Imprisoned by Love Read online

  Imprisoned

  by Love

  C. S. Brahams

  The novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

  This book is dedicated to the individuals suffering from dementia and their close family members affected by this cruel and unyielding illness.

  The author would also like to express her gratitude to her parents, her husband and her daughter, for their support.

  Inspired by King Lear

  “Who is it that can tell me who I am?”

  “O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven

  Keep me in temper: I would not be mad!”

  “I am a very foolish fond old man,

  Fourscore and upward, not an hour more or less;

  And, to deal plainly,

  I fear I am not in my perfect mind.”

  And a special note of appreciation to Iris Murdoch, a writer of great worth, robbed of her greatest skill. In her own words:

  “We live in a fantasy world, a world of illusion.

  The great task in life is to find reality.”

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 The End of the Long Hot Summer

  Chapter 2 The Vortex

  Chapter 3 Half-Term

  Chapter 4 Back to School

  Chapter 5 The Grim Reaper

  Chapter 6 November

  Chapter 7 Telling the Twins

  Chapter 8 Fran

  Chapter 9 The Festive Season

  Chapter 10 Christmas Eve and Christmas Day

  Chapter 11 The White Christmas

  Chapter 12 Boxing Day

  Chapter 13 New Year’s Eve

  Chapter 14 Back to School

  Chapter 15 January and the Spring Term

  Chapter 16 The Twins (Fran and Freddie’s)

  Chapter 17 Friends Reunited

  Chapter 18 A Juggling Act

  Chapter 19 The 11 Plus

  Chapter 20 Missing

  Chapter 21 Found

  Chapter 22 The Conversation

  Chapter 23 The Interviews

  Chapter 24 Burning the Midnight Oil

  Chapter 25 Greenbank Care Home

  Chapter 26 Agency Staff

  Chapter 27 Social Pariahs

  Chapter 28 Half-Term

  Chapter 29 Bloody Sunday

  Chapter 30 Intervention

  Chapter 31 The Truce

  Chapter 32 Voyeurism

  Chapter 33 No News is Good News

  Chapter 34 Night Nurse

  Chapter 35 My Temperance Level

  Chapter 36 Spring Forward

  Chapter 37 The Cruise

  Chapter 38 360 Degrees

  The Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  The End of the Long Hot Summer

  It is extraordinary how quickly a summer holiday can pass without incident or argument. It has been blissful. Nine days in Croatia, basking in the intense heat, cooling ourselves off in the tranquil water. Michael, the twins and I, are celebrating our last summer together before they go off on their gap year to Australia and we return to work effectively as dinkys: double income no kids yet. Except that we have kids. Expensive ones. We made rash promises when they started the Upper Sixth: straight A grades and you can have £1000 each. Straight A* and you can have £2000 each. We underestimated our own children. But we are so proud of them. Neither Olivia nor Eddie ever imagined doing this well. They have deferred their entry to Exeter and Warwick universities and are now con­sidering Oxbridge. I hope this is all that they have to worry about. I don’t know whether to encourage or discourage this. It’s easier to advise other people’s children.

  Eddie is the spitting image of his dad, only thinner. He is well over six foot now; quite muscular and tans effortlessly. Michael, who was much the same when I met him at Durham University, is still an attractive man. He is forty-nine and hasn’t let himself go, too much. His dark hair and blue eyes have been passed onto our son. I’m disappointed that he has given up on his contact lenses: too much of a faff, apparently. He wore them for twenty years, but now he struggles to use them. I only wear sunglasses. But I know that as I approach fifty, things are going to change.

