Love Lessons Read online

  I seemed to be fated to help people with their reading. It had been tedious with Toby but it was far worse with Dad. He was clearly furious with me for not turning up on Friday. He wanted to interrogate me but couldn’t find the words. He came out with a long semi-comprehensible splutter: ‘Baby? – No! – Not!’ I knew he was expressly forbidding me to do such a thing again but I chose to misunderstand.

  ‘Yes, Dad, I simply wanted to start earning some money of my own. I’m so glad you think it’s a good idea,’ I said.

  Dad reached boiling point, straining to say what he meant. He thumped the bed with his left arm. He even did a feeble mini thump with his right.

  ‘Oh Arthur, you’re really getting lots of movement back now!’ Mum said, clutching his bad hand and stroking it.

  Dad snatched it away from her, not wanting to be distracted. ‘Baby – no-no-no!’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes, Dad. Lily’s the baby, and Harry’s the little boy. They can be a bit of a handful, but I can get them sorted out. Just call me Mary Poppins, eh?’

  Dad looked as if he wanted to call me all sorts of names, though Mary Poppins wasn’t one of them. But then I took out the compilation I’d made of extracts from his Magnum Opus. The moment I read out the first line Dad lay still. He listened, his head cocked to one side, his mouth snapped back into a straight line. He looked almost his old self.

  ‘Now you try to read a little, Dad,’ I said.

  He reached for the book. He cleared his throat. He pronounced the first four words clearly, with proper expression. I thought a miracle had happened. Dad had recovered all his faculties and I could stop feeling chewed up with guilt. But then he stumbled, he repeated himself, he couldn’t get any further though he strained to the utmost. His entire Magnum Opus was reduced to four words: I, Bernard King, think . . .

  Dad’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Oh Prue, don’t upset him! Maybe you should put it away,’ Mum whispered.

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad. I’m sure you’ll be able to read it all soon. Meanwhile, I’ll read it, shall I?’

  Dad nodded, and so I read to him. He twitched and sniffled for a minute or two and then he became absorbed. Grace yawned and twiddled her thumbs and did mini Iggy-Figgy waves to herself. Mum frowned at her as if she was fidgeting in church. She had an expression of pious concentration on her face but her eyes were darting all round the room. I knew she was thinking about Dad’s washing and cooking our tea and all the final demands and bailiff’s threats at home.

  I read on, my voice starting to mimic Dad’s old intonations and accent as I worked my way through his convoluted sentences. I started to ham it up just a little, inserting a Dad-cough here and a Dad-sniff there. Mum glared. Grace snorted. Dad snorted too, regularly, again and again. He was fast asleep and snoring. His Magnum Opus had worked like a bedtime story for a tired toddler.

  I left my cut-price annotated version on his bedside locker. I hoped Dad might enjoy glancing at it, but when we visited on Sunday it was missing. I asked him about it but Dad looked blank and shook his head. So much for my labour of love. One of the cleaners had obviously chucked it in the rubbish bin. Dad had forgotten all about it.

  I’d been going to copy out more of it, maybe even do a couple of watercolour illustrations, but now I decided not to bother.

  I hid myself away on Sunday evening, constructing a surreal sculpture based on our old doll’s house. I made a papier-mâché man, deliberately too big for the house. His arms reached out of the windows, his feet stuck out of the door, his head was halfway out of the chimney, but he couldn’t escape, try as he might. I fashioned a fat fur mouse out of an old pair of mittens, and made two tiny mice from each thumb. The man had a collar round his neck. The fat mouse had the lead tightly clasped in her paws. The two tiny mice scrabbled on his shoulders, shrieking in his ears.

  Grace crept up on me and peered over my shoulder. ‘That’s good – but weird,’ she said. ‘It’s like that Alice book. Is it Alice?’

  Dad had once discovered what he thought was a first edition of Alice in Wonderland at a jumble sale and thought it would make our fortune, but of course it wasn’t a real first edition, just an illustrated edition from much later that was hardly worth a bean. Dad couldn’t bear to see it on the shelf in the shop and gave it to me as a colouring book.

  ‘Yes, it’s Alice,’ I said to Grace.

