| WHAT
ARE YOU DOING HERE? |
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What
Are You Doing Here?
Tells
the story of an
Australian
Primary School
teacher’s experiences of five years living in
England
, at a time when the country was recruiting teachers from overseas to solve its
staffing shortages.
Jennifer
Melnik relates with humour and poignancy, the realities of living in another
country, and working within a different education system’s cultural and
professional ideas.
Through
her dealings with unruly children, continual school inspections, job interviews,
a flooded flat, frequent house moves, a school ghost and visa problems, we meet
and discover a diverse range of fascinating characters and places.
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In Store Price: $AU23.95
Online Price: $AU22.95
ISBN:
978-1-921240-47-8
Format: Paperback
Number of pages:
189
Genre: Non Fiction
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Author:
Jennifer Melnik
Publisher: Zeus Publications
Date Published: 2007
Language: English |
AUTHOR
BIOGRAPHY
Jennifer
Melnik was born in
Holland
and migrated with her parents to
Australia
as a young child. She was educated in
Brisbane
and during her teenage years lived in an old terrace building above an art
gallery.
After
leaving school she studied commercial illustration and graphic design. After she
divorced, Jennifer spent several years bringing up her daughter alone.
During
this time she attended university and gained a nursing degree while working part
time as a high school parent liaison officer and nursing assistant in an aged
care home. She then completed a degree in education.
After
graduating, she taught at a primary school and worked as a home tutor in
Brisbane
for 12 months. Jennifer was recruited by a teaching agency to the
UK
, where she worked as a primary and infant teacher for over five years. She
currently lives in
Brisbane
.
Arrival (part sample)
The
phone beside the bed woke me and my eyes began to focus. The travel clock
displayed the time as seven thirty. In a stupor I picked up the receiver.
“Hello,
Jenny? John Davies. Just checking you’ve arrived. I’ll come by and pick you
up later this afternoon. You’ll have to get used to the new time zone here.”
My groggy reply must have been obvious. I’d been sleeping soundly in a central
London
hotel since seven the previous night, and I was still tired and jetlagged.
Later
that morning I left the hotel to cash all my traveller’s cheques at a Bureau
de Change in the
Strand
. I didn’t have a UK bank account and didn’t think there would be money
changing facilities in the small village I was going to be living, so I needed
to have a month’s supply of funds to see me through until I received my first
pay.
After
returning to the hotel room I tried to connect my laptop to the telephone line
in the hope of sending some emails back home. No luck … the computer stalled,
then froze, I couldn’t close it down and I panicked. Remembering that there
was a computer store called
Dixon
’s further along the street, I collected all the cables and carried everything
down there to get some help. I must have looked ridiculous struggling with it
all.
The
young salesman seemed slightly amused, but sympathised with my problem. He
called for assistance from his colleague and after both of them debating over
what should be done, managed to close the stalled program down and gave me a
free disk for my new internet provider. It wasn’t completely fixed, but it was
the best they could do.
That
afternoon I checked out of the hotel. Casually waiting in the lobby was a short,
scruffy-looking man wearing sneakers, or trainers as they call them in the
UK
, talking on a mobile phone.
“She’s
Australian, an older woman,” he said, “through Start Agency.” I guessed
then that he must be John Davies.
An
older woman? Some may see me as too old, when approaching the wrong side of
forty, to be leaving the security of my sunny Australian home to work in dreary
old
England
. Maybe it was unusual to make such a change at this time in my life, but going
to
England
to live, even for a short time, had been my childhood dream. It was Enid
Blyton’s Secret
Seven, Famous Five and Mallory Towers
books I’d read as a child that had first got me interested in visiting
England. Descriptions of the Dorset seaside coast, country villages,
Cornwall
, smugglers and quaint people had instilled in me an unexplained longing to see
and experience a country, culture and climate so different from my own.
Eight
months ago, the holiday I spent in
London
with my daughter had intrigued me further and made me more determined to come
back.
We’d
stayed at this very hotel, a lovely grand art deco building in the centre of
London
, arriving early in the morning by airport coach. I’d walked up to the
check-in desk, only to be stopped in my tracks by a smartly-dressed woman with
her hand raised in the air, indicating for me to stop.
