Twenty four hours in the life of a school principal

The queen's journey?

This is story I wrote after listening to anecdotes and reflections from the following ACT principals: Wendy Cave, Lyndall Read, Colleen Matheson, Julie Murkins, Naida Blakely. One of the questions we were exploring was whether female principals approached their work any differently from male principals. I wrote a story which, though fiction, tried to capture some of the spirit of what had been said.

1.

‘That was great Karen. Perfect. Just what needed to be said.’

It is nice of Matthew Turner, her Deputy Principal here at Tumundra High, to say so, but Karen is not so sure. She’d spoken from the heart, she’d meant every word she’d said at the special assembly, and it has definitely released some of the fury she felt when she first saw just how much damage the vandal or vandals had done.

Paint over the walls.

Broken windows.

Some computer equipment gone.

And, worst of all, the trees. A dozen small trees, planted no more than 18 months ago and so lovingly cared for - not just by her, but by groups of caretaker students - ripped from the ground and set alight.

At first she was numbed with shock. And then slowly, over the hour or so since the students first started to arrive and gather around the mess, the shock gave way to a feeling of helplessness. And then to waves of rage.

The rage helped. It mobilised her, and she called this special assembly where she had spoken from the heart.

This morning, she’d said to the unusually stilled student body, we arrived to find our school had been vandalised. Perhaps, like me, you couldn’t quite believe what you were seeing when you walked through the gates. The white walls scribbled over with hateful, vile racist slogans. The shattered glass. And those young trees. The trees we planted to celebrate the 50th anniversary of our school. The trees we had imagined giving shade at the 100th anniversary, after your children had passed through these gates. The trees, ripped out of the ground and thrown onto the fire. We can still smell the smoke as we sit here; it will hang about for days. But it will take us much, much longer to recover from the shock.

I ask myself, who could have done this? And why? I cannot help wondering why someone would want to do this to a school that I know so many of you value, respect and even love. It’s a school that I value, respect and love. This morning, when I saw what had been done to those little trees, I despaired. Who, I wondered, is so angry about this school that they would want to do this thing? Could it be that it was one of our own students? Could it be that the person or people who did this are sitting in this room as I speak?

I want to get to the bottom of this. I know that the vast majority of you want me to get to the bottom of this. And so I’m now asking you all, if you have any information about what has happened, if you know anything about it, anything at all, then I’m asking you to come and see me, or to talk to one of the staff. There will be no questions asked. But we must find out, and if the culprit or culprits of this horrible act are sitting in this room right now, please understand that I’m not going to rest until we’ve got to the bottom of this. We will find the truth, I promise you that. We love this school too much. We owe it to the vast majority of students here who love this school.

There was something about speaking the words that felt good at the time but which now, despite Matthew’s kind words, feels wrong. Ranting and raving in front of the students had been a release. She’d felt better. But the students, she sensed, had felt worse. Implicated somehow. This didn’t seem right, or fair.

‘I’m not sure, Matthew. I’m just not sure.’

‘The students need to know that we’re not defeated by this,’ says Matthew. ‘They need to feel that we’re energetically moving forward, that we’ve got a plan.’

‘I’m not sure we have got a plan Matthew, have we? Just appealing to the students for information is hardly a plan.’

‘It’s the beginning of one,’ says Matthew. ‘The first step.’

‘And the next step is …?’ Karen isn’t sure she likes where this conversation is heading. She isn’t sure that a plan is the right response to what has happened. But then she isn’t sure that it isn’t, either.

‘The next step, surely, if for us to get back to normal as soon as we can. Get the mess cleaned up. Make sure the classes continue as if nothing had happened. Show the student body that we’re not put off our game by something like this, that it’s business as usual, that this school is way too strong to be put off our stride.’

Karen likes Matthew, and she likes working with him, even if his mixed sporting metaphors are almost always too gung-ho for her taste. She appreciates, too, the way his approach complements hers, how when whenever she gets bogged down in the complexities of the job, he looks for the next best step to take.

Now, as she listens to Matthew, it is becoming clearer why she is increasingly uncomfortable about this morning’s blast. She’d reacted as principals she had known from her past would have reacted. The defining of the boundaries. The setting out of the consequences. The reluctance to look more deeply into possible causes. The reducing of complexity into simple plans and procedures.

This is not her way.

But then, right now, she can’t quite articulate an alternative. So she allows Matthew to outline the next steps, and she watches him stride off with metaphorical sword in hand.

But, she promises herself, she will not be rushed into anything just for the sake of being seen to do something. She will wait. She will observe. And mull. She won’t rush.

2.

Josh sits up the back in maths, chewing on the end of a pencil. Why is it, he wonders nervously, that whenever anything goes wrong, he feels guilty, as if he’s somehow implicated?