  How could she be idiotic enough to think I’d give Alice a beard?

  ‘Is it for homework?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Have you done all your other homework?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Hadn’t you better get cracking?’

  ‘I’m not doing it.’

  ‘You’ll get into trouble.’

  ‘See if I care.’

  I did get into trouble on Monday, but it wasn’t over homework. I got to school early, wandered across the playground, walked over to the playing field and hovered near the art block. I hoped that Rax might be at school early too, but his art room was in darkness and there was no sign of him. I sighed and started trailing back towards the main building. We didn’t have art on Monday. I had a dreaded maths session in the Success Maker.

  I looked longingly at the school gate, wondering whether to make a run for it. Rita was flouncing through the gate into school, tossing her head, obviously sounding off about something to her friends, Aimee, Megan and Jess. Then she looked up and saw someone. She started running forwards, her pretty face contorted. I looked round. There was no one behind me. She was angry with me.

  ‘You cow! You scheming lying cheating little cow!’ she screamed right in my face.

  I stepped back, because she was spraying me with spit.

  ‘Don’t you dare back away from me!’ she yelled. She seized a handful of my hair and tugged hard.

  ‘Stop it! Get off!’ I said. ‘Have you gone mad?’

  ‘You’re the mad girl, thinking you can mess around with me by stealing my boyfriend!’

  ‘I haven’t stolen your stupid boyfriend,’ I said, jerking my head to make her let go.

  ‘You liar! I saw you with him in McDonald’s,’ said Aimee. ‘You were right at the back, cuddling up to him, practically sitting on his lap, hanging on his every word.’

  ‘I was listening to him read,’ I said.

  ‘Oh yeah, and I can read you like a book,’ cried Rita. ‘You set out to get him away from me the moment you came barging into our school in your stupid sad dresses and your slag’s underwear. How dare you! Me and Toby have had a thing going ever since Year Eight. He’s mine, everyone knows that.’

  ‘OK, OK. He’s yours. I don’t want him,’ I said. ‘I don’t even like him.’

  ‘What? Toby’s the only decent boy in our year. Everyone reckons him!’

  ‘Well, not me. So I don’t know why you’re making such a stupid fuss. You can keep him.’

  ‘You know he’s broken up with me!’ Rita said, and she started crying.

  Aimee and Megan and Jess had all been egging her on, enjoying the fight, but now they clucked round her like mother hens.

  ‘He told me it’s all over. He says he still wants to be my friend but he doesn’t love me any more. He tried to smooth his way out of things but I soon got the whole story out of him. It’s all because of you, Prudence King!’

  They all looked at me accusingly.

  ‘I haven’t done anything!’ I said.

  ‘He says you talk together, that you say all sorts of stuff. What have you been telling him?’

  ‘Nothing! Well, nothing special. Look, Rita, I swear I didn’t know he was going to break up with you. It’s not my fault.’ I tried to say it calmly and reasonably but my heart was thumping hard. Maybe it was my fault, just a little bit? It was awful seeing Rita crying like that, tears dribbling down her face, her nose running, with everyone staring at her.

  I held out my hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  She stared at me, her face all screwed up, almost ugly. ‘Don’t you d
are feel sorry for me!’ she said, and she flew at me and slapped my face.

  I slapped her back, just as hard.

  ‘Fight, fight, fight!’ the girls yelled.

  Rita and I hit out at each other, slapping, scratching, tugging hair, tearing at each other’s clothes, toppling over and rolling on the floor.

  ‘Prudence King, Rita Rogers, stop scrapping this instant!’

  It was Miss Wilmott. She grabbed Rita by one wrist, me by the other, and pulled us both up. ‘Whatever’s got into you! Fighting like gutter children and yet you’re both in Year Ten! What sort of behaviour is this?’

  ‘Prue stole Rita’s boyfriend, miss,’ said Aimee. ‘It’s all Prue’s fault.’

  ‘I don’t care whose fault it is. I’m not having any pupils of Wentworth behaving like animals, especially not over boyfriends!’ said Miss Wilmott. ‘Go and tidy yourselves up, girls, and then come and stand outside my office. You’re both in very serious trouble.’

