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He backs away. “And it’s good to see how fast you’re learning.”
I am learning. I had to after test results some people might see as disappointing. I’ll take having to make minor, if permanent, adaptations to my lifestyle over the other option. I’m lucky compared to so many other people, and I’m lucky I get to share what I love with these children, so you better believe I’ll pace myself for them too.
Which is why I pay attention right now, like I did last night on Stefan and Marc’s pretty headland where the moonlight was bright enough to see my own hands shaking. It was a signal to stop preparing for Rae’s visit. To rest, and to take it easy instead of going hell for leather like my days were numbered. But my slower pace today doesn’t mean I’m not teaching, so I go ahead and give these interview candidates a demonstration. I use a football to do that, and the moment I spin it on a steady finger, I have all their attention.
I also have Asa’s.
He still moves, only now I’m the centre of his orbit as I show him how the world doesn’t only turn through each day, it gradually tilts through seasons as well, like a sunflower seeking brightness. “In springtime, our part of the world tilts closer to the sun. What are the trees covered in now, Asa?”
“New leaves!”
“And what do those new leaves need to keep growing?” I tap my lips like I’ve seen Charles doing to indicate he is thinking, and Asa goes still for the first time this morning. He also has an answer for me.
“Leaves need light!” He looks up and points. “From the sun.” He spins again, but more slowly, which is his way of showing me he’s still thinking.
One of those prospective trainee teachers must notice the difference. He asks why light is needed and is enthusiastic about Asa’s answer. “Wow! You already know about photosynthesis. How does it work here?”
He listens to everything Asa has learned in this woodland, nodding along with his descriptions of chlorophyll and green leaves, and his enthusiasm about veins and roots and water. From oxygen to carbon dioxide and the atmosphere that surrounds us, Asa knows these woods and others like it are the lungs of the planet. He’s soaked up this learning for months and can now communicate it. Building on it is his next stage, and this smart teacher-to-be borrows my football to do it.
He rolls it to Asa. “What else spins like our planet does around the sun?”
I don’t mind giving up my throne for someone who tells a story and who uses actions to involve all the children. He demonstrates like Teo does at the football club we now run together, and this potential candidate can’t be much older than him. He also reminds me of Rae, because some people are born storytellers like him, and this candidate? He’s got the same energy that sparks question after question.
Pretty soon, a solar system spins in this clearing where children play at being planets as Luke arrives to collect his interviewees.
He stands to one side with me first and quietly asks, “How did they do?”
I look around at my busy children. All the adults with them are engrossed now despite their early mutters. “They seem fine. But that one…” I tilt my head towards the new sun Asa orbits. “He’s a natural teacher.”
“Who? Isaac? Oh, he isn’t here for a teaching spot. He applied for the school librarian vacancy. Bit of a risk. He hasn’t finished his degree yet.” He glances my way. “I made the wrong pick once already. I’m looking for an experienced librarian really, not someone unqualified. What do you think?”
He’s asking me to help make a team selection. To pick who stays on the bench or who will get a shot here, and who the fuck would have ever guessed I’d get to do that?
My throat is still thick when Luke leads them all away, the clearing emptying, although my work isn’t over. But pacing myself is my new thing, so I take a long break until the evening before I leave the school in my Land Rover and head to the farm to pick up from where I left off last night.
Sheep scatter when I park near the headland. One follows me on a walk with a stunning sunset backdrop and bleats as if it agrees with the statement I practise making.
“This can’t go on, Rae.”
This is what I need to tell him tomorrow based on how he looked the last time I saw him. Tired didn’t even come close. He slept like the dead and then told me he hadn’t had time or headspace to draw for weeks.
“Your well is empty, mate. Not a drop left in it to fill even a tiny vessel.”
I’ve learned all about that, and about candles burning from both ends lately. How they can flare brightly but then wink out twice as quickly. I don’t want the same for Rae, but I do want him to have a good visit.
I’m a practical person, better at actions than at waxing lyrical about love so deep I’ve given up trying to wade through it. I’m on this helter-skelter river ride with him for good, so I set aside trying to figure out how to say he doesn’t need to be everything to everybody, and I focus on the chores I need to finish.
The wood-fired hot tub still needs filling, and it takes a long time to heat. I could get it started early and fill the wood basket next to the stove. The evenings are still chilly, and?—
I stop at the highest point of the headland.
Smoke already rises from the woods behind it. I see that grey column, and for a startled moment, I mentally stutter.
Someone is already staying in the honeymoon tent?
Then I get moving, because yes, someone is already staying.
He got back early.
