Love Lessons Page 9

  I was the one who had to be the teacher for an hour or more, after a long day at school forced to be a pupil. I couldn’t prepare what I was going to do because it so much depended on Dad’s mood. I tried drawing a whole series of everyday objects familiar to him: a shelf of books, a shirt, trousers, a cup of tea, a plate of fish and chips, with the word carefully printed underneath. The first time I produced them Dad was tired after a tussle with the physiotherapist. He barely glanced at each card and shook his head lethargically whenever I asked him to say a word.

  ‘Poor dear, he’s not up to it,’ Mum murmured.

  I felt Dad simply couldn’t be bothered. I was tempted to draw pink and black lace underwear to see if that got any response.

  I tried again the next evening and this time Dad overreacted. When I showed him the cards his good hand whipped out and smacked them away.

  ‘Damn-fool, damn-fool, damn-fool,’ he growled. ‘Not blooming baby.’

  At least he was saying words, even though they were unprompted ones. I gave up the cards after that, although lovely Nurse Ray collected them up and asked if she could use them for some of her other patients.

  I was so pleased I did her a set for all the old lady stroke victims, drawing a lipstick, a hairbrush, a nightie, a photo of grandchildren and a television. The nurse gave me a kiss and said I was an inventive little angel.

  I decided I wouldn’t bother trying to teach Dad any more. It was clearly a waste of time.

  The next visit Dad was lying prone on his pillows, grey with fatigue, purple circles under his eyes. I thought he’d be extra irritable, but he grabbed hold of my wrist and tears ran down his face, dribbling sideways into his ears. I didn’t know if his eyes were watering from exhaustion or whether he was really crying. I felt awkward and embarrassed, but tender too. I sat down beside him on the edge of his bed, trying to reassure him that he’d soon get better, he’d be out of hospital right as rain, ready to teach us and take us out on trips. I reminded him of all the places we’d visited, and Dad made a stab at repeating ‘National Gallery’, ‘Hampton Court’, ‘Windsor Castle’, ‘Box Hill’ and ‘Hastings’. Most of the words sounded weird, but when prompted he could tell me which one had paintings, which was once owned by a Tudor king, which was owned by our current Queen, which was a high hill with a perilous chalk path and which was famous for a long-ago battle.

  It was hard putting all this effort into teaching Dad, and then having to go home and do my own homework. I learned which teachers would simply moan a bit but not pursue it if you failed to hand it in, and which would harass and hound you. Mrs Godfrey was Queen Harasser and Hounder. I drew a picture of her like a one-breasted Amazon driving her wheel-spiked chariot while bloodied pupils wailed in her wake.

  I didn’t have an Iggy-Figgy back-up system like Grace. I had to struggle by myself. Sometimes the English homework seemed ridiculously easy, and the French and history and religious education and PSHE seemed a total doddle most of the time, but I floundered hopelessly with the science and ICT and maths. I wished we got art homework. I only had two double lessons of art each week, nowhere near enough.

  I worked hard on my still life. I added a few extra favourite books – The Bell Jar, The Catcher in the Rye, Tess of the D’Urbervilles, Frankenstein and The Chrysalids, shamelessly trying to impress Mr Raxberry.

  He nodded at each title, giving me his little smile. ‘Mrs Godfrey would be proud of you,’ he said.

  ‘Mrs Godfrey hates me,’ I said.

  ‘No she doesn’t!’

  ‘She does, she finds me fantastically irritating. She’s forever putting me down and punishing me. I don’t know why, because I try really hard in English. Well, I did. I can’t be bothered now.’

  ‘Keep bothering, Prue. Maybe you disconcert her. She’s not used to girls like you.’

  ‘I’m not used to women like her,’ I said. I paused. ‘I wish all the teachers were like you, Mr Raxberry.’

  ‘Shameless flattery will probably make you teacher’s pet,’ he said, laughing. Then he looked at me more seriously. ‘Are you finding it all a bit of a struggle?’

  ‘A bit,’ I said carefully. Understatement of the century!

  ‘And someone in the staff room said your dad’s not well at the moment?’

  ‘He’s had a stroke. He’s getting a bit better now, but still can’t move much, or say many words.’ My voice went wobbly as I said it.

