I still remember those mornings, long ago, when I, Daniel Whitaker, nearly slept through my duties at the school. The thought of leaving my snug little nest, of pulling back the warm duvet, filled me with dread. I curled up under the blanket, head tucked in, and waited like a child for the alarm to sound. Perhaps, deep down, I imagined my mother in the kitchen, the scent of raisinladen scones or chicken patties drifting toward me, and that she would soon call me down for breakfast.
Even though I had just turned thirtyfive that year, the feeling was the same. Who among us does not sometimes wish to be the pampered child of a loving mother, cherished and coddled? That day, however, the alarm betrayed me and stayed silent.
Helen, my wife, had long since risen. She was bustling about, gathering our son Sam for kindergarten and our little daughter Lily for the nursery.
Why didnt you wake me? I asked, my tone edged with hurt, the usual kiss at the door replaced by a sharp question.
You have an alarm, dont you? she replied. Didnt it go off? You always get up with it. I thought perhaps your teaching timetable had changed, so I kept the house quiet, not to disturb you.
I dressed in a hurry, declined the breakfast she offered, claiming there was no time and I was already late. All your fault, dear, I muttered. As Helen shut the door behind me, I heard her whisper to herself, He always does thissleeps through, and Im left feeling guilty. We havent spoken hearttoheart in months; weve drifted apart. Something must change. I never imagined this life when we first fell in love. He used to be so caring, so lively. What went wrong?
I turned to her, Did you say something?
She smiled, flicked a kiss at the door and said, Nothing, love. Just dont be late. Miss Hopewell wont forgive you. See you later, Daniel! She waved with only the corners of her lips, as if her smile were a ribbon in the wind.
I lingered at the bus stop for a few minutes, glancing anxiously at my watch, sighing heavily. If I miss the lesson, the headmaster will have my hide, and the deputy, Mrs. Margaret Hughes, will pour oil on the fire, I thought, pacing from foot to foot. The street was damp and cold; solitary snowflakes drifted, twirling lazily before falling to the ground, while in my mind the grey pictures of the day remained unchanged.
My stomach growled, begging for a simple cup of tea and a hastily sliced sandwich, but the real trial was different: I began to hear the thoughts of those around me, whispering into my ears as if they had slipped through some unseen crack. Fragments of curses, complaints, even occasional profanity floated from the strangers sharing the shelter. I tried to look down at the pavement, at the graceful little flakes ending their brief, seemingly pointless dance. Were they performing a perfect pirouette, a daring leap, a graceful tumble? It mattered little; I could not fathom their mindgames.
The torrent of foreign thoughts left me feeling as though I were drowning in a murky ditch. I wondered, halfmad, whether everyone could read thoughts, whether I were ill, whether this was some contagious malady that could be cured by simply closing my eyes. Nothing changed; the hateful murmurs persisted, a haunting that would not cease.
At last the first trolleybus of the day appeared. The crowd stirred, eager for seats. An unassuming old woman, swathed in a motheaten green shawl and a dated coat, nudged me sharply. I turned to her and caught a glimpse of her inner monologue: These halfbaked intellectuals scuttle about! Theyre good for nothing but sweeping streets while teaching our children nonsense. They should first look at themselves in the mirror! A fool like this makes me want to hug and weep, then squeeze until he stops reading smart books.
Excuse me? I asked.
She replied, I said nothing, young man, and slipped into the bus without a word.
Desperately, I wedged my way to the front, pressing my back against the icy doors. I had no money for a private cab, so I relied on the crowded public transport, where commuterswrapped in coats as thick as the morning foghurried to their urgent affairs, as if the city itself demanded their swift passage.
On the step beside me stood Anna, a bright pupil from Year Ten, class B.
Good morning, Mr. Whitaker! she chirped, almost missing me in her rush.
Morning, Anna, I answered, averting my gaze to avoid the flood of her thoughts. She imagined me a tall, handsome, blueeyed gentleman, the sort of teacher one might fall for, lamenting Mrs. Hughes petty changes to the curriculum.
She declared, Well be on time for physics, wont we? and leapt off the bus as it pulled away.
At the school gates, I was met by a woman I recognized as Olga Anderson, mother of my pupil Vlad. Vlad had been absent for weeks, laid low with a badly set ankle fracture.
Good morning, Mr. Whitaker. Im afraid Ill need you to give Vlad some extra physics lessons, perhaps at my home or via Zoom, she said, eyes glistening. It wont be free, of course.
In her mind she fretted about the costnothing left after the operation bills, a looming sum for mathematics lessons with Mrs. Hughes, and a desperate plan to clean the flats for extra cash.
I answered, No money needed, Olga. Ill send Vlad a Zoom link this evening, and well sort out his algebra and geometry together. Hell be walking on his own soon enough.
She burst into tears, offering me a heavy bag of homegrown apples as thanks. I lifted the bag, the rosy apples smiling back at me, and felt my heart lift; kindness, Ive learned, brings its own richness.
Inside the school hall I greeted Mrs. Margaret Hughes. Though I tried not to listen, her thoughts pierced me: That insolent boy! Ill give him a life of constant schedule changes. Hell stay low, earn crumbs, never riseuntil his wife leaves him, then Ill have my revenge.
I entered my classroom, fifteen minutes before the lesson, and discovered a packed lunch box left by Helen, complete with a thermos of steaming coffee. A small miracle indeed.
During the break, Sophie from Year Eight slipped into the room, avoiding my eyes. What do you want, Sophie? I asked. She thought, If I flout Mrs. Hughes, Ill get a good mark, but I must keep my distance. The sudden surge of her mind made me dart out, colliding with Mrs. Hughes at the doorway. These theatrics could keep me jobless, I muttered to myself.
After the third period, my university friend Tom called, offering a position at a private academy where he served as headmaster. I promised to ponder it and arranged a meeting with Helen over tea. That very afternoon, my bank account swelled with my salaryenough to feel truly prosperous. Yet I realized that wealth was not measured in pounds or gems, but in a loving wife, cheeky children, and a generous heart.
As I closed the school doors, a stray snowball struck my head. I brushed it aside, stepped out, and thought of reconciling with Helen. If only I could silence these stray thoughts; today they proved oddly useful, I mused while buying a bunch of white chrysanthemums from a vendor at the station, paying with a few coins. I no longer eavesdropped on her mind.
I walked home, feeling the wind chase me like a playful sprite. Helen waited, her smile bright as sunrise, her hair a loose strand escaping its pin. I gently brushed it back, kissed the curl, and inhaled the scent of home and hearth. Above us, the snowflakes twirled in graceful loops, their tiny white wings perhaps the very thing that had mended the rift between Helen and meif only we would let them glide.
