Love Lessons Read online

  Mr Raxberry smiled at us both. 'How did it go then, girls?' he asked.

  'It was OK!' said Grace. 'I've got these two friends, Iggy and Figgy a n d — '

  'Grace,' I interrupted, scared she was going to go through the whole Iggy-Figgy-Piggy saga all over again.

  'We're friends,' Grace persisted. 'They're going to help me because I don't know heaps of stuff.

  Still, the teachers say I'll soon catch up as I'm still just in the first term.'

  'That's great,' said Mr Raxberry. Then he looked at me. 'What about you, Prue?'

  He remembered my name!

  I didn't know what to say, so I simply shrugged.

  'Oh dear,' he said. 'Yep. That was my reaction 82

  my first day here. In fact I often feel t h a t way now. But it'll get easier, you'll see. And I think your class is due an art lesson tomorrow. We can check each other out then. Bye now.'

  He drove off, waving. I stared after him until his car h a d gone right down the road and round the corner.

  Mum was waiting for us at the bookshop door, rushing out to hug us extravagantly as if we'd just escaped from a bear pit. It felt as if I had been bitten by sharp ursine teeth and clawed by big paws. Still, it was so comforting to know that Mr Raxberry understood. Did he really get anxious too? He looked so cool and laid-back with his casual jeans and his earring. It seemed almost impossible. And he was a teacher, for goodness'

  sake. No one could pick on him, tell him off or tease him. Mum wanted to hear all about our day, minute by minute. I couldn't face telling her any of it so I pretended I had to go and get on with homework straight away. I left Grace Iggying and Figgying, munching strawberry jam sponge cake, her mouth red and glistening as if she was wearing lipstick.

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  I sat cross-legged on my bed, my sketchpad on my lap. I did have heaps of homework but as I'd left it all at school I decided to forget about it. I started drawing instead, scribbling any old thing with my felt tips, just seeing what I could jot down. I drew me wearing a real square tablecloth, running like crazy, my hair flying out behind me, my mouth wide and screaming. I was pursued by a pack of bottle-green bears. I drew a car creeping along at the edge of the page, ready to r u n them all over. I shaded the windscreen, but you could see dark hair, a little beard and the tiny glint of an earring.

  I was left in peace until half past five, when Mum closed the shop. She hadn't had a single customer all afternoon, but she still waited until it was five thirty on the dot, carefully consulting her watch.

  'Come on then, girls, off to see your father,'

  she said.

  We stared at her pleadingly.

  'Mum, do we have to go every day?' I said.

  'Of course we do!' Mum said. 'Think of your poor father lying there, waiting and waiting for us. How on earth would he feel if we couldn't be bothered to come? Besides, I've got his clean pyjamas, and a big slice of sponge cake to perk him up.'

  'But Mum, Iggy and Figgy are going to be phoning me to see how I'm getting on with my homework – which I'm not; it's, like, way too difficult,' said Grace, raising her eyebrows and 85

  trying out a weird shrugging gesture.

  'Stop twitching like t h a t , Grace. And talk properly. Don't start talking like t h a t in front of your father, you know it will infuriate him.'

  'Everything I do infuriates him,' said Grace.

  'It will probably make him worse seeing me. He won't mind a bit if you and Prue go and I stay at home. He'd definitely prefer it.'

  I glared at her. I didn't want to get lumbered going with Mum while Grace escaped. 'I annoy him too. It was me t h a t made him have the stroke in the first place,' I said.

  'Don't, Prue,' said Mum. 'That's nonsense, I'm sure you had nothing to do with it. Come on, get ready, both of you. And don't breathe a word to your dad about going to school – that really will set him off.'

  So we walked into town and caught the bus to the hospital. When we got there Dad was fast asleep, snoring, his mouth open, his false teeth slipping sideways over his lip so he looked like Dracula. We drew up chairs beside him and waited for him to wake up.

  'Shall I give him a shake?' I said.

  'Well, it seems a shame when he's so peaceful,'

  said Mum. She seemed content to watch him, as if he was a television. Grace and I wriggled on our orange plastic chairs. Dad didn't seem at all peaceful to me. He mumbled and groaned in his sleep, his good left arm and leg twitching.

  I wondered if he was walking and talking in his dream, unaffected by the stroke.

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  It m u s t be so awful for him to wake up imprisoned in his half-dead body, unable to say the simplest thing. I felt so sorry for him t h a t I leaned forward and took hold of his bad hand.

  I touched the limp fingers, as if I could somehow squeeze the life back into them.

  Dad's eyes shot open. I dropped his h a n d quickly. I tried desperately to think of something to say to him.

  'Hello. It's me, Dad. Prue. Well, obviously.

  How are you? Sorry, that's a stupid thing to say.'

  I was speaking as if I was the one with speech difficulties.

  Dad tried to reply, his face screwed up with the effort, a vein standing out on his forehead like a big blue worm crawling under his skin.

  'I want . . .' he said, in a new strange thick voice. 'I want . . .'

  He couldn't manage to say what he wanted.

  Mum kept trying to interpret.

  'Yes, Bernard? What do you want? A drink of water? A cup of tea? Do you need the toilet, dear?'

  Dad groaned and thumped his good left hand on the mattress in frustration. One of the very few words he had left was a very rude term of abuse. He repeated it explosively, saliva glistening on his lips, as if he was spewing bile with his awful insult.

  'Ooh, you naughty boy, Mr King,' Nurse Ray said, flitting past.

  Dad said it louder, while Mum flushed, blood flooding right down her neck and across her chest.

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  'He doesn't know what he's saying, poor lamb,'

  she said quickly.

  Dad obviously knew exactly w h a t he was saying. He said it louder still.

  It was so sad we wanted to cry, but it was embarrassingly funny too. Grace and I suddenly started spluttering with laughter. We put our hands over our mouths and bit our cheeks, but couldn't control it. Mum was furious with us.

  'How dare you mock your father when he's so poorly!' she hissed.

  We apologized meekly, but we couldn't catch each other's eye without collapsing. Mum glared at us and produced the slice of sponge cake, making 'yum-yum' noises and licking gestures.

  She tucked it into Dad's left h a n d but he tossed it indifferently onto the bedcovers.

  'Can't you eat it, dear? Shall I break it up into mouthfuls, would t h a t be easier? Come on, Bernard, you like my special sponge cake.'

  'Can I have some, Mum?' Grace asked.

  'Of course not! It's for your dad,' said Mum.

  'But he's not hungry,' said Grace. She nodded across at his supper tray, still barely touched, though the sandwiches were starting to curl and the sliced b a n a n a on his bowl of yoghurt was going brown. 'Can I finish his sandwiches then?'

  'No! It's a disgrace – t h a t nurse should have seen to him. He obviously can't manage by himself.'

  Mum complained bitterly behind the nurses'

  backs, but couldn't steel herself to say anything 88

  at all to their faces. When Nurse Ray popped her head round the door I dared mumble t h a t perhaps my dad needed to be fed at meal times.

  She roared with laughter. 'We've tried t h a t lark, dearie. He spat gravy and mash all over my apron front. He'll eat if he wants to. His left hand's fine, and if he'd only co-operate with our physiotherapist his right hand could get back into some sort of working order.'

  Dad said his rude word again when she said the word physiotherapist. Nurse Ray laughed, shaking her head at him.