Tim was sitting on one of a pair of swings in the recreation ground, swaying a few inches back and forth, thinking about how long it was until the half term holidays. Six weeks felt like an eternity stretched in front of him. From where he sat, he could see his classroom across the yellow-white grass of sun-scorched playing fields. Soon, rain would turn everything green again, but for now it was burnt to the colours of drought. Out of the classroom window, Miss Stone was staring in his direction. She often stood there, always facing the same way, always towards the swings.
Today had been the first day of a new school year. Her words of welcome had not matched the weariness in her body, the dull monotony of her voice.
The swing creaked. It had wooden seats, worn smooth by generations of use, the iron chains gripped loosely by Tim’s fingers were burnished where generations had held them. He started to swing with more purpose, tucking his feet under the seat and flinging them forward to gain momentum, using his meagre body weight to go higher with each pass.
Sometimes, the neighbouring empty seat, would echo his movements. Tim was never concerned when this happened, or why it creaked as though it carried a burden. He sometimes imagined a friend sitting next to him and had created, in his head, a boy slightly taller than himself, with dark, straight hair, flopping over his eyes whenever his head fell forward. He was a quiet and silent companion.
Miss Stone watched Tim and George as they swung, side by side, backwards and forwards. Tim was one of her current pupils. He was a quiet, intelligent boy, not unlike his companion had been. But whereas Tim was real, she knew George was only a ghost from long ago, a figment of her imagination.
When she had been new to teaching, George had been a boy who could fade into the shadows, quietly hide in plain view. But after the day he disappeared forever, he was always present in her guilt.
When George first spoke to Tim, it was in little more than a whisper. Tim thought, at first, the voice could only be in his head, but what George told him about Miss Stone was beyond Tim’s ability to invent, beyond his wildest imaginings.
Nobody was a huge fan of such a strict teacher as Miss Stone. She was sharp, always wanting everything done perfectly and on time. In truth there was nothing fundamentally wrong with her, she just wasn’t as much fun as some of the other teachers.
The next day, during the morning break, Miss Stone took Tim to one side. She asked him whether he had been alone in the recreation ground after school. She pointed out of the classroom window, across the playing fields, to emphasize the precise place to which she was referring. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and opened them as she exhaled.
“Were you talking to George?”
Tim felt a lump form in his throat. He didn’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “It was wrong of me to ask.”
Tim half wanted to walk away, to leave her question as a mystery, one to be shared in quiet corners of the playground.
“Maybe,” he said. “But I didn’t know his name.”
Miss Stone turned pale. She reached out to put a hand on the radiator to steady herself. Tim edged away. Miss Stone blinked quickly, several times, her mouthed twitched, and she fainted.
When she came round, the children had been ushered out of the classroom. The head and a teaching assistant were kneeling beside her. Tim had positioned himself just outside the half open door. He thought he deserved some answers. Miss Stone started to explain, saying she had been late rising that morning, her alarm clock hadn’t gone off and that she had skipped breakfast. The head teacher told her that a paramedic was on their way, protocol she said, and insisted Letitia get a proper check-up. Miss Stone agreed to, but she said there was nothing a doctor could prescribe which could cure guilt.
For a few days after Miss Stone’s collapse, Tim avoided the swings. He wasn’t scared, although he might later have admitted to being a little nervous. When he did return to the playground, he wasn’t surprised to find his companion beside him on the swings once more. George no longer felt like a figment of his imagination, but almost real, in an unreal way. Tim asked how he knew Miss Stone. George said that she had been his teacher too. George had his elbows hooked round the chains of the swing and was counting on his fingers.
“Thirty-six years ago,” he said.
Tim had no idea how old Miss Stone was, other than she looked older than his mother, but not quite as ancient as his gran. He asked George why he was there, on the swings.
“To help her, I think,” George replied.
George had been in Miss Stone thoughts every day since the accident. She almost gave up teaching after his death, but her friends and colleagues persuaded her to return to the classroom. It had been difficult to start with, but she eventually fell into a routine. And she followed the rules, perhaps too rigorously at times. The relationship with her boyfriend ended. He said that she had become un-fun. Miss Stone pointed out to him that un-fun wasn’t a word.
“And that is precisely what I mean,” he had replied. He left the next day. Letitia made no protest nor any attempt to persuade him to stay.
Charles had been right in some ways. She was diligent, responsible, thorough, but maybe a little too organised and lacking spontaneity. She did her best to ensure no child ever suffered such a fate as George had. She ran her classes with exacting precision. The registers were marked with the same fountain pen, the same colour ink, every day.
Nobody complained about Miss Stone’s teaching, but she didn’t make many friends either, not amongst the staff, pupils, or parents. There never was another boyfriend, even though she had not been without suitors.
Miss Stone slipped into the habit of watching the two boys in conversation on the swings. But she was too far away to hear what was being said, even with the windows open.
One day, her hands were gripping the windowsill so tightly, a splinter dug into the palm of her right hand. The terrible error she had made all those years ago still burned deep within in her soul. She knew that she would have to question Tim, but was no longer sure what was real, and what imagined.
She wondered if she was losing her grip on reality. She even feared that she had only imagined Tim, that even he didn’t exist. She returned to her desk and ran her finger down the list of pupils in the register. She breathed a sigh of relief when she reached Tim Stuart’s name.
