A Teacher's Affair
J A Elliott
"You will fail if you take your A - Levels now," Mr. Pack shouted as he paced the dimly lit room. "You've already failed your GCSE's; honestly I don't know how you got into sixth form."
The pupil he was preaching to sit at the desk staring out of the back window. He wasn't listening to a word the towering elderly man was saying; instead he was more interested in what the other students were doing outside on the small patch of green that was meant to be a playground within the large grounds of the secondary school.
"Are you even listening to me?" The Head Master fumed.
There was no answer, not even a flinch.
It had not been the oldest teacher in the school's decision to keep the boy in Badshot Lea Comprehensive, if it had been up to him the child would of been expelled before he even started, but social services had got involved and the police they agreed that it would be the best thing for the pupil, to give him more education and the main factor was to keep him off the streets.
"Jesus Christ boy! This is your third school. It's your last chance. You need to buck up your ideas, fast, you're running out of time and I'm losing my patience. Do you hear me boy?"
He was tempted to throttle the lad's shoulders, see if he could shake some sense into the adolescent. There was still no reply just a clenching of fists from both persons.
The teenager couldn't stand being called 'boy', he found it patronizing he was 18 now, a freakin' adult, but yet everyone still treated him like a child.
This was the umpteenth time Dillon Mitchell had been called into the Head Masters cramped little office. Inside the room it was like a mini-library, shelves stacked from ceiling to floor with books, it was as if they bred overnight to make sure there were no empty spaces, it reminded Dillon of the flat where he lives with his father, except for it was rubbish that replaced the books. He would tidy up and clean every day (not your average teenager), but when he would return home from school the place would resemble a pig sty again, he couldn't remember the colour of the carpets anymore and there was only one person to blame.
"I have been trying to contact your father, but it seems as though he has disconnected the house phone and will not answer his mobile," Mr. Pack groaned.
My mobile, Dillon scowled.
He had bought an old Nokia - shaped like a brick - for a tenner off of a mate from school. One day his 'ever-so-loving Dad' saw him using it to text a friend, he snatched the blue basic mobile out of his sons' hands.
"I will need that more than you," he had spat.
"What for?" Dillon shrieked in shock.
It was a lame excuse as Mr. Mitchell did not work; he had not done for years. He could not afford to buy credit, so he sold the phone for the same price Mitch had paid, of course his son did not receive any of the funds or another mobile.
"The phone company cut us off," Master Mitchell finally informed the teacher.
He gazed out of the window, the frame work beginning to rot from where wasps and bees had stolen small fragments of the wood to build their nests.
The deep brown eyed boy longed to be outside, away from all the crap he was getting from a man who did not understand. He was bored of this now; it was the same nearly every day.
When Dillon had first started the secondary school in Badshot Lea - he had been expelled from his previous ones - he had entered at Year 10, already a teenager with attitude.
Although he did not like to think he was the class bully more of a class clown but he still got into trouble for fighting. Straight away he was in detentions for disrupting the other students, eventually he was excluded from class. He would have to spend his days in room 106 - the exclusion room - which could only fit about 10 people. At the time there were two other boys excluded, one of them was always brawling with him. Due to their fighting he and the goby ginger 15 year old, William Smithe, were suspended for a month.
During that month Mitchell had worked as a kitchen porter at the local pub, The King's Arms. Unfortunately he could not roam the streets because the police would pick him up for truancy, and his
father would not allow him to mope around the flat, not when he had supposedly 'business meetings' all day.
"I wash my hands of you," the 50 something year old man said flinging his arms in the air theatrically. "I'm keeping you back a year."
Dillon leapt to his feet knocking the chair back, startling Mr. Pack who retreated behind the desk.
"WHAT?" Mitch screeched. He had hit puberty early so the high note hurt his throat.
The Head Master pulled out a worn beige hanky from his grey trouser suit pocket to wipe the sweat from his wrinkly forehead.
"You can't do that!" Mitch exploded.
