The Short Read: The Dale

Simon Peterson was a little man, impeccably dressed; he had aged well and was aware of the fact. He had spawned four males, all taller than himself, and his wife had died without fuss, before divorce was necessary.

With his relatively large income and powerful job, he had never struggled for a bedfellow. His home was now empty, which meant even more freedom. He was grateful to himself; he had made it all happen; he was the only one to thank. His current “extra-curricular interest“, Suzy, was at the front of the assembled staff, and had been prepped to speak at an appointed time. She wasn’t a great actress, and others had started to suspect her allegiances. It didn’t really matter, as it was all sewn up anyway. But she did trouble him.

Suzy was mixed race; they were always mixed race. His type was as predictable as his morning routine. She was petite, perfectly manicured, and with exceptional legs. Suzy didn’t dress like a teacher, and for that he was glad. Her clothing was stylish, and he enjoyed that about her, though it didn’t win her many female supporters. What caused him concern were her maternal comments, which suggested an expectation that he didn’t share. Despite the shortfall in Suzy’s qualifications, Simon had offered her the role of Head of Department. Knowing that she was on the other side of thirty had pleased him. She was still firm, but probably not wanting children, he’d concluded, especially if she’d waited this long and was still unmarried. If he had known the consequences of her as Head of Department, he may have thought more deeply. However, at the time, her semi- see-through mini dress, tightly cut bob and stiletto heels had featured in a fantasy that he had every intention of making reality.

The auditorium was a fairly new addition to The Dale; it was one of the rooms that was maintained and locked daily. Even so, Simon could detect the shadow of neglect. Graffiti was visible in the corner of the light booth. He could see that an attempt had been made to clean it, but it wasn’t enough, and the word ‘Fucked’ could be detected under a layer of black paint. Many of the seats were missing their plastic coverings and a film of grey dust lay on the pale blue carpets. Even so, Simon knew, from visiting other schools, that this room eclipsed the average secondary school hall. As with many of his innovations, other Heads had expressed outright jealousy on entering. When it was in the design phase, Simon had contributed to the plans, including the stage, with its wide-lipped base, which tended to give the vertically challenged speaker more depth and height. The technical team had been prepped about the lighting, which he also utilised to enhance his stature. Nodding to Gary from ICT, the lights came on. His face was now illuminated, and his body was ever so subtly shaded. He had been told that his eyes sparkled with this tint.

Scanning his audience, he felt deeply satisfied. There was just the right mixture of fear and excitement, as he paced the stage. He took the time to single out a few prized acolytes, and gave them a wink or a wave.

Then, Mr Kear entered, with a clipboard. Simon’s acting second-in-command displayed those special characteristics that Simon lacked. On first appearance, Kear was amiable, with his silver hair, youthful skin, and piercing blue eyes. He was a happily married man of 25 years, a fact that was reassuring, and vitally necessary when it came to the inevitable management of staff expectations. For Mr Kear to succeed, it meant that his demeanour needed to be less aggressive than that of Simon Peterson, OBE, and Head of The Dale.

Clearing his voice, and smiling through his thick white teeth, the Head took the pulpit, and waited for silence. It came quickly, and the expectation in the room was like waiting for confession,

“Yes, hello, hello, for those of you that don’t know me…”

He paused for the expected laughter.

“I am Mr Peterson, Head of The Dale, a job I am so proud of, in a school I can only say, you are lucky to, I will say that again, and really hear me, that you are lucky to work at. Yes, you are right, that deserves a clap.”

Simon paused, and noted that his senior staff, led by Kear, standing at the front of the stage, were clapping. The rest of the congregation joined in.

“Great. Yes, so great. This is one of the most successful schools in London, not only are we oversubscribed in terms of students, but teachers too, yes! We are literally turning teachers away. Have you heard about the retention problems in the UK? Of course, you have. Well, not here, my friends, not here. On a Monday morning, my secretary will have no less than 50 CVs of some of the best teachers on her desk, and they all want to work here. So, I say it again, you’re the lucky ones.”

He let this information sink in, and saw how Suzy clapped her hands loudly, and looked on at him with adoration.

