photo by Photo by Rene Terp
by Amal Chatterjee
The coffee, he thinks, ought to be warmer. On a scale, he prefers closer to hot than to body temperature. And a little more sugar, half a teaspoon more, that’d do the trick.
‘…it’s a privilege,’ the Headmaster is saying.
He isn’t even half-listening, he doesn’t need to, the Headmaster likes the sound of his own voice enough for both of them. For all of them.
He frowns. Is that uncharitable? Talking is part of the Headmaster’s job, after all. It is the job. Motivational speeches, jollying the crowds, cheering the troops on, that’s what’s expected of him. Required of him. Who on earth, the teacher wonders, sipping his unsatisfactory cup, chooses to become a Headmaster? People who like the sound of their own voices, that’s who. In which case, hired to talk, enjoying their own voices, Headmasters need no audiences, do they? In which case, he doesn’t need to pay any attention, does he? Ha. The circular neatness of the logic pleases him.
‘…this school has been asked to provide …’
Another scheme, no doubt. The Headmaster is keen on them. Like ‘Reaching Out to the Community’. As ‘part of a school’s duty to embed itself’. Embed? Who dreams up this nonsense? Jargon, gobbledygook, the bane of one’s life these days.
‘…I’ve nominated two of our most respected …’
Poor ambitious souls, he thinks, poor fools. Then, through his fog of unlistening, he hears his own name, feels the Headmaster’s eyes on his head. Bent over his coffee, his pen inscribing nonsense words on a page, the teacher feels all eyes in the room on him.
Blushing involuntarily (who blushes voluntarily? he asks himself), he surfaces from his distraction, meets the Headmaster’s gaze.
‘… and,’ the Headmaster is saying.
A small relief. Not some upstart, eager youngster, not some ambitious ladder climber. Instead a safe pair of hands, a colleague of many years standing, a man of inoffensive respectability. Infinitely preferable.
‘…pilot inspections …’
The teacher remembers now, they’ve been mentioned in the staff room, in memos, even in, goodness knows, conversations. A ‘revamping’ (another of those words) of the existing ‘regime’ (that reminded him of speeches in Red Square, Cuban television, McCarthy, goose-stepping martinets), to be ‘rolled out’ (will the horror never end!) over the next year. Now coming his way, sooner than expected.
Worst of all, he’s been nominated, chosen to be the vanguard. If he’d been giving that speech, it would have been more, well, erudite. He’d choose real words for real work, rather than imaginary words for imaginary work. Yes, he could do it better. If he wanted to. Only he doesn’t, not if he doesn’t have to. And he doesn’t, not usually.
It is, he thinks wryly over the next week, as he drifts from one class to the next, like winning a lottery without buying a ticket. The wrong lottery. Like being struck by lightning. Not as traumatic perhaps, but equally unwelcome. And unprovoked. Unless, of course, one is standing alone in the middle of a field, the highest point around … there, that’s how it is different, he hadn’t been doing that, standing out isn’t his way. Head down, nose close to the grindstone, that’s him. Not too close to the grindstone, he knows when (or where?) to (mixing metaphors) draw the line. Head below the parapet, not even a strand of hair above.
Teaching does that to one, riddles one with clichés. Addles one.
The day of reckoning (another damn cliché!), a damp, grey day like so many others. By the time he makes it to the breakfast table, his wife is gone. Her job at the hospital demands her presence earlier than his at the school does. No, her job requires her presence, his demands. They do need her, for her skills, he is needed only to occupy space in a room, to fill yet another seat at yet another interminable, pointless meeting. Isn’t the constant dribble, deluge often, of memos enough? Why do they need meetings? And if they do insist on having them, can’t they have them without him?
The difference in timetables (“schedules” his wife calls them, “rosters” sometimes) has its advantages; in the mornings they rarely compete for the bathroom, the iron, the door. Besides, he thinks contentedly, he also gets to eat his breakfast in quiet, half-awake solitude. Unwoken really.
He is in the Staff Room with time to leaf through the papers that the Headmaster had personally (Not in his pigeon hole? Oh, the honour, the honour!) handed over.
‘You’re just the man for the job,’ the Headmaster had said, then corrected himself, ‘I mean, you two are, you’re just the men for the job.’ He’d paused, looked sorrowful. ‘It’s a shame we have no female staff as senior … not that it’s only seniority, you understand.’