Sitting in assembly an hour ago with Mrs Jordan so worked up, Josh was certain that she was looking at him. He’d been as upset as any about the vandalism. Once upon a time he wouldn’t have been upset. He’d had dark, difficult feelings and rageful impulses during his primary years and even as recently as last year when he started Year 7. But things had turned round for Josh. There’s now no way he’d be involved in something like this. Nevertheless, in the assembly when Mrs Jordan implied that the perpetrator was one of the students, Josh could feel his face flush. He’d felt eyes on him, though he was staring at his lap. He found himself rehearsing his movements over the past 24 hours, getting his story right; he’d been at home with his mum all night, then walked to school with his mates. People could vouch for him. Why, then, was he feeling so vulnerable, so looked into?

He’s come to love this school, he tells himself. He’d never do a thing like that.

Love? Is that the right word for how he feels about the school?

He knows he’s needed it. He knows that he doesn’t want to leave. He’s been telling the principal, Mrs Jordan, all this year that he wants to repeat Year 10. ‘I’ll end up in jail like my dad if you make me leave,’ he’s told her, several times, and he’s really believes it. Or he has until recently.

He’s come to depend on the routines, the very thing that he’d been unable to handle in Year 7. With Mrs Jordan’s help, he’s found a way of managing. During that first year, he’d regularly found himself outside, or in, Mrs Jordan’s office, after telling a teacher to fuck off or chucking a wobbly in class. It had been weird, at first, the way Mrs Jordan never shouted or threatened. Instead, while Josh sat sullenly silent, she would wonder aloud about what might have been going for him that explained his outbursts. Then, when after some months he’d offered some of his own thoughts, thoughts that sounded strange even to him, she’d just listened. Somehow, slowly, he’d come to look forward to times with Mrs Jordan. A turning point was when he’d realised he didn’t have to do something wrong before she’d make herself available for a chat. He’d talked to her about his dad, about his own conviction that he’d end up in prison himself. She listened. She suggested that the belief was likely to determine the reality and that he had to change his belief. Josh gets this.  It is only recently that he’s begun to say that maybe he could handle Year 11 at a secondary college, that there is a post-Tumundra alternative to prison. He’s started to talk to some of his mates about where they’re going to do their Year 11.

But now the school has been vandalised. He will be a chief suspect, given some of his past history. But he hasn’t done it.

Why, then, is he finding it so hard to shake the feelings of shame and guilt that make him avoid eye contact all day, and that make him avoid Mrs Jordan?

3.

‘You OK Benny?’

‘Just tired, Mr. Ellison.’

But it’s not tired. Benny’s got things on his mind. He thinks he should say something to Mrs Jordan. She said in this morning’s assembly that her door was open.

He tried straight after the assembly, but she’d walked off with Mr Turner, the Deputy Principal, and he didn’t want to say anything when Mr Turner was around. He wanted this to be private. It was important that he told just Mrs Jordan.

‘Trouble sleeping Benny?’

‘Not really.’

Mr Ellison has been helping him with his English. Mr Ellison is the learning support teacher. Mr Ellison has helped Benny a lot over the years, especially with English. English hasn’t been easy. Benny’s parents still struggle a bit with English and speak Lebanese Arabic at home. Being at school has been good. And Mrs Jordan has been good, the way she seems interested in his progress, in his family. He likes talking to Mrs Jordan.

But he feels tense about talking to her this time.

She looked so angry and upset in assembly this morning.

Maybe what he has to tell her will make things better.

Or maybe not.

4.

Karen has been a good principal and a good mentor, but sometimes Matthew, one of her deputies, finds her so frustrating. She over-thinks things, that’s for sure. Or over-feels them, or something. Needing to talk things through endlessly, to look at a situation from all possible angles, when really the most important thing is just to get on and tackle the issue, whatever it is, head on.

Her reaction to the assembly is a classic. She’d spoken really well, he thought. From the gut. She’d let the students know she meant business. But then, almost before the students had gone off to class, she was starting to over-think things. And get paralysed.

Not for the first time, Matthew thinks, he needs to fill the vacuum. Be the one who gets things done. The do-er rather than the thinker. When he’s a principal himself, he wants to be a do-er.

He has his contacts amongst the student body, boys especially who he’d got to know through his teaching and coaching. Boys who would tell him what was being said on the grapevine.

He has his suspicions. During the assembly, and while Karen was laying down the law, Matthew had scanned the room, looking to see who was looking shocked, who surprised, and who uncomfortable. He hadn’t been surprised to see Josh squirming. Josh had form. Josh had been something of an arsonist in his younger years. He’s broken windows at weekends. Matthew wasn’t surprised to see Josh shifting in his seat.

He’d make a point of seeking out Josh today. Maybe have a chat, put the pressure on a bit.