  We are treating the twins, and ourselves, to a last minute, all-inclusive stay at The Sun Gardens Hotel, Dubrovnik. Technically, it’s not located in the old city; it is too hot and too crowded there, so we are relieved to be on the coast. Neither Michael nor I like crowds whilst we’re on holiday; we have enough of London’s urban buzz to contend with on a day-to-day basis. It’s idyllic here. The twins have never stayed in a five-star hotel before and I suspect it will be many years until any of us do so again. It is a far cry from our spontaneous forms of travel. I have spent so much time in the water, racing the twins and losing, that I am wrinkled; if this is a taste of what’s to come, I don’t know if I want to be that old. It’s Michael’s turn now. He’s an outstanding swimmer. If anyone were in diffi­culty in the water, he would be the person who could save you. Despite working ludicrous hours, he has always been there for both our children, never favouring one over the other. I watch him now, peering over my Kindle, and smile as he pretends to be a shark, just as he did when they were five. He is less inhib­ited than I am. I find it endearing.

  In the evening, we sit in a beautiful little restaurant, over­looking the sea, clinking our glasses with our grown-up children. Olivia looks like I used to: petite with long, straight fair hair and green eyes. She has little freckles that are allowed to dance on her pretty little face whilst we’re on holiday; at home, they’re hidden beneath a thin layer of face powder. I take my mobile out and ask the waiter to cap­ture our happy, perfect family. I feel blessed. I know I am. I instantly send it via WhatsApp to our “immediate family group” which includes all of us. Everyone laughs and mocks me for being efficient on holiday as well as at work. I can’t really help it. I’m enjoying the freedom Croatia has given us. We aren’t rushing in the mornings or berating each other for the most trivial things. We are happy. And it’s lovely. It’s all a bit too good to be true. I pinch myself. I’m lucky to have Michael in my life. Lucky to have my twins. Sometimes we need a little unhappiness to know when we are happy.

  It is slightly different when we are at home in London. Michael’s work is relentless. He toils away for long hours. He hasn’t slept well for years, particularly the last two, and I fear that he will have a heart attack unless he slows down. The twins and I work in six-week cycles; that’s schools for you. He doesn’t. I want him to work less. Slow down. Reduce his hours. He has been a little absent-minded lately; I put this down to exhaustion and stress. Unlike me, Michael spends hours in front of three screens, analysing data and liaising with high net-worth clients. I spend my day with adoles­cents. He’s an actuary and I’m a Senior Teacher; this means he earns more money than I do though I am a member of the Senior Management Team (SMT). I take a cursory look around the hotel complex, hoping that I don’t see one of my colleagues or pupils here.

  Our nine days have nearly expired. I can feel the weight of the journey and my return to school, sitting on my shoulders like the proverbial albatross. I don’t like flying and I fear most forms of public transport. I’m dreading going home but I’m dreading the end of our holiday more. I know that my job will fill me with distractions – many good ones at that – but it won’t be the same without the twins. The house will feel empty. And Michael will be back at the office where only his colleagues and clients will benefit from his quiet charm and sharp intellect; it’s all spent by the time h
e comes home.

  Michael can almost read my mind. He puts his large and caring hand over my shoulder to reassure me. He squeezes my shoulder to the point that it hurts a little; he’s unaware of his strength. Olivia and Eddie wander off to talk to other teenagers. They are confident and polite. I’m proud of the way we have brought them up. But they are still naïve. It is natural to worry about one’s children but I have an irratio­nal fear that our perfect foursome will be shattered. I need to practise what I preach: cut the umbilical cord; let them fly into the distance. And the day before I return to my school, they will be flying to Australia for their well-earned gap year. I can’t quite get my head around this. Both of them. Together.

  September’s Inservice Training

  The twins left for Sydney yesterday; it was both tearful and joyful. We all cried. I won’t relax until they’re back in London, of course, whereas Michael will focus on his work, or me. He won’t worry the way I will. I can derive some comfort from the second leg of their trip, when they’re in Melbourne, as they will be meeting up with cousins. I remind Olivia and Eddie to look after each other. I don’t need to do this as they’ve always been close. Although I know that I am going to miss them, it is strangely liberating for me. Eighteen years is a long time to be around children 24/7.

  So here I am, back at work. It’s as if the summer never happened.