  We ended up having to spend the entire morning outside her office, me standing on one side of the door, Rita the other, in public disgrace. We weren’t supposed to look at each other, but whenever I glanced Rita’s way she seemed to be in tears.

  I didn’t particularly mind standing there. It was certainly preferable to maths. I’d have liked to be able to read, but that couldn’t be helped. I held long conversations in my head with Jane instead. I didn’t want to talk to Tobias. I wanted to steer clear of all boys, even imaginary ones.

  Every now and then the bell went and pupils charged past us, rushing up and down the corridor. They stared at Rita, they stared at me. Rita’s friends had obviously been talking. It was clear from the black looks directed at me whose side everyone was on.

  Form 10 EL ambled past on their way to a music lesson in the hall. There was a lot of nudging, a lot of shoving. The girls hissed ‘Slag slag slag’ at me, like an incantation. The boys whooped and laughed and strutted, thrilled that two girls had been fighting over one of them. The only boy who shuffled past, head down, was Toby.

  He looked at me anxiously and mouthed ‘I’m sorry’.

  I put my head down and stared at the scuffed wooden floor, not wanting to respond. He hovered in front of me a moment or two, but then moved on. I kept my eyes on the floor as if I was learning the pattern of the parquet by heart. He paused in front of Rita too. Her sniffles increased.

  I stared down resolutely. There were further footsteps. They stopped in front of me. I saw black canvas boots, black jeans. I looked up. There was Rax, his head tilted, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘Are you in disgrace?’ he said.

  I nodded. He made little tutting noises, showing he wasn’t taking it at all seriously. I longed to talk to him but I didn’t want Rita to listen. Rax understood. He gave me a sympathetic smile and then walked on. He tutted at Rita in a friendly fashion too, but not in the same way.

  I looked up to watch him walk the length of the corridor. He turned round at the end and gave me a quick wave.

  I couldn’t wait to talk to him properly in the art class on Tuesday. I worked hard on my still life, adding shadows and highlights. Rita kept out of my way, but Aimee and Megan and Jess kept barging past, trying to jog me. I learned not to paint when they were anywhere near me.

  Even Daisy turned on me. She came and peered over my shoulder. ‘You think you’re so great, Prudence Slag, but that painting’s rubbish.’

  Sarah didn’t say anything nasty but she didn’t smile at me any more. They’d all decided to hate me. Even Toby kept his distance, right at the other end of the classroom, but I’d made it clear enough I didn’t want to talk to him.

  Rax didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t really seem to notice me, just giving me the occasional nod or brief tip: ‘Try a glimmer of white there . . .’; ‘Is that shadow really black? What other colours is it made of?’; ‘Maybe you want to suggest the book titles, rather than actually print them out?’

  I listened, I nodded, I did what he said, but inside I was dying. Why wasn’t he talking properly? He spent ages chatting to all the others. He didn’t just say arty stuff, he talked football with the boys and rock bands with the girls. He stood beside Rita and Aimee and talked for a full ten minutes. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. It must have been amazing because they kept giggling. Rita stopped looking mean and miserable and laughed and joked with him, batting her long black eyelashes.

  Maybe Rax had decided he was on Rita’s side. Perhaps he thought I’d deliberately lured Toby away from her. Maybe he hated me now like everyone else.

  I hunched over my still life, blinking hard, finding it difficult to focus. I concentrated on not crying for the rest of the lesson. As soon as the bell went I flung my brush down, not even bothering to clean it, grabbed my bag and bolted for the door.

  I was right out in the playground when I heard him shouting my name.

  ‘Prue! Prue King, come back!’

  I wondered about making a bolt for it, but I trudged slowly back.

  ‘You don’t just throw your brushes down all clogged up with paint!’ said Rax. ‘Come on, you know better than that. You can help me clear up all the paint pots too.’

  ‘Serves you right, slag,’ said Rita, and Aimee and Megan and Jess all made faces at me.

  I started washing out brushes at the sink, my back to everyone. I couldn’t stop a tear dribbling down my cheek.

  ‘Hey, you’re not crying, are you?’ Rax said. ‘Oh Prue, you didn’t think I was cross with you, did you?’

