Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

   Andrew sat confined in his desk.  He was rather tall for his eight years and furniture the school deemed appropriate for that age was too small.  But it was not the desk that surrounded and imprisoned him, it was the Voice of his teacher - Mrs Carter.  A strong, clear Voice with each word exquisitely pronounced and propelled from her mouth by a jetting undercurrent of malice and sarcasm.  Gradually this undercurrent gathered strength and, at irregular intervals, burst forth to shatter a victim.  As the Voice ricocheted around the room no child could guess its final destination.  Rarely did it land on Andrew, but this immunity had been purchased at a high price - a frantic and intense concentration on his work.  During school hours his life was narrowed to one vital aim - pleasing Mrs Carter.

   On that bright Wednesday afternoon in early March the impossible took place, as it did every day - the magic time of half past three appeared like a calm shore rising out of a stormy sea.  Andrew was edging his way stiffly with the others to the classroom door when the Voice rang out, charged with its full quota of sarcasm:
‘Andrew, your behaviour is impeccable.  I think, children, we should make a collection to buy him a halo, don’t you?  I’m sure our little saint would like to stay behind for ten minutes to tidy the book cupboard’.

   Most of the children tittered;  they could not afford to miss any opportunity of gaining favour.  Andrew had been moving to safety. He was unprepared for attack.  He felt he was all shock, that nothing more of him existed, but his mind ticked on registering what he already half-knew - Mrs Carter despised him for not hitting back, for his ‘lack of spirit’.

   Twenty minutes later Andrew walked through the school gates.  Usually this moment was a passport to another world.  He was transformed into his ‘out of school’ personality;  he rejoiced and slid back into his real life.  But today the pain of Mrs Carter’s words was just beginning to melt the numbness that had protected him while he tidied the books.  He started towards home.  The school stood on the outskirts of the village and the road was little used.  He had only gone a short distance when he stopped and looked back.  There, as usual, stood the black Austin seven belonging to Mrs Carter, always parked on the same spot.  His eyes then fixed on something further along the kerb, as though they were showing him what they had already noted, nudging him along a line of action.  Now he saw several pieces of broken glass where a bottle had been smashed leaving pointed,  jagged splinters.  Andrew did nothing for a few minutes;  then he walked to the glass, bent down, picked up the sharpest pieces and placed them under the left front tyre of Mrs Carter’s Austin seven.  He then continued on his way.

   The evening passed as usual.  After tea he listened to the wireless and welcomed his father’s return from work, then his mother read him a story and, finally, he went to bed.  His mother kissed him and turned out the light.  He lay in darkness. Since the ‘glass under tyre’ episode he seemed to be floating in a thin, rarefied atmosphere at some distance from other people.  It was not in itself an unpleasant sensation but he sensed that it was temporary, a lull before the storm.  Indeed it was.  No sooner had he shut his eyes than what felt like a small explosion took place in his mind and the fantasy he had been holding at bay burst out:  there was Mrs Carter’s Austin seven moving steadily.  Suddenly, with a huge bang, a tyre burst.  The car spun and turned over;  he could see the wheels glinting  in the sun. Somebody was lying in the road.  Relentlessly, the fantasy insisted he approach and look more closely at Mrs Carter’s dead and upturned face.

   On Thursday morning Andrew was wakened with some difficulty by his mother.  He had been immersed in a deep, comforting dream.    As, by stages, he returned to consciousness and daylight the horror that had beset him the night before surged back, wrenching him from the fragile safety of sleep.  He remembered that he was a murderer.

   He dressed, ate his breakfast, kissed his mother goodbye and walked to school.  It was another shining, breezy day and already on the banks a few brilliant celandines had opened.  Andrew longed to crawl into a rabbit hole and hide in the darkness.  As he approached the school he noticed the broken glass was no longer by the road.  He played with other children until the bell rang and felt almost certain he looked and sounded as usual.  Only he knew that he was now, for always, an outsider. They trooped into the classroom and there, behind the teacher’s desk, stood not Mrs Carter,  but Miss Saunders - the ‘sewing lady’ who was usually part-time.  She looked friendly.  She smiled and said:

   ‘Mrs Carter will not be coming today, so I shall be with you instead’.
  
   Andrew thought he already knew Mrs Carter was dead, that he was already in despair, but as he listened to Miss Saunders’ voice he realised a chink of hope had remained, a chink that her words had closed.

   It was a day of relaxed good cheer for Mrs Carter’s class. Miss Saunders was kind, and they all, except Andrew, basked in their good fortune.

   That evening Andrew felt he could bear his guilt and isolation no longer - he must tell his mother what had happened.  But his mother chatted on in her usual fashion about the day’s events.  The gulf between his dreadful confession and her apparently normal, rather serene life was far too vast for him to bridge.  There was no murderer in his mother’s circle of friends. His voice would not form the necessary words.

   Slowly, Friday slid into place.  Miss Saunders took the class again.  Neither she nor Andrew’s classmates mentioned Mrs Carter and the silent wall that surrounded him grew stronger and stronger. Towards the end of the afternoon he was assaulted by terrible thoughts, sharp as spears.  Had the police inspected the damaged car? Where had the glass gone? The worst thought suddenly arrived - his fingerprints must be on the broken bottle. The police would test it. They might be at his home waiting for him.  Each new thought produced a spurt of panic until he felt shrivelled with terror.

   At half past three he ran home.  He rushed into the kitchen; no police. His mother, as usual at this time, was making him a cup of tea.

   ‘Hello’, she said.  ‘Had a good day?’

   This was routine.  Andrew did not speak but his mother’s voice went on:

   ‘I met Susan’s mother this morning. She told me Mrs Carter’s been away with a bad cold.   She’ll be back after the weekend’.

   His mother continued, beginning to sound a bit put out:

   ‘Susan had told her mother that Mrs Carter was away. I wish you would sometimes tell me about the little goings-on at school’.