Love Lessons Page 6

  Grace and I sat at adjacent desks in a small room in a special unit called the Success Maker. Another girl sat at the back with some sort of helper. She was stumbling through an early reader book, spelling out the simplest words, often getting them wrong. Two foreign boys were with another teacher. He was making slow, deliberate conversation with them. ‘Hello. My name is Mr Evans. I am thirty years old,’ he said, expecting them to reciprocate. The boys mumbled and fidgeted, looking round the room, baffled.

  I squeezed Grace’s hand reassuringly under cover of the desks. She could speak English, she could read fluently. She didn’t need to look so worried.

  Gina gave us both booklets of questions and a pen each. ‘There we go. You’ve got an hour and a half.’

  Grace flicked through the pages, looking horrified. ‘To answer all this?’

  ‘Just answer as many questions as you can. Don’t panic.’ Gina made for the door. She turned and saw Grace edging nearer to me. ‘And don’t copy either!’

  We opened our booklets.

  ‘Oh help help help!’ Grace muttered. ‘Half of it’s puzzles. And mixed-up words. Oh, there’s that spring cleaning bit from The Wind in the Willows – goodie, we can answer questions on that.’

  I stared at my own booklet, looking for acrostics and anagrams and Moley in his burrow. I couldn’t find them. My booklet was full of meaningless mathematical diagrams and sinister scientific formulae. My heart started thumping.

  We had different booklets. Grace had one for eleven-year-olds just entering the school. Mine was for fourteen-year-olds starting Year Ten. I didn’t know any of the answers. I was as hesitant as the girl reader, as baffled as the two boys. I stared at the paper long after Grace started scribbling away, her exuberant handwriting sloping wildly up and down the page.

  I was so unnerved by the maths and the science that I was unsettled by the general intelligence questions too. I could see most of the missing sequences, fill in all the bracketed words, work out every code – but perhaps they were all trick questions? I dithered and crossed out and agonized, then decided to leave them and go back to them afterwards.

  There was a passage of Shakespeare, unacknowledged, but it was the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet so it was pretty obvious. I couldn’t believe the question. Do you think this scene was written recently? Give reasons for your answer. Maybe this was a trick too? I decided to write a proper essay for Miss Wilmott to show her I wasn’t a total moron.

  I wrote three pages about Shakespeare and his times and the feud between the Montagues and the Capulets. I commented on the difference between courtship in Elizabethan times and nowadays, though I knew little about girl/boy relationships in my own time. It had been love at first sight for Romeo and Juliet. She was only fourteen, my age. I tried to imagine falling so headily, instantly in love that I would risk everything and kill myself if I couldn’t be with my beloved.

  I conjured up Tobias and wondered what it would be like if he stayed with me until sunrise. I wondered what he’d say, what he’d do . . .

  I started violently when a very loud alarm bell rang and rang. I jumped up and grabbed Grace, looking round wildly for flames and smoke. But it wasn’t a fire alarm, it was simply the school bell.

  ‘It’s break time now,’ said Gina, bustling back. ‘Time’s up, girls. Pass your booklets to me.’

  ‘But I haven’t finished! I haven’t done any of the stuff on the last two pages,’ Grace wailed.

  ‘Never mind. It’s not like a real exam. It’s just so we can assess you properly,’ said Gina, snatching the booklet away from Grace.

  I hugged mine tightly to my chest, feeling sick. I’d done far worse than Grace. I’d answered only a quarter of the questions. I just had to hope my essay would be taken into account.

  I felt I’d let Dad down. I saw his face screw up with rage and frustration as he tried to berate me.

  ‘There’s no need to look so tragic,’ Gina said to me. ‘I’m sure you’ve done very well, dear. You’ve written heaps.’

  I’d written heaps of rubbish. I was put in a remedial class.

  They didn’t call it that. It was simply Form 10 EL. I pondered the significance of EL. Extreme Losers? Educationally Lacking? Evidently Loopy? I discovered they were merely the initials of our form teacher, Eve Lambert. But it was obvious that we were the sad guys in the school, the hopeless cases. Some could barely speak English and were traumatized, looking round fearfully as if they expected a bomb to go off any minute. Others were loud and disruptive, standing up and swearing. One boy couldn’t sit still at all and fidgeted constantly, biting his fingernails and flipping his ruler and folding the pages in his notebook. He hummed all the time like a demonic bee. Most of my fellow pupils seemed scarily surly. The only girl who gave me a big smile had obvious learning difficulties.

