Life as a teacher has its ups and downs. I have been a primary school teacher for the past twenty-three years and have worked in numerous schools in the roughest and most deprived parts of London. At times the job is rewarding and seeing the children leave in year 6 prepared for their Secondary schools gives me great pleasure; the reward for our labours.

However, there is another side to teaching, namely teaching children who have behavioural and emotional difficulties – the product of their upbringing. Dealing with such children is a challenge and very tiring. As I have got older the strain is taking its toll. The first element of my life to be affected by this professional dedication was my marriage. Jane left me for another man three years ago and I now live alone in a modest bed-sit in Highbury. I live a simple life split between school, home and the local pub.

The second element affected by my stressful job is my own health. I find it hard to sleep without powerful sleeping drugs and I visit the doctor’s surgery once a month for my sleeping elixir. Some mornings I cannot wake up and get myself mobile without a great effort on my behalf. I then arrive at school just as the bell is ringing. The headteacher frowns but my health secret is still safe hidden from her knowledge. Anyway I make up the time later by running after school clubs and this seems to keep Helen happy.

I live for the weekends and holidays. I enjoy walking but my greatest passion is music, specifically Church Choral Music. For many years I was a church organist and choirmaster in Highbury and I used to run a very successful parish choir made up from children and adults from the ages of eight to seventy years. The musical tradition at All Saints was second to none and we used to sing at various Cathedrals during the summer holidays. I used to enjoy this musical life and playing the organ was my greatest reward.

This musical chapter of my life came to end eight years ago when I couldn’t find the time or energy to continue with it. In hindsight this was a mistake but we often live our lives full of regrets, don’t we?

I walk over to the CD player and put on a disc. The sound of a boy treble’s voice floats from the speakers. I sit in the chair enveloped within the covers of this heavenly music. My mind starts to wander through the clouds of memory. I am in the choir vestry taking the junior choir practice. The door bursts open and in walks James Highland. James, a disturbed eight-year-old dressed in dirty tracksuit bottoms and a soiled, white t-shirt walks up to the piano. The singing stops and he stares at me from underneath his blond fringe, his piercing blue eyes fixed on mine.

"James, have you decided yet?" I asked.

"I’ll give it a go, Mr Bradley," replied James, trying hard to hide his nervous disposition.

"Well sit yourself down and Brian will keep an eye on you. We are learning Parry’s ‘I was Glad.’ That’s it, turn to page four. Decani are you ready?" I noticed his dirty hands and nails but resumed my piano accompaniment discarding this observation.

With the rehearsal over the boys rushed off and James hung back. He obviously didn’t want to play football in the park before the block of flats concealed the summer evening sunshine. This is where my responsibility of James’ emotional and behavioural needs commenced.

It had begun when James arrived in my class and I realised that he had a voice of an angel but not the demeanour to match. His mother showed very little interest in him and he would wander the estate getting into all sorts of trouble. If I could persuade him to join the choir this would ensure his safety for at least two points of the week. This became my mission and it appeared to be successful.

Managing James within the context of the choir was not easy. He would often fly off the handle and storm out of services and rehearsals when things did not go his way. Sometimes he would physically attack other choristers but he never hit me. I almost ran out of excuses for his behaviour and the other choir members and clergy became impatient with him. Our ways were soon to part and my influence on him would cease.

Bang on cue the CD starts to play ‘Panis Angelicus.’ My thoughts resume their previous track. It was the day before our Patronal Festival and I was rehearsing the choir. James, our soloist, arrived late and in a bad mood. It took all my skill and patience to encourage him to sing his solo well. We tried the anthem for the last time and I asked the choir to give it their very best. The organ started the haunting introduction and James settled to sing to the glory of my God. There was an expectant hush filling the church and chancel. He started to sing. The choir were transfixed and transported to that ethereal plane that only singers can experience. The choristers were so engrossed that they nearly missed their entry.

The final organ chord came with the 32-foot pedal note buffeting the air. The choir erupted into applause and I shook James’ hand. He smiled from ear to ear, a very rare occurrence for him. Tears filled my eyes, the reward for my philanthropy?

