Every Life Matters: Because We Are All Connected

By Rachel Forster

In inner-city London, life is lived between the extremes. Young, talented and naive, Rebecca Freeman is all set to thrive in her third year as a teacher in Purposefield Primary School, determined to make a difference to the lives of the young children, who face so many difficulties at home. But tragic events take their toll on her own life, and a crisis in West Africa where she grew up brings back haunting memories from her childhood. In the modern high-pressure world of teaching there is no room for weakness, and struggling to keep up with the demands of her work, she soon finds herself in conflict with the new ambitious Headteacher of Purposefield Primary School, Jeremy Goodfellow, who seems determined to make her life a misery. Can she turn things around and succeed as a teacher, or is there a voice calling her to use her talents and energy for something new?

"Every Life Matters" deals with multiple challenging themes, including workplace bullying, the difficulties faced by teachers in inner-city schools, family loss and the demands of adapting to a different culture. Be absorbed as you explore the emotional and colourful world painted by Rachel's vivid descriptive writing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Sep 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781512753585

Rachel Forster

Born in Belfast, Rachel moved to a remote village in West Africa in 1982 when she was three months old. She spent her childhood living between England, Northern Ireland and Africa. She is a qualified teacher and spent 5 years teaching in several London schools, all of which were in multicultural areas and brought their own challenges. Her writing has drawn heavily upon these diverse life experiences, and offers a fascinating insight into the worlds that she has known. Every Life Matters is her first book.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Treat Your Workers Fairly!

O nly a week into the new school year, Rebecca had already realised that not only did she have the most difficult class in the school, but it was also the most difficult class she had ever been given to teach.

"Oh well, another battle to fight and win," she said to herself through gritted teeth as she gazed up at the large, brightly-coloured sign emblazoned across the main notice board in her classroom.

Treat your workers fairly! the sign screamed at her. It was a real work of art. She had even taken out her paint set to do it and the thick, swirling brush strokes showed her passion in a way that no neat printed title could ever do. She was desperate to reach this new set of kids; determined to inspire them and give them lessons they could remember through life.

Compared to the kids she had it easy. At the end of the day she could escape the streets with their crumbling walls, graffiti and litter-strewn gardens where urban foxes tore open rubbish bags looking for food.

If only that stubborn heaviness in her chest that greeted her each morning would go away! It constantly reminded her of the dreadful time she had had at her last school; which was when the feeling had quietly slipped into her chest and begun to grow.

She fought with it. Whatever anyone else said she knew she could be a good teacher. And she wanted to be one by the end of the year. Was there an alternative? Go back home and waste her life in mediocre nothingness? The very thought made her shudder.

Rebecca heard the sound of high heels approaching in the long corridor outside her classroom. A few seconds later Letitia, the deputy head teacher of Purposefield Primary School, peered into the dark little classroom. Her thinly penciled eyebrows shot skyward as her eyes fixed on Rebecca’s display and then traveled up to the crowded folders full of teacher’s notes that were about to topple off the top of a cupboard.

Rebecca cringed inwardly. I know, Letitia, she said, It’s a fire hazard. I’m going to clear that out this afternoon.

I didn’t say anything, Letitia countered, pulling out her makeup case and opening a new tube of designer lipstick that Rebecca strongly suspected had recently been tested on rats in cages. Like it? she asked. It’s a present from my new boyfriend. She pulled out a compact mirror and started applying the scarlet to her full lips.

Rebecca found herself staring longingly at the doorway. Letitia didn’t notice. Here, she said, tapping a green eye shadow with a red nail. "You should try this. It would really bring out those cat-like eyes of yours. And have you ever thought about straightening your hair? Now, it’s not long until the new Head is appointed, so you have until then to clear up that mess." She swiveled her hips and leaned back on her stiletto heel as she gestured dramatically at the shelves of dog-eared folders.

Rebecca cleared her throat. Any idea when they will be interviewing for the Head’s position? she wondered aloud. The previous Head teacher had retired two terms ago. Although the staff had appreciated the more relaxed atmosphere, it was surely time for a replacement.

That’s not for me to decide. But I know the governors will make sure the best candidate gets the first spot. If the first one who comes is good enough, they can make excuses for sending the others away.

Really?

Well, all’s fair in love and war. We need someone in quickly. Letitia pulled out her mobile phone. I’ve got a date tonight. I was supposed to meet him twenty minutes ago. He will wonder what’s happened to me. When he sees these new shoes I’m sure he’ll think it was worth his wait. With that she tossed her platinum blonde hair and swayed confidently out of the room.

