The Supervisor

A Response To The Prompt — Bridge

No bridge between us, I cannot help her.

A room with a view. The window — a welcome distraction. Trance-like, I’m drawn to the rippling dark-grey water reflecting the shadows of blurred upside-down buildings on its sluggish surface.

Even with the window closed, I cannot fully block out the early morning reverberations of the city. I hear the slow-moving traffic, at times motionless and impatient, and in rare interludes — silence — creating an imaginary vision of a vehicle-free world. I listen to the throbbing of stationary cars and the throttling of heavy articulated lorries, these erring leviathans.

Stillness. For a breath of a moment, nature has its turn; the river, the sky, the birds have their say. Pedestrians again have the streets… for a little while.

And my exam candidate has a respite from the distraction of urban noise. I turn away from the window and observe.

A small room, with a small table chaired by the calm and collected aspirant, head down, pen in hand or thoughtfully pressed against her lips.

Once again, the precious silence is broken by the noisy flow of the traffic.

I watch her as she writes, and turn to the window when she looks up to reflect, before silently returning to her exam papers.

Break time, the commotion of classrooms emptying their students, doors slamming, feet chatting along the corridor.

All the more need to concentrate, time is running out for this section of the examination. She still has some way to go though before she’s finally finished.

I hope she doesn’t panic and take too long to edit words written. I pray she keeps in mind quality, not quantity. I cannot talk to her but feel her urgency. There is no bridge between us, we are sides apart. I cannot help her.

I close my eyes and listen to the voices of the students on break below on the street; Spanish, Portuguese and Italian are the loudest, most passionate. Laughter transcending all languages. 15 minutes to go, I tell her, avoiding eye contact, only my voice with the count-down.

The sounds from the outer world again get louder, more invasive, as students return to their lessons.

It’s now hand-up time for test paper one. And, freed of all worldly possessions, a trip to the bathroom.

She’s back. Next on the agenda, the listening exercise and paper two. I hope the technology works. I hope she can block out all external disturbances.

A smooth run with no glitches. What a relief.

The creaking of her chair, intensified by her rocking motion, increases as she concentrates and flips through the written pages to prioritize, to correct. What will she focus on, proof-reading or gap-filling?

A fire-brigade pushes its way through the traffic, screaming its siren. A need to panic? I hear a sigh, her first. I cannot stop the clock. A sip of water, her first. Head thrown back, she takes a deep breath. The all-final 15 minutes left. I remind her. Will it suffice?

Her face tenses, a furtive glance at her watch.

I look out the window again and notice a lone seagull gliding the current of the wind. The motion soothes me. The river invites, reflecting the bright and warm sunshine dancing on its endless ripples. Irish weather at its best behaviour. I can hardly wait to fold up the late morning, but I dread having to tell her to stop.

With still ten minutes to go, she stretches, gets up from her chair, and building a bridge, she hands me her final documents.

“I’m done, no more correcting,” she smiles confidently, “it would only complicate things.”