Page 45 of Statistically Speaking
It is educational, but it is also fun—the atmosphere on board has been infectious, despite the fact that we left Liverpool at 6:00 a.m.
We are nearing the end of the long journey, and the air is filled with the sounds of excited chatter and laughter and tinny music leaking from headphones.
I still remember the intensity of being a teenager, of being at that crossroads in your life where everything is still possible.Where disaster and success are both beckoning, and the most important things in life revolve around looking good, feeling cool, chumming with your friends, and muddling through great big crushes of the kind you can only truly endure when you are that young and inexperienced.
My own dalliance with D changed my life and created another—but nobody imagines that happening, do they? When the hormones are coursing and the flirting is high and the possible liaisons are tantalizing.
A trip like this, away from home, together for a night, is a melting pot of feverish hopes and dreams. Literally anything could happen—and it’s down to boring old fuddy-duddies like me and my colleagues to make sure it doesn’t.
I’ve been on trips before, so I know the score. I know I will need to shout, a lot. That I will need to keep my face straight even when I want to laugh. That I will need to find new levels of energy just to keep up with them. That I will need to be hyperalert to creeping footsteps in the corridors of the hostel we are staying at, and always be on the lookout for illicit booze and other contraband.
I might be called upon to use the first-aid kit, or hunt down a missing student, or clean up sick when the booze sneaks past us. I might be on the receiving end of tears, or tantrums, or abuse.
But I will also have the pleasure of seeing themoohandaahat the places we visit, of laughing at their jokes, of living vicariously through their fresh eyes.
We draw up outside the hostel, and I shout uselessly for everyone to stay in their seats until we’ve come to a complete stop. It has about as much effect as a chocolate kettle, as Margie might say. They’re up, grabbing backpacks, stowing phones, pushing and shoving and giggling as the final jolt of the engine shutting down whooshes them all forward.
The door opens, and I am first off the bus, along with Jenny from the English department and James Monroe from Art.
One of the other teachers is already heading into the building, where I am sure the staff are trembling in delight at the thought of having 150 teenagers take over the place. They’ve probably all had tetanus shots in advance.
We split the students into groups according to subject, and I shepherd the history crew to our rooms. The noise is phenomenal, like an invading army, as everyone troops along. I check off their names, escort them into same-sex dorms, announce the ground rules yet again: no smoking, no drinking, no misbehaving of any kind.
There are cries of “Yes, miss!” and shouts of agreement, followed by raucous laughter and plenty of eye rolls. Some of these kids are eighteen, of legal pub age, but we have emphasized over and over again that they are not allowed to enter licensed premises, even during their free time.
Huh, I think, as I look at them all, hear the thundering of feet from the floor above, the vibration of freedom in the ether—good luck with that.
Katie gives me a wave as she climbs into a top bunk, and I smile at her. She’s a good girl, Katie, but she’s still only a girl—and she’ll need as much watching as any of them. Erin has made me promise personally that she won’t come back to Liverpool wounded, pregnant, or with a tattoo. As I close the door behind me and leave them to settle in, I am starting to wonder if I was rash in making such a promise.
I dump my own bag in the room I am sharing with a new teacher called Lucy, who seems almost as excited as the kids. She’s fresh out of training, in her early twenties, and I wonder if perhaps I should be warning her about drinking too much as well.
It tends to be the younger staff who come on the trips, those of us without our own children to supervise—or those wanting to escape their own families for a night.
I freshen up in the en suite we are lucky enough to have and then head down to the foyer, where the staff have agreed to meet before taking the students out into the city in stages to avoid a stampede.
I spot Karim across the room and make my way toward him. He is in jeans and a white T-shirt, chunky boots on his feet, a plaid shirt tied around his waist. He looks extremely dishy, and he grins at me as I approach.
“Bet you’re wondering how you’re going to keep your hands off me, aren’t you, Miss Jones?”
“I think I’ll manage,” I reply, laughing. “Are your lot off soon?”
He nods and looks around for his deputy, who is sitting in a corner looking slightly scared.
“Yeah. We have one of our activities in about half an hour, then lunch, and then they’ve got their free time. I’ll be on call, but it’s also our free time—you want to sneak off somewhere?”
I nod and chew my lip. I have an idea of where I want to go, but it isn’t exactly on the tourist track. I was planning to go alone, felt that I could go alone, but now that we are here I am not quite so convinced. Even driving into the city has brought up so many memories, so many strange feelings. I haven’t beenback to London since I left the first time around, and although I will be fine while I am with the students and doing my job, I am not sure about how I will cope with the unexpectedly powerful trip down memory lane.
“I was thinking,” I say, weighing each word carefully in case I change my mind midsentence, “about going to the place where I grew up. To the last place I knew my mother was living.”
I look at him to gauge his reaction, and his face is a study in neutral. I am immediately flooded with a combination of embarrassment and regret.
“But you don’t have to come,” I add hastily. “I can go on my own, it’s no big deal. You could just chill out, and I’ll tell you how it goes, and we can see each other later. Honestly, it was a stupid idea. I might not even do it myself, now I come to think of it...”
We are in public, so we are limited in our allowed behaviors. We can’t be lecturing the students on the need for celibacy one minute and groping each other the next. Despite this, he reaches out, very briefly squeezes my shoulder.
“Don’t be like that,” he says seriously. “Don’t go back into your cave. It took me by surprise, that’s all. Of course I want to come with you. Of course I want to see where you grew up. I was just wondering what you’ll do if she’s still there, I mean? Will you visit her? Will you go in, have a cup of tea, catch up on the last decade or so? Are you sure you want to do this? If you are, then I am one thousand percent with you, okay?”
I nod and am about to reply when we are interrupted by the arrival of the first batch of students. The science group, all wearing T-shirts that have a DNA double helix on the front. All the groups have their own—ours is a portrait of Elizabeth I.
