Starting Over

By L F Roth

Embark on a transformative journey through the hallowed halls of an English boarding school in the enchanting year of 1966. In Starting Over, a captivating tale unfolds as we are introduced to a diverse cast of characters who, against the backdrop of their extraordinary work with children who possess unique abilities, navigate their own intricacies and conflicts.

Amidst the corridors that echo with the dreams and challenges of the young minds they nurture, these remarkable individuals find solace and strength in their shared vulnerability. Their distinctive needs intertwine, creating a tapestry of complex relationships, unexpected alliances, and profound personal growth.

As the story unfurls, the characters are confronted with the inevitable winds of change, sweeping away the familiar to make room for new beginnings. Through trials and triumphs, they discover the resilience of the human spirit and the extraordinary power of embracing the unknown.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jan 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9781398437210

L F Roth

While Starting Over is a work of fiction, L F Roth did actually work in residential childcare in England during the period depicted in the novel. Eventually, he returned to his native country of Sweden, where, after many jobs of shorter duration, he ended up a lecturer in American literature.

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About the Author

While Starting Over is a work of fiction, L F Roth did actually work in residential childcare in England during the period depicted in the novel. Eventually, he returned to his native country of Sweden, where, after many jobs of shorter duration, he ended up a lecturer in American literature.

Dedication

For Hazel, David, Malcolm and Les

Copyright Information ©

L F Roth 2024

The right of L F Roth to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398437203 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398437210 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.co.uk

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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Before

An aerial view would suggest that Greendell, rather than merely a boarding school, is a village. The landscape is pastoral. There is a country lane. There is the requisite number of buildings, neither too large, nor too small. There is a village hall. The lane, in this instance, branches off from the main road, but finding nowhere to go forms a loop, returning to its starting point. Within that loop, next to the hall, there is a pond.

At ground level, in the early evening light, the pond is all surface. The reeds that edge the far side balance precariously, supported by their reflections. The oily lily pads give the impression of being painted on, some awkwardly, an inch or two above the water. A pair of mallards, drake and duck, decorate the silvery oval in the middle distance. The picture is idyllic.

And so the boy who steps into the foreground – thick-limbed, a shock of straw-coloured hair, ears at a cruel angle – is pitifully out of place. Rusticity can go too far. He could at least have made himself a little less conspicuous, carrying a fishing rod, say, held at a slant. But there is none. Nor does he stop to contemplate the scene, striking some pose that would complete the composition; he doesn’t stop at all. Heel first, his left foot hits the water. The mallards make a half run towards the reeds. Another splash and any sign of pastoral is gone.

Unsteadily at first – for even though the water isn’t deep, the mud pulls at his shoes, slowing him down – the boy begins to wade. His trouser legs soon billow with the air they enclose; the slits of his pockets flap like gills. He twists his body forward, making full use of elbows, shoulders, hips. Lily pads bob and dip and struggle to resurface in his wake. He pushes on.

It is only when he gets to the dead centre of the pond, waist-deep, that the boy stops and turns around to face the side from which he came. And there he waits.

Spring

1

‘I see you’ve left a blank here.’

The pen has paused in its brisk journey down the form to mark the oversight.

‘Sir?’

‘Religion. What should it be? C of E?’

David resents the casual tone. At one time, and not so long ago, he would have put down atheist, in capitals, having devoted many a critical hour of his adolescence to searching the Bible, not in the hope of uncovering the ins and outs of begetting, like some of his classmates, but to furnish himself with arguments against belief. He had hugged the barren fig tree in Matthew, elated to see it wither away. Christ the compassionate shepherd! More recently he would have called himself an agnostic, proud of his open-mindedness. To be assigned, mechanically, a place in the fold as if the question concerned shopping – Where do you do yours? C&A? – is almost demeaning. Briefly, he considers inquiring about options, bonuses. What would you recommend? Any bargains? Green Shield stamps? But that wouldn’t go down well. He hesitates.

‘No. Not that. None, in fact. Nothing along those lines, I mean.’

The man behind the desk looks up. His horn-rimmed glasses catch the light from the window. Even mid-morning, the January sun is low.

‘Along what lines?’