It was always better to be on the front foot.

5.

Madison sits with her eyes closed, feeling the sun on her face. It’s recess time. Her Year 10 friends are elsewhere, some in the library finishing the English assignment, others … she’s not sure where the others are. Probably soaking up the sun as well. But she doesn’t want to look for them. Not right now. She just wants to sit and be.

There’s a knot in her stomach. A very knotty knot, all twisted and tight. It would be nice if this gentle sun would loosen its strands just a bit.

It’s to do with the trees, partly. She and Ellie had been the senior students who’d come up with the idea of the trees. A small grove. She and Ellie had talked a lot together about how they felt about leaving Tumundra High, and what it had meant to them, and they’d wanted to make some kind of mark that would live on after they’d left. They’d come up with the idea of the trees. They’d raised money, held meetings.

Trees seemed so right. And now the trees are dead and burnt.

Someone sits down next to Madison and she opens her eyes. It’s Mrs Jordan.

‘You OK Madison?’

‘A bit sad. Are you OK Mrs Jordan?’

‘Same.’

They sit silently for a bit, side by side, watching a group of boys nearby shooting hoops, Mr. Turner the Deputy Principal is shooting hoops with them.

‘Mrs. Jordan?’

‘Madison.’

‘Thank you for what you said this morning in assembly.’

‘I think I lost the plot there a bit. I let my emotions rule my head a bit.’

‘I would have hated it if you’d been calm. I felt so upset, so angry. It was so good to hear you say the things I was feeling.’

‘Hardly an example of mindfulness!’

They both smile. Mrs Jordan’s mindfulness talks - both in assembly and during some of their one-on-one chats - have meant a lot to Madison. There’s a link between the way Mrs Jordan has lived and encouraged mindfulness on the one hand, and the courage that had led Madison to come out about her sexuality earlier in the year.

‘I hope you find out who did it,’ says Madison.

‘I hope we find out why someone did it,’ says Mrs Jordan, ‘so we can work towards doing things better.’

‘Mrs Jordan?’

‘Yes Madison.

‘Is it still OK if I come and see you at lunchtime.’

‘I’m looking forward to it. It’s about your art project isn’t it?’

‘You’re not too busy? I mean, with the vandalism happening and everything?’

‘I wouldn’t miss it for quids Madison. Conversations with students like you are what make the job such a joy.’

6.

Matthew stands back a few paces and surveys the plan which he’s spent the previous half hour formulating and then transferring onto cards, which now he’s stuck to the whiteboard in his office.

Step One (yellow card): immersion, getting right into the thick of it. Mix with boys at playground, ear to ground. Rumours? Suspicions? DONE

Step Two: (green card) Track down possible perpetrators. Observe. Chat. Question. (as appropriate)

Step Three: (purple card) Hypothesise. Discuss with exec. Liaise with police.

Step Four: (blue card) Report to Karen. List of options re further action.

Plans have always been important. Essay plans when at school, To Do lists at university, detailed lesson plans when in the classroom. Matthew appreciates the way they reduce a complex task to its simpler, more manageable parts.

Step One is done, or at least largely done, though it’s just a matter of hours since the vandalism was discovered. He’s been out in the playground talking to the lads. He’s heard the chatter. He’s made a list of possible perpetrators. He retains, though, a gut feel that Josh is either involved, or knows who is responsible.

And he’s just seen Josh lurking around the front office, looking shifty. The weekly executive meeting is due to start soon in Karen’s office, but he’s sent a message to say that he might be late, that something has come up.

‘Josh, can I have a word?’

Again the guilty look. The boy knows something.

‘Are you waiting to see Mrs Jordan?’

‘I … not really … not exactly.’

‘What then?’

‘Um …’ Matthew notes the way Josh swallows. He’s got a dry mouth. The boy is a bundle of nerves.

‘Yes?’

‘The yellow form. I wanted to get a yellow form. Is this where you get one?’

‘A leaver’s form? I thought you’d decided to repeat Year 10? A sudden change of mind?’

Matthew hadn’t meant to sound quite so harsh, but perhaps it’s not a bad thing. If the boy is hiding something, it might need some flushing out. Perhaps the more he’s flustered, the less likely he’ll be able to concoct some invented story.

‘I didn’t … I couldn’t … Like, I’ve been talking to Mrs Jordan a bit and maybe now I think I’m ready …’

‘Ready?’

‘To leave. Not now, I mean. At the end … when it’s time … you know?’

‘Josh, can we have a little chat? Now? Just step into my office. I think there are some things we need to have a little chat about, don’t you.’

7.

‘Matthew’s just sent a message to say he’ll be late. Let’s start Teresa.’ Teresa is Karen’s other Deputy Principal.

‘Is he OK? Matthew?’

