A cliché, that's what my story is. You've no doubt heard it before, seen the film and read the book. It's a dried up, tired old chestnut of a story. But at the time I didn't notice the familiarity of its narrative, and since time tends to turn most experience into cliché I feel vindicated in my sharing it with you, now.

It begins with the death of maths teacher Kate Cahill. Mick O'Brian, the school caretaker, found her slumped on the toilet with a magazine on her lap. 

"She wasn't a pretty sight," said Mick, as I made him that bad news panacea, a cup of hot sweet tea. In life her looks were somewhat lacking, and I couldn't imagine what further brutality death had bestowed on her already gnarled and bitter visage. 

Life had not been kind to Kate, and she returned the favour by being unkind to all she met. Her death provided a final indignity by delivering the aneurysm that killed her as she popped to answer the call of nature before she left school for the weekend.

......

At the time I had turned 40, and was headmaster of a secondary school deep in Ireland's rural heartland. I was a childless widower. My beautiful wife Helen and I had started trying for a family when cancer snatched her. My grief was exacerbated by an overwhelming sense I'd failed her.

Which is why I wasn't overly sad about Kate Cahill's death. She wasn't one of life's gems; an embittered woman, old before her time. 

Had I been the man I am now, perhaps I'd have looked for an answer to her anger and offered help and understanding. But back then, I took her for what she presented herself as: a scowling  harridan. She served her purpose as an authoritative maths teacher who ensured good results at our end of year leaving certificate examinations. For that alone she was an asset to me.

I announced her demise during the Monday morning assembly. I felt the collective sigh of relief from class 4B who had double maths that morning; swiftly followed by forced mock sadness when they realised death should invoke grief, not glee. Her funeral was a soulless, sombre affair, with one student representative from each year in attendance. And so, Kate Cahill was dead, buried, and soon – forgotten. 

......

The sun shone from a flawless sky on the first day of term in September. 

The unseasonably warm day was a fitting welcome for the ray of sunshine that was Mr Troy Davis. He looked like his name: tall, toned, tanned, with a shock of shiny blonde hair that framed a face that was magnificently handsome. 

I interviewed him before summer break and was struck by his energy. On paper he was completely unsuitable, only 2 years out of teacher training college and looking for a 1-year posting to facilitate his travel plans. But the influx of tired, care worn candidates I saw had given me the impulse to see something fresh. He bowled me over with his enthusiasm. It wasn't until he'd left my office that I was struck by something else: he possessed the same zesty essence as my beloved wife Helen.

"YER A FINE THING SIR!" Martina Coogan from 4B always said what she saw, and that morning as I introduced the new staff member at the start of term assembly, she didn't hold back. 

"OK, Martina, settle. The holidays are over and I want you to buckle down to it." I replied, once the laughing had subsided. 

To be fair, he did look more pop star than teacher, and I knew he'd get the girls hearts fluttering, and no doubt a few of the boys, too. 

Martina was a girl who came to school to socialise rather than learn. She was constantly in trouble and I'd briefed my staff to deal with her petty misdemeanours themselves rather than sending her to my office. So my exacerbation was acute when she knocked on my door at ten past three on the first day of term. 

Martina rarely operated alone and her partner in crime this day was Terry Cooney. Miss McPhilips sent them to me for committing that most common of school time crimes, laughing in class. It transpired that sometime during the summer, Martina had learned that the word 'pussy' was also used to describe a lady's nether regions, and she shared this vital nugget with Terry. Together they thought it would be funny to ask girls in their class whether they had one. They couldn't contain their mirth when Catriona Smith answered midway through geography that she had, "A ginger one, that loves being stroked."

Martina's parents were pig farmers and she was the penultimate child of nine. I had watched her older siblings under-perform and leave school to live the lives they were destined for: farmers and farmers' wives. I'd dismissed Martina as a losing statistic in whom I shouldn't invest much academic time. This notion was cemented by the fact her Mother and Father never attended a parents' evening. If they didn't care about their children's academic future, then why should I. Yet the truth was, I liked Martina – she amused me.