  Mr Raxberry looked at me, his eyes warm and concerned. ‘It must be horrible for you,’ he said. ‘If it gets too much any time, use the art room as a bolt hole. Painting is excellent therapy. Here, this should help you find your way around.’

  He tucked a roll of paper into my school bag. I didn’t look at it there and then in front of everyone. I waited until I got home, and Grace was in the kitchen having a snack with Mum. The rolled-up paper was fastened with scarlet ribbon. I untied it, smoothed it out against my hot cheek, and then wound it round my finger like a fat silk ring. Then I carefully smoothed out the long rectangle of paper.

  It was the map he’d promised me. He’d drawn the school in three dimensions, with the appropriate teacher in their classroom – each a wicked caricature. He’d drawn strange alien creatures lurking in the cloakroom and gnawing pizzas in the canteen. A great tribe of these two-headed claw-footed horned and tailed beings ran amok in the playground. He’d drawn me cowering away from them in my red-and-white tablecloth dress. I was standing at the start of a tiny scarlet pathway. I followed it with my finger, all the way past the playing fields, straight to the art block, where Mr Raxberry was painting at an easel.

  I kissed the tip of my finger and then very carefully pressed it down on the tiny figure.

  I didn’t take my map back to school. I looked at it so often I could still see it written in the air after I’d rolled it up. I tucked it carefully in my drawer with the underwear set I never wanted to wear again.

  Oh God, that underwear! The girls must have told the boys. They all seemed incredibly interested in it.

  ‘Come on, Prue, show us your slaggy underwear,’ they yelled after me.

  They crept up behind me and pinged the elastic of my bra through my dress and tried to pull up my skirt. I hated the feel of their hot scrabbly hands. I knew I should stay calm and disdainful, but I shrieked and slapped at them, making a spectacle of myself. Then they’d mimic me and say stupid things until I was nearly in tears. Rita and her little gang, Aimee, Megan and Jess, would watch, smiling.

  Mr Raxberry came along the corridor in the midst of one of these episodes.

  ‘Hey, guys, make room for a member of the hallowed staff,’ he said, waving them out the way.

  They sauntered off, not too bothered whether he’d seen or not, because he was only old Rax.

  Mr Raxberry paused, pretending to be looking at messages on the notice board. His back was to me, but when I started creeping away he turned and came over. ‘Were they giving you a hard time?’ he said.

  ‘No, no!’ I said, scarlet.

  I couldn’t bear the idea of telling him, maybe having to bring my underwear into the conversation. Mr Raxberry knew I was lying, of course, but he simply nodded. He walked along the corridor beside me, changing the subject, talking about an arts programme that evening.

  ‘It’s on cable telly. Do you get it? If not, I could maybe video it for you,’ he suggested.

  ‘That’s very kind, Mr Raxberry, but actually. I don’t have any kind of television, or a video either,’ I said.

  I waited for him to shake his head in astonishment and act like I was a creature from a different planet, but he just nodded again.

  ‘So that’s how you find the time to read so much,’ he said. ‘I should get rid of our television. My little boy watches endless horrible cartoons. I’m sure it’s not good for him. Maybe that’s why he keeps trying to beat up his baby sister.’

  ‘You’ve got children,’ I said. My voice sounded odd. I felt as if someone was squeezing my throat. It was such a sh
ock. I knew he was probably in his mid-twenties, plenty old enough to have children. I knew he probably had a partner. Well . . . I hadn’t actually thought about it too much. He was Mr Raxberry, my art teacher, not Mr Raxberry, family man, with wife and two kids.

  ‘My little boy’s three. He’s called Harry. And Lily’s six months old. Hang on.’ He felt in the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet. ‘Here they are,’ he said, showing me a photo.

  I looked at the dark little boy clasping a rolypoly baby a little too tightly. They seemed surprisingly uninteresting, nondescript children, nothing like their father.

  ‘They’re lovely.’ I tried to sound enthusiastic. I wondered what his wife looked like. Did I dare ask? ‘Do you have a photo of your wife too?’

  He paused a moment. ‘Yes. Yes, there’s one of all of us in here somewhere.’ He fumbled amongst five-pound notes and travel cards and bunched-up stamps, and eventually found a crumpled holiday snapshot.

