Chapter Text
Daniel Howell was a careful man. Meticulous, some would say – given his affinity for organisation and detail. If he had to describe the inner workings of his brain, he’d compare it to a collection of files and folders, neatly packaged away into boxes that slot into all the right departments. The irony of that description wasn’t lost on him, given the current state of his life. Maybe a collection of files containing outdated information was a more fitting image, or perhaps someone had rifled through and locked boxes at random before throwing away the keys.
Speaking of boxes, it’s about time he ordered some, Dan thinks to himself. Sure, the new place hasn’t exactly been finalised, but he’s spoken to his potential future flatmates enough to realise not many people are as desperate as he is. Not that his desperation to leave this town is by choice, but rather necessity. Moving as far away from his old life as he could was something he had attempted to do both mentally and physically the second he left home.
At first it was total bliss. A different small town – one four hours north of Reading, where no one knew him – no one knew about his past or cared enough to dig up his old secrets. Here, he could become anyone he wanted to be without the invisible ropes tying him to his younger self. He’d worked as a server for a year at a family-owned tearoom, before the family in question decided to move to America, shutting down the shop and leaving him jobless in the process. He tries to muster up something resembling bitterness or resentment towards the family, but Dan can’t bring himself to feel much at all these days.
Besides, the Joneses were nothing but kind to him. He hadn’t had to pay for a single drink on shift despite his repeated insistence. Mrs Jones – a kind, plump faced woman that often reminded Dan of his own grandmother – gave him a free cream tea and homemade scone (“cream first, thank you very much,”) as long as he played them a tune on the shop’s upright piano whenever he came in - a piano which now sits in his living room, gathering dust.
It wasn’t the most prestigious of jobs, but it paid the bills. Plus, the old ladies that frequented the tearooms adored his polite disposition, (something that had been drilled into him by the aforementioned grandmother) unlike the boys vile creatures he had gone to school with. Unfortunately, much like every other good thing in his life, it came to an end before he was ready. All three of the Jones’s adult children had decided to study across the Atlantic and it was only fair that their loving parents would miss them. At least they’d been kind enough to also gift Dan the shop’s fancy coffee machine – something he uses on a daily basis. He’ll never admit it, but he’s become something of a coffee snob recently.
Over the last three months, he’s developed a routine of making a flat white before opening his laptop and browsing through increasingly sparse job application sites. Hardly anyone in town is hiring right now, and the places that are aren’t exactly keen to hire him. Not that he can blame them. Daniel Howell – socially awkward 22-year-old university dropout - doesn’t exactly scream employee-of-the-month material.
He’s almost lost track of how many job applications he’s sent off at this point – how many insipid cover letters he’s written, or the number of stupid videos he’s been forced to upload – all to no avail. His parents have repeatedly told him he’ll have more luck finding jobs in London, even if it means not having his own place anymore. Despite Dan’s reluctance to admit it, they’ve probably been right this whole time. The rejection email from the corner shop below his flat was simply the final nail in the coffin.
Today, he makes the flat white and scrolls through Twitter instead.
-
It’s 7:27pm and Dan’s midway through dinner when he’s alerted to the sound of the letterbox slamming. He puts down the greasy oven-baked pizza, pauses the shitty sitcom he’s been using as background noise to avoid his own thoughts and goes to retrieve the letter. Presumably junk – the newest local pizza restaurant sending him a two-for-one offer (valid for two hours - on a Tuesday if you’re lucky), or maybe it’s the bank writing to say ‘we’ve lowered your interest rates for the coming year’. What he isn’t expecting is a pristine, cream-coloured envelope addressed to a Mr D. J. Howell in an intricate handwritten script. The seal on the envelope is a blue crest – familiar looking, yet he can’t quite place it. Dan wipes his grease-laden fingers on his black jeans before opening the seal and beginning to read:
Dear Mr. Howell,
Upon review of your video submission and interview, the staff here at Elmsthorpe Secondary School have decided to offer you the role of Music Teaching Assistant for the upcoming academic year. The term commences on 4th September, but all new staff should arrive one week prior. If you wish to accept this offer, please send an email response by July 31st. You may wish to read our faculty website to find out more. Should you have any queries, please reach out using the contact details above.
Sincerely,
Ms S. D. Wojcicki
Head of Admissions for Elmsthorpe Day & Boarding School
Dan has to read the letter at least three times before the reality of it sinks in.
After three months of searching, he's landed a job.
A good, respectable job.
Something that’ll pay the bills. A teacher – well, teaching assistant isn’t something he saw himself doing but it’ll be something he inevitably sprinkles into the long-awaited phone call he has with his parents.
They agree to help him out with rent for the next two months.
They tell Dan they’re proud of him, and miss him very much.
He tells them he’s busy preparing for the new job, but “I’ll come down whenever I’m free.”
He lies.
Initially, it all seems too good to be true, so Dan decides to do some research. Sure enough, Elmsthorpe Secondary School is a real institution, located about twenty-five minutes away. It houses 810 pupils, both Borders and Day students as well as almost two hundred staff (including, but not limited to the teachers). He checks his list of job applications and sure enough he applied for the role back in May - almost two months ago. It’s slowly coming back to him now – the form with the ridiculous questions (who inspires you and why?) – and the video! How could he possibly forget that the last time he’d touched the upright piano was to film his video submission. Moreover, he vaguely remembers bumbling his way through an overly formal Zoom interview.
The thing that strikes him the most during his impromptu googling session is the school itself. The building is beautiful in an old-timey way – stone colonnades and archways everywhere, neatly manicured lawns and gardens strewn across the Northern countryside. Upon clicking the ‘Fees & Scholarships’ page, Dan realises there’s a reason the old buildings look so well maintained.
The students – or rather their wealthy parents – pay a minimum of £32k a year to go here. And that’s just the Day pupils. He bites down the strange bitter feeling that arises in his stomach – it’s not his fault that some kids are lucky enough to go to schools like these, while he was stuck at a shitty comprehensive, one where the teachers weren’t paid enough to give a shit about who was bullying who. It’s not Dan’s fault that some parents can pay to put their kids in an environment where they get to thrive instead of having to fight for survival every single day.
He pushes the poisonous feeling away and gets to work on his acceptance email.
“At least the pay will be good,” he mutters to no one in particular.
Unsurprisingly, the empty flat does not reply, but simply watches over Dan as he double checks the email address on the letter before pressing Send. It’s now 8:16pm and the greasy pizza sits forgotten on the sofa, growing colder by the second. It’s been abandoned in favour of some wood spray and a dusting cloth as Dan makes his way to a once-abandoned nook of the living room, containing nothing but an upright piano.
It’s time to practice.