‘I think he’s in his element Teresa,’ says Karen. ‘Off on his white charger.’

‘About the vandalism?’

‘About the vandalism.’

‘Bloody hypocrite,’ says Teresa smiling. The three - Karen, Matthew and Teresa - have worked together as an executive for a couple of years now. They work well together, Karen has always thought. But perhaps not for long. The Directorate have made enquiries about Teresa as a possible temporary principal for a school in crisis. This might be a good opportunity, Karen thinks, to chat about it without Matthew present. Matthew, she suspects, would be a little miffed that it’s Teresa they’re thinking about, and not him.

‘Hypocrite?’

‘Yes, he’s clearly uncomfortable when I get on my charger,’ says Teresa. ‘It’s a gender thing I think. Thinks I’m pushy, loud. Keeps making comments about my Mediterranean blood. Tells me I get into people’s faces too much. He can talk!’

Karen laughs. The two of them, Matthew and Teresa, clearly enjoy each other’s company, and the teasing, but Karen suspects that Teresa is right, that underneath the banter Matthew finds Teresa a bit overwhelming, a bit too energetic, that she takes up some of the space that he would prefer was his to occupy. Is it a gender thing, Karen wonders, or just their individual styles? She’s not sure how she feels about the debate about leadership traits based on gender.

‘The Directorate rang again this morning,’ says Karen. ‘They want to know if you’re interested.’

‘And if you think I could do it.’

‘You know I think you could do it!’

‘Yes, but do I think I could do it? I’ve never seen myself as a principal. I think being a deputy suits me. All power, no ultimate responsibility.’

‘You can’t know until you try it. I think you’d be surprised. I think you’d be great.’

‘But I’m not like you.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘You know what I mean. I get edgy when things get too pressured, and sometimes jump in too quickly. I watch the way you resist the temptation to act for the sake of acting. It’s like you’re waiting for something. You wait for answers … or a direction … to come towards you, to reveal itself …’

‘It’s not magic. I don’t just sit there doing nothing.’

‘No, you talk and you listen. And then you act.’

‘I wish I’d been more me this morning at assembly.’

‘It’s so distressing. So awful. Those trees. Do you think some of our kids did it?’

‘I have no idea, but I think we should proceed as if some of them did.’

‘So we investigate? We get on our chargers like Matthew?’

‘No, not to investigate. I actually think it’s highly likely that this was done by someone completely unconnected to the school. But I think we should keep asking ourselves what we could do to improve the culture of the school, what we could do to make it even less likely that one of our students would ever want to do something like this.’

‘I really admire the way you keep your eye on the bigger thing.’

‘Sometimes.’

‘I’m not sure I could do that.’

‘You develop the skill. It’s not something you’re born with.’

‘So you think I should say yes to this principal job?’

‘There’s no ‘ought’ here. If you’re happy doing what you’re doing, don’t ever apply for a principal’s job just because it’s the ‘next step’. But if you want to see if you could do it, if you want to see what it’s like to be a principal, give it a go.’

‘You don’t think they’re just offering me up as fodder?’

‘As what?’

‘As fodder. Someone said that they sometimes put women into impossible jobs. That some women get offered up as fodder.’

‘That’s not my experience. I doubt it. But maybe.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Sit with it for a bit. See how it feels. But if you decide to do it, I can’t see someone like you ending up like fodder.’

‘I hope not.’ 

8.

‘Is Mrs Jordan busy?’ asks Benny at the front office. He’s seen Mr Turner talking to some boy, and hopes that this could be a time for telling this thing to Mrs Jordan.

He’s relieved, actually, when the person at the front desk says that Mrs Jordan is in a meeting.

‘Do you want to write a note for her?’

Benny shakes his head vehemently. He doesn’t want to leave a note. He hates writing. He hates what his writing looks like, and he knows that just about everything would be spelled wrongly. He doesn’t get spelling. And anyway, every time he tries to write something, he finds he can’t express himself clearly.

This thing needs to be said. He needs to be clear. Otherwise she might not get what he’s trying to tell her. And it’s really important that she understands.

She will be relieved to know.

She looked so upset in assembly this morning and Benny feels a dreadful weight on his shoulders, a weight that he hopes will lift once he tells her. It’s his duty to say something.

9.

Josh is at home, though school doesn’t finish for another couple of hours. He needed to get away after the grilling from Mr Turner.

His mum is shouting.

‘How fucking dare he! How fucking dare he!’ She’s fumbling with her phone, so wild her hands are shaking. ‘What’s the number Josh? Just read out the fucking number!’

‘What number mum? You haven’t told me who you’re ringing? Are you ringing Mr Turner? The school? Don’t ring the school mum. Just calm down. It’s not so bad.’

