Boy Who Made It Rain (3 page)

A'm glad a kept my distance fae that lot.

Yiv no idea how glad a am.

It's all extremely bewildering, how does one comprehend such a thing? As a schoolteacher it is one of your worst nightmares. It's the utter waste of it all that saddens me terribly. In our position sometimes we have the ability to foresee things, hypothesise and make accurate predictions about our students. But this! This is something that happens elsewhere. I had absolutely no idea at all, no inclination. Even if I delve into the deep recesses of my own mind, which I have subsequently done, there is no intimation, no caveat, no clue that I could pinpoint or signify. Nothing. If anything it makes one question the validity of one's profession, and just how qualified one is within it. I can tell you I have questioned myself many times over this issue. I am astounded by it all, if truth be told.

I recognised that Clem wasn't altogether charmed by the idea of heading up north. Well, who would at such a tender age? Leaving behind all his friends, his school and, in actuality, his culture. It would take a much determined and strong willed young person to cope with such a drastic alteration in life. Don't get me wrong it wasn't as though he was dreading the prospect either. I found him to be a young chap full of wanderlust and inquisitiveness. I can recall a conversation we had about the impending scene in which I openly encouraged him to approach his new life in Glasgow as a kind of anthropological adventure. I strived to remove any notion of trepidation he had in his mind. I saw this counselling, if you would like to refer to it as such, as an integral part of my position. I suppose in many ways I failed in that respect. I have subsequently cursed my prognosis.

Oh, yes, yes. A model student. A model student. He, along with a great many of my students, had an impressive appetite for knowledge. He devoured books, all kinds of literature. Like many boys of that age, he had a considerable zest for the work of the beat poets, however he wasn't limited to that. He approached their work with a great deal of fervour. What was impressive was that he didn't make the mistake that many others have made over the years, in that he didn't eulogise over the poems and/or the poets. He respected the writing, certainly, but he was also astute enough to distance himself from the work with a critical eye. He could effectively articulate why he liked a certain book or poem and, conversely, why he didn't.

Oh, my apologies. Unfortunately pounding the desk is an insufferable habit I have picked up over the years. It generated enormous hilarity in many of my classes. How can I hope to instil passion in my students if I myself have none? For my wife's sake, I am happy to report this habit doesn't extend to the family abode. Passion is important. Yet, there is a marked distinction between passion and, well, passion. A notable dichotomy. Excuse my floundering.

He was a joy to teach. A joy. An energetic participant in class, always active, always consistent in his comportment.

It's all unfathomable, isn't it?

In trying to account for a significant raison d'être I can only assume that, perhaps, too many of my lessons were rather too male orientated, aggressive and testosterone filled. I am referring to the writers and the literature studied. I have therefore posed the question to myself: were we, I, subconsciously objectifying the female and, in doing so, heightening masculine prowess and control? If that is the case then I fully acknowledge and accept responsibility. Mea Culpa as they say. Furthermore, on a more philosophical level, is one inherently bad or is it merely a question of nature or nurture? It certainly is food for thought I should think. What is to become of our education structures? Of our professional integrity? Obviously, I have no expertise on the education system in Scotland, but I am still puzzled how this could have happened. In fact more astonished and saddened than puzzled. It's the waste of future hopes and aspirations. Saddened indeed.

Listen, I'm not a fool. I can probably tell you what Pauline Croal said. Obviously not verbatim but I'd wager I'd get close to the gist of it; that we were all a shower of unfriendly dullards, set in our ways, devoid of any enthusiasm with regards to our profession. As Head of English at the school for years, I've heard this many times. I'd like to see the state of her after five, or so, years in this job.

Christ, these new teachers make me laugh, they waltz in here with their glistening teaching diplomas still warm in their pockets, revolutionary methods and heads full of ideology, then one of the first things they do is start shouting their mouths off, barking complaints at anyone unfortunate enough to be in close proximity, they have the temerity to point the finger at seasoned and experienced professionals; teachers, valued colleagues, who have had to wade through the turbulent seventies and eighties and emerged on the other side somewhat tarnished but gifted individuals nevertheless. Okay, so some of them are embittered and threadbare, but they are entitled to be after years of strife, are they not? It's hardly their fault now, is it? Don't expect me to sit here and perform some sort of self-flagellation because it won't happen.

