Like every year, the run-up to the Christmas holidays seems to fly by. The days are stressful, but it’s all right. We retake the maths exam, and for the first time in ages, I feel like my mind can focus on something other than pain. My end-of-term report is better than I’d been expecting. Most teachers seem to have turned a blind eye to my catastrophic results in the weeks after Maeve’s death; it’s the only explanation, and it makes me feel like I still have a realistic chance of getting into St. Andrews, which is a relief.
All the same, I’m dreading my session with Mr.Ward. From the fourth form on, we have these guidance chats with our form tutors twice a year.
“Still keen on teaching, Mr.Bennington?” Mr.Ward asks once I’m sitting opposite him.
I nod in silence.
“And still St. Andrews?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good.” He leans back in his chair. “Well, I think you’ll make an outstanding teacher.”
I can see that he knows very well I was expecting almost anything from him but that. Last time we had this chat, he mainly concentrated on listing every possible downside of the profession and explaining all the reasons I’d be better off studying somewhere else.
“Have you started writing your personal statement?” asks Mr.Ward.
“I haven’t had time yet, but I will soon.”
He takes a piece of paper from a folder. “Well, perhaps this will help you a little.”
I frown as he pushes it across the tabletop toward me.Personal Statement, I read.Maeve Louise Bennington.
My heart is pounding. “Is this...?”
“I shouldn’t really show you another pupil’s personal statement, but I think that in this instance it will be all right. After all, from what you tell me, you’re not intending to apply for medicine.” His voice is as chilly as ever, but for the first time, I can see something like sympathy on his face. “And I think you should have the opportunity to read it.”
I grip the paper with both hands, almost as though he might snatch it back. But Mr.Ward just folds his hands and rests them on the desk.
“I’ll be leaving the school at the end of this term,” he says, “which means we won’t be colleagues here. All the better for you, I suppose, as you won’t have to suffer me as a student teacher as well.”
I don’t know what to say. “Sorry to hear that” would be a lie. So I quip, “Being your pupil was punishment enough.”
Mr.Ward glares witheringly at me. “From now on, Mr.Ringling will be your form tutor. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to write a reference for his star pupil.”
I smile innocently. “That’s nice to hear.”
“I thought as much.”
This is a game—he hates me, I hate him back. It has to be this way. He’s leaving the school, maybe going to rehab, maybe not; it’s none of my business. But it looks as though we’ll still be lumbered with his charming nephew.
“So... anything else I can help you with?” Mr.Ward is sounding snappy again, which is kind of a relief.
“No.” I stand up and put Maeve’s personal statement into my pocket. “Thank you.”
“Off you go then, Bennington.”
“Yes, sir.”
I’m grinning as I leave the room. It’s only once I’m outside, walking down the corridors, that I’m gripped by the oppressive awareness of what I’ve got. Something of Maeve’s. Words she wrote. It was years ago now, but I can still remember her spending weeks on this statement. Nobody was allowed to read it.
Maybe someday, Henny, she always said.When I’ve stopped being embarrassed by it.
Back then, I didn’t understand what could be embarrassing for her. I guess I’m about to find out.
I check the clock and see that I’ve got half an hour before my next lesson. Is it wise to read this right now? Who knows? It will probably make me cry. If it does, it does.
I hear voices on the stairs up to our wing. I could go to my room and read it in peace. I stop, level with the door to the tower. Or I could...
