The Tutor Read online

  Mum and Dad think that my poor grades are a consequence of my lax attitude to learning, but it’s not quite as simple as that. If all I had to do was sit, listen and revise for the next few months and get an A, then I would do it. But it’s not that easy. Things don’t seem to stick in my head, or at least not essential things. I can remember the names of all the players in the Aston Villa football team or every score from a dozen games of FIFA on my PlayStation last night, but I can barely remember what I am taught in the classroom each day. Even now, after an hour in Mr Reynold’s geography lesson, I’ve completely forgotten everything he said about those damn tectonic plates. I’m hoping it won’t be on the final exam but knowing my luck, it will be.

  I receive the ball again, and this time I decide not to pass, opting instead to shoot towards the top corner and go for glory myself. The ball hits the back of the net and I fist-pump the air. That was a great goal. I’m not good enough to be a professional footballer one day, but at least I stand out in this game. I’ll stand out when we get back to class too, although that will be for all the wrong reasons.

  I hide behind humour and a care-free attitude when I’m in class, not because I’m rude or disrespectful to the teachers but because it’s easier than admitting that they are right. They all know the truth, even if my classmates don’t. I’m going to fail my exams at the end of the year, and I’m going to leave school with nothing. I might be fine in my life after here or I might not. My teachers worry. My parents worry. Even I worry, although I’d never admit it to anyone.

  But maybe I will be okay. Maybe it doesn’t matter if I fail all of my exams. Maybe life will find a way of working out for me in the end, just like it did for Mum.

  Only time will tell.

  5

  AMY

  I’m back in the school car park again and watching all the pupils pouring out of the building opposite me. I never seem to get a break from this place, even after all these years.

  Sharpbell High. It has, is and seemingly always will be a fixture in my life.

  I knew I’d be forced to come back here when I decided to buy that house with Nick. We knew this was the closest school, and therefore the most likely one for our children to end up attending. We did briefly consider sending them to Maxwell High but quickly dismissed the idea. That is the only other secondary school in the area, but it has gone downhill a lot over the years by all accounts, whereas my old school has been transformed. Of course, that is more to do with the fire that burnt this place to the ground than it is because of better teaching and budgeting, but you have to take the positives out of that terrible time.

  Some people say the fire was the best thing that ever happened to this school because it was getting worse by the year and needed a fresh start, but they don’t really mean it. Nobody can seriously believe that what happened here was for the best. I sure as hell don’t. I can still remember standing on this playground with all the other pupils and parents the morning after the fire and looking at the charred remains of the school. There was nothing positive about that. I’m sure Michael has fantasised about seeing his school burnt to the ground on occasion, just like I used to do myself. But imagining it is one thing. Actually seeing it before your eyes is another altogether.

  Through the sea of pupils heading for the gates, I catch a glimpse of a familiar face from my childhood. It’s Mr Montgomery, my old History teacher, although he certainly looks a lot different than he did back when I was in his class. He used to be a tall and handsome man, but age and a lifetime of teaching unruly pupils has taken its toll on him. Now his shoulders are stooped, and the dark mop of hair has gone from his head. He must be ready to retire any day now, but maybe he doesn’t want to. Maybe he likes the familiarity of his job. He has worked here for most of his life, after all.

  He was one of the few teachers to come back when the school reopened, resisting the pull of employment elsewhere and taking up his old role when the new classrooms were built to replace the burnt ones. He has taught Michael during his time here, and I expect he will teach Bella at some point too. It was strange to sit opposite him at Michael’s parents’ evening and listen to him commenting on my son’s schoolwork when he used to comment on my own. He seemed happy to see me and said that he remembered me, but I don’t know if he was telling the truth or just being polite. He must have taught so many people over the years here that I doubt he can remember them all.

  I can’t understand how anybody would want to spend their entire life within the confines of a school. Being a pupil is compulsory, but being a teacher is voluntary. While I admire and respect the profession now that I am older, I would never dream of being a teacher myself. Just being here now for the school run is more than enough for me.

  The sight of my eldest coming towards me is enough to make me stop thinking about Mr Montgomery. I hope Michael is in a good mood. I hope school wasn’t the tortured experience today that it usually is for him.

  ‘How was your day, love?’ I ask my son as he climbs onto the backseat and pulls his door shut.

  ‘Fine,’ he mumbles back, and his head is already buried in his mobile phone, which tells me that I’m not going to get any more conversation out of him until we get home.

  Fortunately, any awkward silence between us is cut short by the arrival of Bella, who arrives in the car like the little whirlwind that she is.

  ‘Hi!’ she says, slamming the door shut behind her and dropping her heavy rucksack into the footwell. Her bag is full of schoolbooks and homework, whereas I’m not even sure where Michael’s bag is these days.

  ‘Good day?’ I ask as I reverse out of the parking spot and prepare for round two of trying to avoid running over a mother or child.