Oh God no, I'm not suggesting that's any excuse for what happened.

Pauline Croal was a hard worker. She had good classroom management skills, which is probably the biggest worry when the new intake come swanning in. In that regard I had no concerns at all, absolutely none. As head of department probationers can be a headache at times, but she coped admirably from day one. I never heard any negative feedback from the students. Similarly I never heard any positive ones either. She was a capable teacher, that was evident. Personally I found her a touch snooty and aloof.

Undoubtedly, I thought that she was a good-looking young woman, I think most of the male staff, and the male student body, did also. Nevertheless I don't appreciate the insinuation. I'm a married man. Happily. One thing experience has taught me in this job is to be a good judge of character and I can tell you one thing, I didn't trust her. It was as simple as that. I didn't give her a hard time or anything, she got treated like any other member of staff but, the fact remains, I didn't trust the girl. As I said, I'm a good judge of character. With this incident the paradox is, on one hand, I was pretty much spot on while, on the other, I was way off the mark. That I'm well aware of. No, I don't think there was anything I could have done. Even those with the foresight and inside knowledge couldn't have had an impact. There was no indication whatsoever. You just don't expect the unexpected. We're teachers, not detectives, psychologists or mind-readers. You can't apportion blame with this, myself and my colleagues are absolved from any finger wagging.

Well I have to say I was getting worried about our Rosie. She was dressing like one of them depressed lassies you see in the centre of town. You know, the ones who loiter behind the bookshop in Buchanan Street. I don't know what they do, they talk about music and watch the young lads play on the skateboards. And have their tights all ripped to shreds. Is
that
fashion? To me they all look the same, all dressed in black. And that make-up they all wear! What they need is a good wash, so they do. Anyway, I didn't want our Rosie to follow suit. It's not any parent's dream, is it? But I'd have rather her run around with that crowd than have her knocking about with a group of NEDs.

It's terrifying being a parent nowadays. You're scared stiff to let them out of your sight, then there's the whole teenage rebellion thing, not to mention the periods and growing up. As a mother you want to be pals with your daughter, good pals, you know, talking about girlie stuff and all that, but Rosie was no into all that, she hated all that pink girlie stuff, she even hated me washing her underwear. Well, she hated it being on show…like when it was drying. She washed it all herself and dried it in her room, which was an out of bounds area in our house. I don't think she was embarrassed about her body, I suppose she was just like any other sixteen-year-old girl in that respect. But we never spoke about things like that. We knew our boundaries. And I'm no stupid I knew she'd relax her rebellious streak. Sure, I was just the same when I was that age. My parents couldn't relate to me when I was sixteen, but now we're best friends and me and my mum tell each other everything, and I mean everything.

I was into
T.Rex
and
Bowie
and they couldn't understand why I dressed in platforms and had a face like an exploding rainbow. It's no different with Rosie, she's into all that miserable music, which I think is pure and utter rubbish. But I tell you something, you hear all these stories, don't you? Well, about how teenagers get obsessive about the music they're listening to and they carry out instructions they hear in the music. Look what happened in that school in America. Terrible that was. That was all to do with the music they were listening to, was it not? Anyway I was terrified that Rosie was becoming too dependent on that type of music. Not terrified as such, more concerned. She was becoming more withdrawn.

Rosie's dad is not on the scene. He used to say that it would have been better if we had had a wee boy instead of a girl because with a boy you only have one penis to worry about. Oh yes, that was a concern. A big concern. Every mother worries about that, don't they? I used to play the scene over and over in my head. I know my religion tells me that you can't abort, but, if I'm honest, if Rosie came in at that age and told me she was pregnant I'd march her down to the nearest clinic, I'm telling you I would. It'd just waste her life. You see all the young lassies around here pushing their buggies up and down with nowhere to go. The poor souls haven't a clue about how to take care of themselves never mind a bloody wean. She doesn't see her dad anymore. She used to, but no anymore. It's mostly his decision. It's not a major problem.

