Not one of the twenty-three students sitting in Mrs. Mink's classroom that day failed to see how she avoided displaying the slightest emotion at any time. They felt this a little extreme, but then everything about Mrs. Mink was extreme. She was, it was only fair to say, extremely strict, and expected only the very best from each and every one of her students. It was this tenacity and inspiring-cum-frightening spirit that had earned Mrs. Mink mythical status and that had glorified her in the eyes of her pupils, no matter how much they had despised her at any one time. Although they had all felt raped of any energy or ability to give after her tutelage, each found that she had impacted their lives far beyond punishment for incomplete homework. She had been an inspiration in many forms, mostly good but occasionally bad, for all twenty-one years of her teaching career. Now, however, as she stood bereaved in front of her class, they saw beyond her starkly polished image. They began to see that behind the thick-framed glasses, the tightly pinned and slightly greying hair, the drawn eyebrows and rouge, pencil-thin lips; hidden by the conservatively worn white blouse and black knee length skirt, honey stockings and sensible black heels, was a human being. Her humanity had never been as apparent as it was on this day; but no student would comfort her, because each knew the wrath to be incurred should any of them recognise and comment on this humanity.
Mrs. Mink herself had never considered herself extraordinary. Born Laura Mink and, as she had pledged, remaining Laura Mink until death do attain her, she was a self-confessed 'woman with substance.' She had never believed teaching to be 'just a job', but something for which her purpose was inextricably linked to. She took teaching as seriously as one may take living or breathing itself. She took interest in her students, but only ever from the sidelines; she never entangled a student in their own politics. She prided herself on being fair; often, to the detriment of student favour, but always to the benefit of their education. She never favoured students - at least, not openly. As with every teacher, she had her special students - students who had captured her mind with their brilliance, or heart with compassion. None had so much as Pat Joyeux. Though Mrs. Mink had sworn not to take a shining to one student over others, she could not help herself with Pat. Pat (who had asked never to be called Patrick) was what she would call a wonder-child. He was smart - both naturally and by his own hard work - he was kind, generous, loving and charming and was a stickler for rules and regulation, adhering with ease to every rule imposed on students. Above all, he dedicated to giving everything his all, all of the time. Mrs. Mink did not think it possible to find such a student - one whom she considered the closest to perfection she would probably ever find. However, perfection had embodied itself in Pat and had watched her, learnt from her and taught her for one full year. It was the most wondrous of all years Mrs. Mink had spent in teaching. Apart from his intelligence and learning capacity, Pat had come into his own in Mrs. Mink's class. He had been, by previous descriptions, as wondrous as he had been in her class in all his previous classes, albeit a little shy. However, as the year progressed and Mrs. Mink went out of her way to make him feel comfortable with his peers, he had grown and become the charming young man she would remember him as.
In third term, Mrs. Mink set the class project, following on the theme of plant-life. Each student was to select a flower, detailing its origins and all subsequent particulars. Pat had chosen the yellow rose, a slightly odd if not intriguing choice. As Mrs. Mink had marked the class projects, she had not been able to draw herself away from Pat's, which was by no means less than exquisite for a 10 year-old boy. He had photographed yellow roses, had been to several nurseries, collected samples and had written extensively on the plant as a whole. Mrs. Mink had quickly given it the top mark of the class. Pat was never a braggart for his achievements, however he had been most pleased with his mark and had displayed the project on his desk. A jealous classmate, most likely, had taken the project. Pat, not to mention Mrs. Mink, was devastated. He did not anger himself at anyone - simply sat sobered for the rest of the day, sketching roses. Mrs. Mink was, once again, touched by his maturity.
As the end of the year had approached, and gifts from parents had crossed from her desk to her drawer, Pat, whose parents Mrs. Mink had never met, brought her a single yellow rose from his garden, telling her that his mum had sent it, and told him to say thank you. It was, by far, the most touching gift she had ever received, and the rose remained, to this day, pressed inside the 1987 edition of Encyclopaedia Britannica "P".
Years had passed. Many of her ex-students visited, many more wrote letters, emails, postcards, each detailing successes they were eager for Mrs. Mink to acknowledge. Pat only ever contacted her once a year - a single yellow rose at Christmas - but it was all Mrs. Mink needed to know he was still alive and well. She wondered, often, how he was doing. His notes were never extensive, only ever saying "Thank you for teaching me how to learn", and although this was always pleasant for Mrs. Mink, never satisfied her desire to learn of his undoubted successes.
On a night close to Christmas break, Mrs. Mink was, like all dedicated school teachers, browsing through boxes of work and worksheets left from years gone by. She was sifting through a miscellaneous box that had yielded very little and was headed for immediate disposal when, lo and behold, Pat's project surfaced. She had gasped, amazed that she had somehow come into possession of this treasure. As she leafed through the carefully drawn pages, the depth of knowledge contained for one so small, a tear had formed involuntarily in her eye. She felt a feeling that is like the elixir for teachers - the one that reminds them why they teach. She remembered now, what it was to feel passion for teaching, and that for all her dispassionate deliveries to mindless students intent only on the lunch bell or each other, there was always one that would render them all ineffective in dampening her love for the profession. She had wept, then and then, for the way Pat had touched her life.