The glare is irritating. David shifts in his seat, letting his eyes rest on the back of an old picture frame. A photograph, presumably – the loving wife, gracing the office with her presence, preserved in a stance captured years ago, desirable. He blinks, obliterating the rear view of Mrs Watkins to confront her husband.

‘What the Church stands for. I don’t believe in it.’ NEW SHOCKING REVELATIONS, he thinks. ‘I WAS A TEENAGE ATHEIST.’ He rubs out the headline.

‘I see,’ says Watkins, noncommittally. ‘You’re not…There’s no denomination that…’ He tilts his head sideways, invitingly, bouncing the light across the desk. His eyes are a pale blue.

‘No, sir.’

‘No…sect?’

‘No.’

‘Hmm. I’ll make it a dash, shall I? For the sake of completeness.’

David accepts the dash – negation and dismissal both. A quick stroke, neat and precise, and the issue is settled. ‘It’s a sheer formality, I assume.’

‘Quite.’ The pen, held upside down, taps on the sheet. ‘These are standard forms. We’ve had no cause to revise them.’ Watkins pauses. ‘And there are times when we need the information.’ He peers at David.

David sees Watkins, binder in hand, beside a dying man. There is the wail of a siren, all too distant. The man is failing fast. Frantically, Watkins riffles through a set of forms, intent on establishing his faith. A crowd has gathered; there is a confusion of cassocks and hats, skullcaps, dog collars. The tension is mounting. Suddenly a ray of light falls on one of the forms. A whisper goes from man to man. A black figure detaches itself from the crowd, stepping into the light. There is faint music on the soundtrack; it rises to a jubilant crescendo, as he kneels by the dying man.

‘In relation to days off, for instance.’

Cut.

‘One couldn’t expect an orthodox Jew to break the Sabbath.’ Watkins smiles. ‘Not that we have any here. Like the children, our staff are mostly Church of England.’

David discharges the cast.

Watkins modifies his statement. ‘Well, not altogether. Many of our domestics come from Spain or Italy. Devout Catholics, as a rule. And a number of our child-care staff are Irish. From the Republic. So we make minor concessions, you could say. They don’t take the children to church, for instance. But by and large their beliefs make little difference.’ There is a companionable flash. ‘We’d certainly have fish on the menu anyway from time to time, so why not on a Friday.’

The question must be rhetorical, but all of a sudden, Watkins seems unsure. ‘I trust that isn’t a point you feel strongly about?’ The glare is back in his glasses.

‘When to eat fish, sir?’

‘No, no. Taking the children to church. Would you object?’

‘And stay there?’

‘Well, yes. They have to be supervised.’

It has been a few years since David last set foot in a church, a mocker at the time, forced to comply with family traditions and celebrate, so wrongly, the birth of Christ at Christmas, his death and resurrection as determined by the moon. Since he left home, there has been no call for him to demonstrate his unbelief. Is this an instance where he should? On principle? His eyes go back to the picture frame. The top corners are scuffed, marked by hands that may have been unduly rough or overly affectionate. He wavers.

‘It wouldn’t be with any great enthusiasm.’

‘Oh, no one would insist on that.’

‘I’d be miles away.’

‘Most people are,’ says Watkins. ‘But I doubt that you’d get very far. The children would keep you from wandering.’

‘Nailed to the cross.’

‘On your toes, rather.’ Watkins adjusts his glasses. ‘Well, they aren’t a bad lot. They’re bound to test you, to see where you draw the line. They do with all new staff. But there are no real troublemakers on Oak House. Mr Thorne won’t put up with any nonsense.’

David hasn’t met Thorne yet, so he has to take Watkins’s word for it.

‘Excellent.’ The smoke-blue curlicues in Watkins’s paisley tie are no match for his eyes. ‘I’m sure you won’t find it dreary.’ He turns the form over before David has fully registered that an agreement has been reached. ‘Well, that should be it.’ The pen speeds down the page, right, left, past education, previous employment, pausing for each, a token stop to signal that the two entries have been noted, along with the references David had supplied. ‘No, there’s nothing else.’ He straightens, collects some papers from a tray at the side of the picture frame. ‘I’ve got your terms of appointment here – two copies, one for you, one for our files. If you just sign them, I’ll have your contract ready in a few days.’