  It is neither money nor ambition that makes me sit in my twenty-fifth INSET day since I qualified as a teacher of English. Teaching is a vocation. I’m not sure that I still have it though – I will tell you at the end of this academic year – but my twenty-fifth INSET anniversary has been a surpris­ingly enjoyable one. It’s hard not to be cynical. I have sixteen years left before I retire, that’s if cancer doesn’t get me first. Don’t be alarmed. I don’t’ have the big C, insofar as I know, it’s just the way we teachers talk. We are all counting down until our retirement, even those of us who love what we do. I started my countdown at twenty-two.

  “If you’re going to fail, fail fast; that’s what they say in business.” We don’t say it here. Failure isn’t an option. Not for the pupils; not for the teachers and certainly not for me. Our ethos currently follows the Dodo: “Everyone has won and all must have prizes.” We even have a prize for the member of staff who has completed the most covers; that’s super­vising other people’s lessons, not preparing complex plates of carrots cooked three ways in Gordon Ramsey’s restau­rants! Last year’s prize was a £25 Amazon voucher. Michael wouldn’t roll out of bed for £250. We live in different worlds.

  I am the Deputy Head of an allegedly “outstanding school” in Central London. I am partly responsible for our ethos: success breeds success. It was slightly borne out of the marketing campaign focusing on “Education” dating back to Tony Blair’s reign as Prime Minister: “No one ever forgets a good teacher. Could you inspire young minds?” It was a memora­ble advertisement. But very few of us were taken in by this romanticised vision of teaching whilst throwing back the popcorn in our local cinemas. Back in the late 1990s, I was working in the state sector. We welcomed the attention. But we still felt underpaid, undervalued and overwhelmed. We caught pupils mimicking the advertisement in their breaks, changing the pithy tag line to: No one ever forgets a bad teacher. Could you inspire young criminals?”

  As any practising teacher knows, the INSET day is both heaven and hell. The bells ring every forty-minutes. This is followed by a contented silence pervading the corridors. The staircases aren’t littered with boisterous teenagers and even the new school café is spotless. Heaven. But hell is only twen­ty-four hours away and we all know it’s coming. The relent­less stream of challenging pupils; the unyielding battle with the demanding parents and the continuous supply of regur­gitated essays replete with the standard excuses – barely changing year-on-year. Why teach? I wouldn’t do anything else. I told you. It’s a vocation. It is utterly and totally envel­oping. I do try to see my friends but usually we catch up in the holidays; that’s how it is for me.

  Today, however, is my turn to listen. Take a backseat for about an hour. I should just make the most of it. Jack Baldwin is leading the INSET. He’s in my department and techni­cally he is the number two. The second in command. The General’s Lieutenant. And he’s smug with it. Jack is prac­tically an albino; wears expensive tailored suits; well-pol­ished shoes and looks more like a Bond villain than a Bond Street teacher. Jack is unashamedly ambitious. The first PowerPoint slide is up: TRANSGENDER ISSUES (& IN OUR SCHOOL). This immediately takes me by surprise as he was scheduled to speak about preparing for our “forth­coming inspection.” We have been preparing for it since the last one. I don’t recall receiving an email about the switch.

  Jack is the only person wearing a suit today. We dress down for each other and up for the pupils. The pupils dress down for their parents and up for their teachers. We live in an up and down sort of world. I notice a small coffee stain on his otherwise pristine double white cuff. The PowerPoint is pre­scriptive. We “learn” about gender dysmorphia and transi­tioning, mainly. There’s also a slide about Mermaids, a char­ity that “supports young people with gender variance”. Jack has clearly done his homework. There are plenty of statistics. The penultimate slide is a picture of a unisex toilet. There’s a quick straw poll to see if we think our school should have one. Our disabled toilet is already unisex. The vote is an overwhelming “no” mainly because it would result in re-al­locating an existing staff loo – already much in demand – and assigning it to the pupils. We all consume far too much caffeine to be this politically correct. Besides, there’s noth­ing unisex about peeing into a beaker when you’re desperate to relieve yourself.