On the Friday of Troy's first full week I noticed men didn't like him, or to be precise, my male staff didn't like him. I think this was principally because women worshipped him. I walked into an almost completely segregated staff room that lunchtime. The men sat on one side of the room flushing ham sandwiches down their gullets with mouthfuls of sugary tea. Troy sat opposite surrounded by a gaggle of fawning females. As I poured myself a tea I listened to him – the man was a human dynamo: buzzing, whirring, humming with thoughts and ideas. He filled the stale space with life and I could feel certain members of staff becoming switched on by his energy. Miss McHale noticed my arrival, and with a beaming smile I'd never registered before,  invited me to join the group.


By the end of that lunch time I'd given my blessing to: an after hours book club, a trip for year 5 to see a production of Macbeth in Dublin, and most ambitious of all, a trip to Paris for year 4. I left the staff room that day with a changed mind-set – I was on Troy's team. Back at my desk I experienced a deep affection; after 16 years of a somewhat turbulent court-ship, I suddenly felt myself falling in love – with my job.

"It's Martina Coogan," she called from behind my closed office door. I was surprised as it was gone four and the final school bus of the day had already departed. "Come on in Martina," I said, curious. She entered looking smart, her usually dishevelled uniform carefully arranged for the visit. Instinctively and stupidly I asked, "Are you in trouble, Martina?" Her reply was delivered in an unfamiliar, dismissive, mature tone, which was in stark contrast to her school time persona, "Ahh, give us a break sir, that's what Mammy asks me every time I put on a pound or two." I felt chastised, my shackles rose; I'd spent three years accommodating this girl's misdemeanours, and now she had the audacity to intrude upon my personal time with an unnecessary attitude. My reply was curt, "Well, what can I do for you? "

"Ahh, don't be annoyed with me now, sir."

"What is it Martina?"

"You say in assembly that your door's always open."

"Martina – spit it out?"

"Well – it's always shut when I'm sent to see ya." We both laughed. The ice broken, Martina's tone changed.

"But seriously Sir, there's someone I'd like to talk to you about..."

I glanced at the clock, we'd conversed for the best part of an hour. Conversation? I suppose you could call it that, as I did contribute the odd word. But more accurately, it was a beautiful commendation. I sat and listened open mouthed: startled by what she was telling me.

......

"Feed the world, let them know it's Christmas time," blasted from the school canteen which had been transformed into a makeshift theatre for our inaugural Christmas concert. Troy had done a grand job producing an hours worth of solid festive entertainment. I was gob smacked by the sheer range of talent within my school, and it wasn't only the students. Tom O'Conner, (History), floored us all with an outstanding rendition of Prince's 'When the Doves cry' delivered in a faultless falsetto. 

In one short term my school had been transformed from a dull, black and white educational institution, into a shining technicolor learning laboratory.

Troy gave the students something to aim for, work towards, and look forward too, other than exams. I noticed this had a positive academic affect; year 4's upcoming trip to Paris gave them the impetus to learn the language. As a result, the French exam grades improved greatly. 

Martina Coogan reached the giddy heights of an A plus. She responded by jumping up and down the corridor, holding aloft her French paper as if it were the world cup. I was delighted for her, and I knew that this was just her beginning; she was destined for great things.

I shook the hand of every single student that day. For the first time since Helen died I was looking forward to Christmas day. Troy had invited Miss McHale and I to his flat for Christmas lunch. I accepted the invitation, much to the dismay of my parent's and spinster sister. 

The heavy cloud that hung over me since Helen's death was beginning to lift. At times I could physically feel it shifting, allowing in more light. I had no doubt that it was Troy who was behind this push. In his presence, I felt young again. I told him this after the concert when all the students had left; he looked at me with a puzzled look and said, "But you are young."

......

I sprang out of bed on Christmas morning like a child. I'd spent the previous day visiting my parent's and sister, quietly tolerating their disdain at my refusal to spend the big day with them for the first time in my life. Perhaps this explained my excitement – I felt liberated and grown up. Instinctively I grabbed the framed picture of Helen from my bedside table and danced around the bedroom with her while singing Slade's,"Happy Christmas everybody," at the top of my voice.

There was another reason for my exuberance that morning, and it was one that struck me as I stared at Helen's smiling face. 

Although I was looking forward to the camaraderie and conversation that Troy would provide, it was the prospect of spending time with Miss McHale outside of school that thrilled me. It was when I noticed her smile that afternoon in the staff room that my feeling toward her shifted gear and started to drive away from its professional parking space. 

