Love Lessons Read online

  '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 H a r a s s e r 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.

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  I didn't have an Iggy-Figgy back-up system like Grace. I h a d 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 112

  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 t h e school in t h r e e dimensions, with t h e 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 r a n amok in t h e playground. He'd d r a w n me cowering away from them in my red-and-white 113

  tablecloth dress. I was standing at the start of a tiny scarlet pathway. I followed it with my finger, all the way p a s t 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 t h e 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.

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  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 u n d e r w e a r 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 t h a t 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 s h a k e his h e a d 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 shock. 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 115

  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 roly-poly 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 t h a n 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 u n d e r 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 116

  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