Suffice to say James did not turn up for the service and when I took the register at school the following day there was a note from the secretary. It appeared that James had left London with his mum. They were on the run from her estranged partner. My heart fell, my hopes dashed.

 I switched off the CD and put on my coat. This languid memory is painful for me. It was time for my late appointment at the doctors. I needed some more tablets but preferred to have the last appointment to avoid being seen by prying neighbours and colleagues.

As I walked through the rain filled dark streets to the surgery my mind resonated with choral music. Various settings of the canticles ran their course through my mind. At one point I had to resist the temptation to sing out loud. I reached the surgery and closed the heavy oak door behind me. The reception area was empty and Janice sat at her desk.

"Hello Mr Bradley. The doctor is just finishing with a patient. He won’t keep you a moment," chirped Janice Bradshaw, the attractive, mature receptionist. I smiled and sat down picking up a battered copy of Country Life to pass the time.

Ten minutes later an elderly lady emerged from the doctor’s room and shuffled her way to the door. The buzzer went and I walked through the double doors into the doctors for my fix. It was at times like these that I considered myself to be a drug dependent addict.

The consultation followed its usual course but there was a sudden sound of shouting outside. Doctor Prentice looked up and walked purposefully towards the door. As he approached the doorway the door flew open and sent him to the floor catching his head on the edge of the table. The doctor’s eyes were closed and blood started to soak into the carpet from his motionless body. I rushed to his aid but froze when I saw the barrel of a handgun pointing towards my head.

"Sit down and you won’t get hurt," ordered the nervous man in his early twenties. Through the open doorway I could see Janice Bradshaw bound and gagged. Her eyes were fixed on the intruder.

I sat down on the chair and thought carefully about my next move. I spoke,

"Can I attend to the doctor?"

"Leave him there. Now where does he keep his drugs?" snarled the short, blond, cropped haired criminal. I noticed his pale skin and the saliva beginning to emerge from his tight mouth. Sweat covered his forehead and he removed his tracksuit jacket and threw it casually, yet disrespectfully onto the doctor’s desk.

"He might die. Do you want that on your conscience?" I retorted.

"I don’t have a conscience. I had that beaten out of me many years ago. Where’s the cabinet?"

The young man picked up a fire extinguisher and threw it at the plate-glassed cabinet. The glass shattered covering the floor revealing the medicines ready for the taking. With the stealth of a fox he inspected each package pocketing those of value and discarding others onto the floor. I admired his knowledge and the way he managed to hold the gun and complete such a dextrous task with ease. I sat motionless, yet calm. He controlled my life for the time we shared this room. I did not want to alarm him and remained complaint.

As he placed the last package in his trouser pockets I noticed how dirty his hand was. I began to study his complexion. I needed to remember what he looked like for the police investigation. His ears were pierced with four small gold rings and his delicate nose decorated in a similar fashion. He was good looking, clean-shaven but his pale skin was encrusted with grime, his body or clothes not washed for many days. He saw me looking at him and fixed his pale blue eyes onto mine.

"Get on the floor! Be quick about it!"

I fell to the floor and looked away from his powerful gaze. He seemed to freeze in remembrance. The room became still and we both remained motionless. I felt fear and started to chant the words of the Lord’s Prayer in my head. I was preparing to meet my maker.

The room started to fill with a pulsating blue light. Voices, commanding authority, reverberated through the closed window.

"You are surrounded. Give yourself up and make your way to the door."

The man leaped towards the window and in one quick motion shattered a pane of glass and fired three shots through the forced aperture. The distant voices went quiet as the policemen took cover. They needed back up to cope with this armed assailant.

The man crouched next to me and whispered in my ear,

"Is there a back way out?"

With my face turned away from him I revealed his possible route of escape and my ultimate salvation. He crawled towards the inner door and left the room. I stayed on the floor and listened as he tried to make good his escape. Further gunshots rang out. The armed response unit had blocked his way and I was now one of the three hostages. He entered the room again out of breath the result of fear and abuse of his body. He lit a cigarette.