Two items on the stencilled sheet stand out, completed in typescript: ‘Title of post’ and ‘Pay’. The rest are slightly blurred: ‘Termination of appointment’, ‘Absence’, ‘Sick pay’, ‘Holidays’, ‘Medical examination’, ‘Superannuation’, ‘Retiring age’, each finely regulated except for the last entry, an unembellished sixty-five. A bleak prospect. The words from ‘My Generation’ come in a splutter, automatically. David increases the volume – songs by The Who should be played loud – signs, signs again, on the dotted line.

Watkins hands him his copy, having added his own signature. ‘Is there anything you’d like to ask about?’

There is, as both of them must be aware.

‘No, sir.’

‘Fine.’ Watkins gets up. ‘Next you should go over to the bursar’s office. He’ll be expecting you.’

Watkins’s handshake is firm. So near, his eyes have turned a deeper blue.

‘I hope you’ll enjoy working here, Mr Caldwell.’

David returns his smile. ‘I’m sure I will, sir,’ he says.

The door clicks shut behind him, the polite lie no more than a faint echo in his mind.

2

A passing mood, that is all it is. Watkins, seated at his desk, takes off his glasses, rubs his temples. He will get over it, he is sure, wiser for the experience. He will.

It is disheartening, for all that: these days, each time he tries to project himself into the future, it is a diminished, shrunken self he sees, trapped in a linear perspective, work piling up, death closing in. He gazes out of the window. The sun has moved on; the sky is curiously drained of colour. January is truly the thirteenth month.

He scowls at the absurdity of the thought. No one but a fool would fall back on bad luck, a crutch for the crotchety, when juggling the whys and wherefores of his plight – denying, in effect, responsibility. That has never been his way. He has invariably prided himself on planning ahead, weighing pros and cons, listing consequences. In his book, man is accountable, outcomes foreseeable. If he is downhearted, it has nothing to do with bad luck.

It has to do with January, nonetheless.

January is the cruellest month.

A hazy memory sets him searching for a tune, silently humming the phrase. January is the cruellest month, the cruellest month, the cruellest month. He stumbles on the words. My fair lady. The rhythm is all wrong. January.

That wasn’t the case in the past. A new year used to hold the same magic as a new exercise book at school, inviting him to prove his mastery, the gold stars in his teacher’s keeping twinkling, waiting to be affixed. Impatient to be back in the office, he would sit out the last days of the Christmas break with Tricia and Elaine, peeling oranges, cracking nuts, musing over board games – and producing, occasionally, the tiny notepad, pencil attached, that he had learned to carry in his shirt pocket at all times, should he have a sudden brainwave although he wasn’t focusing directly on a problem. Williams on Juniper? Gardner on Pine? A tick for each. At night, he would transfer the pad to his bedside table. His tasks presented a challenge that he confronted with something like exhilaration, keen, self-assured, competent.

Watkins’s hand goes to his pocket, but all the gesture brings forth is the sound of Elaine’s voice, drowsy, pulling at him from behind, reeling him in off the bedroom floor.

‘What on earth are you doing, Frank?’

‘Oh, nothing, dear. Go back to sleep.’

He sees himself retreat, tortoise-like, the pencil and pad lost in the dark, as if he had been engaged in a series of nocturnal push-ups.

‘You were halfway out of bed.’

‘I had an idea.’

‘Yes?’

‘In connection with work.’

‘Oh. Work.’

Her tone released him at the time and does again. Keen. Competent.

He is no less competent today, he tells himself. Over the years, he has become increasingly professional, instituting procedures where there had been no set rules and gradually tightening routines. It has led to additional paperwork, it is true, but also to much greater efficiency – an accomplishment in itself. He is good at what he is doing.

In spite of that, it is getting harder to start up after a break – and January is not unique. April is likewise trying, as is September. In most jobs, people readjust to their situation every twelve months, after their annual holiday; for him, given the set-up, it is a repeat performance where, to his dismay, everything takes longer than it used to, not because he is slower but because he is alive to all the pitfalls. Appointing the wrong housemother, promoting the wrong deputy, can cause no end of complications – this he has learned from the many mistakes he has inherited. And to make the right decision requires careful preparation. To bring a pile of papers home at night has become habitual. Elaine no longer objects: she, too, is older. One has to accommodate oneself to change.