  I was the girl supposedly intellectually gifted. This was the class considered appropriate for my abilities. It was totally humiliating to find I could barely keep up. It was like being back with Miss Roberts, only worse. I still couldn’t get to grips with maths, though the teacher spoke very s-l-o-w-l-y and CLEARLY, as if superior enunciation would enlighten everybody.

  Science was only a fraction easier. I thought I would do well in history and geography but I was used to reading a book and then imagining what an era or a country would be like. I hated this school approach where everything was divided up into topics and you needed to memorize little gobbets of information.

  I found French hard too, though I knew enough of it to guess my way through simple books. I discovered I mispronounced all the words. When I was asked to recite the numbers between one and twenty the class started sniggering as I said each number. By the time I said dix-huit as ‘dicks-hewitt’ they were in tears of laughter.

  I hoped English would be my saving grace, but I didn’t like the teacher, Mrs Godfrey, at all. She looked stylish, tall and thin, almost like a fashion model, and she wore black, with big black glasses framing her dark eyes. She was alarmingly strict, making sarcastic comments about all of us, even the clearly unfortunate.

  She told us to write about a poem, ‘Adlestrop’. I knew it by heart already so I cheered up. I knew I could write pages. I didn’t have anything to write in, so I went up to Mrs Godfrey’s desk at the front of the classroom.

  ‘Feel free to wander at will around my classroom,’ she said.

  I gathered I shouldn’t feel free. I didn’t know what to do. She didn’t look up from her marking. I shifted from one foot to another, not sure how to address her. She made dismissive waving gestures at me while I was making up my mind.

  ‘I haven’t got an English exercise book,’ I blurted out.

  She sighed. ‘I haven’t got an English exercise book, Mrs Godfrey,’ she repeated. ‘So what have you done with your English exercise book? Have you torn it into strips and scattered it down the lavatory? Have you hurled it frisbee-fashion over the nearest hedge? Have you fed it to a goat for breakfast?’

  The class were sniggering again. I waited, crimson-cheeked, for her to complete her comedv routine. She looked up at last.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Prudence King.’

  ‘Prudence King, Mrs Godfrey!’

  I repeated the ridiculous phrase.

  ‘And you’ve mislaid your English exercise book?’

  ‘I’ve never owned an English exercise book,’ I said. ‘Mrs Godfrey,’ I added, emphasizing her name.

  This didn’t please her. Her eyes glittered behind her glasses. ‘Are you being intentionally insolent?’ she asked.

  I wasn’t, but she certainly was. I wanted to slap her. She gave me a wretched exercise book and dismissed me back to my desk with another imperious wave of her long white fingers.

  I couldn’t understand why she was being so deliberately unkind. I decided I’d show her. I started writing reams on ‘Adlestrop’ – and lots of other Edward Thomas poems, bringing in some of the First World War poets too, and mentioning Helen Thomas’s
lovely book As It Was, which I’d found in a dusty corner of the biography section in the shop this summer. I’d read the bit where Helen and Edward go to bed in a lavender-smelling four-poster in a country inn again and again. I had just enough sense to leave this bit out of my essay, but I put everything else in, my hand hurtling down the page.

  I thought we’d have to hand our books in to be marked but after twenty minutes or so Mrs Godfrey clapped her hands and went to sit on top of her desk, her long legs dangling, her feet elegant in black high heels.

  ‘Right, class, who shall beguile us first?’ she said. ‘Daisy, perhaps you’d like to read out your essay?’

  Daisy was a very large girl with wild tufty hair. ‘Ooh not me, miss, I can’t, miss, don’t want to,’ she said, giggling bashfully.

  I could understand why she didn’t want to when she read her piece out loud.

  ‘“This is a poem about this place called Adlestrop. It sounds like a nice place. It’s a short poem. It’s got some funny words like unwontedly.”’

  That was it. I expected Mrs Godfrey to stamp all over her with her high heels, but she was relatively kind.