  ‘Yeah, I got an A on my French test last week, and Mrs Moss said that I’m definitely going to be in the top set next year!’

  I smile as I drive us out of the car park and through the gates, proud of my daughter and her accomplishments. But then I catch a glimpse of my son on the back seat and see that he isn’t smiling.

  ‘Did you hear anything more about your coursework?’ I ask Michael, referring to the English essay that I know he is due to hear back about soon.

  ‘No,’ comes the curt response, and I decide to leave it at that. He’s obviously had another bad day at school and just wants to forget about it. I grimace as I drive because I know that isn’t an option. As soon as we get home, we are going to sit down and talk about it. It won’t be fun, and it won’t lead to him enjoying his situation anymore, but it has to be done.

  Nick and I have decided it. We are going to hire a tutor, and Michael is going to give these exams his best shot, whether he wants to or not.

  THE SECOND LESSON

  The clean-up operation after the fire was a big task, and the workers toiled while members of the public gathered and watched. It rained that day, although the relief of water came much too late for the charred remains of what was once Sharpbell High.

  Teens gossiped and laughed while others seemed shocked that the place they had spent so much time in had been wiped off the map. Adults stood amongst them, some urging their children to grow up, while others stood in stunned silence, seemingly unbelieving that such a thing could happen in a quiet place like this.

  For those tasked with sorting through the rubble and determining the cause of the fire, the audience, just like the rain, was unwelcome.

  But then things got even more grim.

  Amongst the discovery of burnt tables and chairs, papers from textbooks and even a poster for an upcoming performance of Macbeth, there was something else that had survived the hottest part of the inferno.

  Bones.

  The second lesson is don’t play with fire.

  6

  MICHAEL

  What the hell do my mum and dad want from me now? I’ve been at school all day, and I just want to unwind and play FIFA in my bedroom, yet they are calling me down to the kitchen. I haven’t had any more detentions recently so they can’t
be mad at me for that. Maybe it is something to do with the chores. I haven’t taken the rubbish out again. That’s probably what it is.

  It’s hardly a big deal. I shouldn’t have to do it anyway. I’m out all day grinding my way through tedious lessons while they get to stay at home. Dad likes to pretend he is working hard in that study, but I bet he’s surfing the web half the time. And Mum only works part-time, so she’s not exactly rushed off her feet. Sorry for not taking a minute out of my busy day to take the bin bag out but how about the people who use the bin the most take it out instead?

  I’m just about to say that as I walk into the kitchen when I see my parents sitting at the table. That’s when I know that this won’t just be about some menial household chore. They both look serious, and while they do like to try and instil in me the importance of pulling my weight around the house, surely that doesn’t warrant the expressions on their faces right now.

  Something else is on their mind. But what is it?

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask when neither of them speak.

  ‘Can you sit down a minute?’ Dad asks, and I can tell that he is trying to make out that this is no big deal because of the way he tries to make it sound, but he’s a terrible actor. I can tell when he is nervous because he keeps looking at Mum.

  He is looking at her right now.

  ‘What have I done wrong this time?’ I ask as I slump into a chair at the opposite end of the table from them.

  ‘Nothing love. You haven’t done anything wrong,’ Mum begins, and that sounds promising. ‘Your father and I have been talking, and we have come to a decision regarding your education.’

  ‘My education?’ I repeat back, unsure where this is going. Maybe it would have been better if this had been about chores again. That word doesn’t fill me with as much dread as the word education does; that’s for sure.

  ‘Yes, your mother and I think that hiring a tutor to help you through these next few months before your exams might be a good idea,’ Dad says, but I’m shaking my head before he has even finished the sentence.

  ‘You and Mum think it’s a good idea, do you?’ I reply, my voice already rising. ‘What about asking me? Surely I’m the one who should have the biggest say in that?’

  Dad looks at Mum again, and it’s clear that he is hoping she will take over from here. I love my old man, but he has spent so much time holed away in his study that he seems to have lost his edge when it comes to social communication. That’s why I wouldn’t want to work from home, even if I had the chance to one day.

  ‘I know that you aren’t keen on the idea,’ Mum says, and I stop her there.

  ‘Of course I’m not keen! I spend all day stuck in lessons with teachers that I can’t stand. Why would I want to come home and have my evenings spoilt too?’

  ` ‘It wouldn’t be every evening. Once or twice a week. And only a couple of hours at a time,’ Mum says like that is supposed to sound appealing to me.

  ‘What’s the point? It’s a waste of money, and if I haven’t learnt this stuff now then I’m never going to!’

  I feel a rage burning up from inside myself that takes me a little off guard, and I stop speaking before I can blurt out anymore.

  ‘There is still plenty of time before your exams, love,’ Mum says. ‘I know you don’t care about your GCSE’s but you will regret it one day if you don’t try your best now.’

  ‘But you didn’t try your best and you’re okay,’ I reply, returning to a defence tactic that has sometimes worked for me in the past.