  The session ends a bit abruptly as the Principal wants to cut-in. Two of our pupils – both girls – are now identifying as “young men”. I already know this because I receive most of the same emails as the Principal. Joanna is to be known as Jeremy (seems an odd choice in the light of Corbyn’s unpop­ularity at the moment) and Chloe is to be known as Kris with a K. I find this bizarre. He could at least keep the same initial. Both pupils are entering the Lower Sixth this year. Jeremy will be in my A Level English set. Kris has chosen three sci­ences in addition to maths. There’s also a boy called Jake, who is in Year 9, whose is “gender fluid”. We have been told to use the pronoun “they” as much as possible. As a teacher of English, I find this a bit annoying.

  The bell rings and we ignore it; it’s the only day that we can. The Principal, whom we all affectionately call Principal Peter, is still up on the podium. He is an imposing figure­head. I’m wondering whether he is 6 foot 6 or 6 foot 7; this is about 1 meter and 98 centimetres, for those of you that are the same age as my children. Peter is much taller than the door frame against which he is leaning. He is wearing dark blue jeans and a red and white checked shirt. He looks like an American cowboy even though his native country is Canada. He spends his life correcting people. His deep transatlantic voice is in sync with his manly appearance. I find him quite attractive though not as good looking as Michael. He regales us with stories about the plethora of positive meetings he has had over the holidays; the much-awaited and now state-of-the-art STEM lab that has been financed by our “generous sponsors” and best of all, we offi­cially have “a waiting list of desirable pupils”. This is amaz­ing. We are, quite frankly, not an “outstanding” school at all. We celebrate middle-class mediocrity. For the first time in the school’s twenty-five-year history, we are oversub­scribed. I have been tasked with analysing our data for the past three years. Apparently, I need to produce a spreadsheet and present this at the next Governors’ meeting which I’m told is imminent. I’m not really the right person to do this. I am appalling at statistics. I take everything home and my brilliant actuary of a husband, Michael, does it all for me though lately he has complained that it’s become too much of a chore. I am grateful. I offer to iron shirts but I don’t think this is the reward he was hoping for…

  The morning comes to
a close. I don’t have time to sit with my colleagues. I have a long “to do” list and everything is either “urgent” or “important”. I miss my old job as the Head of Sixth Form, a position I loved. My office is no longer on the top floor – the Penthouse – it’s on the ground floor, two doors down from the Principal’s. It is also next to the room with the photo-copier in it; this is both a plus and a minus. I put a sign on the door saying “Room 101”.

  After lunch, the staff are allocated two hours to make their form-rooms look “inspiring”. Fortunately, I don’t have one this year. The other teachers are running around earnestly, relieved that they’re not tasked with analysing spreadsheets. I open up the one that Michael had prepared for me in the holidays, and save it on the SMT drive. It looks all right but I haven’t had time to check it. I prop my door open with the elaborate iron doorstop (which I bought from a second-hand shop in Islington) and head down to the staff room to make another mug of tea. I sniff the milk that has been left out on the draining board; it already smells, so I venture out to the Sainsbury’s Local to buy another one. I like fresh air. Besides, once the students are back, I won’t have a spare minute.

  At 3 pm I have a meeting with all my tutees; there are ten of them this year. At 4 pm I have to attend the English Departmental meeting; this is led by Harry, the HOD. He’s an old Harrovian. We’re the largest department in the school and rather female-dominated. Harry finds this difficult but he “manages” us quite well. He is embarrassed that the number 1 and number 2 in the department are both for­ty-something men. The other members, except for me, are all in their late twenties and early thirties. I am grateful that I am not the HOD. I hated that position. Just because you like books, doesn’t mean you want to run a department. The admin is horrendous. All those acronyms and syllabi; they’re enough to make any do-gooder misread the almost invisible asterisk; this is the evil little marker that denotes a play or a novel coming off the syllabus in January as opposed to June.