The teacher had nodded. It wasn’t necessary to say it; even with sterner resolve than the Headmaster’s, balance would be hard. While there are women aplenty in the junior ranks (military metaphor? Why not, there are drill sergeants about), their numbers thin out at the higher levels. That’s the way of the world; fine words and grand targets lead nowhere. Progress, he has learned, comes of small, baby steps, tiny, incremental (another of those words, ought only refer to digits after multiple zeroes after a decimal point) ones. Youthful idealism tempered by experience, he no longer looks for giant strides, nor has he faith in initiatives of such. So he sighs (intended gently, avuncularly) at the enthusiasm of the younger staff, at their earnestness. He’s done his time, done his best, done what he could, when he could. Now he is content to bob along (or drift? he isn’t too sure) towards retirement that is neither too far off nor too close, content with occasional gratitude from students who’ve gone on to do well, jobs in banks, industry, universities, and the few who, occasionally, make it into the papers for the right reasons; feels only passing regret at those who make it for the wrong reasons. Nature versus nurture, he does what he can, provides a soupçon (a good word that) of the latter, lets the former take its course. One cannot bear the burden of all the world; free will sticks a spanner in the works of the best intentions (metaphor, idiom, cliché, all at once!).
He’d groaned when he’d seen the folder, pictured days of pages spread out on the dining table, coffee cooling while he racks his brain for yet another way to say the unnecessary in more words than necessary.
His colleague arrives. Competent but not, well, particularly imaginative, leave alone inspired. Dependable, that’s the best one can say, no more. Is that how the Headmaster sees him too? Is this what years of diligence has led to? A reputation of no consequence? He shrugs away the doubt; there is a job to do, a mission to accomplish (the Headmaster would approve of those phrasings, wouldn’t he?).
Entering the schoolyard, the teacher is struck by how, years, decades on, everything looks smaller. Things do that, shrink as one ages. One doesn’t forget though, does one? All is familiar, smaller true, but no less remembered.
Stepping inside the building (diminished, naturally), they make their way to the office. That hasn’t moved. Some things shouldn’t change.
The receptionist, slim, young, scrambles out from behind her desk.
‘You must be the inspectors,’ she stammers. ‘The Head is expecting you.’ She makes it to, hovers in, another doorway. ‘Follow me … please?’
Down a corridor, past classrooms. Fleeting glimpses of teachers at boards, pupils at desks. Is this what classes look like? At his own school, the teacher always averts his gaze. Deliberately? Out of respect for his fellow professionals’ privacy? Perhaps, but indifference too, if he is honest. But here he is a visitor, an Inspector, no less. So he can, is required to, observe. But not to pry, surely? What are the boundaries? Will they be set, at some point in the distant future? When his report has been received, digested, will it be acted upon or will it gather dust, another initiative forgotten, no action taken, no more than a fleeting memory for those involved?
The receptionist stops at a door. “Head”, the plate on it declares, neither “master” or “mistress” appended. Gender-neutral? (Another of those!) The receptionist taps nervously on it.
‘Come in!’
Inside, coffee (hot, thank goodness). The plan is outlined; the docile colleague, co-inspector, nods agreement. First, a class. Chosen at random …
The teacher lets the suggestion hang innocently in the air.
The Head, tall, balding, with dated, thick black-rimmed glasses, agrees quickly. ‘Of course, gentlemen, of course!’
The Head looks older than his age. Or are they all old, older than they think themselves? In spite of being on home ground, in his own office, the Head looks uncomfortable. It is understandable; this is an unusual situation. Under ordinary circumstances, given their respective ranks, the sides of the desk they normally occupy and their relative, ahem, status, the Head should be the one observing, the teacher the one being observed. The shoe is on the other foot (clichés begone!).
‘In which case,’ a thoughtful pause, randomness is evoked again, ‘How about 6B?’
The Head blinks. His eyes bulge. ‘Six … Bee?’
‘You do have a 6B, don’t you?’
The Head pulls a (large, snowy white) handkerchief from his pocket. Hesitates, puts it back. ‘Yes, yes, of course. It’s … it’s just that, today, these last few, 6B …their regular teacher …’
‘You do have the right to advise, of course; we would make a note of that.’ Accompanies this with a studied, comforting, above all reassuring smile.
‘No, no, no need for that.’ The Head licks his lips, smiles weakly. ‘6B it is, 6B. Yes.’ He swallows, looks at his watch. ‘After, er, a visit to the Staff Room, a coffee…?’
Another pause. ‘Not unless you insist.’
The Head blinks again. ‘No, no, of course not. Yes, yes. Six Bee.’ He tucks his finger under his collar, runs it round, draws it out again. ‘Er… may I accompany you? That is, if you have no objection?’
Another reassuring smile is bestowed. ‘But of course, Head. This is your school; you may do as you please. We are the visitors, we are at your service, not you at ours.’
Out the office then, down another corridor, past a startled boy who mutters a greeting and skitters into a classroom. At the end, a flight of stairs lined with childish drawings (“the First Years”, the Head says). They turn on the landing, climb another flight. Then along yet another corridor, past toilets wafting disinfectant, past two, three classrooms.
The Head stops. ‘Six. Bee.’
A light tap on the door, a twist of the handle. Desks, new desks, replaced no doubt several times over the years; the rows once five now six deep. Rising class numbers and all that. A sea of faces, some with the beginnings of beards, others as fresh as the day they’d been born. Pictures of innocence (those clichés!).
A young woman behind the teacher’s desk looks at them.
