Mirrors to Windows

The whole purpose of education is to turn mirrors into windows.

– Sydney J. Harris

Those words are so powerful, they sum up everything it meant to me to become a teacher. My favourite teacher during my schooldays taught Economics and was my sixth-form head of year. He had a devilish sense of humour and as much as he taught us about “the dismal science”, he taught us that a teacher can be fun without losing the respect of his pupils. That was the type of teacher I aspired to be.

When I graduated from teacher training college, my then girlfriend presented me with a whole series of coloured notebooks. When I asked what they were for, she told me how proud she was of me and she had hoped I would use the notebooks for lesson planning and reflection. That girl became my wife. Samantha. Those coloured notebooks have been replaced many times throughout my career but have never been far from my side or my mind. I know it seems antiquated in this day and age but they help my creativity.

My favourite book was always my black notebook as that was the one I reserved for the Upper Sixth year. The pupils are 17 or 18 and about to embark on their adventure through life. To be part of that journey was a responsibility I never took lightly. In the main, those undertaking A level studies have chosen to do so and engaging them in the curriculum was far less challenging than with their younger cohorts.

The next two decades vanished in a flash and I am 42. I still consider myself to be young but my colleagues now look as fresh-faced as the kids they are teaching. A harsh comparison when I look in the mirror to shave. Grooming is everything as a teacher. I know my younger colleagues don’t see it that way but I know I have the kids’ respect.

I get home in the evening and make myself dinner. Samantha is invariably at an evening class or a social event and so we rarely eat together now. I’ve become an acceptable cook and my repertoire extends beyond beans on toast and chicken stir-fry, the go to meals of my student days. Once dinner is cleared away, I settle at the dining table and with my trusted coloured notebooks, start planning the next day’s lessons as well as reflecting on the pupils I encountered that day and the progress they were making with their studies.

Two hours pass and I hear the front door open and Samantha locking it behind her. She walks into the dining room and sees me in my usual spot. A look crosses her face when she sees me. Once, it would have been love and admiration for my attention to my duties. Now, it is hard to say as it isn’t a subject either of us ever dares to broach but it is more akin to frustration, boredom and a sense of a missed opportunity for excitement and freedom. So much can be said without words.

As we do every night, we watch tv for 30 minutes to catch up on the day’s news before we both head to bed. There’s no joy now and no affection. We both wear pyjamas to bed which would once have been unheard of. The days when we couldn’t wait to embrace and share warmth are long gone. We lie awake next to each other, hearing the other breathing. No conversation. No sex. We may as well be in separate rooms and I imagine that is the next step.

That weekend, Samantha asks to talk. I’m frustrated as I’m in the middle of planning a lesson covering a particularly challenging part of the curriculum but this isn’t a request Samantha ever makes and I know it must be serious. As she talks, I try to listen but my brain keeps switching back to thinking about Wuthering Heights and how I can bring it to life for my current intake of students. Suddenly, a word she says grabs my attention. “Affair”. Only six short letters but that word will prove to change my life in ways I had never foreseen possible. She will stay with her mother for a respectable period before she moves in with her new lover. I wonder what respectable will look like. Does her mother, a devout Catholic, know about this?

Samantha wastes no time. You would think she had planned this. By that evening, all of her belongings have gone and the house seems desolate, as indeed am I. Whilst we’ve lived separate lives for a long time now, I miss her. I miss knowing she will be home in a few hours. I miss her presence in the bed next to me and hearing her breathing as she drops off to sleep. I hate to think she has been unhappy all this time but now my heart is breaking and I see how tedious our life must have become to my beautiful wife who once so loved taking risks.

Now, each night when I get home from school, I find myself opening a bottle of wine. Then whilst I’m completing my lesson plans, I open a second. Whilst watching the news, I have a large whisky. Then it becomes two, three or even four as I can’t bring myself to go to that cold and vacuous bed. Invariably now, I fall asleep in front of the television and wake in the early hours of the morning.

I’ve stopped shaving. I don’t want to look in the mirror and see this shadow of the man I must once have been. The man my Samantha wanted to marry. My clothes are unwashed and un-ironed. The strict standards I’ve lived to have disappeared. Even I don’t recognise myself.

