To Mrs Dawes, my English Teacher

Thinking of you makes me want to write down what I
have to say. Do you remember the advice you used to give
us when we wrote essays? Spend a long time on the
introduction, as it’s the first thing that gets read. Never
answer the question in the first sentence. Make it clear
what you’re writing about y restating the question in
your own words. You taught me how to be analytical. So
here goes.

The question is, why did I throw away everything I
had and end up as I am now? And as for the answer, I’m
not even sure I know myself, but writing it might help
me work it out. And it begins with me.

Me. Catherine Margaret Holmes. 16. Did well at
GCSE. A good girl, nice family. Sensible. Prefect material.
I remember how you used to smile at me encouragingly
in lessons and say, "Well done, Cathy!" I used to hate that
because I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, and I just
knew they were thinking, teacher’s pet . I knew you liked
me because of the way you nodded when I spoke and
used to write those glowing reports for my parents. I
liked you too because you liked me and even though the
other students in the class teased you for those aggy
cardigans you used to wear and the cup of strong coffee
you used to take with you everywhere, I never joined in.
Well, I did a bit, because you have to, really.

What I liked about you most was the way you got all
lit up when you were talking about Shakespeare or
poetry. You read things that none of us understood with
your voice trembling with passion, then looked at us with
your eyes shining, and we thought you were crazy. I can
remember twitching with embarrassment for you but
liking the way you were getting turned on. I tried to learn
those lines you read …

Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou owed’st yesterday.

You were saying, listen to the sound of the words, the
pattern of the stresses –man drag ora, you said,
lengthening the middle syllable as far as it would go.
Man drag ora. Drowsy syrups. I thought of the cough
linctus my mother used to give me when I was small, but
I knew that was wrong, only you get these weird
associations sometime. You told us how darkly beautiful
these lines were, but the truth was, I didn’t understand
them, they didn’t make sense to me. The effect they had
was to unhitch me from the reality of the classroom and
make me dream.

It was a small seminar room on the third floor where
we had our lessons, grey plastic chairs around a scored
wooden table. It overlooked tennis courts fringed with
ragged trees. We were grouped around the table, one
or two boys, and the girls, each one of them set and
determined in their own way to get whatever it was
they wanted. They scared me. Lucy had her head
down scribbling notes as if her life depended on it;
Melissa sat there weighing up everything you said as if
she could strike you down at any moment. She had her
hand over her mouth. Fliss and Toni sat together as
perfectly groomed as air hostesses. I don’t remember the
others.

What I do remember from that day –the day I think
it all began –was the sense of unreality that crept into
the classroom. Like an animal, it rubbed itself against my
feet and entered me, and I felt myself become detached
and able to see very, very clearly, as if I was the only
person in the universe, the only person who counted. I
had X-ray vision. I saw behind your eyes as you were
explaining the text that you were tired, harassed and
anxious to get home. That Melissa was all spite and
venom, glittering like a snake. That Lucy never had an
original thought in her head and she was supposed to be
my best friend. That Fliss and Toni were entirely plastic
and even though they boasted about pulling blokes, they
were so fake they wouldn’t have felt a thing.