From a Garden with Teachers
I had never seen Mrs. Smart’s bare arms
but there they were, chalky white/grey like clay yet to be made into something til then I had managed to get around the fact that teachers had skin had whole bodies underneath their clothes. Because she was a big lady some kids called her names she would lose her temper in class and her face shook terribly. In the garden, her face folding into a smile she asked about my future.
Mrs. Wards had a laugh
that belonged in the air, in the trees. She put her full weight behind it: it was incredible how far she could make it go. Then it would do an about-turn and billow down to the garden. I don’t remember the joke but Mrs. Wards clutched my arm and gave me a look like she knew me through and through, because I was thirteen and a girl.
I was afraid of and in love with Mr. Frame
who was forever consumed by a fury: he threw chairs at the blackboard, at us; he threw himself at the wall; his blue eyes burned. My mother had taught him fourth-form French he had been a beautiful boy. He stood alone in our garden, smoking he looked different knocking the ash out of his cigarette and I liked to pretend we had never met.
Sad Mr. Muir, whose name always
made me think of the moa, mooching along in the fading terrain overturning fronds and skeletons. Mr. Muir’s first name was Ian, and that immediately seemed to me the sound a moa might have made, calling for its mate, at night. Ian, Ian, Ian Muir. There was a rumour that his wife had left him.
Next year I was leaving town
but the teachers would go on every December, standing in one another’s gardens. Mr. McVinnie would go on peering over his glasses sweat patches would go on growing under his arms as he went on flicking the baton to the military marches that would march on sure as time. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ he’d said when asking me to play in the stage band I would’ve done anything for him.
How long they could stand,
holding the same pose and the same glass, the wine knowing when to refill itself, their smiles when to brighten their voices blurring the way the tennis nets do in late afternoon, when the dark is beginning to bloom around them and their colours are beginning to run outside their lines like paint with too much water.
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