I receive a summons to see the headmaster. I doubt this is a good sign. He informs me that I am on a performance review as my time-keeping and lack of personal hygiene have become an issue. Apparently, numerous pupils and colleagues have complained of the wreak of alcohol emanating from my every pore. I feel mortified but still that night and the next go home to my wine and whisky which give me warmth.

No surprise then that four weeks’ later, I am summoned again. I should bring my union representative to the meeting and am told there that “with great regret”, they have to let me go. I drive home, stopping at the supermarket on the way to stock up on my warmth-giving friends.

Three months’ later, my salary payments stop. This was agreed and so shouldn’t come as a shock but after more than 20 years of regular, monthly payments, this is an unknown. The bills start to mount on the doormat. I have missed many mortgage payments but for now, I can still afford my daily essentials. Then I receive a letter informing me that I have defaulted on my mortgage and unless I can pay the arrears, I will be evicted. This should be the wake-up call I need but I feel exhausted and instead open a bottle of Sauvignon.

***

Living on the streets is harder than I ever imagined. The cold numbs you to your bones. Strangers pass you by and you’re invisible to them. I am nobody and this is all I deserve. I feel as though I’ve aged 10 years since that excruciating conversation with Samantha. I haven’t seen her since but I hear she has moved to Cambridge and is enjoying her new life. That evening, the temperature drops below zero and I wonder whether I’ll even wake in the morning. I can’t afford any alcohol and so cold, lonely and scared, I huddle beneath my thin sleeping bag. The wind bites my nose and I long for a warm bed and a conversation with a human being which doesn’t involve me being told to move on or having to fight for my meagre possessions. After avoiding shelters until now, the cold finally beats me into submission and I go in search of somewhere to stay.

After seeing an advert in a bus shelter, I head to George House. Thank god, they can give me a bed for the night and a hot meal. I put my tray out to receive the meal I am offered. It looks nourishing and it will be the first hot meal I’ve eaten in weeks. A welcome break from eating the sandwiches well-meaning passers-by give to me which have admittedly been a godsend. As the volunteer serves my food, he looks at me and something approaching recognition flashes over his face. He looks familiar to me too but it’s getting late and I’m tired, just so very tired. Suddenly, I see he knows who I am and he introduces himself as Michael Heggarty, one of my former pupils. He tells me in reverential tones how I inspired him to study and improve himself. I remember him now. I wrote about him in detail as a student, starting in the red notebook when he was 11, ending with copious notes in my black notebook when he was 18. He had been an excellent student. His family were unsupportive and saw education as a waste of time but he persevered. Apparently, he has done well for himself, setting up a number of businesses. The most recent is a gin distillery and during lockdown, his online sales have soared by 800%. Whilst I’m unsure whether I approve of making money from alcohol, it would seem somewhat hypocritical for me not to commend him for his entrepreneurialism.

Over the next week whilst snow settles on the ground outside, we reconnect, although now he is the one commanding respect which I am happy to give as this young man has succeeded in a way I never did. He has found happiness and fulfilment which he tells me is added to even more by volunteering at the centre. He has a wife and a young family but they also have a golden rule: when they put the key in to open their front door, they leave everything else outside. All the tribulations of the day, all the events are put out of their minds so they can focus on their life as a family. Had I done this, possibly Samantha would still adore me the way she once did. I miss her with every beat of my heart.

On my final day at the shelter, Michael hands me my dinner and comes to sit with me whilst I eat. His manner is so gentle and he tells me with absolute kindness that he wants to help me get back onto my feet. There is no judgement in his face. Although this is charity in its truest sense, Michael is now my window to a new life. I thank him for his offer, all my words tumbling out as I’m so humbled by the fact that the child I once inspired is now giving me the key I need to unlock my future. He asks for my bank details which I gladly give to him. The account is empty of funds anyway so there is nothing to steal. He squeezes my hand and the contact with another human-being is overwhelming. The next day, I check my account and the balance is $20,000. The price of a fresh start.