‘I’m not having you tarred with your father’s brush Josh. I’m not having it! We’ve struggled with this for years and you’ve turned things around, and this arsehole is not going to get away with it. Just read out the number Josh!’

‘What number mum? Not the school’s?’

‘The school’s. Read out the number Josh, for fuck’s sake!”

10.

‘So Madison, tell me about your art project and why you wanted to chat.’

‘Thanks Mrs Jordan. It’s really OK for me to be here?’

‘You’re doing the girly thing again,’ says Mrs Jordan, and, as soon as she says it, Madison knows what she means. They’ve talked before about some boys’ tendency to occupy space as if it belonged to them, and about the unconscious messages little girls receive about being quiet and compliant. Madison knows that while she sees assumptions being played out clearly in the boys’ behaviour, she sometimes misses them in her own.

‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘It’s OK for me to be here.’

‘So, the art project?’

‘We have to create a photo story, and I’d like to make mine the story of one of your days.’

‘One of my days.’

‘Yes. Not today of course …’

‘Why not today?’

‘Because of what happened. Because it’s not a typical day. I want to do a typical day.’

‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe today wouldn’t be a good day. But perhaps it’s more typical than you imagine.’

‘What do you mean?’

One of the many reasons Madison has wanted to do a photo story on Mrs Jordan, apart from wanting to spend more time with someone she admires so much, is that she’s wanted to discover more about what it’s like to be a woman in charge. Madison noticed, when she and Ellie took charge of the tree project, the way some of the boys both undermined and patronised them. One organised with his father to dig holes one weekend before the committee had made a landscape plan. Another kept taking one or both of them aside to impart unnecessary and often facile advice. Madison is increasingly interested in the way gender politics plays out in the real world, and in the way she might have to negotiate it as an adult. Mrs Jordan is a female role model, and the photo story is great opportunity to learn more from her.

‘Today’s not so atypical,’ says Mrs Jordan. ‘An unexpected challenge or crisis. But it doesn’t completely dominate everything. I still sat with you at recess time. I have conversations with my executive, phone calls from the Directorate, emails to attend to, a budget to organise for the Board Meeting, a parent meeting scheduled for an hour from now and so on.’

‘It sounds exhausting.’

‘It is sometimes. It’s also a job that has its rewards.’

‘You like being a principal?’

‘It has its moments, but, yes, I like being a principal. Often, I love it. It gives me deep satisfactions, and often feelings of joy.’

‘It’s not tough being a female principal?’

‘On the contrary.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘In many ways,’ says Mrs Jordan, ‘I think that being a male principal is the tougher gig.’

‘You really think that? Why?’

The intercom buzzes, and Madison struggles again with the feeling that she’s taking up too much of her principal’s time. Mrs Jordan speaks briefly into the intercom, then returns to their conversation.

‘Why do I think being male is the tougher gig? I’m not sure Madison, and perhaps I’m wrong. I haven’t really thought this one through, it’s more a gut feeling … Maybe it’s something to do with the pressure on males to be seen to be getting things sorted. To be getting on or whatever. I think women … this is a generalisation, probably a gross generalisation, but I think there’s something in it …  I think that women, most women, are a bit better at working with ‘what is’.’

‘What do you mean, ‘better at working with what is’?

‘Men … some men … get fixated on fixing things. Sometimes in a superficial way. They want solutions, fix-its. I think women … some women … are better at taking a step back and waiting for a solution or a direction or a response to come to them. Women, by and large, are better at understanding a complex process, at working with it, letting some things untangle and gently nudging things along. Something like that.’

‘Can you give some examples?’

‘I’m not sure. I’m not entirely convinced that what I’m saying is right. But I’ll give you what I think is an example. One of the teachers came to me earlier in the year distressed that there’d been a spate of stealing from the lockers near his classroom. He wanted me to investigate, to speak to the students, to involve the police even. He wanted a quick solution. I suggested that he use it as an opportunity to explore the issue with his classes. Talk to them. Find out their thoughts and feelings. Ask them for possible ways of responding. We might not catch the thief or stop all stealing, but we might take some little steps towards deepening the culture of the place.’

‘And you think that’s a gendered thing? That a male principal might have taken a different tack?’

‘I really don’t know Madison. Some males. Maybe some females too. Maybe it’s not gender. Maybe it’s just style. But I think there’s a gendered element.’

‘I can think of another example,’ says Madison.

‘Go on.’

‘You’ve been running a thing about mindfulness in the school. Talks, practices, discussion groups, that kind of thing. You’ve talked about it being a part of culture change. Not everyone has bought into it, and there’s some scoffing amongst some of the students. But it’s not like you’re after some perfect solution or outcome. It’s a process. It doesn’t matter that not all the students in our place understand mindfulness, but there are enough of us that do, and there are enough people who are even subliminally enacting it, and as a result the culture is different now from what it was a few years ago, because we all take it in… we all breathe it in … even the ones who don’t know they’re doing it.’