Invigorated, she had taken to the phone book. She reasoned that 'Joyeux' would be a particularly uncommon name, and was delighted when this proved correct. The only 'Joyeux' listed were the initials of Pat's parents, I M and J T, and empassioned by this discovery, wrote down the address on a post-it, stuck it to the project and resolved to visit after school the next day.
At 4pm, Mrs. Mink rang the bell on the residence of I M and J T, excited to see how they would react, and, if he was home, how Pat would remember her. She had changed drastically over the 16 years since she had seen him. He would be a man now, of 26. She felt suddenly silly, and had almost turned to leave when the door opened.
"Hello?" a man's voice inquired through the dark steel mesh.
"Hello, I'm Laura Mink. I'm not sure if you remember me, but..."
"Mrs. Mink? I know who you are... May I ask why you're here?"
"I have something of Pat's that he may appreciate." Mrs. Mink felt silly again.
"Oh. Righto. Well... you'd better come in, I suppose. Jen's in the kitchen, I think." There was a slight pause.
"Jen! Come here a moment, love." he yelled. Footsteps echoed down the hallway, and Mrs. Mink could make out the outline of a second person.
"Hello, Mrs. Mink, I'm Jennifer, Pat's mother. You... you had better come inside."
The door opened, and Mrs. Mink stepped inside. The warm summer day outside had not permeated the cool hallway. Jennifer led her into the lounge.
"Would you like a drink? A coffee, some water, perhaps?" Mrs. Mink shook her head.
"No, no, I'm really only her to drop something off. Is Pat home, at all?"
Jennifer looked at her husband. He shifted uncomfortably, and gave a slight nod to his wife. She looked back at Mrs. Mink.
"Mrs..."
"Laura, please."
"Laura... I don't know how else to say this, but... Pat was killed in February."
Mrs. Mink opened her mouth. She closed it again.
His mother continued. "Pat was serving in Sudan. He worked with UNICEF... he was over there for a couple of months, to help orphaned and lost children. He was shot by a man who thought he was trying to take his daughter away. It was.... is, awful. I..." she began to sniff, sighed loudly, and wiped the corners of her eyes, apparently not giving in to crying.
"There was no worse time for it. He and his fiancèe, Sian, were due to be married in June...I just... I knew he wrote to you occasionally, but I couldn't find your address anywhere, and we'd heard you moved schools... I'm sorry, Mrs. Mink."
Mrs. Mink, galvanised by the 20 seconds she had had to steel herself from crying, shook her head. "There's no need to apologise, Mrs. Joyeux, I completely understand. I... I don't know what to say to you, other than I'm sorry." She looked down at the project she held in her hands.
"Perhaps... perhaps you'd like to have this. It's a project he did in my class. On yellow roses."
Mr. Joyeux, who had been sitting silently next to his wife, stifled what sounded like a cry out. Mrs. Mink looked down at her hands again. She was obviously reviving pain for these people.
Jennifer looked over. "His project on yellow roses? He was so proud of that project. I don't think I've ever seen him so eager to please as he was on that. I think he did more work than play that term. No... you keep it Mrs. Mink. We have enough to remind us of Pat here. You... you keep it. Please."
As Mrs. Mink emerged into the baking summer sunshine, she felt colder than she had inside the house. She felt as if a blanket had been laid over her, and all happiness drained from every inch of her body. The project in her hands felt like a death sentence, and she cast it sadly into the passenger seat as she collapsed over the steering wheel in grief.
She had to continue at school, there was no question. Everyday to the end of the year, she drew a rose in the corner of her blackboard, and in the centre wrote the initials "PJ". Her students never asked why, and she never told.
As the last day of term approached, Mrs. Mink thought sadly of the summer holidays she would have to endure now. She could not understand why she felt so alone; after all, she had not spoken to Pat properly in over 16 years. Yet, for some reason, she felt like the loneliest person alive. Presents of perfume and chocolates, candles and drawings, were not enough to console her sense of loss, and her realisation that she would not receive a yellow rose this year.
At 7am, on the last day of term, Mrs. Mink arrived to prepare the classroom for the class party to be held that day. With no one else around, she opened the door to her classroom, and flicked on the lights. Her eye was immediately drawn to her desk, on which sat a bunch of yellow roses. Tears welled in her eyes as she walked over to the mass of yellow flowers, their perfume charming her senses until she could not smell it for her blocked nose. She sat down, and picked up an envelope, and, sobbing with happiness, sadness and pride, she opened it. Inside was a picture of Pat, age 10, standing in his garden with a yellow rose and his project. She turned it over, and felt as if she would explode, as she read his last message to her:
" Thank you for teaching me how to learn."
