than the first: You can run, but you can’t hide. I liked its symmetry, its edgy concision.
That afternoon Jenny had her last ever lesson with me before the start of her exams. I felt thoroughly miserable. When she’d gone, I spent an hour or so reading and then I collected my things—my cardigan, my mug and my briefcase—and turned off the storeroom light. It was long past the end of the day, and already the school appeared to be virtually deserted.
I crossed over into the main building to return my mug to the staffroom, and as I walked out through the darkening corridor on the ground floor, I saw a light on in the library. I paused, and saw Peter Tracey emerging from behind the bookcase where the dictionaries are kept. He sat down with the small Cassell’s Latin-English English-Latin with the purple cover. I saw him take out my two pieces of paper, watched as he scrunched his handsome face into a frown of concentration, as he licked the tips of his fingers and began to leaf through the pages of the Cassell’s.
He sat for about an hour, alternately staring at the notes and hunting through the purple dictionary. Then he slammed the Cassell’s shut, snatched my notes from the table and began striding towards the doors.
I scuttled away.
Over the past two weeks, I have increased the frequency of the notes to two a day. The first I leave in the morning, after assembly, the second just before lunch. I’ve also begun to vary the messages, both in tone and in length. A few have been quite long, as apart from my packing, there has really been nothing left for me to do, but on the whole I have preferred to keep them quite brief, no more than a single line.
Every day, after school, long after the cleaners have gone and left behind their sweet refreshing perfumes of polish and ammonia, Peter Tracey has been staying on in the library, poring over my notes, of which there are (as of yesterday) thirty-two.
From time to time during the day, I leave my storeroom to go and look at him through the door of my old teaching room. He looks tired and wan. The other morning I saw him snap at one of the girls, which is most unlike him.
Now, I am packing. Tomorrow, I will have been the Latin teacher.
The only objects left in here are my briefcase, my cardigan, my mug, two flat empty boxes (which have turned out to be surplus to requirements), a half-used roll of brown tape, a pair of yellow-handled scissors.
There is also my five volume set of Manilius, which I can’t quite bring myself to pick up off the shelf, it seems to me that when I pack away my Manilius, it will be the end of everything, I will have lost.
I left this morning’s note in Peter Tracey’s pigeon hole about an hour ago. I kept it short and to the point.
Homines tui similes pro ientaculo mihi appositi sunt. I eat people like you for breakfast.
Peter Tracey doesn’t knock. He pushes open the door and for a moment he just stands there.
His appearance is dishevelled, there is a bright sheen on his upper lip, a twitch tugging at the skin over his right temple. As he comes towards me, he seems to fill my little room completely.
His narrow, good-looking face is very close to mine now, I can see the veins in his handsome brown eyes. He grips my shoulders, my silence seems to produce in him an almost animal rage. He is shouting now,— screaming , I would say—I can feel his furious breath on my tightly sealed lips.
‘Fucking tell me!’ he bellows, ‘Tell me what they fucking say!’
METAMORPHOSIS
TELLING ME THE news about Alice last week in the library, Arthur was rude to me for the first time ever.
Arthur who is never rude, who never has an unkind word to say to anyone. Arthur who in all the years we worked together was never anything but the most perfectly courteous old-fashioned gentleman.
He told me that Alice is pregnant, due in April, and then he said I should stop all this nonsense with the bird books, the videos. That everyone at the library knows
That afternoon Jenny had her last ever lesson with me before the start of her exams. I felt thoroughly miserable. When she’d gone, I spent an hour or so reading and then I collected my things—my cardigan, my mug and my briefcase—and turned off the storeroom light. It was long past the end of the day, and already the school appeared to be virtually deserted.
I crossed over into the main building to return my mug to the staffroom, and as I walked out through the darkening corridor on the ground floor, I saw a light on in the library. I paused, and saw Peter Tracey emerging from behind the bookcase where the dictionaries are kept. He sat down with the small Cassell’s Latin-English English-Latin with the purple cover. I saw him take out my two pieces of paper, watched as he scrunched his handsome face into a frown of concentration, as he licked the tips of his fingers and began to leaf through the pages of the Cassell’s.
He sat for about an hour, alternately staring at the notes and hunting through the purple dictionary. Then he slammed the Cassell’s shut, snatched my notes from the table and began striding towards the doors.
I scuttled away.
Over the past two weeks, I have increased the frequency of the notes to two a day. The first I leave in the morning, after assembly, the second just before lunch. I’ve also begun to vary the messages, both in tone and in length. A few have been quite long, as apart from my packing, there has really been nothing left for me to do, but on the whole I have preferred to keep them quite brief, no more than a single line.
Every day, after school, long after the cleaners have gone and left behind their sweet refreshing perfumes of polish and ammonia, Peter Tracey has been staying on in the library, poring over my notes, of which there are (as of yesterday) thirty-two.
From time to time during the day, I leave my storeroom to go and look at him through the door of my old teaching room. He looks tired and wan. The other morning I saw him snap at one of the girls, which is most unlike him.
Now, I am packing. Tomorrow, I will have been the Latin teacher.
The only objects left in here are my briefcase, my cardigan, my mug, two flat empty boxes (which have turned out to be surplus to requirements), a half-used roll of brown tape, a pair of yellow-handled scissors.
There is also my five volume set of Manilius, which I can’t quite bring myself to pick up off the shelf, it seems to me that when I pack away my Manilius, it will be the end of everything, I will have lost.
I left this morning’s note in Peter Tracey’s pigeon hole about an hour ago. I kept it short and to the point.
Homines tui similes pro ientaculo mihi appositi sunt. I eat people like you for breakfast.
Peter Tracey doesn’t knock. He pushes open the door and for a moment he just stands there.
His appearance is dishevelled, there is a bright sheen on his upper lip, a twitch tugging at the skin over his right temple. As he comes towards me, he seems to fill my little room completely.
His narrow, good-looking face is very close to mine now, I can see the veins in his handsome brown eyes. He grips my shoulders, my silence seems to produce in him an almost animal rage. He is shouting now,— screaming , I would say—I can feel his furious breath on my tightly sealed lips.
‘Fucking tell me!’ he bellows, ‘Tell me what they fucking say!’
METAMORPHOSIS
TELLING ME THE news about Alice last week in the library, Arthur was rude to me for the first time ever.
Arthur who is never rude, who never has an unkind word to say to anyone. Arthur who in all the years we worked together was never anything but the most perfectly courteous old-fashioned gentleman.
He told me that Alice is pregnant, due in April, and then he said I should stop all this nonsense with the bird books, the videos. That everyone at the library knows
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