“So, before we get into the nuts and bolts of this remarkable day, I want to stress that The Dale is the foremost provider of Inset provision in the UK. I know, yes, it deserves another hand, but we must crack on. Some housekeeping now. We’ll have a lunch break at 1pm, no other breaks today, I’m sure you can appreciate just how much we have to get through, and who is it for, if not the children! Can you hold onto that thought when you need the toilet? We’re all adults, of course, so we can wait. You’ve all been emailed the agenda, but if you need to check it, we have copies on your seat, so you won’t need your phones or laptops. I can see a few of you at the top, hiding behind your screens. Yes, you up there. Everyone take a look. We have nothing to hide. We are a transparent school.”

Simon paused, until the back row was cleared of screens. Now, all faces, flushed and confused, were staring directly at him, as they should be.

“So, I wanted to start by asking you some questions, just for fun. First question, and all I ask is that you raise your hand if you agree with the statement. Hands up if you would like more money. Don’t be shy. Of course, you would, everyone wants more.”

The older members of staff, the few who’d managed to stay the course, were reluctant to engage, and so it was the newer members of staff who raised their arms.

“Great, great. Okay, so another question. I’ve heard some of your complaints about having to move classrooms and carry your resources for each lesson. I’ve heard you. So, I ask you, who would like to have their own classroom?”

More hands shot up, but still the older disciples laid low.

“Okay, thank you so much. So, last question. Who would like to work less? Yes, don’t be shy, you can be honest. We all want to work less, don’t we?”

Despite the silent treatment from the old guard, a frisson of excitement had entered the hall and so, with hands raised and smiles pasted on virgin faces, Simon went in for the kill.

“So, all those with hands up, if you’d like to write your letter of resignation and get it to my secretary first thing, we will see if we can accommodate you…”

The punchline fell as he intended it to, heavily. Simon moved on quickly, keeping up the pace and the fast flow of information. By the close of his segment, he had preached the audience into exhaustion, and the only questions that came were pre-planned, and fed into his order of service. Moving from the lectern, he was replaced by the more palatable Kear, who began his introductions with warmth. The room visibly relaxed, and Simon wondered at their malleability.

Simon stood nearby, trying to get a sense of who was really listening and who was just feigning interest. He focused on Jeff, who was a potential wild card; he’d been tame of late, but still had the capacity for insurrection, and having put the years in, he was harder to scare. Jeff made appreciative eyes back, and Simon acknowledged him with a nod. Once satisfied with his parishioners, Simon left the hall, sermon over.

After three decades in education, it was clear to him that teachers were essentially children, who had returned to school in search of security. And that’s what he was, everyone’s father; he created clear parameters and he instilled an unpredictable anxiety. Simon had no time for those who wanted to change his system. Each year there was always one, normally someone labouring under the false prophet syndrome. Those teachers in denial didn’t see the whole picture, and he was certainly under no obligation to show them. To these, he said goodbye, and he avoided interaction with them. There was a vague, irrational, fear in him. He did wonder if, one day, a teacher would evade his scrutiny and impact his perfectly orchestrated structure. So far, there was one who had come close: a female, of course, but she was erratic and disorganised, with a messy personal life. For these reasons, it was easy to discredit her. She aided his purge, when she fell pregnant, and the conversation changed into it being about her morality and not the school’s.

Back in his office, at his very large desk, he reclined in his leather chair and felt content with his life. He had worked hard to be in the position he was in, and now he could sit back and let his chosen followers do God’s work, while he sat back and directed. His wage was dictated by him, and the governors were in no position to deny him; they had been hand-picked, and each owed him, in one way or another.

Simon avoided eating and drinking the school food, being suspicious of their ingredients. So, his secretary had just returned with his coffee and pastry from the local deli. As he bit into his almond croissant, Suzy let herself in. He noted her black knee-length dress, with white collar, and buttons to her round breasts. She waited on his instructions, while he savoured the sweet, sticky filling of his artisan croissant.

This is an edited extract from the book The Dale  by Josie Lee Star ( Foreshore Publishing London £10.50). Publishing this Spring.