about your application. Your references are amazing. And I’ve had them all checked . . .’
I feel relieved. Not that she has checked the references, but that there had been someone who had picked up the phone, or emailed back.
‘. . . but this isn’t a rural comprehensive in Suffolk. This is London. This is Tower Hamlets.’
‘Kids are kids.’
‘And they’re great kids. But this is a different area. They don’t have the same privileges. My concern is that you’ve lived a rather sheltered life.’
‘You might be surprised.’
‘And many students here struggle hard enough with the present, let alone with history. They just care about the world around them. Getting them engaged is the key. How would you make history come alive?’
There was no easier question in the world. ‘History isn’t something you need to bring to life. History already is alive. We are history. History isn’t politicians or kings and queens. History is everyone. It is everything. It’s that coffee. You could explain much of the whole history of capitalism and empire and slavery just by talking about coffee. The amount of blood and misery that has taken place for us to sit here and sip coffee out of paper cups is incredible.’
‘You’ve put me right off my drink.’
‘Oh, sorry. But the point is: history is everywhere. It’s about making people realise that. It makes you understand a place.’
‘Right.’
‘History is people. Everyone loves history.’
Daphne looks at me doubtfully, her face retreating into her neck as her eyebrows rise. ‘Are you sure about that?’
I offer a small nod. ‘It’s just making them realise that everything they say and do and see is only what they say and do and see because of what has gone before. Because of Shakespeare. Because of every human who ever lived.’
I look out of the window. We are on the third floor and have quite a view, even in the grey London drizzle. I see an old Georgian building I have walked past many times.
‘That place, that place over there. The one with all the chimneys? That used to be an asylum. And over there’ – I point to another, lower brick building – ‘was the old slaughterhouse. They used to take all the old bones and make porcelain from them. If we had walked past it two hundred years ago we’d have heard the wails coming from the people society had declared mad on one side and the cattle on the other . . .’
If, if, if.
I point to the slate terrace rooftops in the east.
‘And just over there, in a bakery, on Old Ford Road, that’s where Sylvia Pankhurst and the East London suffragettes used to meet. They used to have a big sign, painted in gold, saying “VOTES FOR WOMEN” that you couldn’t miss, not far from the old match factory.’
Daphne writes something down. ‘And you play music, I see. Guitar, piano and violin.’
And the lute, I don’t say. And the mandolin. And the cittern. And the tin pipe.
‘Yes.’
‘You put Martin to shame.’
‘Martin?’
‘Our music teacher. Hopeless. He’s hopeless. Can barely play the triangle. Thinks he’s a rock star, though. Poor Martin.’
‘Well, I love music. I love playing music. But I’d find it a hard thing to teach. I’ve always found it hard to talk about music.’
‘Unlike history?’
‘Unlike history.’
‘And you seem up to speed with the current curriculum.’
‘Yes,’ I lie, easily. ‘Absolutely.’
‘And you’re still on the young side of things.’
I shrug, and make the kind of face I think you are meant to make.
‘I’m fifty-six so forty-one is young, trust me.’
Fifty-six is young.
Eighty-eight is young.
One hundred and thirty is young.
‘Well, I am quite an old forty-one.’
She smiles at me. She clicks the top of her pen. Then clicks it again. Each one is a moment. The first click, the pause between the click, and the second click. The longer you live, the harder it becomes. To grab them. Each little moment as it arrives. To be living in something other than the past or the future. To be actually here.
Forever, Emily Dickinson said, is composed of nows. But how do you inhabit the now you are in? How do you stop the ghosts of all the other nows from getting in? How, in short, do you live?
I am drifting away.
It has been happening a lot recently. I had heard about this. Other albas had spoken about it. You reached the mid-point of your life, and the thoughts got too much. The memories swell. The headaches grow. The headache today isn’t so bad, but it is there.
I try to concentrate. I try to hold on to that other now, a short few seconds ago, where I was enjoying the interview. Enjoying the feeling of relative ordinariness. Or the illusion of it.
There is no ordinary.
Not for me.
I try to concentrate. I look at Daphne as she shakes her head and laughs, but softly now, at something she doesn’t disclose. Something sad, I feel, from the sudden glazing of her eyes. ‘Well, Tom, I am quite impressed by you and this application, I must say.’
Tom.
Tom Hazard.
My name – my original name – was Estienne Thomas Ambroise Christophe Hazard. That was the starting point. Since then I have had many, many names, and been many, many things. But, on my first arrival into England, I quickly lost the trimmings and became just Tom Hazard.
Now, using that name again, it feels like a return. It echoes in my head. Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom.
‘You tick all the boxes. But even if you didn’t you’d be getting the job.’
‘Oh, really. Why?’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘There’s no other applicant!’
We both laugh a little at that.
But the laugh dies faster than a mayfly.
Because then she says, ‘I live on Chapel Street. I wonder if you know anything about that?’
And, of course, I do know about that, and the question wakes me like a cold wind. My headache pulses harder. I picture an apple bursting in an oven. I shouldn’t have come back here. I should never have asked Hendrich for this to happen. I think of Rose, the last time I saw her, and those wide desperate eyes.
‘Chapel Street. I don’t know. No. No, I’m afraid I don’t know.’
‘Don’t worry.’ She sips her coffee.
I look at the poster of Shakespeare. He seems to be staring at me, like an old friend. There is a quote below his image.
We know what we are, but know not what we may be.
‘I have a feeling about you, Tom. You have to trust your feelings, don’t you?’
‘I suppose so,’ I say, though feelings were the one thing I had never trusted.
She smiles.
I smile.
I stand up, and head to the door. ‘See you