The Old School

It was a Friday when the storm came. It battered the old school building, shaking the walls and tearing at the roof like a starved beast. Inside, rain streamed from cracks in the ceiling onto open exercise books and abandoned desks.

Mr Thompson watched, shivering, from the doorway of the gym. All of the children and staff had been moved here an hour ago, after the storm broke one of the big windows in the west corridor. Now he stood against the howling wind with his arms folded tightly. A gust blew a few more tiles off the roof. They hit the tarmac, smashing into thousands of pieces. Mr Thompson smiled; he had always wanted to destroy the place.

He thought of what his classroom must look like by now: waterlogged carpet, crumbling plaster, blackened debris. It was almost a pity they had to let the kids out before the roof fell in. He wouldn’t have minded losing one or two of them.

He remembered being eager to get started on his first day. He came in with a fat plastic wallet full of worksheets for his classes, and a handmade poster on brightly coloured paper, which he pinned up at the front of his classroom. For the first year he tried to see the potential in every child, and the wisdom of every colleague. It was the little things which chipped away at his optimism: every fight he had to break up; every bit of departmental politicking; every child deemed a ‘lost cause’. Slowly, imperceptibly, it turned him sour. These days he only saw bad kids and pompous asses. The plastic wallet sat forgotten in a drawer somewhere, and the colourful poster had long since faded.

The sky thundered, a sound lost in the rain’s white noise roar. Mr Thompson thought he saw one of the walls of the old building shudder. It wouldn’t survive the storm. When it fell, there would be an outpouring of public support. The local newspaper would get involved, and people would fall over themselves to donate money. The headteacher would do photo opportunities, a determined look smeared across her toadish face as she wallowed in the publicity. The new school would be late, poorly constructed, and over-budget; and then things would go on as if nothing ever happened.

He turned back to the sterile light of the gym. He hated that the place could be razed to the ground, and it still wouldn’t make a difference. He hated that nothing ever changed.

Inside, the heaving mass of students and staff chattered with nervous excitement. Emily stood up. It was too stuffy in here. She passed Mr Thompson on her way to the door, but he seemed not to notice her. She supposed he was worried about losing his classroom if the storm didn’t ease up soon.

From the doorway, she could see the old building through sheets of silver rain. It stood where it always had, but it looked different now. It reminded her of looking into her granddad’s eyes, near the end, and seeing a glimmer of the person he had been, lost in a wasted shell.

He died the week before she started school. It made the first few days rougher than they might have been, and she had no-one to talk to. Her mum became distant, and spent months dealing with all the paperwork. Her friends had all gone to different schools. But, gradually, she found her way. She made friends, and the teachers liked her. Well, most of the teachers liked her, anyway. She came to appreciate that the school was always there, waiting to receive her at the start of each day. She had found a place to lay anchor while the seas around her churned.

Now the sky was black, and the rain poured. One of the walls of the old school building shivered violently and came crashing down. Emily felt the impact in her stomach; felt the ground rumble. The roof sagged uselessly above the ruins of an old classroom. Now everything was going to change. She hated that.

---

Written for the weekly short story competition on the 'Writer's Block' Discord server.