But like I said, the crunch point came on Thursday.
I’d been interviewing potential reading coaches for most of the day, using a hired room in the Nottingham Central Library. The regional manager, Alec, had been interviewing with me, and he’d waffled on so much that every interview had overrun. Once the final candidate had left, he’d then wanted to go over each one in detail, despite the fact that it was obvious which three would be best for my team. Before I could make up some excuse to leave, it was after five thirty.
‘I’m so sorry, I really appreciate you taking the time to talk this all through with me, but I have to get on.’ I was going to be massively late for dinner, and anxiety about needing to get home was crackling in my veins.
‘Oh?’ Alec sat back in his chair, as though settling himself in for a thorough discussion about why I needed to leave. ‘Have you got plans?’
But before I could try to fudge some sort of explanation about how we always ate at six, it hit me.
I’d eaten dinner at six o’clock on the dot every night that week. I’d evenpausedthe middle of a TV thriller, at the moment the main character was literally hanging off a cliff, because it wasdinner time.
I was feeling stressed about being late to cook and eat a meal by myself, despite having nothing to do the rest of the evening, except yet more paperwork that could quite happily wait until the morning.
What was to stop me having dinner at seven? Or eight?
Or how about this wild suggestion – I could order a takeaway!
I could stay in town, and go to a restaurantalone.Without tellinganybody.
I could do whatever I liked.
‘Hello, Ollie? Are you all right?’ Alec asked, waving a hand in front of my face.
‘Yes, thank you.’ I grabbed my bag and cardigan. ‘And no, I’ve got no plans whatsoever, so to be honest, I’m absolutely fantastic!’
I had dinner at six forty-five, because I was getting hungry. I ate a giant slice of coconut cake while the pasta boiled, because I felt like it, and I left my dirty plate in the living room all night, because I could, and no one was there to moan about it.
I was free.
I was free.
* * *
The following day, still simmering with possibilities, I met my first new reader for an hour-long introductory session in the Bigley Bottom library. ReadUp coaching was always held in public places, for safeguarding reasons, so I’d reserved us a table in the computer area.
I’d spoken to Trev on the phone, and recognised him immediately by how he nervously stepped into the library, eyeing the room as though it might detect an imposter. It wasn’t the books he needed to be wary of, but their fearsome guardian, Irene Jenkins, library manager at large.
She’d been initially snooty about the prospect of me meeting with ‘illiterates’ in her precious library. I’d pointed out that the whole purpose of a library was to encourage people to read, and she snapped back something about howherlibrary was for those who appreciated and respected literature; it wasn’t a hang-out for school drop-outs. A quick chat with one of the directors for Notts libraries, who’d presented ReadUp with an award only the previous year, soon reminded her that this was not, in fact,herlibrary but a public building, and we were welcome to further the literacy skills of local residents whenever the library was open.
‘Ms Tennyson, I believe yourpersonis here.’ Irene Jenkins sniffed, glaring over the top of her bifocals.
In the hope of avoiding any interaction between Trev and Irene, I’d already rushed over to meet him, hoping my friendliest smile would deflect her waves of distaste at Trev’s tatty tracksuit topped off with a bald head covered in a skull tattoo.
‘Trev!’ I chirped as he stiffly shook my hand. ‘So great to meet you in person! I’ve got us a spot over here, where we can chatwithout being disturbed.’ I gave Irene a firm smile, and she wrinkled her long nose to reassure me that she’d be keeping well away from the riff-raff.
We spent the next hour doing some simple assessments to find the best place to start. The vast majority of new readers found even contacting us a huge hurdle, and before I could help with anything else, I often had to help them overcome a lifetime of shame, fear and low-to-no self-esteem.
Trev’s was a familiar story. I fetched us both a mug of over-stewed tea from the machine, and he tentatively began to describe how he’d fallen behind at school due to what he described as a ‘mad’ home-life. Once he’d missed the basics, there was never the chance to catch up, and he’d covered up being so ‘stupid’ by messing about and getting into trouble. He hung his head in shame when he confessed that he’d spent decades in and out of prison, and for a long time he couldn’t see any way to break the cycle, even if he’d wanted to.
‘So, what’s changed now, Trev?’ I asked. ‘I know it’s not easy facing up to something like this, let alone asking for help. What pushed you to call our number?’
He ducked his head. ‘Well, I know it’s hard to believe, but I met someone.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah. Who’d a thought it at my age!’ Trev was fifty-one, but he looked nearer to seventy. ‘We met at the pub quiz. I can’t write the answers down, but I know enough not to embarrass meself. Anyway, we got to talking, and I thought,Bloody hell, Trev, she’s a proper lady, this one, she deserves better than a deadbeat like you. So, me brother gave me the number for this. I’ll probably never see her again, but I want to be ready so next time I click with someone, I can at least send her a text without spelling mistakes.’
Which was such a lovely reason, I had to scoot back over to the hot drinks machine to hide my watery eyes.