‘The pilot inspection,’ the Head says apologetically, ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
‘No, no, of course not!’ A trifle anxious? Understandable. No-one likes intrusion, especially when one is so young (or even when one is older, intrusion is just that, intrusion).
‘Do carry on,’ the Head says, ‘As if we aren’t here.’ He leads the way to the back of the classroom and three grown men squeeze into seating designed for juvenile frames.
The young woman clears her throat. ‘As I was saying …’
In the Staff Room half an hour later, the Head’s apologies are profuse.
‘It’s most uncharacteristic …’
A smile. Reassuring again, one professional to another. ‘These things happen, Head; every class has its moments. One cannot anticipate everything.’
‘That boy,’ the Head says, his face still flushed, ‘he hasn’t been at the school long …’
‘I do hope you won’t hold him personally responsible,’ the teacher says, ‘It wasn’t only him, after all.’
‘No, no, no, of course it wasn’t…’ The Head pauses, swallows. ‘May…. may I ask something?’
Another smile, generous, open. ‘Yes, of course, Head.’
‘Have … have we met before?’
The teacher chuckles. ‘I did wonder, Head, whether you might remember me. Considering that you are, what is it, two years senior? It’s most gratifying; I can’t say that I’d remember someone so much younger than myself.’ He smiles. ‘You do have a good memory, Head.’
The Head is paler now. ‘One doesn’t usually …’
‘…it must be quite an honour to be returned to one’s alma mater. Quite a privilege, I would imagine – and not a little déjà vu?’
The Head is almost white now. ‘Yes, that’s exactly how I feel; privilege … and déjà vu.’
The teacher drains his cup (cold now, cold as any). ‘An opportunity to do things as they ought to have been done back then. To set things right.’ He warms to his theme. ‘An opportunity to revisit, reimagine, why even remake, one’s childhood. Few of us get such a chance.’ He smiles. ‘We are all young once, aren’t we?’
The Head’s glasses have misted. ‘Yes …’
The teacher sets his cup down, looks at his watch, at his colleague. ‘Well, thank you, Head, thank you very much. You have been most co-operative.’ Standing up, he stuffs the folder back into his case. ‘We really appreciate it; we really do.’ His colleague, unwitting, dimwitted, nods agreement. At the door, the teacher pauses. ‘Please, dear Head, please don’t worry. It is just a pilot.’ He lowers his voice, ‘We do, after all, go back a long way, don’t we?’
On their way out, escorted by the secretary, they pass the notice board. The dramatics society, a parent teacher meeting, the school photography club. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing much different from the old days.
That evening, the wife at her weekly painting class, the teacher eats his dinner alone, scribbling on a pad while he does. Writing while the memories are fresh. Notes. Honest and impartial, naturally; there’d been a witness, there can be no glossing over. Yes, it is only a pilot but what happened cannot be ignored; observations have to be noted, always. Recorded, remembered. To be acted upon, eventually. If the need arises.
He feels a momentary twinge of conscience, sympathy for the young woman, then steels himself. Teaching is no bed of roses; it was a favour to her. Better to learn early, to be prepared. Yes, that is what it was, a favour. She’ll remember; people do that with experiences. They can be – how does the Headmaster put it? – formative.
Fried chicken, that’s what he’s promised. There’ll probably be suspension too. A bonus that; food and time off school, two for the price of one. His sister and he don’t always see eye to eye but for once he is grateful for her unorthodox style of parenting. A boy raised otherwise might not have been so amenable.
He stands up and goes over to the drinks cabinet. There is a time and place for coffee, and this isn’t it.
An author and creative writing tutor based in Amsterdam and Oxford, Amal Chatterjee’s writing includes novels, short stories, theatre plays, and non-fiction articles. He is currently working on a book, The Legacy of Empire: Why Countries Fail to be published by Hurst Publishers in 2026. Amal Chatterjee is a Senior Course Tutor for the University of Oxford’s MSt (Master’s Programme) in Creative Writing, and teaches on, and helps coordinate, the Paris Institute of Critical Thinking’s Creative Writing programme. He also created and teaches academic and creative writing courses for, amongst others, the VU Taalcentrum, the Amsterdam Institute of Social Science Research at the University of Amsterdam, and the NIAS (the Netherlands Institute for Arts and Sciences). His novel, Across the Lakes, was shortlisted for the Crossword India Best Novel Award in 1998, while his short fiction has been published in numerous countries including the Netherlands, India, and the UK. His non-fiction has appeared in publications such as Prospect, the Huffington Post, The Independent, and the Hindustan Times, and includes the book Representations of India, 1740-1840 (1998). He also edited and contributed to Writers on Writing (2013), featuring writing from the US, the UK, India, Pakistan, Ireland, and Australia. In 2017 and 2018, two of his short plays, Dreams of England and Finding José, were staged by the Tamasha Theatre Company and Pokfulam Road Productions at London venues including the Arcola and Theatre.
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