Love Lessons Page 10

  ‘You could try explaining that you’re having to help out with your dad,’ said Mum guiltily.

  ‘I don’t want to talk to them about Dad,’ I said, sensing Mum was weakening. ‘I just want to help out, Mum. I want to help Dad. I want to earn a bit of spare money. I know we’re horribly in debt, I’ve seen all the bills.’ I paused. ‘I feel especially bad about that sixty pounds. I just didn’t realize. I’d take the underwear back but I’ve already worn it. I’ve got to earn it back, then I won’t feel quite so bad.’

  ‘Oh lovie, all right, all right. I understand,’ said Mum, patting my shoulder.

  Grace understood more fully. She waited until we were in bed.

  ‘What’s this thing with old Rax, Prue?’ she whispered. ‘Why do you really want to babysit?’

  ‘I said, I want to earn some money.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re so keen.’ She thought about it. ‘Are you keen on Rax, Prue?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said hurriedly.

  ‘You’re always hanging round the art block. And you always go pink when he says hello to you.’

  ‘I do not!’

  ‘Yes you do. Yeah, you’ve got a thing about him, haven’t you?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. For goodness’ sake, he’s a boring old teacher.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s not really like the others. He’s much more laid back and casual. Of course he’s not really good looking—’

  ‘Yes he is!’ I said.

  ‘What, with that weird little beard? Iggy and Figgy and me think beards are so gross. And then he’s got this earring. Iggy says it means you’re gay if you just wear one earring, though I suppose he can’t be if he’s got a wife and two children.’

  ‘I don’t care if he’s got a boyfriend, a girlfriend, or a beard like Father Christmas. I just want to do some babysitting to earn a bit of extra cash, that’s all,’ I declared. ‘Now shut up and go to sleep.’

  She did shut up. I thought I had her convinced. But later, when she turned over, she mumbled, ‘You do so fancy him. You can’t fool me, Prudence King.’

  I told Mr Raxberry I could babysit on Friday. I announced it as casually as I could, leaving it right to the end of the art lesson, acting like I’d almost forgotten about it.

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ he said, equally casual, as if it was the most ordinary everyday thing in the world. Maybe it was. Maybe half the class already babysat for the Raxberry household.

  He told me his address and told me his road was on the number 37 bus route.

  ‘Fine, no problem,’ I said.

  I wondered if he expected me to bus home after all? He had said he’d drive me home, hadn’t he? Or had I just made that bit up? I couldn’t help imagining Mr Raxberry in my head, the way I’d always imagined Jane and Tobias – but I didn’t get muddled with them, because they weren’t real.

  Tobias insisted he was real, materializing as I walked across the playground.

  I was supposed to be on my way to the Success Maker centre for an hour’s maths coaching, but I was wondering whether to skip the class. I’d discovered that the special tutors there didn’t always follow it up if you failed to put in an appearance. In fact they always greeted you with extreme enthusiasm, as if you’d passed a difficult exam simply by setting foot inside their glorified Portakabin.

  I looked longingly in the opposite direction, towards Mr Raxberry’s art block. I imagined myself on his map, running along the little red road.

  ‘You can’t go there. He’s busy teaching,’ said Tobias, pulling me back. ‘Talk to me. We haven’t spent any time together for ages. Please, Prue.’

  ‘Oh go away. I’m not in the mood,’ I muttered.

  ‘You be careful. If you keep ignoring me I’ll go away altogether, and then where will you be when you’re lonely?’ said Tobias. ‘Watch out. I’m fading a little already.’

  I looked at him. His beautiful face was blurred, his golden curls tarnishing to fawn, his blue eyes barely there.

  I felt a pang, knowing that he was right. All my imaginary friends had faded away as I’d gradually grown out of them. I could barely remember the strange companions of my little girlhood: the white rabbit as tall as my waist, the flock of flower fairies, the tame green dragon with crimson claws, the black and white jumping cow who flew me over the moon . . .

  Even Jane was fading now, though she had been my constant friend for years. I tried to conjure her up in a panic, but she pressed herself against the corridor walls, her back to me, refusing to show me her face.

  ‘You see,’ said Tobias. ‘Watch out, Prue, or you’ll lose me too. I’ll go for good, I’m warning you.’

  His attitude was starting to irritate me. He was a figment of my imagination. What made him think he could threaten me like this?

