Christie had no teaching in the period before lunch, so she headed for the staff room to mark the art history revision test the fifth years had handed in earlier. St Ursula’s staff room was in the original, 1940s part of the school, surrounded by small classrooms with creaky wooden doors, crumbling parquet floors and thick walls that you couldn’t hammer a nail into. The staff room itself was the biggest room in this section of the building and, in the fifteen years she’d worked in the school, Christie had decided it had a routine about it, an ebb and flow rather like a sea.
There was the calm of half past eight in the morning, when Christie sat at the long veneered table with its decoration of mug rings and drank green tea while she mentally prepared for the rest of the day.
By 8.45, the staff room would have filled up, the teachers all business, fuelling up on murderous coffee from the large catering tin.
By late afternoon, the tide had swept steadily out and no amount of coffee could raise the energy of the staff as the clock ticked on towards four and freedom.
Once, when an Italian teacher – Gianni, a man who looked as if he’d love to whip you off to bed and teach you how to roll your ‘R’s properly – had arrived to teach languages, there had been talk of buying a proper coffee-making machine.
‘This ees muck, this coffee,’ Gianni would say when he caught the rest of the teachers listlessly spooning brown dust into their mugs. ‘If we had a proper machine, then you would have coffee worth dreenking.’
A coffee machine collection had been started, not to mention a few diets, but then Gianni had decided that he missed the Italian climate too much, and had gone home to Florence.
Christie, who’d been immune to Gianni’s Paco Rabanne-scented charms and wasn’t as heartbroken as the rest of them by his abrupt departure, suggested they buy a small television with the coffee machine fund.
‘Not to watch junky soap operas on,’ insisted Mr Sweetman, who taught English.
‘What’s wrong with soap operas?’ demanded Mademoiselle Lennox, French.
‘You’re both so busy, you probably won’t get to watch much but the lunchtime news,’ Christie remarked gently and there was much muttering in agreement.
The news, yes, that’s what they’d watch. Keeping in touch with current affairs was vital, Mr Sweetman agreed.
The television was now a much valued part of the room, with the channel screening Who Wants to Be a Millionaire repeats being the favourite. Mr Sweetman was currently top of the league having got to the quarter of a million question four times, with Mrs Jones, physics and applied maths, in second place.
Today, the TV was off, though, and only Christie and Liz, who taught home economics and biology, were there. Christie pulled the uninviting pile of essays towards her.
She’d only had two classes that morning, but she felt tired because she’d slept so badly, waking three times in the clammy grip of a cold sweat after nightmares, one particularly horrible one involving a sea of giant black spiders which burned people they touched. She often had vivid dreams – the downside of her gift of intuition. But giant spiders? Very strange.
Eventually, she had stopped trying to sleep and did her best to lie quietly, eyes closed, amusing herself by imagining how useful the inside of her head might be to a roomful of psychiatrists.
Some people left their bodies to medical science – she might leave her brain because there was definitely something weird going on in there.
‘Are you all right, love?’ James had murmured drowsily at half five when Christie had given up on the psychiatrists, slipped out of bed and pulled on her jeans and a T-shirt.
‘Fine, I’m fine. You go back to sleep, pet,’ she’d replied, gently pulling the pale-blue sheet over his shoulders.
James’s nightmares had to do with losing his job or not having money to buy food for his family. Christie had long ago decided that he could do without hearing about her horror movie versions. Now her eyes felt gritty with tiredness and the nagging sensation of doom was still there.
‘Christie, how are you?’ A voice interrupted her thoughts.
Liz, the other teacher, plonked herself and her ‘You don’t have to be mad to work here but it helps’ mug down beside Christie and the untouched pile of essays.
‘Busy?’ she said, obviously hoping the answer would be no.
Liz was in her early thirties, attractive with dark curly hair, and had been a big hit with the pupils since she’d arrived at the school the previous September. She’d replaced eccentric Mrs Cuniffe who’d been at St Ursula’s for over twenty years and refused to be in the same room as a microwave because of a story she’d heard about a man cooking his liver by accident. Eventually, this had made her position as home economics teacher untenable and Liz had arrived to take her place.
‘I’m not really busy,’ fibbed Christie. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine,’ Liz began and stopped herself. ‘Awful. Sorry.’ Her eyes brimmed. ‘I only wanted to say hello, not burst into tears.’
Christie reached into the tapestry bag that served as her briefcase, rifled a bit and came up with a pack of tissues.
It transpired that Liz was in love with a man who loved her back but felt it was all moving too fast, and perhaps they should see other people.
‘He said he needs time,’ wept Liz helplessly. ‘We’ve been going out for a year. He’s never mentioned this before, why does he need time? I don’t know what to do, Christie. I love him. My sister says I should send him packing but she’s never liked him. She thinks I’d be better off without him. He says we’re still going to my brother’s wedding as a couple, so it can’t really be over, can it? What should I do?’
The hardest questions were often simplest, Christie thought. Stay and hope, or walk away to start again?
‘I can’t tell you what you should do, Liz,’ she said gently. ‘Only you know that.’
‘But I don’t.’
‘Close your eyes and tell me what does it feel like in there?’ Christie gestured at the place on Liz’s chest where her heart resided.
Liz obediently closed her eyes and instantly her face lost some of its tension. Her shoulders slackened.
‘I think it’s over. He’s being nice by saying he’ll go to my brother’s wedding with me and he thought it was all fun between us until I mentioned that I wanted a baby.’ She snapped her eyelids open and stared at Christie in misery.
‘Then it’s over,’ Christie said gently. She hadn’t seen the future for Liz, she’d merely let Liz reach out and think the unthinkable herself.
‘You’re right. I was kidding myself, wasn’t I? I think I always knew he wasn’t in it for the long term,’ Liz said sadly. ‘I kidded myself because I wanted it so much. Looking back, I can see it all now and I should have done everything differently.’
‘Looking backwards is a terrible thing,’ Christie added, smiling. ‘With the benefit of hindsight, there are lots of things we should have done and didn’t, and vice versa. But we learn from them and do better next time.’
‘You’re being kind,’ Liz whispered, getting up. ‘I bet you’ve never been as stupid as me. You think before you act, Christie. I blunder along and convince myself that everything’s fine when it’s not. I only wish I could stop myself doing that. I wouldn’t be in bits now if I did.’ She bent to give Christie a small hug. ‘You’re very good for listening to me. I know why everyone says you’re wise. You really are.’
The room was filling up again as lunchtime arrived. Liz took her cup and her folder and left Christie sitting at the table, frozen in thought.
For all the