Sign of the Times by Susan Buchanan Page A

termination of contract with the recommendation that she not be allowed to teach children again.   This had been the final nail in her coffin.   She had loved those kids as if they were her own.   It was so unfair.   She had never regretted anything so much in her life.   First she had her potential to be a mother taken away from her and now her career.

    Things looked bleak for a while.   Unfortunately, much though Michael wanted to, he was unable to offer the solace she so required.   Three months later they split up.   She had thought about teaching adults, but it wasn’t the same.   She couldn’t nurture them in the same way.   So, she had tried to put it all behind her and spent several months trying to figure out what to do.   One day she realised the only other time she had been truly happy had been at university.   She loved studying.   She loved teaching.   If she couldn’t teach, she could study, but what?   She was twenty-seven.
    Psychology had been her first choice on her return to Further Education.   She had discovered that grants were quite good for a mature student. Well, not good exactly, it was still a pittance, but it was more than other students received.   She applied for money from the Access and other funds to help her get by.
    Her first year at Glasgow University had passed uneventfully enough.   Of course she had needed to adjust, but she managed it relatively painlessly.   After Psychology came Philosophy, after Philosophy, English.   Over the next few years she studied English Language, then English Literature, studying Keats, Milton, Shelley, as well as the obligatory Shakespeare.   She learned not to take novels, plays or poems at face value.   She learned the hard wayby failing the first paper she wrote, basing it on what she thought the author meant.   The tutors couldn’t care less what she thought it meant.   They wanted her to utilise the information available from the university library, the plethora of critiques on the various works, written by ‘experts’ and simply regurgitate their interpretation.   After implementing this strategy, she started to do rather well.   English was followed by a branching off into languages, Spanish, Portuguese and German to be precise.   Now, at forty, she was taking things easy, doing Politics and Art History, with European Business Management thrown in for good measure.   She didn’t intend to use it, but it came in handy for debates.
    With a jolt, Maggie pulled herself out of her daydream.   She hadn’t even opened a book and was now hoping she hadn’t been too cocky.   But, she did have an excellent memory for artists and dates and their period and style, so after dropping her dirty dishes into a basin and with a glance in the mirror, she opened the door and was back out in the close again. I really must do something about my hair.   Pigeon shit streaks went out a long time ago and it has never suited me .   Nor did they bring out her hazel eyes, flecked with gold.   It was time she started taking a bit of pride in her appearance.   Since she was rather plain anyway, flat-chested, not that that bothered her, she really had to make the most of what assets she did have.   Her eyes were her best feature, although perhaps over-large in her thin face.   She was taller than most guys she fancied.   Unprepossessing, the type of person you’d walk past in the street.   She could scrub up quite well when she put her mind to it.   She’d go to the hairdresser after her exam.   That could be her starting point.

Chapter Thirteen

    In the end the previous week’s exams seemed to go OK.   Today was the last one, the final History of Art paper.
    “Maggie!” Josh yelled to her. “Over here!”
    Maggie smiled at Josh, bouncing up and down like an over eager lamb.  
    “Are we ready?” he asked.
    “Think so.”
    “Last one and then we are freeeeeee. Yippee!”
    Sometimes Josh really did make Maggie think of what