|
NEW AUTHORS SHOWCASE
|
|
6M p3 |
|
Would you like an apple, Sir? (A teacher’s tale of forbidden fruit) by Alan Bentley |
|
Synopsis Inspired by real-life experiences, Would you like an apple, Sir? tells the predominantly jocular yet at times controversial tale of Alan Bentley, a highly enthusiastic but sexually naïve modern language teacher working in post-sixteen education. Spanning a decade (1992-2002), it provides a revealing factual and psychological insight into Bentley’s private as well as professional life as he strives to match his passion for teaching with passion beyond the classroom walls. Only, love always seems to elude him. Following a string of comical romantic failures and in the light of mounting doubts about his appeal to the opposite sex, the protagonist finds himself innocently daydreaming of idyllic future romance with one of the new female students in his charge. Little does he realise, however, that he himself is the subject of student fantasies and that, with his self-esteem in need of a fillip, his conscience and professionalism are to be severely tested. But there is a high price to pay for any teacher guilty of human fallibility, as Bentley is to discover. By raising the sensitive ethical issue of teacher-student (and ex-student) romance, the book challenges traditional stereotypical views on teachers and asks whether the quest for true love can justifiably override moral and professional obligations, let alone conquer the age gap.
Prologue
The long and dare I say punishing autumn term of 2001 has finally drawn to a close and here I am, Billy No-mates, attempting to chill out in a busy night club on a Friday night. With Michelle, my girlfriend of five months back in Australia following the expiry of her work permit and my regular drinking partners all engaged in pre-Christmas celebrations with their other halves, I had little choice but to stay in in front of the telly or venture out alone. But I’m not particularly bothered. Given the prospect of a three-week break from the customary term-time frenzy, the mood of this thirty six year-old teacher on this rather gloomy, rain-soaked December evening is, in spite of everything, unequivocally cheerful. “Time to get in another beer,” I decide and head towards the nearest bar, tip-toeing my way around the jubilant party-goers strutting their stuff on the dance floor. My progress, however, is suddenly and rather rudely checked by a hefty shove from behind, which sends me almost cartwheeling into an innocent couple in the midst of a passionate embrace. I spin round instinctively in anticipation of an apology (we’re in posh Surrey, after all), but realise at once that this won’t be forthcoming. The face glaring down at me from the broad six-foot plus frame belongs to Scott Dixon, a former student from Mardall’s, the local Sixth Form College where I taught modern languages for five years. Well over a year has elapsed since he first unleashed a ferocious assault on my reputation, yet I could hardly forget the vehemence of those initial words: “Fuck off, Bentley - everyone knows you got sacked for shagging students!” Or something along those lines. Harsh enough, anyway. Okay, I’ll admit that my departure from the College back in ‘97 was shrouded in controversy, yet I remember wondering at the time of his outburst what Dixon could possibly have uncovered that would provoke such a dramatic reaction so many years down the line. And here he is again. They say that things always happen in threes and, rather bizarrely, it was only the other week that a tipsy female ex-student approached me at Yates’s Bar and asked if there was any truth in the rumour that I was dismissed from Mardall’s for sexual misconduct. And then a day or two later another, this time at Bar Med, accused me of sleeping with an eighteen year-old whilst she was still at the College. “She was stunning and it was common knowledge she fancied the pants off you,” the latter insisted. “Come on, be honest - no bloke in his right mind would’ve resisted her!” As if this wasn’t enough, I’ve just spent a large part of the last term at loggerheads with the Principal of my current College who seems determined to blight my career in the light of two formal written warnings issued last summer. One of these came on the back of an accusation of sexual harassment delivered by a female student who’d pursued me for over a year! “Piss off, Bentley, we don’t want you anywhere near us, you fucking arsehole!” Dixon’s angry words bring me back from my self-pitying reverie. As I straighten myself it soon becomes clear that he’s accompanied by an unfamiliar group of mates and, judging by the hostile expression on their faces, they’re not exactly overjoyed to see me either. The serene ‘teacher voice’ in my head urges me to summon up that unflappable veneer honed to perfection during twelve years in the classroom, but on this occasion it eludes me. Not surprisingly, I suppose, the pent up frustrations and feelings of injustice of recent times have taken their toll. After all, I‘m only human, aren’t I - not just a teacher, an android devoid of all emotion? “I’m not going anywhere, Scott. If you’ve got a problem with me then you can pis…, you can get lost yourself!” I retort, struggling to contain my fury. The words have scarcely left my mouth when the most intimidating-looking member of the gang takes a step closer and places his shaven skull about three inches from my uneasy glare. “Listen perv, just do as ya fucking told or ya gonna get ‘urt!” he threatens. Teacher bullied by ex-students in Opportunity Knox night club - I can see the headline in the weekly rag. Great, just what I need right now! I stand my ground, motionless, bracing myself for a seemingly inevitable onslaught of vindictive blows. Surely it’ll only be a matter of seconds. At this point a young woman I don’t recognise emerges from the gathering crowd and parks herself between me and the lads, cupping my head in her hands as if I were a disobedient child about to be admonished. “Don’t be stupid, just walk away!” she pleads. “I’d hate to see you get hurt.” Her concern is appreciated, of course, but I’m a proud man and backtracking now simply doesn’t enter into the equation. I dig in my heels. As she removes her clammy palms from my cheeks, I steal an anxious look around me and can’t fail to catch the anticipation, almost excitement, on the faces of those nearby who’ve abandoned the dance floor in search of something potentially more thrilling. “We could easily be in the school playground now,” I reflect, my heart rate rising by the second. There’s a tense, pregnant pause followed by exchanged glances between the lads, shrugged shoulders and, finally … a retreat. “Phew - that was a close one!“ I sigh, the tension ebbing rapidly from every sinew. Whether they’ve decided that I’m just not worth the aggravation or the heavy presence of bouncers has forced them to adjourn is hard to say. Whatever the case, it looks like I’ve got off lightly … on this occasion. Realistically, though, will I ever be able to guarantee my safety if I risk further lone ventures into town? My sense of relief soon gives way to one of sadness and bewilderment as the numerous alcoholic concoctions that follow start to take effect. It’s a long, reflective walk home interrupted by frequent about-turns to ensure there’s no one in hot pursuit, pearls of rain streaming down my cheeks. Or are they tears? My teaching career has without doubt provided me with more magical moments than I could ever have believed possible when I first braved the classroom back in ‘89. But now it seems that the respect I’ve enjoyed for so many years from those who came into contact with me in a professional capacity is gradually being eroded. Safely back in the sanctuary of my one-bed bachelor pad, yet blatantly the worse for wear, I sit disgruntled on the lounge floor with over a decade’s worth of diaries spread out in front of me. I flip through page after page - days, weeks, months and then years, trying desperately to figure out whether I have, after all, been responsible for my own demise. Has my quest for true love allowed my professional and private lives to become too closely entangled or have I simply been a victim of unfortunate circumstances? I’ll let you be the judge of that … |