"Do you smoke?"

"No, I gave it up years ago. You carry on." I was amazed at my own calmness. He sat on a spare chair away from the window.

"Get up and sit on the chair. I know you don’t I?" he asked.

I resumed my former gaze and realised I was talking to an older version of James Highland.

"Mr Bradley, isn’t it?"

"Yes. James good to see you again. Why are you doing this?"

"Beggars can’t be choosers! I was dealt a bad hand many years ago. This is the only way I can make ends meet. I steal drugs and sell them to punters on the streets. Some people call it a living." James seemed genuinely pleased to see me. His body language changed regaining his youthful stature.

We talked for a while but the unnatural situation prevented us from continuing our dialogue. The urgent voices outside spoke again and the situation became tense. I decided it was time to take charge and test whether this petty criminal would receive my former authority.

"James, you’re trapped. Your future hangs in the balance. Why don’t you give yourself up?" I said urgently.

"No, never. I’m not going inside again. I can bargain for my escape," he responded as he gazed through the shattered window, searching for his salvation.

"Let me speak to the police? You haven’t killed anyone. Let me intercede on your behalf?"

"What good with that do? My fate is sealed. They’ll never take me alive!" His voice was becoming agitated. The stress was getting to him and he might do something foolish.

I stood and walked towards the window. James shouted,

"What do yer think you’re doin’? Sit down!" His voice shook with feigned rage.

I identified myself and spoke openly to the officers. Through my negotiation I arranged our departure from the scene of the crime. James followed me as we walked towards the front door. Janice froze in terror as she watched us leave the building. I opened the door and was blinded by a bright beam of light from a squad car.

"Come away from the building and drop your weapon!"

I couldn’t believe that I had forgotten to remind James to leave the weapon behind. He motioned to throw the gun to the floor but an armed officer misread the situation and sent a single gunshot in the direction of my young chorister. James caught the bullet in his stomach and slumped forward onto my back. I caught him and broke his fall onto the damp tarmac. He was in pain and mortally wounded. The rain washed his face, almost cleansing him from his former sins. I was powerless to help.

While we waited for the ambulance I cradled James’ head in my lap. His eyes were shut but he could still hear me. He broke the silence,

"Sir?"

"Yes, James?"

"Do you remember my solo?"

"Like yesterday. You have a voice of an angel. I only wish that you could have sung for me longer!" I spoke with sincerity and meant every word. James lost consciousness and I used his jacket to stem the flow of blood emerging from the wound in his stomach. I could hear the sound of the ambulance fighting its way through the traffic and road works. Its progress was painfully slow as James’ life hung in the balance.

James opened his eyes and tried to sit up. I told him to rest and take it easy. He looked at me.

"I owe you something."

"What’s that?" I inquired.

"I never made that solo did I?"

"No."

"Let me make it up to you."

"What do you mean?"

"I’ll sing for you now.

I was shocked at this statement and remained silent. Through the noise of the city, the rain and busy police personnel he started to sing ‘Panis Angelicus.’ His voice clear, trained, spoke to my very soul. He remembered the phrasing, obeyed the breathing and technique exactly as I taught him fifteen years ago. The atmosphere was electric and everyone froze in respect of this beautiful sound.

With the requiem anthem finished he spoke with his final breath,

"Just like you taught me hey? Once you’ve got it, you never lose it!" His body became limp and my tears flowed without restraint. Tears of regret for this lost soul. If only the Bread of the Angels could have touched his own soul?

Life was never the same for me again. Although a hero I suffered a complete nervous breakdown and spent many months in hospital under close supervision. I received early retirement on grounds of ill health and moved out of London to a small seaside resort. I started a small Bed and Breakfast business from my severance pay and live a simple life serving the tourist community.

When darkness falls, the curtains are pulled and the guests are tucked up in their beds. The sound of a solo boy treble floats dreamily from my dimly lit front room. I will never forget James Highland, the one I failed.

© 2001  Steven Longman-Marshall - all rights reserved..