Love Lessons

by Jacqueline Wilson

  She used the back of the cornflake packet so t h a t it would stand up stiffly. She drew our bookshop, dutifully painting each individual book red or green or brown or blue, although they merged into each other as one long book blob. Then she drew Dad, a little skinny man with a frowny face. She drew Mum, a big blobby woman with black dots for eyes and similar dots all over her dress. All the dots r a n so t h a t it 39

  looked as if Mum and her dress were weeping copiously. She drew me in a corner, reading a book, my hair very thick and bushy so my face seemed hidden by a black cloud. She drew herself wearing her favourite pink panda dress, like a big raspberry meringue.

  'Have you finished? That's so good,' I said.

  'It's not. I'm rubbish at painting. I could see the way I wanted it to be in my head but it won't come out right on the paper,' Grace sighed.

  She looked at it worriedly. 'I've made Dad too small.'

  'He is small. Smaller t h a n Mum.'

  'He looks like a stick, like he'll snap any minute,' Grace wailed. 'Help me make him look bigger, Prue.'

  'He's fine,' I said, but I stopped applying delicate touches of gold ink to the Angel's halo and helped her lengthen Dad's arms and legs.

  'He still doesn't look right. He's like one of those insect thingies with long legs,' said Grace.

  'Daddy-longlegs,' I said.

  We laughed though it wasn't a bit funny.

  Grace looked as if she might cry again any minute.

  'I wish Mum would come back,' she said. 'Is it lunch time yet?'

  It was only just gone eleven but I made her French toast to cheer her up. We had another round each at half past twelve, and finished all the flapjacks in the tin, and ate an overripe b a n a n a mid-afternoon.

  40

  Mum didn't get back till five. Her eyes were red, a n d she was clutching a sodden handkerchief.

  'He's dead!' I whispered.

  I started sobbing. So did Grace.

  'No, no, he's not dead. There, girls. I'm so sorry

  – you must have been very worried. I was in such a state I forgot to check I had any change for the phone call. I had no idea they would take so long. It's a nightmare, a total nightmare. Your dad's going to be so angry with me when he realizes he's in hospital. Well, maybe he does know. It's hard to tell.' Mum started crying too.

  'Is he still unconscious then, Mum?'

  'Well, his eyes are open and maybe he understands. But he can't speak, you see.'

  'What do you mean? Has he done something to his throat?'

  'No, no. Your father's suffered a stroke, girls.

  It's affected his speech and he can't use his arm and his leg.'

  'But he'll get better, won't he, Mum?' said Grace.

  'They don't know, darling. It's too early to tell at this stage.'

  I went running out of the room. I threw myself on my bed. I couldn't bear it. I knew it was all my fault.

  A stroke is such a strangely inappropriate term to describe what's happened to Dad. The word

  'stroke' implies something soft and subtle. Dad looks as if he's been bashed repeatedly down one side. His head lolls, his mouth droops, and his right arm and leg sag as if they're broken.

  Mum had warned us but it was still terrifying walking along the ward of the stroke unit and going into Dad's room. The man slumped in the bed was a Guy Fawkes caricature of our father.

  We stood on the threshold of his room, all three of us. Dad's eyes were closed, but he mumbled something.

  'Hello, Dad,' I whispered, forcing myself to walk over to his bed.

  His eyes snapped open, making me jump. He frowned at me. There was a little dribble down 42

  his chin. He tried to wipe it away, looking agonized.

  'Shall I wipe it, Dad?' I asked.

  He made vehement mumbles, making it plain he didn't want to be helped at all. He carried on struggling after his chin was dry. He kept flinging his unaffected leg out from under the bedclothes, hoping t h a t the rest of his body would follow.

  'Lie still, dear. Try to relax,' said Mum.

  Dad's contorted face was a n y t h i n g b u t relaxed. He tried again and again.

  'He's trying to get out of bed to go home,' I said.

  Dad glared at me, groaning. He resented me talking about him rather t h a n to him.

  I went closer, though I really wanted to r u n away, out of the room, down the ward, right out of the hospital.

  'Dad, you can't go home just yet, you're not well enough,' I said.

  Dad wouldn't see reason. He became more and more agitated, and when Mum tried to tuck him back under the sheets he punched her arm. It was the weakest, feeblest punch in the world, but it made her cry.