  I nodded, the tears spurting now.

  ‘Don’t!’ He picked up a cloth and gently dabbed at my eyes. ‘Whoops! Now you’ve got black paint on your eyes. You’ll look like Lovely Rita if you don’t watch out.’

  ‘Lovely Rita?’

  ‘Like the Beatles song.’ He sang a line or two about a meter maid. ‘So, what on earth’s been going on between you two? Why is everyone treating you as if you’ve got bubonic plague?’

  ‘They think I stole Toby away from Rita.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No! Well, not really. I did go to McDonald’s with him, but just to help him with his reading. It was all his idea.’

  ‘I bet it was. So you’re in the doghouse with everyone now?’

  ‘They didn’t like me much before but now they positively hate me. And I thought you did too, because you hardly talked to me at all and yet you spent ages with Rita.’

  ‘Yes, because if I’d made a big fuss of you and your wonderful painting it wouldn’t really have increased your popularity. What would you like me to do, Prue? Shall I have a word with Miss Wilmott?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘What about your form teacher?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘There’s meant to be a student counselling service now, one of Miss Wilmott’s new ideas for Wentworth. You could have a chat with them.’

  ‘I don’t want to have a chat with anyone, thank you,’ I said, swilling out the sink. ‘I’m fine. I don’t care about them.’

  ‘You were crying.’

  ‘I was crying because I thought you were cross with me.’

  ‘I’m not cross with you.’ There was a little pause. ‘Anything but.’

  Then he started putting the paint jars away with unnecessary fuss and clatter, not looking at me.

  ‘So, are you able to babysit again this Friday?’ he said.

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘Then it’s a date.’

  Fridays started to feel like real dates. I’d rush home from school to put the immersion on for a bath. Mum always moaned about the waste of hot water, but I took no notice. I wished I had proper bath oil, scented soap, special shampoo. Mum bought bumper packs of the cheapest brands of soap, and until I protested bitterly she expected us to do our hair with washing-up liquid.

  I longed for decent clothes to wear once I was scrubbed and shampooed. I’d saved up enough babysitting money for a green skirt and sweater, and Mum had found a boy’s white shirt at a jum
ble sale so I was in an approximation of school uniform now. (Grace got lucky too. Figgy had a large lumpy cousin in Year Eleven and she passed her entire old uniform on to Grace.)

  I generally wore my school skirt to Rax’s, with a black jumble jumper, weird black and green striped tights (seconds) from the one pound shop, and my customized painted black shoes. I tried different hairstyles: beaded plaits; odd bunches tied with black velvet ribbon; scraped back with little butterfly slides. I didn’t have proper make-up but I experimented with my watercolours, shadowing my eyes with purple. Once I painted tiny blue stars on my earlobes; another time a daisy bracelet in china-white and emerald all round my left wrist.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, it looks as if you’ve got a tattoo!’ Mum fussed. ‘Whatever will your teacher think!’

  He seemed to like the way I looked. He always noticed and admired each new improvisation, although one evening he said he still had a soft spot for the red-checked tablecloth dress.

  I wore it the next time, with the red cardigan, a red rose plastic slide, and my lips painted carmine. I tried painting my cheeks too but I looked like a Dutch doll so I scrubbed them clean again. I didn’t need anything to act as rouge. I blushed enough naturally whenever I was with Rax.

  The children had got used to me now. I didn’t have to bribe Harry any more. I played Gruffalo games with him, making up my own extra adventures, sometimes drawing his favourite bits for him. Lily was too little for stories, but she liked a special Peepo game, chuckling again and again whenever I bobbed out behind a cushion.

  ‘You’ve really got a way with the kids,’ said Marianne. ‘They like you so much, Prue.’

  Marianne seemed to like me too. She’d chat to me as she was getting ready, discussing diets and hairstyles and clothes. I switched off while she rattled on, but whenever she mentioned Rax she had my full attention. She always seemed to put him down, sighing about him as if he was an exceptionally stupid child.

  ‘It would make much more sense if he took over the childcare while I went back to my accountancy work, but he’s so hopeless he’d never cope. The kids play him up anyway, especially Harry. I don’t know how he manages at school.’