  ‘Short, but sweet, Daisy,’ she said. ‘There’s no harm in being concise.’ She peered over at my scribbled pages and raised her eyebrows. ‘All right, Prudence King, perhaps you’d like to share your words of wisdom with us?’

  My hands were shaking but I read in a loud clear voice to show her she didn’t really scare me. The class started sniggering again. I didn’t understand why. This wasn’t French. I knew how to pronounce all the words. I only realized why after I’d heard the others mumble through their pieces. It clearly wasn’t the done thing to project your voice and read with expression. It was as embarrassing as my tablecloth frock. Even Mrs Godfrey had a smirk on her face.

  ‘That’s enough,’ she said, long before I’d reached my conclusion. ‘It’s very kind of you to share your erudition with us lowly mortals, Prudence King, but I think we’ve had a tad more information than we can absorb.’

  So that was it. I couldn’t win. I was humiliated in maths and science by my ignorance, ridiculed in French for my mispronunciation, and mocked in English for my enthusiasm.

  All right then, I thought. I wouldn’t say a word more. I sat silently throughout the rest of the English lesson, refusing to join in a general discussion of ‘Adlestrop’. I tried to hold my head high to show I couldn’t care less, but it made my neck ache. I was so miserable I was on the verge of tears.

  The last two lessons were devoted to PE. I relaxed a little. I was small and strong and whippy. I could run like the wind and catch any ball. I didn’t know how to play any sporty games like netball and hockey but I was sure I could learn soon enough.

  I followed the others to the gym and found the girls’ changing room. Then the obvious dawned on me. I didn’t have any PE kit.

  The PE teacher, Miss Peters, came bounding up in her pale grey tracksuit, her whistle bouncing on her chest. I steeled myself for another sarcastic charade, but Miss Peters smiled at me with genuine warmth.

  ‘Hello! What’s your name then? Prudence? Ah, I love those old-fashioned names. I’m Miss Peters. Is this your first day at Wentworth? Bit of a culture shock, I expect. Right, Prudence, get yourself changed, lickety spit, there’s a good girl.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘I haven’t got anything to change into.’

  ‘You haven’t got any old shorts and a T-shirt?’ said Miss Peters. ‘Oh well, never mind, I’ve got heaps of spares in my lost property basket, so nil desperandum. There, you learn Latin as a bonus in my PE lessons.’

  She handed me someone else’s off-white shirt and crumpled green shorts. I clutched them unwillingly, looking round the benches and pegs in the changing room. I couldn’t see any cubicles.

  ‘Where do you get changed, please?’ I asked.

  ‘Here!’ said Miss Peters, waving her arm to indicate the room.

  Sure enough the girls were starting to take off their school blouses and skirts as casually as if they were in their own private bedroom. I stared at them, astonished. I didn’t even undress like that in front of Grace.

  I started undoing my tablecloth frock down the front. It had a zip at the side so it clung too tightly to wriggle out of decorously. I always had to pull it up and over my head. My heart started thudding underneath the red and white checks.

  I looked round wildly and saw a toilet sign. I grabbed my things and started shuffling towards it.

  ‘Where are you off to, Prudence?’ Miss Peters asked.

  ‘The loo,’ I said.

  She was way ahead of me. ‘Sorry, Prudence, we let Shanaz and Gurpreet change in the toilets, but I’m afraid the rest of you aren’t allowed to be modest. Don’t worry, we’re all girls together – and nobody’s looking at you anyway.’

  Correction! They were all looking at me. I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there foolishly, very very slowly unbuttoning and unzipping.

  ‘Prudence, do get a move on,’ Miss Peters called. She paused, arms akimbo, waiting.

  I couldn’t delay any more. She might come and rip my frock off herself if I didn’t watch out.

  I picked up my hem and tugged. I tried to whip my dress off immediately but my long hair got tangled in the zip. I was stuck with my head swathed in red-checked cotton, my underwear on display to everyone.

  ‘My God, look what the new girl’s wearing!’

  ‘It’s a thong!’

  ‘She’s wearing slag’s knickers to school!’

  ‘Bright pink lace – oh my God!’

  I pulled my hair hard and tore my dress off.