  'Now, now, there's no need for tears,' said a nurse, bustling in and putting her arm round Mum. She was nearly as large as Mum, but in an exuberant, voluptuous way. She had glossy brown skin and magnificent plaited hair. 'Mr King's doing splendidly, my dear. Aren't you, lovie?'

  43

  She nodded at Dad and t h e n stuck a thermometer in his mouth before he could groan at her. He spat it straight out defiantly.

  'You're a naughty boy,' she said, laughing. 'You want to have a little game with me? Watch out, though, laddie – I might well stick it somewhere else if you t u r n awkward on me.'

  Dad decided to subject himself to a thermometer in his mouth after all.

  'There now. That's the ticket.' The nurse winked at Mum. 'We'll soon get him trained, eh?'

  Mum simpered uneasily. 'He hates hospitals so,' she said.

  'Well, we're none of us here by choice,' said the nurse. 'I'd much sooner be at home with my feet up watching Corrie on the telly.'

  Dad groaned again, gargling slightly with the thermometer.

  'Hey, hey, watch out or you'll swallow it,' said the nurse. 'OK, let's see how you're doing.'

  'How's his t e m p e r a t u r e ? ' Mum asked anxiously.

  'It's fine, dear, just fine. You're doing well, Mr King,' the nurse said. 'Let's just tidy you up a bit in honour of your visitors.' She smoothed his pyjama collar and combed his sparse hair with her long brown fingers. He did his best to bat her away, groaning something t h a t sounded very much like a bad swearword.

  The nurse seemed to think it was too. 'Ooh!

  In front of your wife and daughters! I'll wash your mouth out with soap if you're not careful,'

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  she said cheerily. She raised her eyebrows at Mum, and then shook her head. Mum shook her head back, though she glanced anxiously at Dad.

  The nurse smiled at me. 'So what's your name, dear? I'm Nurse Ray. Little ray of sunshine, that's me.'

  'I'm Prudence,' I said, wincing, because I hate my name so much.

  'And what about you, sweetheart?' said Nurse Ray, going over to Grace. She'd been skulking fearfully in a corner the whole time.

  'I'm Grace,' she whispered.

  Dad groaned as if the very sound of her name irritated him.

  'Don't look so worried, sweetheart,' said Nurse Ray, chucking Grace under the chin. 'Daddy's only grumpy because he's had his stroke. He'll be his usual self in no time, I'm sure.'

  Grace stared at her. Dad was very much his usual self, even incapacitated by his stroke. He didn't have any other self. He was permanently grumpy.

  'Go and say hello to your dad. It'll cheer him up,' said Nurse Ray.

  She encouraged Grace forwards until she was in Dad's line of sight. He saw her approaching.

  He groaned again.

  'Hello, Dad. I've made you a Get Well Soon card,' Grace said bravely.

  Dad made little attempt to look at it.

  'Hold it up above Daddy's head so he can see it properly,' said Nurse Ray.

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  Grace waved her card around in the air above Dad. He moaned, his eyes swivelling, as if a v u l t u r e was circling above him. He made another attempt to get his leg out of bed. He heaved himself halfway up with his good arm, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead.

&
nbsp; 'Oh Bernard, don't, dear, you'll h u r t yourself,'

  Mum flapped, patting at him.

  'I'm sorry, Mr King, you're stuck with us for a while,' said Nurse Ray, expertly flipping him down on his back and tucking him in firmly. 'It's not going to be for too long. Believe me, we need the beds. We just need you to be a bit stronger and start getting more vocal and mobile. That makes sense, doesn't it?'

  Dad groaned feebly, but lay still and shut his eyes.

  'That's it. You have a little nap.'

  We said goodnight to him and backed out of the room. Nurse Ray came with us, smiling encouragement.

  'How long will my husband have to stay in hospital?' Mum asked.

  'It's up to the doctors, dear. It'll depend on what sort of progress your husband makes.'

  'Will he get better?' I asked. 'Properly better?'

  Nurse Ray hesitated. 'He'll get a lot better, I'm sure.'

  'Will he be able to talk again? And walk?'

  'I dare say. Some people m a k e complete recoveries.'

  'But some don't?'