  It was of the whole family, walking along an esplanade, squinting in the strong sunshine. Mr Raxberry was in denim shorts, a black sleeveless T-shirt and canvas shoes. He looked less like a teacher than ever. He was pushing a little baby Lily in a buggy. Her sunhat had fallen sideways, almost totally obscuring her face, but she was kicking her fat little legs contentedly. The little boy was scowling under his baseball cap, hanging on to his mother’s hand, looking as if he was whining to be carried.

  I looked at her. She wasn’t as pretty as I’d thought she’d be. She was wearing shorts too, baggy ones down to her knees, with a big T-shirt over the top. She was obviously self-conscious about her figure. She wasn’t fat, not like Grace, certainly not like poor Mum, but she was a little too curvy, big breasts but also a big tummy and a big bottom. Maybe she simply hadn’t got her figure back after having the baby.

  I looked at her face. It was difficult to tell what she was really like because she was frowning in the sunlight. The little boy was pestering her too. She wouldn’t look happy and relaxed in these circumstances. Her hair was lovely though, soft and shining and fair, in a pageboy bob just brushing her shoulders. So Mr Raxberry liked big, curvy blondes. I wished I wasn’t small and thin and dark.

  I tried hard to think of something to say. There were a hundred questions I wanted to ask. Why her out of all the hundreds of women you must have met? What makes her so special? Do you tell her all your secrets? Does she put her arms round you and soothe you when you’re tired or worried? Does she paint too? Does she read? Do you both sketch on holiday and then sit cosily at either end of the sofa, toes touching, reading your books? Do you go shopping together? Do you have the children in bed for a big family cuddle on Sunday mornings? Is she your childhood sweetheart, your one true love?

  ‘What’s her name?’ I asked out loud.

  ‘Marianne.’

  ‘Oh. That’s nice,’ I said lamely. ‘I wish I had a pretty name like that.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Prudence?’

  ‘What’s right with it? It’s an awful Victorian virtue name. My dad used to be very religious. He really went overboard. I’m Prudence Charity and my sister’s Grace Patience, can you believe it?’

  ‘I’ve got a terrible name too. Keith. How naff is that, especially as I used to have a bit of a lisp as a child. Imagine! “My name’s Keef.” Thank God most people called me Rax. No, you’re lucky, Prudence and Grace are quaintly beautiful names. They make me think of little Victorian girls in pinafores and button boots.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘My clothes are almost as old-fashioned!’

  I was still rotating my hideous dresses. Mum had sent me to school with ten pounds. She thought we could be kitted out in second-hand uniform for a fiver each. But the school shop didn’t charge jumble-sale prices. Each garment cost a fortune, even the old threadbare stuff. I bought us a shabby blazer which we wore in turns. It was too tight for Grace and it absolutely swamped me, but I was past caring.

  Mum was appalled that it was going to be so expensive acquiring a whole uniform. She did question me several times on the exact price of the blouses and skirts and school ties. I heard her asking Grace too, as if she didn’t believe me. I suppose she felt she couldn’t trust me after I’d spent the maths tuition money.

  ‘I think your clothes kind of suit you, Prudence,’ said Mr Raxberry.

  ‘I hate them,’ I said. ‘I can’t wait to get the proper school uniform, but it’s going to take ages before we can afford it all.’

  Mr Raxberry paused. ‘Perhaps . . . perhaps you could earn a bit yourself?’

  ‘I don’t know how. I can’t get a Saturday job because I have to help in our bookshop and I don’t get paid for that. I’d do a paper round but the shop down our street doesn’t do deliveries any more. I can’t think of anything else I could do.’

  ‘Babysitting?’

  ‘I don’t know anyone with babies.’

  ‘You know me,’ said Mr Raxberry.

  I stared at him. ‘Do you really mean it?’

  ‘Why not? Marianne and I need to get out more. I don’t think we’ve had one proper evening out since Lily was born. How about it? Maybe Friday? Say seven thirty? We’ll be back by eleven and I’ll drive you home of course. Do you think your mother would mind?’

  ‘Of course she won’t mind!’ I said.

  Mum did mind, terribly.

  ‘What do you mean, this teacher has asked you to babysit, Prudence? He barely knows you. You’ve only been at the school five minutes.’