“Stand
over there,” she’d said abruptly and unsmilingly, looking at me as if
she’d been approached by someone so rude and unrefined as to have the
effrontery to simply walk up to her without
waiting until she was ready. I looked around to where she’d indicated,
and noticed a sign that read Queue here. I had in my jetlagged state, not actually seen the sign,
but to the woman I’d shockingly disregarded the rules of the hotel and had
expected immediate attention. Who did I think I was, someone important?
It
was irrelevant that we were the only customers there. The rules must not be
flexible for anyone, especially to those that looked like they’d travelled
from the colonies.
She
made me stand there like a naughty school child, waiting for several minutes
while she shuffled papers around on the desk in front of her.
“Can
I help you?” she said finally, looking at me with suspicion.
Well,
not really, I thought, I’m just enjoying standing here, tired with lots of
luggage, passing the time of day in a hotel lobby.
We’d
arrived too early, she told us. Check-in time was at ten and it was now only
eight. They would however, allow us to leave our luggage with them, if we wanted
to go and do something else. We could come back in around an hour to check on
our room availability if we wished, but they couldn’t guarantee it would be
ready before ten. She then summoned the porter with another flick of the hand,
who took our cases into a secured area and gave us a ticket.
It
was a sunny, but bracing winter’s day in early December. Office workers were
walking briskly down the street carrying briefcases and shops were beginning to
open their doors and shutters. Homeless souls, covered in blankets and
newspapers were beginning to wake up. Rubbish was piled in big black plastic
bags on the footpath in front of restaurants and the big red double-decker buses
we’d seen from the air as we flew over the city on our approach to
Heathrow
Airport
, were now weaving their way down the narrow streets, cleverly avoiding jay
walking pedestrians. Crossing the road was a real experience. You had to wait
until a crowd had gathered and walk quickly across with them. If you tried to
cross on your own you risked being skittled, as we nearly were one day by a
black African push bike rider in Oxford Street, who rang his bell angrily at us
and shouted something unintelligible. I had never seen roads as chaotic as this
and so much dangerous jay walking. The traffic lights were ignored as traffic
sped along, regardless of crossing pedestrians.
The
day after we arrived we walked down to
Trafalgar Square
, where it had been so cold overnight the fountain had frozen. We took in the
British
Museum
. It was wonderful to be able to see the paintings and sculptures I’d only
seen in books before. Here I was now standing in front of the most famous
paintings in the world.
We’d
taken trips to Stonehenge, when it was cold, wet and windy, to beautiful
Bath
and Stratford-upon-Avon, to
Oxford
and
Hampton
Court
Palace
.
We
spent one week that Christmas and New Year with friends in
Clacton
. It was a lovely traditional Christmas day with lots of snow, mince pies and
presents.
The
day after Boxing Day we took the local bus to
Colchester
,
Britain
’s oldest recorded town, about half an hour’s ride away. The visit to the
castle museum and the historical roman wall were highlights. The town is small
enough to be able to walk around it easily, but big enough to have all its own
services, with a wonderful atmosphere of a combination of the ancient and
modern. Our friends took us to Essex
and
Suffolk
to see some magnificent old churches and villages with buildings made of wattle
and daub.
Constable
Country, the area where John Constable grew up and painted was picturesque, even
in mid winter.
I
had to come back. I needed a change in my life. Now I was here in
London
again, on my second English adventure. I was excited and didn’t feel old at
all.
“John
Davies?”
“Jenny?”
He took my suitcase and we crossed the busy road to the parked car.
“You
can always tell the Aussies,” he smiled, “they always try to get in on the
driver’s side.” He obviously had the mistaken idea that Australians drive on
the right-hand side like Americans, but I was heading for the passenger door
anyway. I smiled and didn’t bother putting him straight.
He
chatted amiably, giving me a sightseeing tour of the landmarks of
London
along the way and told anecdotes about other foreign teachers he’d met. We
passed
Buckingham
Palace
, where we’d been on my last visit. I noted that the Queen’s Royal Standard
wasn’t flying, signifying that she wasn’t in residence at present.
I
seem to always miss her, as on a previous trip to
Windsor
Castle
her flag wasn’t flying either.
The
familiar Houses of Parliament loomed ahead of us, where we had once queued for
twenty minutes to watch a session in parliament from the public gallery in the
House of Lords. There again, towering above, was the most famous clock tower in
the world, Big Ben. It was all very familiar to me, memories came flooding back
and I was feeling relaxed about this big change in my life.