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  'Your daddy's a fighter, cussed as they come.

  His type generally do the best.' She seemed keen to change the subject, concentrating on my hideous red-checked dress. 'Is t h a t your school uniform?' she said sympathetically.

  'I don't go to school,' I said, blushing.

  'They're home-educated,' said Mum. 'My husband teaches them.' She stopped short and put her hand to her mouth. She didn't say any more.

  I wondered w h a t on e a r t h was going to happen now.

  Mum made us beans on toast when we got home, which was quick and comforting. We listened to the radio while we ate, and then started sewing our quilt. I'd designed the overall pattern and cut out all the little hexagons, Grace tacked as best she could, and Mum sewed. It was so peaceful listening to quiz shows on Radio Four without Dad's incessant i n t e r r u p t i o n s :

  'Don't you know that, you fool?' 'Come on, come on, speak up!' 'Fatuous idiot, who does he think he is?' He addressed the radio speaker, as if all the performers were actually inside, little tiny men, listening.

  We knew we had to talk about Dad and what was going to happen, but none of us could bear to spoil the peace. Grace and I went up to bed at our usual time. I was in the middle of reading a biography of Queen Elizabeth I for my Tudor project but I didn't feel like history.

  I knelt down by my bookcase and fingered my 47

  way through all my favourite old books. I found my big battered nursery rhyme book wedged right at the back, with weirdly worrying pictures of jumping cows and blind mice and girls with giant spiders. I flicked through this surreal world where pigs went marketing and children lived in shoes and the moon was made of green cheese.

  I remembered Dad's pedantic voice enunciating,

  'Ring-a-ring-a-roses' and 'Hey diddle diddle'. I'd never been invited to sit on Dad's lap when he read to me, but I'd sit cross-legged at his feet.

  'Do you remember Dad reading us nursery rhymes?' I asked Grace.

  'I didn't like them because they were scary.

  He poked me hard and told me not to be so soft,'

  said Grace.

  I hesitated. 'Grace, do you love Dad?'

  'Of course I do!' Grace said.

  'But sometimes don't you hate him too?'

  'Never,' said Grace, sounding shocked.

  'Not even when he's being particularly horrid?

  He's much meaner to you t h a n he is to me.'

  'Yes, but that's because I'm thick.'

  'No you're not] Listen, I hate him.'

  'You can't say that, Prue, not now he's ill.'

  'But it doesn't make him any nicer, does it?

  Weren't you embarrassed, him going on like t h a t in front of t h a t nurse?'

  'She was so lovely,' said Grace. 'That's what I'd like to be now, a nurse. I could look after people and make them better and have them think me special. If I can't pass exams to get to 48

  be a proper nurse maybe I could go in one of those big homes and look after old folk.'

  'Are you going to help nurse Dad then?'

  'Oh! No, I couldn't! I mean, he wouldn't let me.'

  'So who is going to nurse him?' I said.

  I felt terrified. What if it had to be me?

  I stayed awake hours after Grace nodded off.

  I heard Mum go to bed, but when I got up to go to the loo her light was still on. I put my head round the door. She was still wearing her pink dressing gown, sitting on the end of the bed, staring into space.

  'Mum?'

  'Oh Prue!' She had tears trickling down her face.

  'Don't cry, Mum.' I went to sit beside her, reaching up and putting my arm right round her large shoulders. 'Maybe Dad will make a complete recovery, like t h a t nurse said.'

  'Maybe,' said Mum, but we neither of us believed it. 'I'm just trying to figure out what to do. I don't know what's the matter with me.

  I don't know if it's living with your dad all these years. He's always told me what to do, and now it's as if my mind won't work. Not t h a t it ever did very much. I was never a thinker, not like you and your dad. I was always in awe of your dad whenever he came in to buy his pie and his sausage roll from the baker's where I worked –

  you know, where the Chinese folk are now. He knew so much, and he had all his books. He lived in a different world.'

  49

  'Well, he obviously fancied the pretty young girl in the baker's or he would never have asked you out,' I said, patting her.

  'I wasn't ever pretty, dear. And it wasn't your dad made the first move, it was me. I got up the courage to ask if he'd like me to do any dusting or tidying in the shop. Then I cooked him a meal. That's how it all started.'