With her territory safely under her control again, Rebecca slid back on to her desk, sweeping last year’s winning project from Art Week to one side and brushing the dust from her black pencil skirt. She waved her hand in the air to remove the synthetic perfume fumes from her departing visitor and slipped on some organic lip balm. She thought back to the day Letitia had rung her to offer her this teaching position. They had been in the same teacher-training course and although Rebecca was grateful to be rescued from a school that was on the brink of failing, she had some reservations, remembering how heavily Letitia had depended on her for resources and ideas during teaching practice.

Letitia had chosen a great school for her first teaching post, though. Through a combination of a timely opening at a school that nobody wanted to manage and Letitia’s skill at managing people, she became deputy head at the age of twenty-six.

Suddenly, Rebecca’s phone rang. Her heart leaped to hear her husband’s deep Northern accent on the end of the line. Hi gorgeous, he said. I’m just sitting on a desk at work – no, no not the broken one, don’t worry. So, what are you up to?

The journey homewards took Rebecca all the way from her school near Kings Cross station to Bank Underground station and then via the elevated Docklands Light Railway to Westferry station. On the way she enjoyed a stunning panorama of the London skyline against a gentle Autumnal evening sky. The architects had recently taken to building individual buildings in striking shapes never seen before. She enjoyed the sheen of light off the green structure shaped like a gherkin and admired the tall Walkie-Talkie building, which was concave and brought light to a point that had melted cars which had the misfortune to park in the wrong place.

Alighting at Westferry station, Rebecca wove her way through pressing hordes of immaculately dressed commuters, down the grey steps of the Docklands Light Railway station and into the chill evening air. She silently threaded a path down the wide main street, catching glimpses of her red coat reflected in the gleaming windows of the many massive bank headquarters. The dark crimson wool overcoat and grey wide-brimmed hat stood out against the clean pale background of Canary Wharf. However they were smart enough not to be out of place, she decided. Having grown up as the daughter of missionaries in a remote outpost in Liberia, whether she fitted in was something she considered often, but it was among the imposing buildings and neatly dressed workers of Canary Wharf that she was most keenly aware it was a wonder that she was there at all.

After living somewhere with no hospital, electricity or running water, could she navigate such a complex environment that, for good or ill, influenced places around the world? But where better than London? Where better than a city where someone from nearly every nation on earth lived, and she could enjoy exploring without sticking out like a sore thumb?

When she reached Adam’s office, she stopped briefly at the imposing building, before turning right into a side street. Surprised at how quiet the normally bustling street was, she checked her watch. Five minutes to six. Most of the city workers must already be packed into the Underground trains for their commutes home. However it was early for eating in London and the restaurant should be fairly empty.

The first thing Rebecca saw as she pushed open the polished glass door of the restaurant was Adam. He was already sitting in front of a polished chrome table, surveying his surroundings, briefcase by his side. It was a large, open, stylish room. They had first met here and perhaps the setting had highlighted Adam’s intelligent expression and the sophistication which had first attracted her. Now they were there together again, not far from the flat with small kitchen, bedroom and bathroom that they had bought in nearby Limehouse and would decorate once she had overcome the guilt of how much it would cost to do it in this country.

Adam stood up to greet her and kissed her face softly, before taking her coat, which he carefully brushed down. Rebecca noticed for the first time that her coat sleeve was stained with a thin layer of dust from her journey. Not only that, but her arms and legs were heavy, which made every movement an effort. Adam must have seen it already. Take a rest, he said as she looked into his dark brown eyes. If you don’t put your own oxygen mask on, no one will survive.

Rebecca didn’t really understand what he meant by putting on her oxygen mask, but she enjoyed his tall, confident presence and the smell of the sea from the soap he used. It was the same scent that she had enjoyed as they spent hours together, walking through the streets of Oxford in their early days as students. He had taken her to see the Bridge of Sighs, which was built over a road. In return, she had taken him to an art gallery where he had said her long hair was gorgeous and that she looked like one of the girls in the pre-Raphaelite paintings.

The waiter came to take their order and, eyes shining, Adam told her about new plans afoot to create a helter-skelter down near the Olympic Park and about a multi-million pound deal his company was negotiating with one of their clients. Meanwhile Rebecca shared her plans. That evening she would go shopping, on the Internet and buy An Exhausted Teacher’s Guide to Surviving Life, the World and Everything Year Nine Can Throw at You, as well as perhaps a readymade display for one of the many one-by-two metre display boards she was responsible for decorating.

***

The previous evening had been good. Rebecca was motivated and ready to start the day. She finished her habitual morning brief with Thalia, her longsuffering Teaching Assistant with the words, I want them to feel that they are amazing. To know that who they are is an amazing creation.

Thalia was clearly unimpressed with her piece of rhetoric: as Rebecca went to open the main door to the playground to let her class of infant children in she noticed her assistant slowly shaking her head from out of the corner of her eye. Perhaps she didn’t quite appreciate Rebecca’s attempts to be a mother to so many children who had come through her doors with bruises, beltings, poor diets and broken families.

