Page 46 of Rewrite the Stars
‘I don’t have much more time to waste on this matter, so if you don’t mind, maybe you could answer mewhy?’ she says to me.
I twist my mouth, trying to decide on my reaction.
‘I thought it might be fun to sing some songs with the class,’ I try to explain. ‘We were talking about some items in the news and I thought The Beatles’ classic “Let it Be” might strike a chord, pardon the pun, and—’
‘The Beatles!’ she says, her head about to spin full circle on her narrow shoulders. ‘You thought it would be fun to sing The Beatles to eight-year-olds whose parents pay thousands of pounds a year towards your salary!’
I blink, trying desperately to know where to start to explain my reasoning. I’ve so much going through my head, but I can’t decide whether to go all soft and creative in my explanation, or whether to eff her off to the highest degree.
I choose soft and creative.
‘You know something, Miss Brady,’ I say to her in my best country accent, which I know to her ears sounds like nails running down a blackboard. ‘There’s nothing more beautiful than hearing children sing, be it in the morning, afternoon or evening. Did you know that children’s heartbeats synchronize when they sing together?’
She looks genuinely baffled at my reaction.
‘You sang another song, I believe?’ she says, not even listening to what I just said. ‘A song you made up yourself? I don’t even know the lyrics to The Beatles, never mind a song you decided to present to my children from your own mind, and I forbid you to take a decision like this behind my back in future!’
Soft and creative, soft and creative.
‘Singing makes people smile from the inside out, be it in the shower, in church, on a stage or in a classroom,’ I say to her. ‘It releases endorphins, it makes us move and dance, it creates a bond and it also creates wonderful memories. It—’
‘But it’s notyourjob here, Mrs Malone!’ she interrupts me. ‘We have aclassicallytrained music teacher, a real-life composer from the orchestra who comes in once a week to tutor children whose parents have chosen to educate their children in this manner. It’s not up toyouto sing The Beatles or some of your own nonsense to them! How dare you!’
Whoa, I can’t deny that hurts. Some of my own nonsense? I feel my lip tremble. I will not cry in front of her. No way.
But I don’t know what to say right now because I honestly can’t think of anything more uplifting than a teacher singing with their young pupils, and as I recall, they all seemed to enjoy it at the time, even that stiff little so-and-so James Leicester whose ‘governess’ reported me.
‘No more singing in class,’ she tells me, still writing on her horrible note paper. ‘It’s as simple as that. Leave any musical notions you may have off your job description, because it wasn’t on it in the first place.’
I won’t cry. I won’t.
‘But I thought I was … I thought I was their class teacher,’ I say, gulping back tears now. ‘Isn’t it my job to nurture the children here, to make them feel happy and relaxed in their everyday life, not just through following a strict curriculum? Am I wrong?’
I blink, hoping to disguise the pools that are forming in my eyes. Her words have hit me hard and she knows it.
‘No more singing in class,’ she repeats, as hard as a stone. I clasp my hands together, I twiddle my thumbs. I can feel my heart thumping and perspiration breaking through onto my navy blouse. My dress sense was also deemed inappropriate so I had to ‘tone it down’ and wear only black, navy or other suitably muted colours in case a flash of colour might poison the poor children’s minds.
‘Can I ask you a question before I go?’ I say, taking from her silence that she has now finished chastising me. She puts her pen down, pushes back her glasses and tilts her head to the side, waiting.
‘Go ahead,’ she says. ‘Quickly. I don’t have all day.’
I’ve wanted to ask her this for so long. I need to know the truth.
‘Why did you hire me in the first place?’ I ask her, looking her right in her steely grey eyes. ‘I genuinely would like to know, because all I’ve ever done here seems to be wrong in your eyes. I’d like to know how on earth you thought from my application and interview that I would fit into your establishment?’
I can’t even bring myself to call it a school. It’s like an institution, like a military operation, a horrible place that people actually pay for. I didn’t even think such ancient, right-wing places existed any more.
She puffs out a snigger and takes off her glasses.
‘Oh, I think you already know the answer to that question, MrsMalone,’she says to me, emphasizing my husband’s surname.
I knew it. I bloody knew I was hired because I’m a doctor’s wife and not because of my own credentials or what I could bring to the job. I’m humiliated, I’m insulted and I’m hurt right to my very bones.
I stand up tall, willing myself to hold my cool, but the adrenaline pumps within me, as does my pride, my intellect and everything I have worked for since I left Loughisland to study in Dublin, a world away from my family and the place I called home. I think of my father’s face the day I graduated, his cheeks pink with pride and a tear in his eye he couldn’t hide and didn’t care to.
I think of how my mother went round the whole village telling everyone who would listen that my name would be in the paper on the graduation list of honours and how she showed my photo to everyone who came into our modest home.
I think of how they saved their hard-earned cash to put me and my two siblings through a third-level education, of how much time and effort they put into Matthew’s music and of how my family is bursting with more talent and have more soul than the woman in front of me will ever know.
