Village teacher

Island Story
I came back to the island to teach primary school kids. It was a good job for me, a chance to come home for at least 18 months and a placement deserving bonus points from the department of education. Four weeks into term now and I had most things under control – the children weren’t polite but they gathered around me when needed and most did a fair job with books that felt heavy but lacked anything relevant to life on the islands. To be honest, I didn’t get them to open the books for anything longer than a moment. Ever since I was a little kid, I could keep people interested in me through plain words that made sense to them.
There was a young guy, Paul, waiting for me outside the gate. He’d give the children a ride home in his van but he was really there for me. We hadn’t spoken much in the weeks I’d been on the island but we’d been better than mates in the past.

“Kick of those shoes”, Paul glanced away as quickly as I met his gaze.
I just laughed a little, ”my feet are soft – too many years in teacher’s college”.
“Thirsty? I cut down a coconut, cooled it in the icebox at the servo.
“What?”, he handed me a cooler, Bacardi rum & fruit juice. I looked up at him and smiled nervously – I didn’t expect him to be anything but straightforward. I opened it and sipped. Paul’s mouth expanded into a spectacular grin, perfect white teeth and a handsome face. He signaled with his right arm and pulled out into traffic. I let him question me about this and that while he drove the old island road to the lagoon where kids swim after school
He didn’t bother parking the van, just sopped away from the road, jumped out and threw up the metal veneer at the back. I walked around to meet him putting the drink down for a bit.
“gonna swim?”
“Nahtomorrow maybe”
And so, we spent time together in the afternoons till early evening when I had to return to lesson plans and a some marking.

I witnessed the sunrise most mornings. My piece of sandy garden was scratching patch for a neighbor’s rooster. Frequently I heard him before the sunlight. He got the time it took me to boil water for hot tea but once I felt Fully awake, I usually stamped my foot at the bird, dancing like a fool, chasing it away.
It was my habit to settle down at the laminated kitchen table and flick through one of the ancient Cleo magazines scavenged from the local doctor’s surgery. I ate sweet biscuits and switched on the fan. The routine helped me define my own space in the early morning.

I folded the top right corner back and closed the magazine.
“Where’s my planner”, I exhaled and collected all the words into a sigh.
From then on, I must have switched onto automatic; I can’t remember anything till arriving at the main road, checking the traffic.
It was a delicious tropical morning. A hot sticky day perfumed with scents of tropical fruit growing wild next to the road. A mango tree had sprung up near the bamboo thickets I encountered as a girl walking this same path many years ago; green fruit, Still not ready for harvesting but fully formed and interesting to touch.
I jumped back a little when I noticed a metal wheelbarrow next to my skirt – much to close for comfort. I must have looked frightened when I saw Pete parked right next to me. Apparently, this young disabled guy had come to greet me.
“Hey Pete, how are ya” I tried to sound adult but casual.
Pete bobbed his head down and arranged some trash in his barrow.
“How’s your Mum mate?” I reassured myself by bringing his mother into the conversation.
“Mum’s good”. He waved his arms like a puppet and looked wildly around.
I didn’t say much for a minute but plucked an immature fruit and examined it deliberately.
Pete busied himself and waved away some insects. “It’s from outer space mate!” I eyed him dramatically. It’s an alien!” Memories of a shared childhood came back as I kidded him about the oddly shaped mango in my hand, and my prattle soothed me and pushed my alarm to nothing.
Pete looked at me steady for a minute, “Nah! Nah, it’s not Tracey!” That’s not an alien, that’s a Gumby poo!!!! I laughed a little too loudly and Pete launched into his own psycho drama. I suddenly relised what a strange world we lived in: separate realities under the same tropical sun.

Pete was a scavenger, we all were years ago, combing the beach for shells and trash/treasure. There was a little shop at the beginning of the village that sold interesting things. Pete went in there every day to see if his latest haul was worth anything. I was one of Pete’s ‘best mates’ so I smiled and swirled my hands around in the collection of beach treasures. Surprisingly, something caught my eye: a heavy crucifix carved out of beach wood.

“Where did you get this one mate”,
“bye bye bunny”, Pete cackled hysterically.
I had to think for a minute. Then it struck me.
“Oh no! Peter [family name] you devil! Did you do what I think you did?”
Mmy own face lit up with theatrical shock.
“Yep, sure did! Bye, bye bunny hop” he trembled with nervous energy.
I’d guessed that Pete had pulled one of the grave markers from the cemetery. It wasn’t unusual for people to bury their pets somewhere close to the church ground. Apparently, Pete knew of somebody placing the remains of a pet rabbit somewhere nearby.
I began to chide him some more but I halted not using the breath for anything except my play on shocked surprise.
“You’re a devil Pete”
“Yep!”
We left it there. I placed the cross back in his barrow with exaggerated reverence and winked at him as I moved towards the church.
There was already a happy group near the wooden doors and others tramping through the entrance. I stopped to catch one of my pupils and give him a hug. His mates weren’t too young to tease him for it. Nothing changed much, it was the same for me and my friends when we went to school in the church hall.