Love Lessons Read online

  We only had about ten minutes together and 153

  there was so much I wanted to ask him. But everything I wanted to know was too direct, too personal.

  Do you think I'm really any good at art?

  Do you like me?

  Why did you draw me in your secret sketchbook?

  Instead, I chattered childishly about fishing, asking about lines and hooks and bait, as if I cared. I felt as helpless as a fish on the end of a line myself. He was reeling me in tighter and tighter until I was out of my element.

  We turned into my street and I gave him directions to the shop.

  'Oh, it's this shop! I've been here. I've had a good browse in the art section, but someone gave me a sarcastic ticking off for using the shop like a library.' He paused. 'Would t h a t have been your dad?'

  'That would definitely have been my dad,' I said. 'No wonder we have hardly any customers.

  He's always so rude to them.'

  'How is your dad?'

  'Well, he can't talk much still, and he can't really walk either.' I sniffed, suddenly n e a r tears, feeling guilty because he'd have given Mum and Grace such a hard time at the hospital tonight.

  Mr Raxberry didn't quite u n d e r s t a n d . 'Oh Prue, I'm so sorry,' he said. His hand reached out and covered mine.

  The car took off like a rocket, soaring into space, 154

  whirling up and over the moon, his hand on mine, his hand on mine, his hand on mine . . .

  He gave my hand a gentle squeeze, and then put his own hand back on the steering wheel.

  The car h u r t l e d back into the earthly atmosphere. He drummed his fingers on the wheel. We sat still, n e i t h e r of us saying anything, staring straight ahead.

  'Well,' he said. I heard him swallow. 'Perhaps you'd better go in now.'

  'Yes. T h a n k you for t a k i n g me home, Mr Raxberry.'

  That made him look at me. 'Hey, what's with this formal Mr Raxberry thing? Everyone at school calls me Rax – you know that.'

  'OK then. Rax.' I giggled. 'It sounds funny.'

  'Better t h a n Keith.'

  'Why doesn't your wife call you Rax?'

  'Oh. She's known me too long. We were childhood sweethearts.'

  I wasn't sure whether this was a good thing or not. 'You knew each other when you were at school?'

  'From when we were fourteen.'

  'My age?'

  'Yep.'

  'Goodness.'

  'I take it you haven't got a sweetheart?'

  'No!'

  'I'm glad to hear it. Off you go then. See you at school.'

  'Yes. Thank you. Goodbye . . . Rax.' I giggled 155

  again and then undid my seat belt and jumped out of the car. He waited until I let myself in the shop door. I turned and waved and he waved back and then drove off.

  I wanted to stay in the dark shop, breathing in the musty smell of old books, going over our car ride again and again, remembering every word, every gesture, every touch. I could hear Mum calling me from her bedroom, fearful at first in case I might be a burglar, though what self-respecting thief would want crumpled Catherine Cookson paperbacks, battered Ladybirds, leatherette Reader's Digest compilations and

  £4.99 in the till?

  'Prudence? Is t h a t you?'

  No, Mum, I'm not me any more. I'm this new girl flying above the dusty floor. I want to stay up up up in the air.

  I heard the creak of her bed, then the stomp stomp of her slippered feet. There was a patter from Grace too, and the bang of our bedroom door as she flung it open. I sighed and started up the stairs.

  I told t h e m all about the house a n d the furniture and the children and the wife and the television programmes. Then I pressed the five-pound notes into Mum's hand.

  'But it's your money, Prue!'

  'I want to pay you back for the m a t h s tuition money.'

  'You're such a good girl,' she said, making me feel bad.

  156

  I kissed her goodnight and went to bed. Grace started asking me all sorts of questions, but I told her I was too tired to s t a r t answering anything. I lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling in the dark. I wondered if he was lying likewise, or whether he slept curled round his wife.

  'Prue! Please tell me how you got on with Rax,'

  Grace whispered.

  I pretended to be asleep.

  'Prue!'

  I still didn't answer. She got out of her own bed and tried to clamber into mine.

  'Prue, tell me, what did he say on the way home?' she whispered, her hair in my face, her big soft body pressed against mine.

  'You're squashing me! Move over. I was asleep.'

  'No you weren't. You can't fool me, Prue. You're nuts about him, aren't you?'

  'Of course I'm not. He's a boring old teacher, years and years older t h a n me, and he's married with two children.'

  'Yes, but you still fancy him.'

  'No, I don't,' I said, and I pushed her out of bed.

  'You do,' she said, sprawled on the floor. 'Ouch!

  I think you're nuts. You could have any boy you want. You could even have Toby Baker, yet you want old Rax!'

  I pulled the covers over my head. I couldn't hear her any more. I just heard my own thoughts, drumming in my head like the blood at my temple.

  157

  I hardly slept but I got up early and cleaned and swept the shop. I carefully dusted Dad's Magnum Opus, and then spent ages copying out the first few sentences in large print, wondering if Dad might be able to read it and then say the words out loud – words he'd been composing half his life, chanting them under his breath as if they were a holy mantra.

  'That's your dad's book! Careful with it. What are you doing?' Mum fussed.

  I sighed and explained.

  'Oh Prue! What a good idea! Why didn't I think of that. You're so clever.'

  'Tell t h a t to my teachers,' I said. 'They all think I'm thick thick thick.'

  'Well, this Mr Raxberry can't think t h a t or he'd never leave you in charge of his kiddies,'

  said Mum.

  I ducked my head so she couldn't see I was blushing. I worked on Dad's book while Mum stood downstairs in the empty shop and Grace spent hours on the phone chatting to Iggy and Figgy. I flipped through Dad's various notebooks and stray pieces of paper and scrapbooks and journals, trying to pick out key passages. I stared at his small, cramped, backward-sloping scribble until my eyes blurred.

  I still didn't really understand it. I'd thought it way above my head. Now I read it carefully, page after page, and I realized something so sad.

  It wasn't really difficult at all. There was no extraordinary philosophical theory, no dynamic 158

  take on the h u m a n condition, no overriding theme, no new angle. It was just Dad rambling and ranting. It held no meaning for anyone but himself. Maybe it didn't even hold any meaning for him now.

  I closed his book, wanting to hide it away. It exposed Dad too painfully. It was like looking at him in his baggy underwear.

  'Prue? Can you come down a minute?' Mum was shouting at me from the shop.

  I didn't take any notice.

  'Prue! Will you come down here? There's someone asking for you!'

  I leaped up and went flying down the stairs, combing my hair with my fingers, tugging at my awful dress, wishing I h a d some decent clothes, wanting to check myself in the mirror but terrified he'd give up and go if I kept him waiting any longer.

  I stumbled into the shop, cheeks burning, scarcely able to breathe. I looked all round. He wasn't there. I blinked. Mum came into focus, gesturing at some stupid boy standing by the door.

  Not some boy, any old boy. It was Toby Baker.

  I sighed. 'Oh, it's you,' I said ungraciously.

  'Hi, Prue,' he said, not at all put out. 'How are you doing?'

  I stared at him as if he was mad.

  'Your mum says she doesn't need you to work in the shop this morning, so I thought we could maybe do t h a t tuition thing. Y