  ‘Go then,’ I said rashly. ‘See if I care. I can always make someone else up.’

  I turned away from him – and the Success Maker. I started marching back across the playground. I decided to hide in the girls’ cloakrooms until the bell went. I had a book in my school bag. I’d be fine. I didn’t need Tobias.

  ‘Hey, Prue,’ he called after me.

  I heard him running – and then he caught hold of me. His hand was on my shoulder, clutching it. I turned. There he was, his fair hair tousled, a smile on his face, a real boy, so real I could see the freckles on his nose, smell his shampoo, feel the warmth of his body.

  ‘Tobias!’ I blurted, like an idiot.

  ‘Tobias? No, I’m Toby,’ he said.

  Of course it was only that Toby from my class, Rita’s boyfriend, the one most of the girls fancied.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Tobias!’ he said, in a pseudo-posh voice, mocking me.

  ‘Yeah, right, I know,’ I said. I tried to act cool and casual, but sounded like a sad member of the Iggy-Figgy-Piggy club.

  ‘You’re going the wrong way,’ he said. ‘The Success Maker’s that way.’ He gestured over his shoulder.

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be going for the maths session?’

  ‘I don’t feel like it right now, OK?’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Can’t say I blame you. I’ve just been for an English session and it’s doing my head in. Tell you what, let’s skip everything and go for a smoke.’

  I stared at him. I didn’t want to go with him at all. I wasn’t even sure what ‘going for a smoke’ really meant. Was it some sort of euphemism? But Rita had been particularly mean to me that morning, making stupid remarks, and when I’d tried to ignore her by reading my book she’d snatched it from me and thrown it in a corner, tearing the dust wrapper and crumpling several pages. I’d felt like slapping her, but she was bigger than me, and Aimee and Megan and Jess would start on me too. Going for a smoke with Rita’s precious boyfriend seemed an easier way of getting my revenge.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘So. Where are your cigarettes, then?’

  ‘Not here. Behind the bike sheds,’ Toby hissed.

  In every school story I’d ever read the rebellious children got up to mischief behind the bike sheds. I looked at him sharply, wondering if this was some elaborate wind-up. He was certainly behaving theatrically, putting his finger to his lips as we walked stealthily past the classroom windows.

  I followed him, walking normally. I hummed under my breath to show him he couldn’t boss me about. He shook his head at me, but waited until we were away from the classrooms, approaching these infamous bike sheds. I thought he’d tell me off, but he seemed impressed.

  ‘You are so cool, Prue. You just don’t care, do you?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Is that why you’re here? Did you get expelled from your old school?’

  ‘I’ve not been to school, not for years. I went when I was little, but then my dad kept me and my sister at home.’

  I peered at all the bikes in the banal little shed. It didn’t really seem like a Den of Iniquity. Toby leaned against the ripples of the corrugated iron wall an
d fished a squashed packet of cigarettes and a box of matches out of his back pocket. I felt hugely relieved.

  I’d never smoked before and inhaled warily when he lit one for me.

  ‘You smoke then?’ Toby said.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, blinking because my eyes were starting to water. I held my chest muscles rigid, determined not to cough.

  ‘Rita’s always nagging me to give up,’ said Toby.

  ‘Well. Rita’s always nagging, full stop,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, I can’t stick that in a girl. They go on about how they’re mad about you and then they end up mad with you, bossing you about all the time, trying to get you to change.’ He paused. ‘Have you got a boyfriend, Prue?’

  I felt my face getting hot.

  ‘You’re blushing! Come on, who is he?’

  ‘There’s no one, really.’

  ‘Yes there is!’

  ‘No. Well, there’s someone I like.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Toby. He inhaled deeply and then blew expert smoke rings.

  I tried to copy but couldn’t quite get the hang of it, though he did his best to show me how to shape my lips and tongue. I started feeling dizzy from inhaling. I leaned back against the wall myself, shutting my eyes for a second.

  When I opened them Toby’s face was alarmingly close to mine, making me start. His eyes were half-closed, his lips puckered, almost as if he was about to kiss me.

  I moved sideways sharply.

  ‘Hey, don’t run away,’ he said. He reached out for me but I ducked away.

  ‘Prue, come on. I’m just trying to be friendly.’