Rosie and Cora had been pals since primary school. I liked wee Cora, but she was worrying me of late I have to say. In this place you can't go to Tesco but everyone knows what you had for your dinner, and wee Cora had started to get herself that bad reputation that no lassie wants. Well, it's plain to see, isn't it? That she was putting it about a bit. And that's up to her, as long as she's being careful, but in my mind I was wondering what our Rosie was up to while Cora was gaining that reputation. Was she just standing around a corner waiting for her? Or was she with the guy's pal? I tell you, my nerves were shattered. Don't get me wrong I don't expect her to be a saint or anything like that. Sure, I did the same when I was that age, well, just kissing and the like. What I'm saying is that, like any teenage girl, I was into boys and relationships, and first loves and going to the pictures and the discos. It was normal. But now it's all about sex, sex and more sex. I blame that bloody internet. Another worry was that in our day there were few cases of disease. Nowadays loads of girls have got something wrong with them, haven't they? I don't know. Well Chlamydia is the main one these days, isn't it? In my day we didn't even know there was something called Chlamydia. I was just waiting for the day when Rosie came in and told me that Cora was pregnant. I wouldn't have been that bit surprised one iota.

It wasn't as though I was over the moon, or anything like that, when Rosie brought Clem home for the first time. Obviously I noticed his strange name and his posh accent. But he was a nice laddie. You get that instinct about things. My first impression of him was that he was well mannered and charming. I could see why Rosie had gone for someone like him. You see, our Rosie has always thought most of the guys at her school were stupid, whereas Clem was the opposite. I'll tell you what was more important to me: Rosie seemed to be a lot happier after she met Clem. They became inseparable pretty quickly. He was always around at the house, always polite and friendly. I also noticed that she started listening to different music... Well, for example, I could hear her in her bedroom listening to
The Smiths
, who I remember from before I even had Rosie. I didn't much care for them then; all that dancing with flowers and old men's specs wasn't for me, thank you very much. It was all the weird people who were into them. But it was a welcome departure from that other garbage Rosie listened to. Our own relationship grew stronger too, I think. We would talk more about things, not their relationship of course, but maybe what they'd seen at the pictures, or she'd tell me about a gig they had been to. We communicated better, but I was always aware not to probe too much or those bridges would have been destroyed.

There was nothing to suspect. On the surface it appeared to be like any other teenage relationship. Normal. It starts off as a form of infatuation but we all know how quickly that can change and, before you know it, your world has caved in. There was no change with them two. They were good together. They were a good couple. The one concern I had about the relationship was that Clem told me he was returning to England when he finished school. I don't know where exactly. Where was he from again? Eastbourne? Well, I presumed that's where he was heading back to then.

Naturally I didn't want our Rosie to go to England, so a part of me was hoping that the relationship would collapse. Selfish I know. But it's just the two of us. Always has been really. There has been no one else since Rosie's dad. Regardless of what I felt, or what I secretly wished for, I didn't want it to collapse quite in the way it did. No way did I expect that. No mother would want that. No person would want that. With what's happened now I wish her going to England was the only concern I had.

I always regarded myself to being a good judge of character, how wrong was I?

Clem was a welcome addition to my class because he was, first and foremost, interested in the subject and showed a keenness and thirst for knowledge. He was obviously well schooled down south. He had picked up some good habits. I think he was somewhat frustrated at the level of his peers. Perhaps not the level as such, but certainly the apathy that surrounded him. Before Clem entered the class, discussion and debate was practically non-existent. It was reduced to a case of ‘what does this mean, Miss?' and ‘why is he saying this, Miss?' Not very adventurous I'm afraid. Clem's level of enquiry was far and away more advanced than anyone else in that class. I liked having him there.