Chapter One
Schools made me nervous.
It didn’t matter that I was a university graduate. There was just something about sitting outside of the principal’s office in a school that made my back straighter, my shoulders squarer, my pulse faster. My palms were clammy around my satchel strap. The bag rested on my lap, perched atop the taut fabric of my black pencil skirt, stuffed tight with breath mints, notes, and stacks of resumes I’d been handing out to any business with a HELP WANTED sign in the window.
Almost everything was online these days. I’d lost count of the number of emails I’d fired off to recruitment agencies in search of employment. My browser history was full of searches for teaching positions, teaching assistant vacancies, full-time work, pretty much anything that would help me cover the rent.
There was only so long that a woman could rely on the charity of her parents before they questioned her dedication to finding employment, even if she begrudged accepting their handouts.
Two seats down sat another young woman. She was blonde-haired and blue-eyed; a natural English rose. In her sweatless hands was her own notebook. Slowly, her gazed roved down over the lined page, her lips parting to mouth each bullet-point she’d written in elegant cursive.
Perhaps feeling my gaze upon her, she turned her head and smiled at me kindly. “First interview?”
“This week?” I asked.
The woman permitted herself a quiet laugh. “It’s going well, then?”
“At least the rejections are always polite.”
If I’d printed out all the emails I’d received after my interviews, I could have wallpapered my bedroom. It was hardly worth getting my hopes up whenever my mobile pinged to alert me to a new missive. But I couldn’t help it. I kept telling myself that the next one might be the one, only to have those hopes dashed the moment I saw the words, ‘We regret to inform you,’ and knew that I would need to begin the application process again.
I knew it wasn’t just me.
Jobs were in short supply and being a graduate wasn’t helping me in the way I’d always been told that it would. My parents had lived in an era where university cost pennies a year. Houses had cost under fifty grand, credit was freely available, and hard work really paid off. These days, things weren’t so simple. There were hundreds of people applying for every vacancy, home ownership was a pipe-dream, and predatory pay-day lenders offered high-risk credit to people who didn’t stand a hope of paying it back.
I dreaded to think about where I’d be without my monthly allowance.
Probably back at home in my childhood bedroom, surrounded by pastel blue walls and dolphin motifs.
A fate worse than death.
“What did you graduate in?” the woman asked.
I didn’t know why she was interested in getting to know me. The moment we each left the building; we’d become perfect strangers. Still, it was nice to think about something other than the impending interview.
“English literature and creative writing,” I said. “Kind of wish I’d learned to be a plumber, to be honest. How about you?”
“English language. And, totally know what you mean. My parents wanted me to study accounting, and I was all, no, Dad, I love reading. Now I get what he meant.”
It was my turn to laugh.
What a relief to know that I wasn’t the only one!
Our conversation was cut short when the door opened. The secretary called through, “Angela Squires? We’re ready for you.”
The woman I now knew to be Angela turned to me and extended a hand, which I leaned over to shake. “Good luck,” she said.
The woman was in such earnest that I wholeheartedly replied, “You, too,” despite knowing that, should she do well, I would be back to job hunting.
We shared a parting smile before she walked away, shook the hand of the secretary, and disappeared into a room to sell herself to these potential new employers. They left me alone with only my sweaty palms and tapping feet to keep me company, half hoping that Angela would fail and half hoping that she would succeed. For a wild, fleeing moment, I wondered if perhaps they might create a new position to accommodate us both. They wouldn’t, of course. The government squeezed budgets so tightly that it was a wonder the school was hiring at all.
Still, I could let that thought sustain me until it was my turn.
Time passed in blocks. While I stared down at my lap, I felt every passing second, each ticking by slower than the last. When I glanced up at the clock, I noticed that enormous chunks of time had vanished, and knew that I would soon be called.
I was so caught up in my panic that I didn’t notice Angela leave.
I knew she must have, because soon that same secretary returned and called, “Emilia Chambers? Could you follow me, please?”
In my haste to leave my chair, I stumbled over my own feet. Thankfully, I hid the mistake well, and no one from the interview room had seen me. With my smile affixed to my lips, my heart thrumming in my chest, and all my energy going into remembering how to walk like a normal human being, I approached the secretary and let her guide me through to the next room.
I’d been to enough job interviews since I’d left university to prepare myself for the standard competency questions. It was easy enough to Google the answers your future boss was looking for. I repeated them without missing a beat, running on autopilot as they fired out scenarios like unruly children in the classroom, disgruntled parents. What if you believe a child is suffering at home? A lot of those were things we’d covered off in my teacher training course.
To be honest, it was the personal questions I struggled with.
There was no template to what they might ask, and I hated improvising under pressure.
“Why did you want to become a teacher?” the principal asked.
I’d already forgotten the man’s name. He looked like most of the other Principals I’d met in my other interviews; older, balding, emitting a stale odour and wearing a badly cut suit. He leaned over the desk, his beady little eyes scrutinising me while he clasped his hands together.
I wanted to tell him it was because of job security and because, as my parents had repeatedly told me growing up, writing wouldn’t pay the bills.
That wouldn’t be the answer that he was looking for.
“I love the English language,” I replied tactfully. “It’s a passion I’ve always wanted to share with young people.” I was a young person, but I wasn’t about to point that out. “I don’t think anything can ever replicate the joy of reading an actual book. That’s something I want to pass on to the next generation.”
To an extent, I believed my declaration.
The reading applications on my phone would have called me a liar, though.
The principal liked the answer enough to agree. “Wonderful! Far too much television and internet around these days. A good book is all an earnest, intellectual mind really needs. So, tell us about yourself.”
“Excuse me?” I faltered.
The question was too open.
Too vague.
Did he want me to start from my birth, or was he looking for something a little more relevant?
My mind stuttered.
Chaos descended.
“What are your hobbies?” he clarified, much to my relief. “Did you undertake student placements while you were studying? What are your future goals?”
I let out a long breath, fixed my smile, and resumed interviewee mode.
“I enjoy writing as a hobby when I find the time. Walks in the summer, like a lot of people. I took a placement in a primary school during my studies, which was wonderful, but I realised that I’d like to work with older students.” I was trying to gage their reactions, but the principal and the couple of teachers he’d dragged into the interviews with him gave nothing away. “As far as the future is concerned… I don’t like to plan my personal life that far ahead. I’d rather take each day as it comes. I’ll save the agendas and schedules for lesson planning.”
“A refreshing philosophy to end on,” the man said. He stood from his chair and held out his hand to shake mine. I followed suit, a little wary of the fact that he’d not asked if I had questions to finish up the meeting. As he shook my hand, he said, “May I be the first to thank you for coming. We’ll be in contact with you shortly with the outcome.”
I smiled, offered my thanks, and let my trembling legs remove me from the room as quickly as I could without looking like I was running for the hills.
The door closed behind me, but I didn’t relax until I was out of the building, my bag slung over my shoulder, and my mind spinning.
As I walked off the property and back out onto the street, I tried to replay the interview in my mind, and all I found was static. The entire event had been scrubbed from my memory, no doubt to spare me any future trauma as I realised that I’d made a complete fool of myself somehow.
Well, it was over now.
All I could do was wait.