I didn't know at the time where her heart was headed, but I expected this day to give me some clarity. I stared at Helen, feeling guilty. Sitting on our bed I was immediately filled with an extra terrestrial feeling of release. Guilt poured from me as I unwrapped hope and expectation; the shackles of my grief fell away. Helen was giving me her blessing to love again. At that very moment, I believed not only in life after death, but in life itself.

As I drove to Troy's flat I wondered whether his intentions were the same as mine. When he greeted me with open arms and I saw his youthful handsomeness in all its festive glory, I was deflated by the realisation that it was surely him that Miss McHale hoped for. But as that fantastic day progressed, Troy revealed that his yearnings were for those of the same sex. And so there I was on Christmas day, in a flat with a beautiful woman and a gay guy – how very modern, I thought.

Troy's admission led our conversation along a revelatory path, and I found myself opening up along with the bottles of wine. I spoke about Helen in cathartic depth, and from there, as if driven by an urgent need to purge, I found myself breaking my promise to young Martina Coogan, and spilling the contents of the private conversation we'd had in my office. When I finished, I looked into the eyes of Miss McHale. She was crying softly, and as I took her hand in mine, our tears flowed.

......

Spring, sprang early that year. Young people notice everything and despite our best efforts to conceal our burgeoning fondness for each other it wasn't long before whistles of knowing rang out whenever Miss McHale and I were spotted together.

Year 4 were full of joie-de-vivre on the morning of their departure for Paris. It was odd seeing them in civilian clothes, I got more of a sense of their personality from the way they chose to dress; Martina Coogan looked the epitome of youthful cool. The atmosphere was charged as Troy and Miss McHale, who were accompanying the group, checked tickets and passports were in order. Miss McHale and I embraced goodbye to a cheering chorus from the excited throng on board. That spring morning, life really did taste sweet.

I really missed Miss McHale that week. Occasionally, as I patrolled the quiet empty corridors of the school during class time I'd catch her fragrance and long to hold her. She phoned me every evening from France and we spoke like love-struck teenagers. She had grown close to Martina Coogan on the trip. We talked about how we had read this girl wrong, how we had judged her by her siblings standards. We opened are minds and hearts and most importantly we questioned our narrow perceptions.

......

'Once I believed that when love came to me, it would come with rockets, bells, and poetry. But with me and you, it just started quietly and grew...'

...sang Mamma Cass, as Helen and I took to the floor for the first dance on our wedding day. And it was most apt given that our love was very much a slow burn. The latter however, was the case when Miss McHale arrived at my house on the evening of her return from Paris, accompanied by a fine bottle of Bordeaux. After a glass each we launched ourselves at each other and consummated our relationship with rip-roaring rockets, bells and poetry. Afterwards, while enjoying the obligatory post love-making cigarette, we chatted in a mutual afterglow about ourselves and laughed at the speed of our union. We agreed that Troy was the catalyst for our relationship, his free thinking had enabled us to act on the strength of our feelings, unencumbered by our fierce catholic guilt.

......

'Ninety nine red balloons floating in a summer sky' rang out from the school canteen which had been transformed into a make-shift dance hall for our end of year summer disco. 

Troy manned the decks like a seasoned pro as the students arrived at our sun-filled early evening night club. All my staff had agreed to stay and take it in turn to supervise the hall to make sure all merriment was of the sober variety. 

But looking back, as soppy as it sounds, we were all high on happiness that late May evening. Every time a new teacher took to the floor on supervision duties the bopping crowd of young people created a swaying circle forming a grooving arena into which the unfortunate teacher had to perform. The sight of Tom O'Conner, (History), flailing manically along to 'wake me up before you go go' reduced the crowd to tears of laughter, not least because Tom's determination to emulate the dance routine was failing spectacularly. 

Troy was the only liquor we needed that evening; he kept the crowd deliriously entertained with a mixture of current hits and a youthful banter. His great gift was to communicate with the students on their level, yet with a responsible adult authority. He removed the 'them and us' culture which had previously existed between the teachers and staff and which had largely been perpetuated unconsciously by myself. 

As the evening drew to a close, I became aware of Miss McHale and I being called to the hall. Our names rose to a chant, accompanied by a mass of stomping feet. We were being summoned into the arena, the final act of the night; we had no choice but to perform. 'I want to know what love is,'  was Troy's choice of song for our debut. We danced as a couple, the cheers of the crowd almost drowning out the power ballad.