The
cityscape soon turned into residential and country scenery as we travelled
along.
“You
know you’re going to Stanford-no-hope, that’s what they call it,” he said.
I wondered why it had such a derogatory name, but he didn’t explain.
As
we came nearer to our destination, John phoned the family I was staying with, to
get directions to the house, as he was getting a bit lost.
Once
you came off the main road in Stanford there was a confusing myriad
of streets winding around like a labyrinth, with compact brick houses all
looking the same. We eventually arrived at a neat, mid-terraced home with a
little flowering garden at the front in a quiet cul-de-sac. The front door was
open and a short, slim woman around the same age as me came outside to greet us.
“No
men,” the woman, who I assumed was Shauna announced bluntly, hardly giving me
time to get out of the car. Did she mean there were no men around, or I wasn’t
to have any male visitors? What a strange way to greet someone.
“Your
bags arrived yesterday,” her husband Geoffrey added. “It was orwight,
because I was ’ome. If it’d been Saturday I wouldn’t ’ave been ’ere to
take ’em upstairs.” He had an oh my god, what have we got here, look on his
face. I think they were expecting a younger woman.
Shauna
showed me to my room,
“We
had to buy a new bed. The teacher we had staying here before you broke it. She
used to go into
London
to the Australian pub on Saturdays and sneaked a lad in here one night. Geoff
was away and I only knew someone else was in the house when I heard the shower
running twice. She was a big girl and he was a big man. We found a used condom
under the bed when we moved it, so we gave her two weeks to find somewhere else
to live.” I now understood what she meant about the ‘no men’ rule.
Shauna
offered me a cup of tea. Her parents were downstairs waiting to meet me and
check out the new guest. They were all very friendly and we chatted about
Australia
and where I was teaching and the family I’d left behind.
“You’re
very brave, I couldn’t do it,” Muriel said.
“Oh
no, I couldn’t,” Shauna agreed, shaking her head.
They
left me to unpack my things and I tried to connect up my laptop again.
Geoffrey
came upstairs and stood in the doorway.
“I’ve
ordered a new phone line for you,” he said, “it’ll be done next week.
We’ve got cable.”
“Great!
Thanks,” I said, relieved that I didn’t have to use their phone for the
internet.
“You’ll
have to pay for the calls. I’ll pay for the installation,” he added.
The
computer was vital in maintaining regular contact with family and friends, but I
needed help to connect to an ISP. Geoffrey obliged by phoning for information
and taking me around to computer shops.
The
following week I was back online.
“We’re
taking Shauna’s mum and dad to Saarfend tonight to look at the lights. Would
you like to come?”
It
doesn’t get dark until nine o’clock in the summer, so we all piled into the
car and drove down to
Southend-on-Sea
to see the annual illuminations along the seafront. The town, on the north bank
of the
Thames
estuary, is primarily a seaside resort and its most notable landmark is the two
kilometre long pier, the longest in the world, which extends out into the
estuary. There were rides and booths of varying descriptions along the seafront,
where families, children and teens were still enjoying their holidays. The
Golden Mile of amusement arcades and attractions had brought people from far and
wide to enjoy the evening’s entertainment.
“Where’s
the school you’re teaching at?” Shauna asked me one evening over a meal of
sausages, chips and baked beans. This meal was also repeated the following night
and became my staple diet for the next four months.
“Avelly
Primary,” I replied.
To
me, the name Avelly had conjured up images of streets lined with sturdy oak
trees, a quiet quaint village in a valley, gentle, friendly people and
picturesque country houses with thatched roofs.
“It’s
a lovely little village with quite a bit of history. It’s near the biggest
shopping complex in Europe,” the head teacher had told me at my phone
interview in
Australia
.
“How
far away is it?” I asked them.
Shauna
and Geoffrey looked at each other.
“A
long way from here. The first teacher we had staying with us taught in Grays.
She was with us for seven months. She walked to the station, then took the train
and then walked to the school until she bought a car. The one we had before you
taught at
Basildon
, just down the road. I wonder why Start sent you to us. We’re so far away
from Avelly. You’d think they could have found somewhere closer. I’ll take
you there tomorrow.”