Tim dragged his feet on the ground to slow the swing. It maintained a gentle swaying motion. The chains creaked and moaned. George’s swing did the same.
Wanting to know more, but wary to ask, Tim stared at the distant classroom window. A few brief showers had been enough to promote new growth, and the playing field already had a fresh green haze to it.
“You want to know what happened, don’t you?” George said. “I suppose I could tell you now.”
Tim nodded and George told him about the accident all those years ago, the events leading to his death. Tim caught the faint odour of smoke as he listened, or maybe it was only in his imagination.
A few days later, during the lunch break, when Miss Stone was on playground duty, Tim fell over playing a game of tag and grazed his knee, quite badly. It was her opportunity to talk to him alone. She took him inside, washed the cuts and applied a dressing, whilst she tentatively questioned him.
“Tell me about your friend in the recreation ground?” she asked, not looking up.
It would hopefully appear an innocent question if George was only in her imagination, but Tim responded immediately.
“He’s not really a friend Miss, he just turns up sometimes.”
Trying to stop her hands from shaking, she asked Tim how they met.
“George isn’t actually real, Miss. He told me he had died in a fire, thirty-six years ago. “I think he’s a ghost, Miss. Do you believe in ghosts? Please don’t tell anyone else, they’ll tease me.”
Miss Stone promised not to reveal Tim’s secret but asked why George was there and whether had ever mentioned her.
“He doesn’t know why he’s here Miss.” George bit lip. “But he thinks it might be to help you.”
The next time Tim saw George, it was not on the swings, but in the school playground. Tim was sitting on the warm tarmac in the sunshine, his back against the classroom wall, reading a comic. George sat next to him.
“Does she remember me?’ he asked.
“Don’t know.’
Tim drew his elbows in tighter to his sides, not wanting to make physical contact with George, not now he knew how George had died. For a moment, Tim thought the sun had gone behind a cloud, then realised it was Miss Stone’s shadow. She was standing in front of him. She spoke quietly so nobody else could overhear them.
“You can leave me with George. I’ll take care of him.”
Tim wondered if George had been waiting for Miss Stone to acknowledge his presence. He wanted to stay and listen, but Miss Stone wasn’t to be disobeyed.
“They said it wasn’t my fault, George. But it was. I should have noticed you weren’t there.”
The two of them sat in silence. Miss Stone had spoken in her normal voice, not caring if anyone heard her. Tim had only retreated a couple of yards and was pretending to read his comic.
“I was scared Miss.” George mumbled. “And it was my fault, not yours.”
Tim turned a page in his comic and turned it back again a few seconds later. He hoped they would forget he was there, listening to their conversation.
“I was scared too, Gorge, and confused. I didn’t know you were still in the building. I didn’t check properly.”
“You couldn’t have saved me, Miss. Both of us would have died.”
Tim knew there had been a fire in the school many years ago, but it was ancient history. There was, he remembered, a brass plaque in the entrance hall, a memorial to the event, but he had never read the inscription. The door beside him was ajar and, despite pupils not being allowed in the building during breaks, Tim edged through the gap. Nobody saw him enter the building.
It was strange being inside the school when everyone else was outside. It was strangely quiet, his every step echoed so loudly he was sure someone would hear. Making his way to the hall, Tim ran his fingers along the engraved words under the date on the plaque.
“In loving memory of George Sutton.” Tim read out loud. There was a date and a short inscription, saying how he had died in a fire.
As his finger lingered on the polished brass, there was a loud explosion, somewhere behind him. Tim clasped his hands to his head. He was on the floor for some reason and all he could hear was a painful ringing in his ears. There was smoke everywhere.
The explosion made Miss Stone jump. She looked to her side and saw that Tim was no longer there. Turning back, George had also disappeared. People were shouting, and the other teachers, who had been in the staff room during break, were now in the playground, lining up the pupils into form groups. Miss Stone quickly scanned her own pupils, looking for one boy. Tim was missing.
Smoke was, by then, pouring through broken windows and the main entrance doors, but Miss Stone didn’t hesitate. She squeezed through the door where Tim had been sitting, pulled her cardigan across her face to guard against the smoke, and made her way through the dimly lit classroom.
Tim wasn’t aware of what had happened. He was dizzy and coughing uncontrollably, almost retching. Every breath he took, hurt his throat. Smoke obscured his vision and stung his eyes. He felt hands under his arms as he was lifted from the floor. He had almost forgotten he was laying down. Something wet covered his face and prevented the smoke from choking him.
Within seconds he was outside, passed through a window and laid carefully on the grass playing field. Two strangers were bending over him, one holding some sort of mask over his face.
“You’re going to be okay son, you’re safe now, try to breathe slowly.”
Tim was taken to hospital. His parents arrived and told him not to worry, and the doctors said he was going to be fine.
“What happened?’ he asked.
At the school, firemen checked and secured the building. One said it looked like a gas explosion, but they would know more after a thorough examination.
Unseen, George walked with Miss Stone, across the lush green playing field and towards the playground.
“I think I’m too old for swings, George,” she said, smiling.
She wriggled her bottom onto the seat next to George. It was newly varnished wood, hardly worn at all, just as she remembered it from her childhood. Her hands closed around the shiny chains, and they began to swing in perfect unison.