......

At 3.45 on the last day of term I stood at the gates of my school as the busses began to arrive. It looked as different as it now was; basking in an optimistic glow. I was delighted when Troy informed me of his change of plans. After a summer of travel in the far-east, he asked if he could return for a second year with us. I said yes without hesitation and with a brotherly hug. 

Troy's influence was even felt beyond the school as his weekly drama club held in the town hall had unearthed some talented thespians among the towns more senior folk. In just one short school year the man had established a kind of celebrity status within our small community.

Before the Claxon sounded, I noticed the familiar shape of Martina Coogan approaching. She stopped in front of me, and leant against the open school gate.

"It's been a grand year, sir," she said, with a smile.

"It surely has Martina, and it's the big one for you come September. I hope we're going to be seeing you back?"

I asked her the question because her siblings had failed to turn up for their final year.

"You bet your life I'll be back sir, a Coogan taking the leaving cert, now there's a first."

I was thrilled and said encouragingly, "And you'll walk it Martina."

"I'll do my best, the maths'll be a struggle, us Coogan's were never good with numbers." The Claxon sounded the end of school year.

"What have you planned for the summer then, Martina?" I asked. She answered with authority,

"I'm thinking of starting my first novel, Sir."

"And what will it be about, or is that top secret?"

"No secrets sir. It'll probably be about a teacher, an inspiring teacher, but don't you worry, I'll change the names."

"But hasn't that been done before?"

"Yeah, it probably has, hasn't everything been done before – but this one has a wee-twist, and you know it, Sir," she said, with a wink.

"Happy Summer, Sir."

"Martina, call me Simon, we're both on our holidays now."

"Simon, Simon? I always had you down as a Derek. I like Simon, it suits you, Sir, I mean Simon."

I watched her walk away, a newly confident girl on the cusp of greatness. 

Today

I'm an old man now, enjoying the twilight of my life. I reflect back on that sunny school year as my personal epiphany. A sudden, intuitive insight into the real meaning of life and understanding of people was bestowed upon me, precipitated largely by the arrival of Troy Davis.

But this magnificent young man and superlative teacher never did return to my school. Instead, he died instantly when a bullet entered his head. The bandits chased him deep into dense woodland in Southern Thailand. He was executed for his camera and 200 dollars in cash. His life enriched the savages by an estimated £600, yet they robbed the world of a most magnificent energy. Miss McHale, (now the lovely Mrs Farrel), and I, ensured his enthusiasm remained in our school and it continued to thrive under our leadership, buoyed by Troy's energetic spirit.

And so my story began with a death, and ends with one. 

But not quite, there is an epilogue, I suppose you could call it a wee-twist in the tale. 

Martina Coogan did begin her first novel that summer. It was published five years later to instant acclaim and success. As she had suggested at the school gates, it was a somewhat clichéd tale of an inspirational teacher. 

I did indeed recognise myself in it, and my wife. Troy was also there, his dynamism and energy captured perfectly by her fast flowing prose. 

But, he wasn't the star. Instead I recognised someone else in the narrative's central character: a person I had disliked, a woman I had misjudged, a member of my staff whom Martina had come to talk to me about when I was a young headmaster.

In the dedication to her first book, Martina was more explicit: For Kate Cahill, the teacher who first recognised my way with words and encouraged me to write them down instead of throwing them away. Miss Cahill, gone, but never, ever forgotten.

Kate Cahill, the woman I had dismissed as a withered old harridan had noticed and nurtured Martina's verbose talents. Although a mathematics teacher, words were her passion, and in Martina she found a vehicle in which to indulge them. They'd spend weekends devouring the latest best sellers and weeknights critiquing them animatedly. She recognised Martina's ability to amuse and engage her classmates with her tall-tales as a talent to be exploited, not as a reason for reprimand. Instead she encouraged the young Martina to harness and channel her gift, resulting in the literary success she enjoys today.

Martina's books have been translated into almost every language in the world, and although her narratives are diverse and varied the books always have one thing in common: their cover designs never bear any relation to the story within, "Never judge a Martina Coogan book by its cover," is her mantra. 

We all judged Kate Cahill by her hard cover. Had we bothered to take the time to read her better, we would have discovered an achingly lonely, sensitive, and highly intelligent lady who just longed to be loved. 

The fact that I barely bothered to even like her still fills me with shame.