  ‘I know that I didn’t get good grades and I wish I could change that. But there were other circumstances.’

  ‘You mean the fire?’

  I know Sharpbell High burnt down during Mum and Dad’s last year there and they had to take their exams at Maxwell High instead. I also know that they don’t like talking about it. Not many people do from those days. But old newspaper articles about it have been republished online so everyone at school now knows what happened, and I know plenty of people in my classes who wish the school would burn down again.

  ‘Not just the fire,’ Mum says. ‘But you’re right, I didn’t apply myself as I could have. But you have the opportunities that I never had. My parents couldn’t afford to get me a tutor. If they could have done, then I’m sure that they would have. Instead, I had to sit in those exams and struggle, and I don’t want you to go through that.’

  ‘Why do you care so much?’

  ‘We’re your parents. We want you to do well,’ Dad replies, and I think how that was good of him to field the easiest question of the night.

  ‘But none of my other friends have got tutors!’ I protest, which is true although I have the feeling that I know what the answer to that is going to be too.

  ‘Yes I know, love, but none of your friends got E’s on their mock exams,’ Mum tells me and the word ‘E’ is enough to shut me up for a minute.

  I’m still scarred from the sixty-minute Maths mock exam that I endured a few months ago, which was one of several designed to prepare me for the real thing at the end of the school year. All the exams were hard, but that particular one was on another level. My head was hurting so much when I came out that it almost felt worse than the time I fell over in the playground and got a concussion.

  ‘A’s. B’s. E’s. Who cares? They’re just letters. They don’t mean anything! You know that I don’t want to go to sixth form or uni after this. And I don’t want to be a doctor or anything either! So why does it matter what grades I get?’

  ‘It matters to us, love. And it should matter to you. You’re smart. We know it, and you know it. You just need a little extra help bringing it out,’ Mum says.

  ‘And just because you don’t want to go onto higher education right now, that doesn’t mean that you won’t want to in the future. Lots of people go on to further studies later in life these days. But you won’t have that option if you fail your GCSE’s.’

  That last comment was Dad’s input, and I can’t say that I’m surprised. I know he is disappointed that I have shown no interest in going to sixth form. He went to college and studied I.T., which sounds boring but he apparently loved it. But I’m not him. I don’t want to keep studying. All I want to do is leave education behind and get out into the world to make my own way, whatever that might be. But I’ve told my parents this a million times and here we are still talking about it.

  I hate being sixteen.

  ‘Look, I know you don’t want a tutor. How about we have a look around, see if we can find anybody that you might like, just for an hour a week to start with, and we can take it from there?’

  Mum’s suggestion is supposed to sound appealing, but it just sounds like them getting their way and me suffering even more. But I’m too tired to argue. I just want to get back upstairs and back on the PlayStation. I don’t even care anymore.

  ‘Whatever,’ I say, getting up from the table and walking out of the room.

  My parents don’t call me back, which tells me that they are satisfied with how that whole shitshow just went. They think they have won. They think they are going to get me a tutor.

  They need to think again.

  7

  AMY

  That went about as well as I expected it to. Michael hates the idea of the tutor, but Nick and I already knew that. The main thing is that he has allowed us to look for one and see how it goes on a trial basis, which is a start. Hopefully, we will find somebody who he can get on with and then we can increase the lessons from there.

  One step at a time.

  Now that the awkward conversation with our son is over, we can move onto the next step, which is finding somebody to teach our boy. Depending on how this goes, this might be easier or harder than what we have just done.

  ‘There must be a website or something,’ Nick says as he passes me the clean cups from the dishwasher to put away.

  ‘I don’t just want to hire some randomer off a website,’ I reply as I open the cupboard door and place the cup
s carefully inside. ‘I’ll speak to the school. There might be somebody that they can recommend.’

  ‘Do you think that’s a good idea? It’s basically letting them know that we don’t think their teachers are good enough and we need to hire our own.’

  ‘They won’t see it like that.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I’m not sure, but what else can I do? I need to find somebody, and I need to find them fast. Michael’s exams begin in eight weeks. It might already be too late, but we have to try something. Michael is behaving just like I did when I was heading towards my GCSE’s and I know how badly they turned out for me. I need to give him a chance if nothing else.

  ‘Maybe they have some people they can recommend. A company, perhaps?’ I say optimistically. It’s either that or I’m going to have to take my chances with finding a tutor on the internet, which could be a minefield. But it is the modern way, I suppose. People find love online, as well as all sorts of other things, so maybe that is the best place to find a teacher too.

  ‘I’ll do some research,’ Nick says as he finishes reloading the dishwasher with the plates from dinner and wipes his hand on a tea towel.

  ‘Thanks love,’ I reply, but I’m surprised to see that he means that he is going to do it now. He’s heading back towards the study again, but I was rather hoping that we would spend some time together on the sofa.