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.
Yes, I suppose he did become one of my favourite students.
Any teacher who tells you that they don’t have a favourite student is lying; usually it’s a student who is an academic high achiever and one who gives them no behavioural problems. In my experience certain people equate good discipline with good teaching methods. Of course, it’s related, but we can all scare a first-year class into submission and then not teach them anything. That’s what a lot of teachers do, I have to say. The trouble is, they believe themselves to be good teachers. However, in my opinion they are nothing short of lazy teachers. They fear change, being knocked off their pedestal, or having their knowledge put into question. Or doubt.
In a sense I could relate to some of the students better than I could some of my colleagues. One reason would be down to the age gap. I was closer in age to the students than I was with the vast majority of my peers. I like teenagers. Well, mainly because they have a vibrancy and vivacity that rubs off on me. Maybe I involuntarily missed my teen years. No, I didn’t hanker for them. I had no designs to return to those days. None whatsoever. What I am trying to say is that I think teachers should actually like teenagers; they should enjoy the company of teenagers, should they not? I don’t see any transgression in this, or any conflict with my profession. Naïve maybe, but it’s my belief.
Is that my charge?
It wasn’t a question of attraction; it’s not as simplistic as that. As a human being I could understand why he would have been regarded as attractive, why many of the girls found him fetching. Yes, of course, I thought he was handsome. That’s not a crime, is it? I didn’t for one moment think to myself, how lovely his eyes were, for example, or anything else for that matter. Yes, there were a few comments by female staff members, but nothing that could be construed as sinister or underhand. They were more like complimentary and gracious observations really.
He was the kind of student I took up teaching for. The one who keeps you on your toes; the one who delves below the surface of literature, trying to grind it down and deconstruct it by any means possible. Getting their teeth into it, in a snarling way. Gnawing away at it until it concedes defeat. I had always viewed it as a game, a competition, between the books and myself, a competition in which I was always victorious. We shared a commonality in our analytical approach of the subject. Of course, I am speaking about a sixteen-year-old’s approach here; I know that, most definitely, mine was much more refined. Let’s just say that we were on the same wavelength.
No teacher sets out to get close to his or her students in that way. These things tend to evolve from areas such as respect and reverence. Clem was intent on gaining an A’ pass in his end-of-year exam and I was going to try and facilitate this. I told him if he was willing to put the work in, then I would help him. Yes, that meant outside the classroom environment, but within the boundaries of the school building itself. Let’s see, there were the homework clubs, special study groups, late night library opening…all these things were school initiatives. I was just one of many teachers who gave their time to assist. Yes, we were paid. Clem used to come to the Tuesday and Thursday special study group. They could take various forms, from the student doing their own homework, collaborating with other students on a task…like essay writing and structure, for example. Sometimes it could take the format of a teacher led discussion or lecture. The numbers fluctuated, sometimes as much as fifteen other times as low as two.
Rosie Farrell never came along. Clem always did, alone. I was impressed with his drive. He was a determined young man and I had no doubts in my mind that he would gain his A’ pass. He told me he was eager to return to the south, I don’t think he was enjoying his experience in Glasgow. That’s an understatement really, given what we now know. I did have sympathy with him as this place can be pretty unforgiving, especially if you come from the wrong side of the tracks. It wasn’t necessarily an anti-English sentiment he was fighting, it was the desire to improve his standing; he was also a victim of his class status. He was from a middle-class background, that was apparent, and he was battling against that. I could empathise with him there. I thought he appreciated my understanding. I offered support one specific time, but only because he had been injured. Nothing too serious, just some bruising around the eye. But it was plain to see that the psychological damage was much more profound. I bumped into him in the corridor one morning. He appeared troubled, frustrated and upset. As I said, I offered support and, perhaps inadvertently, a hand of comfort. It wasn’t anything that could have been misinterpreted. Naturally I felt sorry for him, he was my student. I liked having him in my class and he was in a bad place, a vulnerable place. All I wanted to do was help him. He declined. At the time I didn’t know who did it, however I did have my suspicions. And in light of events, these suspicions proved to be pretty accurate.
Sometimes we spoke about potential universities and courses. Literature was his course of choice. Yes, I think he did value my opinion.
Well, it’s not as though I walked about the school with my eyes and ears closed. I had heard and seen things. It was no secret that he and Rosie were an item. I felt neither injury nor delight. It was a perfectly natural occurrence.
Support? I neither supported nor condemned it. It wasn’t my place. I have absolutely no idea why Rosie disliked me. Really, I don’t consider my looks to be the catalyst for her abhorrence of me. Clem didn’t have a crush on me! He was far too astute, and mature, for all that nonsense. Rosie had nothing to be jealous about. If I was a threat to her then it was all in her adolescent imagination.