  'And you've been dusting and tidying and cooking ever since,' I said. 'It's going to be all right, Mum. We'll sort things out together.'

  'I don't know where to start. I don't know how I'm going to cope when your dad comes out of hospital.'

  'I'll help, Mum.' I took a deep b r e a t h . 'I suppose I can take a t u r n if Dad needs any nursing.' My chest was so tight I could hardly get the words out. Mum shook her head.

  'No,' she said firmly. 'That's one thing I do know. You're still only a child, even though you're so clever. I'm not having you take on such a burden. Anyway, you won't be around during the day. You'll be at school.'

  I stared at her.

  'You'll have to start school, Prue – you and Grace. Your dad won't be in a fit state to teach you, and I certainly can't. There's so much you need to know for these exams. We can't send you for tuition in all the different subjects, we simply can't afford it.'

  'I'm so sorry about t a k i n g Miss Roberts's money, Mum.'

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  'Oh well. It's not as if you've made a habit of it. I've felt badly for years t h a t you girls have so little spending money – though I wish you'd spent it on something sensible, r a t h e r t h a n those lacy little bits of nothing.'

  'I know. It's just . . . I so wanted them.'

  'Yes, of course you did. Don't you think I ever want things?' Mum saw me staring and burst out laughing. 'Not fancy underwear. Those knicks of yours wouldn't even go round my knee as a garter. No, there's all sorts of things I'd love. Not clothes, I'm not worth dressing.' Mum slapped at her thighs contemptuously, as if they were two great stupid beasts beyond her control.

  'But I'd love stuff for the house, all the labour-saving gadgets, and oh goodness, how I'd love a television just like anyone else. I've tried to get your dad to see it's educational but he won't hear of it. He's just books books books. Still, even he can see you can't learn everything from books. You need to go to school so you can start studying for your GCSEs. Grace can start too –

  she needs the extra pushing.'

  I'd been begging Dad to send me to school for years and years. I'd read every school book avidly.

  I'd skied through all the Chalet School books, I'd sniggered at Angela Brazil
's Bosom Friends, I'd attended St Clare's with the twins, I'd been to Hogwarts with Harry. But these were old-fashioned schools, figments of the imagination.

  I thought about Wentworth High School, the grim concrete building three roads away, on the 51

  edge of the Wentworth Estate. I'd no idea what it was like inside. You couldn't even peer into t h e playground, because t h e r e was a high creosoted fence, with barbed wire scalloping the top in sinister fashion. I didn't know if it was to stop intruders or imprison the pupils.

  I imagined myself walking into t h a t bleak building.

  'It won't be Wentworth High, will it?' I said.

  Boys from Wentworth sometimes came

  banging and shouting into the shop, throwing books around, asking if Dad stocked crazy rude titles. He'd order them out of the shop and threaten to call the police. He tried phoning the school to complain, but he said the teachers sounded as uncouth as the pupils.

  'Your dad would die if you went to Wentworth,'

  said Mum. Then she clapped her hand over her mouth. 'No, no,' she said indistinctly. 'We'll send you to Kingtown High. Your dad went there, when it was a grammar school. He'd like to t h i n k you were following in his footsteps.

  Though maybe he'd feel happier if it was an all girls' school. That's it, we'll find you a nice decent girls' school.'

  She said it as if she could conjure up a demure convent directly down the road. I saw myself in a straw boater and blazer, arm in arm with my best friend J a n e . We'd giggle together and share secrets. It wouldn't matter if we were the odd ones out, because we'd have each other.

  I pictured Grace tagging along behind us on 52

  our way to school. I felt sorry for her, so I gave her a best friend too, a roly-poly red-cheeked little girl who loved Grace dearly and stuck up for her whenever she was teased. I even imagined Mum making friends with some of the other mums while Dad nodded benignly in the background, a gentle, frail invalid . . .

  We had to go to Wentworth. All the other schools were full up, with long waiting lists.

  'We can't go to Wentworth, Mum!' I said. 'We won't go. You need me to help out in the shop now, anyway.'

  'We can't risk it. If t h a t education inspector chappie comes back and catches you working then we'll really be prosecuted,' said Mum. 'No, P r u e , you're s t a r t i n g at Wentworth next Monday, it's all fixed.'