The Canal by Jill Craig

It’s a Thursday, and Ben watches Ellie through sleep-filled eyes as she dresses in the gloom of their bedroom. She rolls thick, woollen tights over her legs and pulls a long skirt up to her waist-line. She adds a bulky cardigan.

Oh, he says. Sexy.

Give over, she laughs. And go back to sleep.

Sexy teacher, he says, below the cover, his voice already thickening with sleep.

He is mocking her gently. The previous evening, they’d gone to meet colleagues of his in a bar in town. They had dinner together first, sitting at a long, communal table under muted lights, eating dim sum. He told her about the policy he was researching, chopsticks swaying in the air. She had looked at him, with soy on his chin and his head newly shaved, his skull precise and fine and his eyes large and glowing, and raised herself from the bench, kissing him lightly on startled lips. In the bar after, she had found herself in the corner seat, next to Frank from Accounts. Ben’s eyes met hers with a question. She shook her head slightly. I’m fine, she wanted to communicate. I can handle him.

So, a teacher? He said, his breath heavy. They have had this conversation before. His thigh was pressed against hers and sweat beaded on his forehead.

Yes, she said, secondary. And how’s work for you? Still working from home, like Ben? She kept her voice polite and measured, crossing her legs and moving her right leg away from his thigh.

He leant in closer, as though to confide a secret. Wouldn’t mind you teaching me. Might have kept me in school a bit longer. He guffawed, setting his pint glass down. The amber liquid slopped over the side, wetting the varnished table.

She smiled politely. When she and Ben had walked home by the canal, she told him about it. Their breath smoked before them and she slipped her hand into his. Ignore him, he said. Though he’s a pig. 

In the morning, when dressed, she runs her hand through the soft down of his scalp. He loops a sleepy arm around one of her thighs, as though to keep her here. Shush, she says, bending to touch her lips to the velvet line behind his ear. I’ll be back soon. Go back to sleep.

She lets the dog out in the blue-black of the morning, and then strokes the stripe of its snout. Won’t be long, she whispers. When she drives to school, the sky is lightening and the air is cold and sharp. The branches are needles against a violet sky. The radio is local, and tells tales of a shooting; an asylum shelter being picketed; a virulent social media star rocketing to fame, gossip of his potential arrest. She clicks it off at the traffic light and thinks of the previous evening. She stretches slightly in her seat, arching her back. She has slept strangely, and her neck feels stiff. Putting her right hand to its surface, she feels the tautness of it, of stressed muscles and strain. 

Alright, miss, one of the boys nods to Ellie as she climbs out of the car, hoisting her second bag of running shoes and leggings over her shoulder.

She nods hello at him and smiles. Morning, lads. Did you have a nice evening? How was the match?

Sound, miss. 3-2. Sam here scored. And Jack jostles Sam, looking pleased for him.

Congratulations, Sam. Must have been a nice feeling.

Sam smiles, shy. Thanks miss. Nice one.

They’re clustered around the school gates, putting off the last few moments before the bells will ring. Savouring it. Phones out, thumbs scrolling, heads ducked. Jack, Sam, Tom- nice boys. The type who are never mentioned in daily briefing or staff emails.

Ellie makes her way into the building, nodding hello to teachers and students. She is thinking of the day before her: the order of classes and the need to print coursework, a phone call with a difficult parent and a lunch-time club. There is another group of boys on the yard, clustered like ravens around a phone. The twenty-first century man’s fire pit, she thinks. The sky is citrine now and the buildings are marked against it, a stark bruise, but they are looking down, hypnotised. They’re smirking, passing it between them, and one slaps the other on the back.

Phone, she says, put it away please lads. School day is about to start. You know the rules.

One of them raises his eyebrows at her, as high as he can reach them. It is an impressive effort. The other two -Dan, she thinks, though she is unsure- rolls his eyes at his friend, who slips it slowly, in laboured movements, into his pocket. Whatever you want, miss. He says, his voice a near drawl.