‘That’s nice, it’s nice to hear you …’

But Madison hasn’t finished.

‘And one of the reasons I love this school is that I can be who I want to be and I know now what I am and who I am and it’s about my gender and my sexuality. And that has been such a release for me, it’s changed things, lots of things. You know Mrs Jordan, this weekend I’m going to stay with my aunt. She’s just had a break up of a relationship, a same-sex relationship and I think I’ve got something I can offer her about what she needs. I wouldn’t have done that except for the mindfulness thing. Except for the way the culture of this school has changed.’

11.

Benny is hovering outside Mrs Jordan’s office. He can hear voices inside. She’s busy. But then the voices stop. Maybe the meeting is over? Maybe he can tell her this thing now?

‘Oh hi Benny,’ says Mrs Jordan when she sees him.

‘Hi Mrs Jordan.’

‘Are you OK? You look pale?’

‘Are you busy Mrs Jordan?’

‘Oh Benny, I am at the moment. I’ve just got to pop in and have a chat with Mr Turner. Can you wait? I’ll be half an hour at the most.’

‘I have to go to soccer after school.’

‘First thing tomorrow then? As soon as you get to school? I’ll be in my office.’

‘It’s just that I need to talk to you. After what you said in assembly this morning. There’s something I want to tell you.’

‘Is tomorrow morning OK?’

‘I guess.’

‘Thanks Benny. I really appreciate it. We’ll chat first thing tomorrow.’

12.

There’s a knock on his door. It’s Karen. Matthew isn’t sure he’s ready to talk to her just yet.

‘All done?’ she says.

‘All done.’ He feels drained. He hasn’t moved since Josh’s mum left.

‘And…?’

‘Come and sit down,’ says Matthew. ‘Just give me a minute.’

He takes a sip of water. Then, as Karen sits and waits, Matthew stands and looks out the window.

‘I felt abandoned by you you know,’ he says at last.

‘Abandoned?’

‘Yes, abandoned. It would have helped to have had you in here as support.’

‘I thought this was one for you to handle on your own.’

‘She was out-of-this-world furious.’

‘I know. But you managed.’

Matthew doesn’t respond. He comes away from the window and sits down. A part of him wants Karen to apologise, to say she should have been there for him.

‘So tell me, what happened?’

Matthew takes a big breath and another sip of water. Then he slumps back on his chair.

‘It was touch-and-go for a bit… She came in all guns blazing. Telling me I had no right to cross examine her boy as if he were a criminal. Telling me that Josh wasn’t his father, though I seemed to be going out of my way to push him in that direction. That she’d make my name mud in the community. That Josh was with her the whole time and we could march down to the police station right now and I could make my ridiculous accusations down there. Lots of shouting and swearing.’

‘And you? How did you respond?’

Matthew looks up and smiles wanly.

‘I took a leaf out of your book.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I gave her the floor. I let her have her say. Then I said I was sorry, that she was right, that I’d jumped to conclusions and that I’d apologise to Josh.’

‘Then what?’

‘She seemed thrown off balance a bit. As though she’d loaded her guns and now the enemy had unexpectedly shown the white flag. She muttered a bit, told me it had better not happen again, said he was a good boy and the sooner I saw it, the better for all concerned, then she left.’

‘And Josh.’

‘I rang the home. I’ve talked with him. We’re going to have another chat tomorrow.’

‘Well done Matthew.’

‘Thanks Karen. I felt abandoned, as I said, but I guess in retrospect I’m glad.’

‘You handled it well.’

‘I’ve learnt from the master … or the mistress … or whatever you’re meant to say these days.’

13.

The following day. Before school. Front office. Karen is a little breathless. She wanted to be here when Benny arrived, but the traffic was bad. She sees Josh hovering outside Matthew’s door.

‘Oh hi Josh. You’re here to see Mr Turner, aren’t you?’

‘Yep.’ There’s life in his voice which Karen is pleased to hear. Things have moved on.

‘Things all sorted?’

‘I think so. Mr Turner was good on the phone. And I’ve got my yellow form.’

‘Your leaver’s form? I thought you wanted to stay with us forever?’

Josh smiles. ‘Not quite forever,’ he says.

‘You told me you never wanted to leave school. You told me you couldn’t, that if left to your own devices you end up in jail.’

‘And you told me that I would if that’s what my belief was. That’s what mum said too. So I changed my belief.’

‘That simple eh?’

‘Bit more complicated than that. But I’ve got an apprenticeship lined up I think. I’m going to leave. I’m ready and I’m just going to do it.’

‘Well Josh, that’s wonderful. Really wonderful. I’m so thrilled.’