  ‘She’s got the bra to match though she’s hardly got any boobs to fit into it!’

  ‘Where did you buy your underwear, Prudence? Ann Summers?’

  ‘Who’d have thought it! She looks such a nerdy snob in that mad dress too. Wait till we tell the boys!’

  I pulled on my borrowed top and shorts in a panic. Miss Peters shook her head at me as I sidled past her.

  ‘You’re at school, Prudence. It’s plain bra and big knickers in future, OK?’

  My face was as pink as my lace pants. I felt they were glowing luridly through my shorts and shirt. Everyone was looking at me, whispering and giggling.

  I felt so bewildered. I thought this was the sort of underwear all these streetwise scary girls had been wearing since they were ten years old.

  I was so flustered I couldn’t concentrate when Miss Peters told me the basic rules of netball. I caught the ball, no bother, but kept running with it. I couldn’t understand why people shouted at me when I rushed up to the net and scored a goal. Apparently it didn’t count because I wasn’t a shooter.

  I didn’t try after that. I shuffled aimlessly after all the others, not knowing what I was doing, not caring. I tried to imagine Jane running along beside me, but she backed away in horror and went to read her book in the corner. Tobias looked embarrassed for me in my hideous shorts and ambled off on his own. I was left lurching my way through the lesson, friendless.

  It was torture getting changed back into my dress when the bell went. Everyone was all set to have another laugh at my underwear. I waited until I was the last girl in the changing room and then whipped my dress on quick.

  I was worried about Grace. She’d be waiting for me at the school gate, wondering where I’d got to. I was supposed to go back to the classroom to collect my new books from my desk. I’d been set several pieces of homework. I wasn’t sure how to find my way back down all the corridors. I decided I couldn’t be bothered. I was determined never to come back to this terrible school so there was no point attempting any of the homework.

  I rushed out of the door and peered across the playground. I saw a patch of pink way over at the school gate, but it was sandwiched between two regulation green blobs. I hurried towards them, wondering if Grace was being picked on. She saw me coming and waved – an idiotic exaggerated gesture, waggling both hands. The girl either side of her wave
d double-handed too. I approached them warily. They grinned at me like three monkeys.

  ‘Hi, Prue! These are my friends, Iggy and Figgy,’ Grace gabbled.

  ‘I’m Jean Igloo,’ said Iggy, baring her braces. She gave a mock shiver and mimed a dome in case I hadn’t quite caught on.

  ‘I’m Fiona Harrison,’ said Figgy, flicking her long limp hair away from her long limp face. ‘I’ve been Figgy ever since I made friends with Iggy. Plus I love figgy pudding, yum.’

  ‘I’m Piggy,’ Grace announced proudly.

  She didn’t need to explain. She did anyway, puffing out her cheeks and patting her fat stomach. I wanted to die for her but she seemed thrilled to bits with her new name.

  I wondered if Iggy and Figgy had simply made up this nickname rubbish on the spot and were all set to make a terrible fool of Grace, but they seemed such sad loser girls themselves it didn’t seem likely. But then maybe I was an even sadder totally lost girl myself. I hadn’t made any friends, not even two such pathetic girls as these.

  They seemed genuinely fond of Grace, telling her she mustn’t panic if she couldn’t do her homework, because she could always copy off them. They both gave her their mobile phone numbers, and Grace gave them our home land phone number.

  ‘Grace!’ I said. ‘What about Dad?’ He would go demented if an Iggy or Figgy rang asking to speak to her. Then I remembered Dad was stuck in the stroke unit and currently unable to speak to anyone.

  Grace looked at me and tapped her forehead, indicating I was mad. ‘Dad isn’t there,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, but we’ll be out visiting him this evening.’

  ‘Yeah, but, like, that’s not going to take, like, all night,’ said Grace, grinning at Iggy and Figgy.

  She was talking like them already, raising her eyebrows and sighing as if I was the sad sister.

  ‘Come on,’ I said fiercely, grabbing hold of her by the wrist.

  She wriggled away and did the maddening wave again. Iggy and Figgy did it too.

  ‘What’s with all this waving? You look a total idiot,’ I hissed at her.

  ‘It’s our secret club wave,’ Grace said.