We
all went off in Geoffrey’s car after breakfast the next day. Armed with a map
of
Thurrock
, I was partly excited and partly apprehensive. We went down the M25, through
industrial areas and around many narrow dismal streets.
“This
is Avelly,” Geoffrey said as we drove down the high street through a lovely,
but somehow sombre-looking little village.
“There’s
the school.” It was a brown brick building with a couple of large trees at the
front entrance. On the side of the tallest part of the building was a red clock,
with white dots for the hours and white hands.
“It
looks nice,” I said hesitantly.
It
took us thirty-five minutes to drive to Avelly. There was no direct bus or train
service from Stanford-le-Hope.
“I
don’t know how you’re going to get here every day,” Geoffrey added.
I
was thinking the same thing myself, but with careful planning I was sure it
wasn’t going to be impossible. I had to manage; there was no turning back now.
I was a long way from home and I had a twelve month working visa.
Geoffrey
and I poured over bus timetables and maps during the week. I was very
appreciative of all his suggestions and help and he began to spend an increasing
amount of time talking to me about the days’ events and his business trips to
Devon
. Late one night I caught him staring in at me through a small gap made by my
slightly ajar door. He turned away quickly when I noticed him.
A
neighbour worked as a delivery driver and it appeared strange that he was
continually bringing boxes to the house at night. Geoffrey would then store them
in his hall cupboard. I was offered a CD player for £10, with a vague and
evasive response given when I questioned its origins. Phone orders from friends
were a regular occurrence and I suspected the goods had not been legitimately
obtained.
In
the week before the start of term, I called three local taxi companies for a
quote to Avelly each day. The first two said:
“We
only do school runs, we don’t take individual fares at that time of the
morning, sorry.”
What!
I thought, children being taken to school by taxi every day, who pays for this?
Don’t they cater for teachers? Why can’t the parents take their children to
school, couldn’t they walk, or catch the bus?”
The
third company was willing to pick me up at 7:15 every day to Avelly for £10 a
day. In the afternoon I would then take the bus from the school to Grays’
train station, take the train to Stanford, then walk the twenty minutes home. A
total of one hour travelling time each afternoon.
The
following weekend I accompanied Geoffrey and Shauna to a giant boot sale in a
large vacant acreage at
Basildon
. This annual summer event was an orientation for me into the British bartering
system. Parked in neat rows, were hundreds of cars with their boots gaping,
revealing an assortment of wares ranging from cheap plastic toys to costly
Persian rugs, and anything and everything in between. Eager sellers stood by
furtively watching for a potential sale.
“Only
£10….today.”
“I’ll
give you £6,” said a prospective customer. Depending on whether the seller
wanted a quick sale or not, the original price stood. Later in the day however,
you could be guaranteed of a generous price drop.
I
left my hosts to wander together among the throngs in the now scorching midday
heat and found a secluded spot under the shade of some trees.
“Wud
yer like yer fortune told?” I turned to see a plump, colourfully-dressed
elderly woman sitting at a table, gently shuffling a pack of pictured cards. Her
piercing eyes stared hopefully at me.
“Tarot
readin’s are £8 today for fifteen minutes,” she added. Why not, I thought.
Britain
was the home of the mystics, so a reading at the beginning of my newly-changed
life could be quite interesting, besides, there was nothing I particularly
wanted to buy at the sale, even if I could fit it into my small bedroom.
I
sat down on the collapsible chair opposite her and shuffled the cards in
anticipation.
“Huv
you got any child’n?” she asked.
“A
daughter, yea? She’ll do alright. Is she working? Her work will be alright,
yea?”
She
turned to her husband. “Can you get me some water darl? Thank you. Have you
got a husband? Oh. Parents yea? They’ll be alright. How’s your health?
You’ll be alright. No health problems, yea?” At this point her mobile phone
rang.
“Hi
darl, yes can you bring it over, that’s a good lad. Did you go into town?
Okay. See you soon. That was my son.”
“Are
you working? What doing? A teacher, yea? That’ll be alright. Look there’s
lots of red cards. Hi darl, I’ll be with you in a minute,” she turned to
another potential customer.
“Just
take a seat and there’s some mag’zines for you to read.”
“Okay
darl, any questions?” I didn’t bother asking, as I knew whatever I asked she
would say it’ll be alright. I paid the money and wished I bought something
instead.
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