Boy Who Made It Rain Read Online Free Page A

at anyone unfortunate enough to be in close proximity, they have the temerity to point the finger at seasoned and experienced professionals; teachers, valued colleagues, who have had to wade through the turbulent seventies and eighties and emerged on the other side somewhat tarnished but gifted individuals nevertheless. Okay, so some of them are embittered and threadbare, but they are entitled to be after years of strife, are they not? It’s hardly their fault now, is it? Don’t expect me to sit here and perform some sort of self-flagellation because it won’t happen.
    Oh God no, I’m not suggesting that’s any excuse for what happened.
    Pauline Croal was a hard worker. She had good classroom management skills, which is probably the biggest worry when the new intake come swanning in. In that regard I had no concerns at all, absolutely none. As head of department probationers can be a headache at times, but she coped admirably from day one. I never heard any negative feedback from the students. Similarly I never heard any positive ones either. She was a capable teacher, that was evident. Personally I found her a touch snooty and aloof.
    Undoubtedly, I thought that she was a good-looking young woman, I think most of the male staff, and the male student body, did also. Nevertheless I don’t appreciate the insinuation. I’m a married man. Happily. One thing experience has taught me in this job is to be a good judge of character and I can tell you one thing, I didn’t trust her. It was as simple as that. I didn’t give her a hard time or anything, she got treated like any other member of staff but, the fact remains, I didn’t trust the girl. As I said, I’m a good judge of character. With this incident the paradox is, on one hand, I was pretty much spot on while, on the other, I was way off the mark. That I’m well aware of. No, I don’t think there was anything I could have done. Even those with the foresight and inside knowledge couldn’t have had an impact. There was no indication whatsoever. You just don’t expect the unexpected. We’re teachers, not detectives, psychologists or mind-readers. You can’t apportion blame with this, myself and my colleagues are absolved from any finger wagging.

Rosie Farrell’s Mum’s First Impression
    Well I have to say I was getting worried about our Rosie. She was dressing like one of them depressed lassies you see in the centre of town. You know, the ones who loiter behind the bookshop in Buchanan Street. I don’t know what they do, they talk about music and watch the young lads play on the skateboards. And have their tights all ripped to shreds. Is that fashion? To me they all look the same, all dressed in black. And that make-up they all wear! What they need is a good wash, so they do. Anyway, I didn’t want our Rosie to follow suit. It’s not any parent’s dream, is it? But I’d have rather her run around with that crowd than have her knocking about with a group of NEDs.
    It’s terrifying being a parent nowadays. You’re scared stiff to let them out of your sight, then there’s the whole teenage rebellion thing, not to mention the periods and growing up. As a mother you want to be pals with your daughter, good pals, you know, talking about girlie stuff and all that, but Rosie was no into all that, she hated all that pink girlie stuff, she even hated me washing her underwear. Well, she hated it being on show…like when it was drying. She washed it all herself and dried it in her room, which was an out of bounds area in our house. I don’t think she was embarrassed about her body, I suppose she was just like any other sixteen-year-old girl in that respect. But we never spoke about things like that. We knew our boundaries. And I’m no stupid I knew she’d relax her rebellious streak. Sure, I was just the same when I was that age. My parents couldn’t relate to me