  ‘Yeah. And what would Rita have to say about that?’

  ‘Rita doesn’t own me. Sometimes I wonder what I ever saw in her.’

  ‘Oh come on, she’s the prettiest girl in the class.’

  ‘You’re prettier than she is. Listen, I’ve been thinking. You’re not so great at maths and IT, right?’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly.’

  ‘Well, I’m a whiz at it, honest. It’s just I’m rubbish at reading.’

  ‘What, you don’t like it?’

  ‘I can’t do it,’ said Toby, shuffling. ‘It’s not that I’m thick. I’m severely dyslexic – that’s what they say.’

  ‘You mean you can’t read at all?’ I said, wondering how he could bear a world where books were meaningless.

  ‘Yeah, I can read,’ he said, flushing. ‘I know all the words and stuff, it’s just that I get them all mixed up. Plus at my old school they used to make fun of me, so I just stopped trying and messed around. Anyway, what I was thinking, you’re obviously the hotshot at English. You talk like you’ve swallowed the dictionary and you can run rings round Mrs Godfrey, so how about you giving me a bit of extra coaching? Then I can help you with maths and IT in return. OK?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I stubbed out my cigarette, thinking about it. ‘When would we do this coaching?’

  ‘We could get together at lunch time.’

  ‘Oh yes, Rita will be thrilled.’

  ‘I told you, Rita doesn’t own me. I’m sick of her telling me what to do.’ He was obviously worrying about it all the same. ‘Tell you what!’ he said, smiling. ‘We could go round each other’s houses once or twice a week. What are you doing tonight after school?’

  ‘I’ve got to go and visit my dad in hospital.’

  ‘Well, tomorrow then. Friday?’

  ‘Not Friday. I definitely can’t make Friday.’

  ‘Why? What are you doing then? Seeing your boyfriend?’

  ‘I said, I don’t have one. No, I’m babysitting.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ He didn’t pursue it. He offered me another cigarette. I refused, feeling dizzy enough with just one. He edged up close again, so I started walking away smartly.

  ‘Hey, come back. You can’t just stalk off like that – someone will see you’re not in class.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘You really don’t, do you?’ he said. ‘You’re so different from all the other girls, Prue.’

  ‘I wish I wasn’t.’

  ‘Are they giving you a hard time?’ he asked. ‘You come and tell me if they get at you too much. I’ll sort them out for you.’

  ‘Yeah, they’ll relish that,’ I said sarcastically.

  ‘So, when are we going to get it together for these coaching sessions?’

  ‘Sometime,’ I said. I wouldn’t commit myself any more.

  ‘And are you going to give me a kiss sometime soon?’ he asked.

  ‘This year, next year, sometime . . . or maybe never,’ I said, running off.

  He ran after me, trying to grab hold of my hand, but I kept snatching it away. We must have run past Grace’s class because she was all agog when we went home from school.

  ‘You were holding hands with Toby Baker!’ she said.

  ‘How do you know Toby Baker?’

  ‘Everyone knows him. Iggy and Figgy think he’s dead cool.’

  ‘Well, they’re easily impressed. And I wasn’t holding hands with him. I wouldn’t.’

  ‘I would,’ said Grace. ‘He’s just, like, drop-dead gorgeous.’

  I sighed at her. ‘Shut up! You sound so vacant. You don’t really think that at all – you don’t like boys any more than I do. You’re just saying stuff to impress Iggy and Figgy but they’re not here, right, it’s just you and me, so stop pretending.’

  Grace blinked at me, looking wounded. ‘I thought you were all in favour of pretending,’ she said. ‘Why do you have to be so horrid about Iggy and Figgy, they’re my friends. I’m not talking to you now, see!’

  I laughed at her. I knew Grace couldn’t keep quiet for more than five minutes. Only one minute later she said, ‘What were you doing with Toby Baker anyway? Is he your boyfriend?’

  ‘No. Though I think he’d like it if he was. He kept pestering me,’ I said.

  I wasn’t interested in Toby, but I couldn’t help enjoying the fact that he liked me, especially as so many girls seemed crazy about him. I knew he was the golden boy of our class, but I hadn’t realized he was an icon throughout the school, with worshippers as small and silly as Iggy and Figgy.

