, Jenny, tells me you’re her favorite teacher now. To know you’ve continued to inspire. Well, you deserve so much more than this, but it’s the least I can do. Thank you again. God bless you, Mr. Heffer.”

With tears streaming down my cheeks, I reach under the sofa and examine the misplaced slip of paper. Little Thomas Manning; The one with the lisp. His daughter is Jennifer Manning? What an angel of a girl! I would never have put those two together.

I unfold the paper, and gasp audibly. Oh no, no. I can’t accept. I just can’t. Oh wait, yes. I know what I can do. Well, hopefully I can. I do hope that the school would accept this as a donation. They were only trying to raise $2,000 to take the children to visit the war monuments on Veteran’s Day after all... Gee-whiz, I can only imagine what they could do with $20,000...