"Err, yes I can. If you took your A-Level's now you would be sure to fail, which would result in you retaking all of them. It's better for you if you're kept back a year, then you can take the exams next year, though if you're attitude has not improved by then I will keep on putting you back another year and I will carry on doing so until I think you are ready to take your education seriously."
The gangly greying teacher waited for the onslaught from the adolescent. Does he not know that education is good for him? He asked himself a rhetorical question. It will get you everywhere in life. Everyone needs an education these days. This lad needs discipline, if only they could bring back the cane. He remembered the cane very well. He was once like Dillon Mitchell, acted up so the other pupils would be his friends until one day he came to blows with his Math's tutor.
Pack had been dared to throw an apple at Mr Grimshaw, it had missed his head by a few millimetres, hitting the black board and spraying its juices all over the bald headed man's face. Pack received the worst beating of his life and vowed never to misbehave again; subsequently he lost most of his friends too.
"I can't believe this," Mitch screamed, now it was him pacing the floor. "And what would your wife say if I told her about your affair with Miss. Turner?!" he snarled.
Last year on a blistery winters afternoon Dillon, or as his friends call him - Mitch, had been walking through the Maths block - a separate building built five years ago because the first one had been a port-a-cabin where all the students were taught Math's together instead of set classes. Finally the school received the funding from the National Lottery and just in the nick of time as the rotten smelly cabin was mysteriously burnt down, there was no evidence of it being started deliberately so it was blamed on dodgy electrics, but there were rumours and suspicions of the blaze being started by teenagers.
In the new building they had a store cupboard - it was called a cupboard but actually was the size of a standard double bedroom - Mitch was casually walking past it whilst texting his mates from his mobile to find out where they were this lunch time. He had been kept behind for 15 minutes for shouting "cock" when Mr. Boocock had entered the room.
The dude has a really stupid surname, 'course he's going to get the piss ripped outta him, and Mitch thought he deserved it.
Unexpectantly he heard moaning coming from the cupboard. He stopped and listened. It was a woman. Naively Mitch entertained the idea of a female in distress, in his mind she looked like Pamela Anderson and perhaps a shelf had fallen onto her, or she just could not reach the pencils on the highest shelf. He flung the unlocked door open, eager to help but to his disgust ,and surprise, he discovered the 37 year old bleached blonde Miss. Turner, one of the other Maths tutors (not your typical looking Maths tutor) with her back pressed against the unsteady shelving, pens and books falling to the floor around her head, her grey chord mini skirt hitched way above her slender hips, her glasses wonky, her usually straight hair ruffled and misshapen, open mouthed gasping and Mr Pack in between her legs, his pair of grey suit trousers that he wore every day around his ankles along with silk dark faded boxers, that had probably been black once, giving Miss Turner a good seeing to.
Unfortunately for the pair Mitch's camera on his phone was poised ready - he did not miss a trick - he captured their shocked faces on screen before either could protest and hurriedly marched away bearing a smug grin.
"Naughty, naughty," he laughed out loud to himself.
I can use this as black mail if he tries to give me a hard time any more He thought he now had one up on Mr Pack and he was not going to let the old fool forget it.
"Go ahead tell her, she left me a week ago," the Head Master sighed.
Mitch did not see that coming. Bribery was not going to work this time.
"Oh and there will be no more playing rugby for the school team," he announced dryly, he had never been a big sports fan himself, he preferred darts a much more civilized game, but he knew this action would devastate the boy as it was the one thing he enjoyed at School.
"No, you can not do that," Mitch shouted.
"Back to your class," the Head Master shuffled his paper work lying on the desk ignoring the students protest.
"That is soooo unfair!" Mitch huffed.
"That's life, it is unfair," Mr. Pack grinned through his dentures, emphasizing on the word 'it' as he really did think life was unfair but not for Dillon according to the tall wrinkling man the boy deserved everything he got. Slamming the door behind him Mitch stormed off not realizing the force of his exit had caused one of Packs Certificates to fall and the glass smashing to pieces.
"Damn child! He will pay for that."