There is a knock at the door. Watkins puts his glasses back on and clears a space in front of him: it will be Mrs Brownlee with his coffee.

‘Lovely morning, isn’t it? I’ll put it here, shall I?’

Her voice could command children, husbands, nature: rise and shine.

‘Thank you, Mrs Brownlee.’ He should feel invigorated.

‘Mind and drink it while it’s hot.’

‘I will.’

An elusive scent lingers after she is gone, singularly at odds with her briskness. Jasmine? He’s not acquainted with any other perfume than Chanel No. 5, which Elaine used to like: his customary birthday gift, extravagant initially, in the light of his pay, enticingly forbidding, sensual. He stopped buying it after Tricia was born – why has slipped his mind. Would he recognise it after all this time?

He stirs his coffee, takes a cautious sip.

The promise of a scent.

Not that their relationship was ever that intense. He had been inept and Elaine inhibited, expert at deflecting his advances, generally before they had built up enough momentum to qualify as such – her defence, in or out of bed, a perfunctory kiss, executed on the turn, a library book or an oven glove at the ready. Watkins smiles wryly. A perfunctory kiss. Unfamiliar with the word at – thirteen? fourteen? – he had put down the magazine where it had caught his eye, his mind running away with his body, grasping at what he took to be a sure token of the existence of casual sex. She gave him a perfunctory kiss. He should have had a wider vocabulary at that age. Elaine has always been more literate; over the years, she has practised the perfunctory kiss to perfection.

But he shouldn’t put the full blame on Elaine. If one is to believe Tricia, their entire generation suffers from hang-ups about sex – about everything, for that matter. Tricia can be rather harsh in her judgment. Poor Tricia. Like so many young people, she is tangled up in a love-hate relationship with herself and he hasn’t been much help. Only of late has he grasped that daughters, much like sons, rebel. Freud had said so, assuredly, but that was in his usual distorted manner. Anyway, Tricia gives his theories the lie, impartial as she is in her antipathies, which include him and Elaine to the same degree. Is that a new development? Giving old Freud the slip? Watkins studies the picture of Tricia and Sherbet, but it yields no information on that score. In it, Tricia is her loving self, smiling into the camera. There is nothing there to foreshadow the grievances she is so keen to air when she comes home for the odd weekend.

In part, it is probably their own fault that she is so obnoxious. They shouldn’t have encouraged her to go to college. It would have been better if she had got a job; she would have been able to support herself until she got married and not had to depend on them, as she does, up to a point. It’s not surprising that she asserts herself so contentiously, professing to hold views that are calculated to upset them. They shouldn’t take her criticism personally. At heart she is no radical.

Watkins sips at his coffee. Made with boiled milk, it takes time for it to cool to the right temperature. He puts the cup down. They will simply have to be patient – harder for him than for Elaine, who is much better at ignoring the girl’s taunts. What they are seeing is the protest of the privileged, a wave sweeping through schools and colleges and influencing Tricia along with everyone else. Teenagers are so conscious of each other, so afraid to stand out, and Tricia, he takes it, is intent on remaining a teenager, both in appearance and outlook, if not in actual years. In due course, she will grow out of it. Really, group pressure is a terrible thing. Paradoxically, having made it their business not to conform, that is precisely what they end up doing: protesting, being provocative, has become the new order of the day.

Caldwell, it is plain to see, is cast in the same mould. Cagey about his religious beliefs, making a point of remonstrating, however ineffectually, refusing to be placed in any category, that is exactly what he does himself with his jeans and his hairstyle. David Caldwell, rebel, if you please. Anti-Establishment on principle, by virtue of his age. Moving his cup to the side, Watkins picks up the application form. Yes. He and Tricia were born less than a year apart. Art college and subsequently a brief spell at a hospital. Instead of ward orderly, he could have been office boy or dishwasher. He could have been all three: there is plenty of room for more entries. In its present state, the form appears sadly incomplete, the life it sums up vulnerable. But the lack of notations may