‘Thanks Mrs J.’

14.

‘Come in Benny. Thanks for coming so early. Sorry about yesterday.’

‘That’s OK.’

‘You had something you wanted to tell me. About what I said in assembly.’

Karen had found herself wondering about what Benny wanted to tell her. She suspected he had some information about the vandalism, some knowledge about who might have done it, though how someone like Benny, such a good and gentle kid, might have heard anything, she couldn’t imagine. Perhaps he’d heard from a sibling. Or overheard something. Benny was such a quiet kid, someone who tended to disappear into the background. Yes, perhaps he’d heard something when no-one realised he was listening.

Karen liked Benny very much. He’d arrived in Year 7 so lacking in confidence, so lacking in basic skills, and school life must have been hell for him. Yet he’d never complained, never rebelled. Just got on with things, soaked up all the help he could get. And the support staff had been great. Slowly Benny had found ways to manage. His parents, Karen knew, were very proud of their only child.

But Karen notices how ill at ease he is at the moment. Like he’s carrying a burden.

‘Are you OK Benny?’ she asks as they sit down in her office.

‘A bit worried actually,’ says Benny.

‘A bit worried? What about?’

‘You know what you were saying in assembly. About the vandalism?’

‘Do you know something Benny? Something that might help?’

‘Yes I know something that might help.’

‘Do you want to tell me?’

‘I really want to tell you … You looked so worried, Mrs J. I was really worried for you. I wondered if there was anything I could do that would make you feel better. Then I realised that there was. I could tell you what happened.’

‘What happened Benny?’

‘What happened was that … well, you know how I don’t do all that good in maths?’

Karen nods. Where is this going?

‘Well I thought it might make you feel better if I told you. I got 75 in my last maths test. I thought it would make you happy.’

Karen’s eyes fill with tears.

‘Mrs J, what’s the matter!’

‘Nothing’s the matter, you lovely boy. Nothing’s the matter. I’m just … I just really happy to hear about your maths test. Really happy. I’m very proud Benny. That’s wonderful. Thank you Benny. You’ve made my day.’

15.

Madison sits at the front of her English class.

She loves English, and not only because its another passion shared with Ellie, who is sitting next to her. She’s loved stories all her life. Her English teacher, Mr Turner, is about to tell one, it seems. He’s sitting on a desk at the front, encouraging students to move closer. Some are sitting on the floor, others have brought their chairs to the front. The atmosphere is cosy. Intimate.

Mr Turner looks more relaxed. For the past day or so, he’s been distracted, only half-present in class. Madison is glad to have the whole of him back.

‘I’ve got an old Persian story I’d like to tell you today. The story is called The Queen’s Journey.’

‘As part of our unit on satire? I don’t get it,’ says Declan, a student sitting near the front. Declan likes things to be ordered, relevant.

‘No Declan. Today we’re having a break from satire. I’m telling you this story because I heard it for the first time yesterday and I haven’t stopped thinking about it. It’s a strange story, and if you’re anything like me, you’ll find it puzzling and yet intriguing. Ready?’

There’s a stillness in the room that Madison loves. Thirty formerly restless hormonal adolescents become a single audience. Even Declan is still.

‘The Queen’s Journey,’ says Mr Turner.

In a land faraway and in a time that is no time, a king and queen rule over a good and prosperous land. It is a good time, a prosperous and peaceful time. The crops are good, the storerooms are full, the rivers flow full and everyone is happy.

One day, though, news comes from the neighbouring country that a wicked, evil heathen lord has come to power. The news is shocking to the king.

Full of indignation, the good king raises an army and marches along a straight road leading directly to the borders of the neighbouring country. But the wicked, evil heathen lord has got wind of his trumpeted approach, and his armies are waiting in hiding in a mountain pass near the border; they swoop down, capture the good king, and take him back to their castle, where he is thrown into the deepest, dankest, darkest dungeon, and is left there to rot.

The queen, of course, is distraught. Day after day and long into every night, she sits by the window in her chamber, fretting about her missing husband and wondering if there’s anything she should do. But what is there to do? She already knows that a rescuing army would have to march through the narrow mountain pass, making an ambush likely. No, that is not the way forward.  And her fretting increases tenfold when a smuggled note from the king arrives. ‘My plight is desperate,’ it says. ‘Time is short! The time for action is now!’

The queen sits by her window, day after day, racking her brains, trying to think of some plan. Her advisers make suggestions, but none of them seem feasible; in her bones, she knows that there must be a way. Day after day she sits there, trying to shut out the rising panic around her.

Then, one evening, just as the sun is setting in the west, she looks out her window. She sees and hears the river that rushes down below, she sees and hears the leaves rustling in the breeze, she sees and hears the birds in the branches and in the sky. She sits watching and listening until all is still and dark outside. And then, suddenly, she knows what she must do.