Whatever’s so interesting, she says evenly, I’m sure will be there at the end of the day. Thanks for putting it away, boys. Have a good first lesson.

As she walks away, their laughter rises.

The staff room is full. Teachers duck around each other, making coffee, stacking books, vying for the printer. There is the thrum of a school day about to start, the wheels in motion. People stand in their departments, staking their territories in tribes. Under-eyes are shadowed and smiles are wry. Nearly there, someone says dryly.

During the briefing, one of the R.S. teachers raises her hand and queries behaviour. It’s dipping, she says, there is a noticeable difference. She gives an example of insolent behaviour, a softer spoken student becoming challenging during discussion, the assistant head -a Mrs. Stanley- asking a student repeatedly to move from the dinner hall, and her voice rises, becoming belligerent. She looks to Ms. Cole, a Maths teacher next to her, for support.

There is a murmur around the room, of acquiescence or disagreement, Ellie is unsure. The pockets of the staffroom twitch, and people shift their weight.

Our students are, by most measures, polite and respectful, Mr. Hart responds. Though any problems of behaviour are to be reported to Heads of Year, as is the policy. He looks at his watch. Anything else? Bell is about to go.

At the end of briefing, they spread out through the school, heels clicking along the corridor. The smell of burnt toast and antiseptic rises. She passes clusters of students at lockers. No way! One exclaims. Did you see it last night? It’s gone viral. So sly, man, so sly. You should sign the petition. It’s against his freedom of speech. 

Ellie finds the first two classes go smoothly; the students settling quickly into the rhythm of the lesson. They look at different narrative forms, and read the parts of a contemporary version of The Odyssey. They read with gusto, one boy’s voice booming in the style of a ferocious Greek God. Hubris injected into an eleven year old. The others clap, gleeful. As they leave, they pass her gathering the books. Thanks, miss, most nod, see you later.

Sixth formers come in next. They are tired, distracted by coursework and relationships and thoughts of the weekend, sipping coffee and sneaking looks at phones. The discussion of tragedy takes a while to kick-start. Ellie feels she is teasing it out of them, coaxing them into wakefulness. What do we think of Miller’s depiction though, she says, is it realistic? Is this how we think she would react?

The third class is rowdier. There is the throwing of an aeroplane, a slowness to opening books and settling. But she likes this: the energy they bring. Two of the boys swagger in late, coats on, hoods up.

We apologise for being late, please. Ellie says, looking up mildly. Class has begun.

They are off to a difficult start. The late-comers don’t take their usual seats, and this requires negotiation, watched by the others. She tells them to take out their texts, to turn to the correct Act and Scene. Shakespeare, she says, mocks are coming up. This one is important.

There is a theatrical groan. It’s not a drama class, no need for the melodramatics, she says gamely, and this will help you. Come on. Let’s get started.

They have read this scene before. In it, there is a rare moment in which the female characters are alone, discussing the behaviour of a husband. Ellie reads it, for the sake of fluency and expression and asks them to annotate. After, there is a set of questions on the board, designed to elicit the playwright’s intentions; the message of the characters. What are they a mouthpiece for, she asks, think about it. I know you can do this.

Ach, go on miss, why don’t they just give over.

The voice comes from the second row. She looks up. Because, she says, because they sense the injustice. We are being offered an insight into the women’s world.

There are sighs, and slumpings into chairs and against walls. It is lunch time soon.

She tries again. This is a rare moment, unusual for the time. For any time really.

But miss, maybe if she hadn’t carried on like that in the first place, maybe this conversation wouldn’t have to happen. There are murmurs of agreement, and they start speaking across the room to each other. In the third row, she sees one of the boys roll his eyes at another.

Ok, ok, she says, hands up, as if in mock surrender. Let’s think about this. What has she done to warrant this?

Well, James says, if she’d done what her dad wanted in the beginning, none of this would have happened. And we don’t get to see how she’s acting the rest of the time.

Another student interjects. Yeah, or how she’s dressed. Maybe her fella’s right.

