It's rare to give much thought to a teacher's outside life – they're all the same, aren't they? They hobble about in their cave-homes trying to figure out the best way to fail a student. The best way to torment them. The best way to scramble their minds so when exam time comes, they're whittled down to shivering masses too terrified to turn the questionnaire over. It's generally best not to think of one's teacher and what they do outside of the walls of Coal Hill; best to keep that barrier between student and teacher.
Except that sometimes they shatter it.
The unexpected shout from a familiar voice and the sound of a bucket falling over; the slosh of water muted by the revving of an engine and the squealing of tires as a warbled vworp vworp sound so many say they think they've heard before fades away. The screech just outside of the classroom and the cutting of the growls; the click of a bike stand and the pop of shoes landing in tandem against linoleum.
The door swinging wide open and the woman who calls, "Sorry I'm late, what did I miss?"
Someone mutters hesitantly as she makes her way to the front, "Bell just rang, miss."
Her hands come together as her lips part in a wide smile and on every student's face is the fascination that defies logic because in every student's mind is the same set of questions: Who is she? Have I got the right classroom? What is she going to teach? What is she going to do? And did she really just ride a motorbike through the halls?
Dark eyes drifting to the doorway, her smile turns sheepish as the Headmaster tells her firmly he'd like to see her at day's end and the students wait eagerly for her response. Surely she'd say something witty, except she simply offers a small wince and a nod, but when he departs, she looks to the students and whispers mischievously, "Don't suppose any of you'd like to take this detention for me?"
It's when the air leaves their lungs in a chorus of laughter and as she removes the leather jacket she's wearing and plucks up a book from the shelf to her right and a marker from the board behind her, the questions in their minds multiply. Questions they sneak into lectures over the months.
"Where'd you get the bike?" Borrowed it from a friend.
"Where'd you learn to ride?" Anti-grav Olympics, got Honorary Mention!
"Where do you run off to when class ends?" On adventures.
"Who's the fellow at the window with the strange torch?" My best friend, but don't tell him I said so.
"Why've you got blood on your trousers?" Blood? My stars, that's tomato sauce – just went to Italy.
"Italy, miss?" To help invent pizza, of course.
Almost all of the time there's laughter because almost all of the time one has to assume she's joking. She couldn't have gone to Italy that morning, she's probably just had a mishap with breakfast. She's mentioned her dad, he probably taught her to ride the motorbike. Maybe her friend. Her best friend. The old bloke who interrupts the classes with wild eyes and angry brows who she pulls just outside to whisper harshly to. And they all notice when she leaves in one set of clothes and returns in another.
"Where've you gone?" Just to the loo.
"You've had a change of clothes." Did I mention the loo?
"Where's your friend gone?" That's a very good question.
Who are you?
It's not the question anyone asks aloud. They take down their notes and they study their books and they turn in their lessons and they're surprised at their marks and all the while the question lingers in the back of their mind about their ridiculous teacher with her quirks and her tales – who are you?
The stories become grander as time goes on. Some think it's possible she lives in a circus and others think she's simply mad. Still others think she's an absolutely ordinary person who makes things up to sound more important. Except… she knows too much about too much. Someone says she's a time traveller and everyone laughs. For a moment.
Because there was the time she said she'd met the Queen, Elizabeth the first. There was the time she'd mentioned playing with the Beetles and the time she'd shown up with a soldier's helmet on her head and part of a confederate flag draped over her shoulder, clothes and skin smattered with dirt. And there was the time she'd held back tears for most of a day and the only answer she had was, "Terrible things happened a long while ago that seem a lot more real to me now."
"What sorts of things?" Things we'll not discuss.
"What can we discuss?" Page thirty seven, which you should have read.
"Did you get a tattoo on your arm?" Page thirty seven. Everyone.
The questions sat burning in minds too frightened to ask – and the next day was, as usual, as if a week had gone by. Door popping open just before her instructions rang out in her song of a voice, and the students scramble for their books and pens, all the while scrutinizing her appearance. The smirky grin and the bright eyes, and the touch of pink to her cheeks.
"Is that a new necklace?" Why yes, it is.
"Never seen that stone before." Came from a volcano.
"Did your friend get it for you?"
She never answers the question, but her skin glows a harsher red as she turns away and the students reward her with a hearty chorus of giggles she points to with playfully narrowed eyes. There's no doubt in their minds that this teacher is a warrior, that she's a survivor, that she's brave beyond their wildest dreams and strong in a way they were too young to understand, and yet she goes crimson at a sound that's eventually all too familiar and her smile shifts when he swings through the door.
She's a comfort on a dark day and an unexpected encouragement left in a note on a paper, or a whisper in the hall and there wasn't a single student who didn't harbor at least an ounce of a crush. But much as they try to decipher her life, they know little more than their imaginations provide and are left at the end of the year bidding adieu to Miss Oswald with a unified sigh and a lingering thought.
Who are you?
For every year that went by in Coal Hill it echoes in the halls and it resonates through the students and faculty until she's a story herself. Until her name is on plaques and her name is in anecdotes and her name is on tongues spoken like some magical spell. And every so often, or so students claim, she'll pop into class and take one look around, then depart with a quiet apology, a dimpled grin, and the odd groaning wheezing sound no one could ever quite place.