The Headland: Part 1

‘Pretty enough. Is that what you were going to say, Gillian? Lesley Benson is not pretty enough to be Mary?’ Alice Finch, put down her red marking pen and looked intently at her colleague who was at that very second dipping a shortbread biscuit into a cup of tea. Alice’s tone was unexpectedly splintery, causing the older woman to hesitate before answering. She was not used to being interrogated. She had, after all, twenty years seniority over Miss Finch. In that moment of hesitation however, disaster struck, and the biscuit plopped resoundingly into the cup, splashing Gillian Howard’s paisley blouse. Alice arranged her face into an expression of benign equanimity while Gillian dabbed her shelf-like cleavage with a lace hankie.

‘This was clean on today too,’ Miss Howard tutted frostily as she tucked the hankie up her sleeve. Lunchtime was almost over and it was time brace herself for the hurly burly of afternoon lessons. She smoothed down her stickily lacquered bun, searching for any insubordinate hairs gone awry. Her hair was dyed a severe black and was pulled back so tightly from her face her expression was one of permanent disdain. She reminded Alice of a substandard Mrs Danvers, waspish and haughty. Miss Howard reached into her faux crocodile skin handbag for her scent. This was the last stage of her lunchtime ritual. Like a malevolent genie, she would exit the staffroom in a choking puff of Tweed.

That afternoon, Alice decided she would not be bullied by Miss Howard. For once, the older woman would not ride roughshod over the opinions of others like a tank in a BHS blouse. ‘You were explaining, Gillian, why Lesley should not be Mary in the Nativity.’

‘Well, it’s not so much that she shouldn’t be Mary. It is just that there are possibly more suitable candidates.’ 

Alice Finch closed the English book she was marking and sighed inwardly. The prickly power struggles of the staffroom could be very dispiriting. She’d had had such utopian ideals about teaching when she entered the profession. She hadn’t realised that most of her energy would be spent dealing with small unpleasantnesses about assembly rotas, staffroom biscuits and nativity castings. ‘Who would you have chosen to be Mary, Gillian?’ 

Miss Howard smiled benevolently, at last her expertise was being called upon. She had after all, taken charge of every nativity performance since 1968. She really could not understand why Mr Gibson had relieved her of her duties. He’d claimed it was because she had done her stint and that she should ‘enjoy a break from it all’, but Miss Howard had taken it as a humiliating snub. ‘Well, Georgina Slater seems to have the necessary poise for the part,’ she replied.

Of course, Alice thought, of course. Georgina Slater. It would have to be Georgina Slater. Georgina was a lovely girl, there was no doubt about that. She was the kind of shining girl for whom childhood would be a happy carousel of medals, gold stars and leading roles. She would never be anything other than perfect. As a young woman, her phone would never stop ringing and she would never know the anguish of loneliness or self-doubt. She was one of those charmed people for whom life had been rubbed as smooth as a pebble on a beach. It troubled Alice that those who had already been blessed with such good fortune (beauty, a comfortable home, a loving family, wealth) inevitably went on to be lavished with even more.

‘When you say, poise, I am not sure what you mean,’ she prodded.

‘Oh, just that she does dance classes, you know. Tap, I think. Has her own pony. And that beautiful blonde wavy hair would be set off so nicely with the blue robe.’

‘It’s a nativity not a Busy Berkley musical, Gillian. Tap dancing is not a necessary skill, and given our donkey is made of cardboard, neither is horse riding.’ 

Alice felt tenderly towards plump, shy Lesley Benson. Lesley, who was the youngest of eight siblings, was always dressed in ill-fitting, badly mended hand-me-downs. She found reading and writing tricky (as had all her brothers and sisters) but she loved listening to stories. She adored it when Miss Finch read The Witches at the end of the school day. Miss Finch had given her the book when they had finished it, claiming to have an extra copy she didn’t need. Lesley’s eyes had widened with amazement at the gift. ‘Really? My own book?’ Alice knew it would be the only book Lesley would own. 

‘I mean, she’s a bit of a lumpen girl. And if she’s anything like the rest of the Bensons she won’t read well. She’ll struggle with her lines. You’ll get no help from mum and dad with that one. Georgina’s father is a doctor, you know.’ Miss Howard blundered on doltishly.

Alice seethed. Children who were born into lives of poverty, neglect or indifference had their opportunities constrained from the day they were born. Their lives would be like a walk across a shingle beach, each heavy step forward frustrated by an unavoidable sinking backwards. The energy required to make any progress at all would be exhausting. These children would have to be twice as clever, twice as resilient, twice as committed to succeed. When she cast Lesley as Mary, Alice hoped she was giving the girl an exquisite gift, like a silver ring in a blue velvet box, it would be a moment the girl would treasure forever. A moment that whispered, I was noticed. I was chosen. I was special. 

 Alice tried to keep her voice level. ‘Well, Gillian, I am sure when God was choosing a mother for his only son, his head was not turned by the first tap dancing, pony-riding doctor’s daughter he came across. Lesley is kind and modest and gentle. I think she’ll be perfect.’

Miss Howard hoisted herself out of her chair with the precarious dignity of a salvaged shipwreck. ‘Well, all I can say, Alice, is that charity is all well and good, but it can be awfully depressing,’ and satisfied with the acerbity of her final riposte, she sallied smugly across the room. As she reached the staffroom door, Alice called out graciously, ‘Don’t you want to know who I’ve cast as Joseph, Gillian?’

The older woman paused, her fingers closing round the door handle like talons. She turned to Miss Finch, and in a voice dripping with syrupy venom said, ‘Why I just can’t wait to hear, Alice.’

 Alice smiled, ‘Ben Davison. I’ve already told him. He’s thrilled. Don’t you think he’ll be just perfect?’

Miss Howard’s mind fluttered desperately, a rolodex full of barbed retorts and biting comebacks. She opened her mouth to speak but infuriatingly found that no words came out. 

‘I just knew you’d agree with me, Gillian,’ Alice called, as Miss Howard slammed the staff room door behind her. 

Tom Rowell, the quiet student teacher working with Miss Finch that term, finally lowered the second-hand Stephen King paperback he’d been reading. He had sheltered behind the book for the entire nativity discussion. It had felt safer to remain in the vampiric world of Salem’s Lot than to enter the icily cordial spat between two middle-aged women. 

‘Well Tom. I think that went as well as could be expected, don’t you?’ Alice said, gathering her pile of English books together. 

The young man grinned. He liked working with Miss Finch. At first, he’d found her a little reserved. She seemed to wear silence like a veil, always keeping herself distant and serene. Since September, he had not learnt one solitary thing about her personal life. Yet he knew, if he were a child in her class he would have loved her. She would have made him feel safe. ‘Here, I’ll carry your books, Alice. I didn’t realise you’d chosen Ben to be Joseph,’ they headed into the corridor together. ‘I have got it right, haven’t I? Ben’s the one with . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘With the jam jar glasses and the lisp . . . and the inhaler?’

‘Yes, that’s our Ben. He was giddy with excitement when I told him. So much so it brought on a slightasthma attack. He’s bringing his own tea towel in for his headdress. He says his mum won’t let him use our costumes because of allergies,’ Alice smiled meaningfully at Tom. Teaching was kindness, she believed, giving kindness and instilling kindness. With any luck, she thought that he would come to understand that.