Books ’N Pieces Magazine ~ March 2019 ~ www.BooksNPieces.com
Page 57
the study rooms we would hear him approach, certain of who it was by the pace of his walk. We pretended to dislike him, convincing ourselves that he was a cold, hard man, and, like all the other teachers, a pious, self-centered bastard. Would I become such to my students? I wondered. The house was unlocked and I walked in. Before even checking my own section of it—the place where I would actually live—I began down the main corridor. The walls were a dark stained wood, and from them, hanging in rows, were the plank-boards with the names of each year's students painted on them. I was listed in 1969, my name close to the bottom with three small stars beside it. They were the distinctions won: most of the students had won distinctions at some time. There was a library at the end of the corridor which housed a modest collection of books, and next to that the assembly room which, for the rest of the time doubled as a television room. Supper would be offered at night, a cup of hot chocolate and a few biscuits as a treat between study sessions. The room was still the same. They had acquired a couch during my absence, and that was the only thing that stood out. "Hello, sir," a voice called from behind. I turned to face a boy of fourteen. He was wearing the blue school shirt, untucked, the grey slacks and the house colors on his sweater —brown with a yellow stripe at the bottom.