The infants in Class Two crowded into the school corridor, yawning and looking dazed. Rebecca bent down to greet each one. She didn’t blame them for not being in top form: their problems kept her awake at night if she didn’t write them down. Not only that, but they had been woken early in order to come through an entrance surrounded by iron bars, in order to stand and wait with two hundred other children in the huge square grey playground, in front of a huge, drab 1970s building, fronted by a Victorian façade. Although they had managed to acquire a small school field, the environment of the school, which was within walking distance of Kings Cross station, was not one of its selling points, so they had to do their best with what was inside. But it must be a shock to the system, Rebecca thought, to come from the drab environment outside into a piping hot building with long corridors that were so easy to get lost in, and then to end up in a small square classroom that was packed like a colourful bulging piñata from wall to ceiling: with shelves crammed with colourful boxes of toys; trays; a book corner that had been decorated to look like a jungle; a sink; sand tray; multiple tables; a carpet area; a computer; whiteboard; big books; art materials; a role play area and teacher resources.

Hang your coats up, children! Rebecca ordered. The children went to their coat pegs and obediently hung up their coats, with only five or six children dropping them on the floor, along with assorted jumpers.

Tim was grinning, returning the model of the football that he had constructed using the hexagons in the class’s construction kit during ‘Golden Time,’ where each Friday the children could do what they wanted. Rebecca took the ball and turned it over in her hands. How could a five-year-old make a model like that with no help?

Look, this is how I joined it, he said, gazing up at her with big blue eyes that seemed too innocent for his spiky blonde hair and black non-regulation trainers. Daddy said it’s all about the connections.

Morning, Nesha! Rebecca called. A sweet girl, Nesha had crept in unobtrusively as they were talking and was already in her favourite chair, busy drawing on a mini whiteboard. Rebecca had made a special effort to watch out for Nesha as her previous teacher had described her as ‘very quiet.’ She walked over and sat beside her to look at her drawing. It was of a thin girl with dark skin, large brown eyes, glasses and a pink headband. She had been listening when they had talked about drawing self-portraits and had added plenty of detail.

Rebecca looked up. Children were flooding into the classroom now. Six of them were now standing around Rebecca, jostling to see what she was doing. Finally Sasha, who was dropped off late every morning, ran through the door, grabbing Rebecca from behind in a big bear hug, and crowing a loud greeting in her ear that was as cheerful as the neon bobbles in her dark braids.

Rebecca jumped to her feet to show everyone that their teacher, Mrs Freeman, was there! Right everyone, to the carpet, please. It’s time to start learning! Thalia began reluctantly stapling the final piece of chocolate wrapping to the display on the main wall of the brightly coloured classroom.

Now, class, said Rebecca in a low, dramatic tone to the children sitting in front of her. "The Deputy came in here yesterday, and guess what she was wondering?" Whispers started around the edges of the class. Rebecca held up her hand for silence.

She was wondering why there was a big sign that said ‘Treat your workers fairly!’

I was wondering that too, said Thalia, who had come to stand on the edge of the carpet, casting shadow over the children, who stared at her ankles that protruded from her too short trousers.

Well, it’s all to do with making sure that everyone is treated well, and that if they work they don’t have to work too long and that they get enough money to eat so they don’t get sick.

Thalia sneezed.

Tim was a small boy with big blue eyes and a missing front tooth as he had reached that age where teeth frequently went missing. Why is Miss stapling chocolate wrappers to the wall? he asked.

Rebecca had the answer to that one. It’s all because of the work we were doing the other day to find out where things are made. Do you remember we found out where our chocolate came from?

I know! Sainsbury’s! Tim guessed. Or Tesco.

No, piped up Sasha, the heart of the class. I think she means what country it was made in. I had one that was made in Ivory Coast.

Oh yeah, Tim said, looking at Sasha hopefully. Sasha had a penchant for giving out cuddles to classmates and Tim didn’t get many cuddles at home.

Speaking of jumpers, I’ve got some jumpers here that people left behind last year. Does anyone know who they belong to? Thalia interrupted, loudly enough to make the class jump. Any item of lost property caused Thalia enough perturbation to cause her to interrupt the class at any opportunity in order to find its rightful owner.

Not willing to be deterred from the learning objective of where things were made, Rebecca took charge before all the children started to discuss whose jumper was missing and where it was last seen. Right! she exclaimed with enthusiasm. "I think what Miss is saying is that we must look after our jumpers mustn’t we? Do you know that someone worked hard so your jumper could be made? While we work out whose jumper is whose, have a look at the label in your jumper… no, don’t take it off – we won’t know whose is whose!