I lost touch with Em very early on after leaving for university; we bumped into each other once or twice in the holidays perhaps, but always when we were in the middle of shopping or something else, and with no time. These were the days before Facebook or even mobile technology, so it's not just that we had no particular reason to keep in touch - we didn't really have the means to do so either. Beyond the age of writing letters, but not yet the age of the text message - we were quite a sad generation in some ways.
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I had accepted the post of Deputy Head of the History and Politics Department of a large, mixed ability secondary school, just on the northern edge of Exeter, just about 25 miles from the town in which I was born and brought up. I had left my job in London at the end of the Summer Term, and the job was to start for real six weeks later, on the 2nd September, but what with having to prepare before the start of term, it had been agreed that I would be contracted from the second week of August; in truth, neither employer wanted to pay for my summer vacation! I told my parents of my plans to find a small house or flat in Exeter, a city which I'd always enjoyed - not so small as to be missing out on city life (having a thriving university helps in that regard) but also not so big as to be without character. But time was against me, and what with the hassle of moving after a very long time in London, I failed miserably to find something suitable on the two weekends I'd allocated to the task.
My mother is, and always has been, a pragmatist, and more or less insisted I returned to the house I grew up in whilst I 'sorted things out'. After all, 25 miles wasn't so far as to be impossible to travel each morning, and I was certain to be outside the catchment area of the school itself. So I sorted my personal effects into two categories; those I would need to have at hand in my parents' house, and those which I could allow to be put into storage. Finding two old photo albums of my life with Eve proved a little painful. Looking through them, I wondered how we'd let it all go so wrong. The photos reminded me of love, of happiness, of friendship too and perhaps most of all, they reminded me of hopes and dreams which Eve and I once shared. I cried. I considered whether I should destroy them altogether, but simply could not; and yet, I did not need them in my new life either, and so they went into a box, one with other things which may or may not ever see the light of day again. But I know where they are should I ever need them.
And I moved back home, and indeed back to the room which had always been 'John's Room' (because Mickey Mouse still said so, on the door!). It was strange, very strange, even though we had agreed that it would be a temporary arrangement, until the end of the year at the very latest, and even though I had insisted that I pay a fair rent for heating, lighting, hot water and to share the food bill. Actually, I took great delight in being chauffeur for my mother's visit to Tesco's Supermarket the first two weekends I was there. Not only could I ensure that some of my favourite food went into the trolley (mothers will tell you that what their sons ate at the age of 14 might not be best served now they'd reached 34) but my wallet was first to pay the bill at the end of the shop. Duty done, but actually, a real pleasure to be sharing such things with a loved one again; don't abandon your chances to do that, ever.
I went to Barcelona for four nights, a short break just to get a little bit of sun and warmth, and because the summer allowed for flights from Exeter's small airport. Really though, I was itching to get on with the next stage of my life, professionally in the main, but in every other way too, as circumstances presented themselves. For that, I needed to be back in Devon.
When term started, I realised what a mammoth job I had in front of me, re-adjusting to a new school, new colleagues and new curriculum. Actually, the curriculum itself wasn't that different (History is History, so to speak), but the teaching patterns, some of the classroom protocols and codes of conduct, that sort of thing, were very different, and it took all my professional flexibility, and no small amount of bluff, to get away with it. I had found myself in a good - possibly great - History department. On a personal level, the staff were friendly, welcoming and showed both respect for and interest in my outsider's point of view. But they were also intelligent, they knew their stuff, and they knew how to teach - pedagogy as it's called. They knew how to teach this type of school child, and they knew how to get examination results without sacrificing the real purpose of school education (which, in case you don't know, is not to pass exams, but to equip our children and young people for the life ahead of them).
For the first month, I was in school by 7.45 every morning and with travel, my day was at least a 12-hour shift. Though school finishes at 3.15pm every day, I chose to stay on to complete the paperwork and forward planning rather than take it home. Having just a few hours a day with my parents in the week would mean that we'd not run out of things to say to each other. Dad loved the fact that the school taught Politics alongside History; 'wish they'd done that in my day' he'd say, lamenting the political ignorance of the younger generations. I'd inherited my liberal (not quite socialist) views from him, and we enjoyed re-establishing that common interest.