  ‘I wish you would go out with him. Iggy and Figgy would be seriously impressed if they knew Toby Baker was going out with my sister. Then you could invite him round to tea and I could invite them and they could actually meet him.’

  ‘He wants to come round to our place so we can help each other with stuff.’

  ‘Oh Prue!’ Grace started skipping, her pink panda dress wafting alarmingly high up her large legs.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Grace, stop acting like a toddler.’

  ‘Don’t be mean again.’

  ‘Well, don’t be so babyish. And there’s no need to get excited anyway – I’m not having him round.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Can you just imagine it, with Mum flapping round and asking him all sorts?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose. And Dad would go bonkers if he found out you had a boyfriend.’

  ‘Dad is bonkers now,’ I said, sighing.

  I didn’t really mean it. I knew my father wasn’t intellectually impaired. But he couldn’t help sounding weird as he parroted key words and phrases after me. He sounded demented whenever he threw a tantrum and repeated the same swearword over and over again, like a satanic version of a Buddhist chant.

  He was in a foul mood that night because the physiotherapist had made him wear someone else’s shorts for his exercise session. Dad was outraged, utterly refusing to cooperate, hissing with rage whenever he looked down at his sad, skinny legs. He’d always loathed shorts on anyone, male or female. Grace and I weren’t even allowed to wear them as little girls.

  Mum helped him into his pyjamas while we lurked outside his room, but Dad stayed infuriated, even decently covered in his blue and white stripes. He kept pointing at the baggy black shorts hanging from the end of his bed. He acted as if a giant black bat was flapping from his bedpost.

  ‘Ye
s, Dad. Shorts,’ I said meanly. ‘Say the word “shorts”.’

  Dad said a much more graphic word.

  ‘They just want to help you, Bernard,’ Mum said. ‘The physiotherapist says she’s sure you could get the use of your leg back if you’d just try to co-operate.’

  ‘I know you don’t like doing the exercises, Dad, but they’re good for you,’ I said.

  ‘I hate exercises too. PE’s my worst thing at school,’ said Grace.

  There was a sudden silence. Grace sat very still, her eyes bulging as she realized what she’d said. Mum looked agonized. Dad shook his head irritably.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘What? What?’

  ‘She said she hated exercise, dear. So do I. Now, where’s the girl gone with the tea trolley? Isn’t it time you had a nice cup of tea?’

  Dad looked at her scornfully. He could see through her diversionary tactics in two seconds. He turned to me. ‘What?’ he repeated.

  ‘Grace and I have started a school game, Dad,’ I said. ‘We’re teaching each other, setting each other tasks, as you’re ill and can’t do it for us just at the moment. The rule is, we have to do absolutely everything the other one asks. So I get a bit mean to poor Gracie sometimes, and make her do all these exercises for PE.’

  Dad’s eyes were narrowed. I stared innocently back at him. Then he suddenly started laughing, wheezing away as if he was about to break in two.

  ‘More PE. More more more. Grace fat!’

  I forced myself to laugh too. Mum laughed. Grace laughed the loudest.

  It was OK. We’d got away with it.

  I walked along Laurel Grove, peering at all the neat 1930s houses. I looked at the bay trees in ornamental blue pots outside front doors, the carriage lamps, the pebbles and spiky plants in mock Japanese gardens. I couldn’t imagine Mr Raxberry living there. Surely anyone with an earring and artistic tendencies would be considered deeply suspect?

  I checked the address, written in his own lovely italic writing on the back of my school jotter in my bag, though I knew I’d got it right. My bag was full of things to do: my sketchpad and crayons, patchwork, two novels and an old shop copy of Penelope Leach’s baby book in case of emergencies.

  Number 28, 30, 32 – and there was number 34 Laurel Grove. At first glance it didn’t look any different from the other houses in the road, a black and white semi-detached house with a sloping roof and a green front door. At second glance, as I walked up the garden path, it stayed an ordinary, slightly shabby house with an abandoned Thomas the Tank Engine shunted into a cotoneaster bush and muddy frog wellingtons lolling on the porch. Mr Raxberry didn’t belong here. He should be living in an urban warehouse flat, large and airy and white, with huge canvases on the wall and a large easel in the centre of the room. I saw him there, painting, his face tense with concentration, his earring catching the sunlight. I was sitting on a black leather sofa, talking to him while he painted my portrait. That’s the way it should be.