  It felt as if I’d known Mr Raxberry all my life, but I knew it might not be wise to say this to Mum.

  ‘It’s Mr Raxberry, Mum,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, Rax,’ said Grace.

  She called him by his nickname, even though he didn’t even teach her year. I’d never been able to psych myself up to calling him Rax. It seemed too intimate and personal, even though the whole school, teachers, pupils, even the dinner ladies, called him Rax too.

  ‘I don’t care who he is, you’re not going to a strange man’s house,’ said Mum.

  ‘He’s not a strange man, Mum. You’ve met him, remember? The teacher with the little beard and the earring.’

  ‘Oh. Him! So he’s got a baby? He didn’t look old enough.’

  ‘He’s got a little boy, Harry, and a baby, Lily. And I’m babysitting for them on Friday night.’

  ‘You are lucky, Prue. Can I come too?’ Grace begged.

  ‘No, it’s just me. It will look as if we’re asking for double the money if you come too, Grace,’ I said quickly. ‘He only asked me because I was moaning about not being able to afford the school uniform.’

  I didn’t want Grace tagging along too. I wanted to keep Mr Raxberry and his family all to myself.

  ‘How dare you tell a teacher we can’t afford the uniform!’ said Mum.

  ‘But it’s true, we can’t.’

  ‘That’s our business. You shouldn’t go round blabbing about our finances,’ said Mum, red with mortification.

  ‘I don’t blab,’ I said. ‘This was a private conversation with my art teacher. And do you have any idea how awful it is to be the only girl in the school – well, apart from Grace – not to be wearing a proper uniform? I can’t stand wearing this awful dress—’

  Grace gasped. Mum looked stricken. I had always pretended I liked my terrible outfits so as not to hurt Mum’s feelings. But what about my feelings?

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to be rude—’

  ‘Then don’t,’ said Grace.

  ‘But it is awful, having to wear little girly dresses. They were fine when we were small, Mum, but now we just look eccentric and old-fashioned.’

  ‘Well, I can’t kit you out in a whole new set of clothing just because you feel embarrassed to be wearing my home-made clothes,’ Mum said. She tried to sound cool and dignified, but there were tears in her eyes.

  ‘I know, I know. That’s why I want to earn some money babysitting,’ I persisted.

  ‘You don’t know anything about babies.’<
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  ‘It’s not a tiny baby. She’s sitting up, probably crawling around. And the little boy’s three going on four. Anyway, they’ll be in bed. All I have to do is be there, just in case they wake up and want a drink or whatever.’

  ‘You might have to change a nappy,’ said Grace. ‘You won’t like that. You practically throw up if you step in dog poo.’

  ‘Shut up!’ I said, my stomach heaving. I’d even manage dirty nappies if it meant being at Mr Raxberry’s house.

  ‘How will you get home?’ said Mum. ‘I’m not having you walking the streets at night, but we can’t afford a taxi.’

  ‘Mr Raxberry is going to drive me home.’ I said it calmly, though my blood fizzed at the thought. Mr Raxberry and me, alone in the car, driving home in the dark . . .

  ‘I still don’t like the idea. And goodness knows what your dad will say,’ said Mum. She suddenly nodded triumphantly. ‘What are we thinking of? You can’t go, Prue, you’ll be visiting your father at the hospital.’

  ‘I can take one evening off,’ I said. ‘Just one.’

  ‘He’ll wonder where you are.’

  ‘You can tell him I’m babysitting.’

  ‘I can’t say it’s for your teacher. Your dad will have another stroke if he knows you’re going to school.’

  ‘He’ll have to know sometime, Mum.’

  ‘I know, I know. But not yet, when he’s still so poorly,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I’m still going babysitting on Friday, Mum, no matter what you say. I’ll see Dad tonight; I’ll see him every single night except Friday.’

  ‘He’ll fret about it.’

  ‘I can’t help it. I’m the one who has to sort him out and teach him and go over stuff. It’s OK for you and Grace, you just sit there.’

  ‘I know, dear. I’d be happy to take my turn, but I just don’t seem to have the knack for it.’

  ‘I certainly don’t,’ said Grace.

  ‘It’s so hard, and I keep getting behind with my homework and getting into trouble at school,’ I whined.