The queen gets up from her place by the window, and she goes over to an old chest which has sat unopened in a corner for many years. She takes out a lute, which she used to play as a girl, and an old troubadour’s costume. She remembers the time when, before her marriage to the king, she used to secretly disguise herself as a troubadour and sneak out of her father’s castle, to sing unrecognised at local market days.

At first light in the morning, the queen leaves the palace, disguised, by a back entrance, and makes her way down a meandering track to a village nearby. This route takes her no closer to the lands of the wicked, evil, heathen lord, but this does not matter. She has an idea. She sets herself up in a town square, sings a few songs (not so well), and soon a small crowd has gathered. She invites others to sing when she has finished. She is offered food and board for the night.

The next morning, she continues along the dusty track to the next village. This time, she sings a little more confidently, and her fingers move with more familiarity along the frets and strings of her lute. Again she invites others to join in, and she learns some new songs. Someone tells a story. Another talks with her about lute playing. Again she is offered a meal and a roof over her head for the night.

And so she continues, traversing the country, along all the winding village roads, until eventually she reaches the mountain pass between the two countries. By this time her repertoire has grown and her old skills have returned. News of this extraordinary musician and storyteller now precedes her, and she crosses unimpeded into the lands of the wicked, heathen lord. She continues her meandering way through the lands of her enemy, and there she finds that there are crowds waiting for her in the villages and towns that she passes through.

And news of this extraordinary musician reaches the wicked, evil, heathen lord, sitting alone in his castle, bored and despondent, needing a distraction. He sends soldiers to bring this travelling troubadour to his palace. He orders the troubadour to entertain him. The queen gives the performance of her life, and even the cold hard heart of the wicked, evil, heathen lord is touched. There are tears in his eyes. He pleads with the troubadour to join his court. He offers the troubadour gifts and incentives.

But the queen refuses. ‘I must keep travelling,’ she says. Again the wicked, evil, heathen lord offers her gifts. ‘All I wish for,’ she says, ‘is that I may have a companion, a prisoner from your prisons, to accompany me on the road.’

The wish is granted. The queen is taken down into the dungeons, and there, in the deepest, dankest, darkest cell, she sees the king, body emaciated and covered in sores, lying on a bed of filthy rags and straw. The smell is appalling. ‘I’ll take that man,’ she says.

The king is brought back into the fresh air. Physicians tend his wounds, attendants nurse him back to life. After a couple of weeks, he is able to walk again. After a month, he is ready for the road. Still, he does not know the identity of his rescuer.

The two set off, visiting again all the villages and towns, along the same meandering paths and byways. This time, of course, the queen is welcomed and feted. The performances are breathtaking, but always the queen invites others to join in on her songs and to teach her new ones. Always there are stories told.

Almost exactly a year after the queen first set off on her journey, they reach their castle. The queen is still disguised; the king still ignorant.

At the castle gate, the king offers his rescuer gifts and titles. ‘You have saved my life,’ he says. ‘Whatever you wish for that I can grant, will be yours.’ Again queen refuses. ‘Just saving your life and bringing you back here to your castle is reward enough.’ They part.

The queen hurries to the back entrance of the castle. She takes off her disguise and is recognised by the guards at the back gate. She hurries up the back stairs, back to her room, and she throws troubadour cloak and lute into the chest and resumes her seat by the window. And she soon hears the king’s footsteps approaching her room.

The door is flung open and the king stands there, his face red with rage. ‘How dare you!’ he bellows. ‘How dare you sit there, idly, while I languished near to death in a dark and dreadful place! How dare you sit there, doing nothing!’

The queen stands. She goes to the chest and produces the costume and the lute. The king sees. The king understands.

King and queen embrace. The king and queen embrace for a long, long time.

Indeed, if the truth be told, the king and the queen are still locked in that embrace.

There is a silence in the classroom. Students look puzzled. Mr Turner was right, Madison thinks. The story was kind of weird. Intriguing.

‘Good story, Mr T,’ she says to him as she leaves. ‘Where did you hear that one?’

‘I heard it for the first time yesterday Madison. Mrs Jordan told it to me.’

16.

Madison goes to the library. She’s going to be late for maths, but she needs a moment on her own.

Mrs Jordan told Mr Turner the story? Weird. She wonders why.

The story of the queen’s journey.

Could it also, she wonders, be Mrs Jordan’s story? The story of a female Principal?

Perhaps, she thinks, she could base her photo story around the structure of the story? Crisis, reflection, a complex, meandering journey full of feeling and learning, the softening of hard hearts, a resolution and reunion? Would that work? Is that what Mrs Jordan’s work is like?

Maybe.

She thinks she’ll give it a try.