The boys are beginning to laugh. The bell will go soon. She senses that she’s lost them, but raises her voice, lets it carry. Alright. She says, and I suppose you do what your dad tells you to do all the time? And when we don’t toe the line, if we disobey rules at times, does that mean we get what’s coming to us?

They laugh, back on her side. Alright, James, miss got you there. And he smiles, sheepish.

They are frightened, she says quietly. One of them is angry. Can we see that?

A student puts his hand up. She inclines her head. He asks, why are they frightened? If nothing has happened yet?

She tries to explain. Have you never been on a mountain, and felt frightened of heights, though you’ve never fallen from one? Or looked into seething water, and felt its power, though you’ve never drowned?

But the bell is ringing, and they are pushing bags onto shoulders. And they are city boys. She has chosen the wrong examples, she saw the boredom on faces. When they file out, the room is a mess. She straightens desks and tables, cleans the board, sets up for the next lesson. Her thoughts are spreading in quiet, reflective directions as she does so. Her neck still hurts, and she moves it gently from one side to the other, feeling the crick of small bones. 

The rest of the day passes quickly. After class, she sits down to mark coursework and email students. The light is lowering, though not as quickly as the month before. It is the time of year where people comment on it all the time. Can you believe it, they say, dark already!

When it is nearing half four, she retrieves her phone from the staff room. Ben answers on the third ring. I’ll leave soon, she says, I’m going to run home. I brought my stuff.

Are you sure? He says. I can take you in in the morning then, if you like. Gets me out of bed.

Maybe, she says. Thank you.  

Hmmm. He says, sounding distracted. He is looking at his screen, clearing the tabs. And dinner? I was thinking curry.

Yes, she says, please. He is good at cooking, better than her really, taking his time to crush coriander in the wooden pestle and mortar, to sweat onions in generous oil. The kitchen will fill with the scent of his efforts: ginger, chilli, cardamon. Sometimes, when he is feeling particularly motivated, he makes naan, spreading the dough with forceful fingers onto the floured surfaces. 

I’ll do the rice, she says.

He laughs. Generous of you. There is a sound of movement as he switches the phone between ears. She can picture him at his office chair, fondling the soft ears of the dog in his free hand. Do you want me to meet you part of the way? He asks. I could bring the dog.

Please, she says. That would be nice.

She works a little longer and then changes in the empty department office. She slides her spare clothes under the desk and ties her laces. She takes only her keys, phone and earphones. The rest can be retrieved tomorrow.

When she taps out of the building, it is darker than she anticipated, and when she reaches the canal, the sun has left a brilliant trail of orange, from which bands of soft pink rise, above the line of the water and the naked trees. The air has a bite to it she didn’t expect, and she flexes her hands in front of her. It is not far home, she thinks, just under five miles. She can do it within forty minutes, if she is fast. It is cool and calm. There is almost no-one here. The half-way point is a gnarled sycamore tree, one which dwarfs the others.

The motion is easy today. Running is strange, she often thinks, sometimes her body falls into the rhythm, a smooth unwinding of stiff limbs, a feeling that she could run forever. And sometimes it is difficult, each step a labour. She is relieved that today, it does not feel like this. She passes a barren section of land, where the copse has burnt to the ground, and sets her eyes on the path in front of her. Ahead, the spines of the trees bend to the left, hanging over the path. It is thicker here, a denser patch of evergreens.

In the opposite direction, Ben lets the dog off its lead. It puts its nose to the ground, anxious and exhilarated. He walks slowly, passing a runner, a father and his small son, a group of teenage girls with goose-bumped legs and straightened hair. It is only when he reaches the sycamore that he reaches for his phone. Where is Ellie, he thinks, she must be running slowly.

The light has slipped from the sky and his face is stiff with cold. The world is made up of silhouettes. He wants the feel of her small-boned hand in his pocket, her fingers between his. He tells himself that maybe her knee is playing up. It does that sometimes.

Jill Craig 

Image: Canal tow path by Alex Dickson – a canal tow path with fallen leaves, still water and a bridge in the distance.