'Get off! Leave me alone!' I cried.
I hadn't thought to change my dress but I'd had the wit to leave my beautiful doomed lace u n d e r w e a r at home. However, I knew my substitute grey-white baggy knickers would be equally ridiculed. I was determined to keep them hidden, though four or five of the girls were now scrabbling at my hem, exposing my thighs.
'There are boys in the room, for God's sake!'
I shrieked.
They all fell about laughing, making silly
'Ooooh!' cooing noises, like demented doves. One of the bigger boys was lounging on the teacher's desk, legs dangling. He looked over at us.
'Leave her alone, girlies,' he said.
They backed off immediately, giggling and grinning. I stared, surprised. He was the only boy in the class who was remotely good looking.
He was tall and slim, with longish fair hair.
He'd customized his school uniform, his shirt hanging loose, his sleeves rolled up, and he was 97
wearing cool pointy boots instead of scuffed trainers like the other lads. It was obvious all the girls tormenting me fancied him like mad.
'So why have we got to back off?' said one of the girls. She was the fiercest, and probably the prettiest, with carefully curled dark hair and heavy black eye make-up like Cleopatra. She narrowed her outlined eyes at the boy. 'Are you waiting to have a shufty at the slag's underwear yourself, Toby?'
'Give it a rest, Rita,' he said, laughing at her.
He was called Toby! He did look just a little like my Tobias, though this was a real rough lad, not an ethereal boy with an angel for his best buddy.
I gave him a shy little nod. He winked at me and then carried on chatting to his mates. I knew he'd just taken pity on me. I was new and weird and hideous in my home clothes. He'd put me in the same category as smiley Sarah. He'd protected me automatically without even thinking about it.
It didn't look as if Rita saw it t h a t way. She glared at me.
'Stupid little tart,' she hissed in my face. 'Don't you dare go making eyes at my Toby.'
'Don't worry about it,' I said, picking up Jane Eyre again.
My h a n d s were shaking. I hoped they wouldn't notice. I dropped my book and hunted for my new timetable instead. I looked to see when I had an art lesson. It wasn't until the 98
afternoon. It seemed as far away as Christmas.
I had God knows how many terrible lessons to get through first, plus a session in the Success Maker.
It was the Portakabin we'd taken our tests in. It was clearly for pupils who were currently utterly unsuccessful. Most of t h e m were refugees, with an obvious excuse for their lack of ability in a completely foreign language. Even so, they m a s t e r e d basic m a t h s and science quicker t h a n I did.
I was the worst student in the entire unit at IT. I couldn't even initially tell the difference between a television and a computer. Mr Widnes the tutor t h o u g h t I was being deliberately insolent when I sat down in front of the unit television and struggled to switch it on.
'All right, Miss Clever Clogs, stop taking the mickey,' he said, sighing. Then he saw my expression. 'OK, you're obviously not into computers. But surely you've got a television at home.'
'We haven't, actually,' I said miserably.
It wasn't for want of trying. Grace and I h a d begged Dad year after year to let us have a set.
Mum h a d stressed t h a t it would be highly educational, and we'd just watch the arts and nature programmes.
'Educational, my bottom,' said Dad, though he'd put it more crudely. 'They'd just gawp at cartoons and sleazy rubbish – and you'd all get hooked on those wretched soaps.'
So we'd gone without, and consequently felt 99
more out of touch t h a n ever with the modern world. Mr Widnes clearly thought I came from a bizarrely impoverished background a n d treated me very gently from then on. I was so stupid trying to do the most basic things and I couldn't even move the mouse around properly.
His patience must have been severely tested.
It was a relief to escape the Success Maker at lunch time, but then I had to steel myself for English with Mrs Godfrey.
'Where's your English comprehension homework, Prudence King?'
'I haven't done it yet, Mrs Godfrey. I forgot to take my books home last night.'
I remembered to say her stupid name. I spoke politely. I still infuriated her.
'You don't "forget" to take your books home, Prudence King. Homework isn't a choice, it's compulsory at t h i s school. You will do two comprehensions tonight, the one on page thirty-one and the one on page thirty-three, do you u n d e r s t a n d ? Come and find me first t h i n g tomorrow morning and h a n d in both completed exercises or you will find yourself in very serious trouble.'
I wondered what her very serious trouble could be. I thought of J a n e Eyre, forced to stand on a table with a placard round her neck in front of all the other pupils at Lowood. I'd rather enjoy standing there like a martyr, gazing over their heads. I tried out an eyeballs-rolled martyr's gaze.
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'Are you being deliberately insolent again, Prudence?' Mrs Godfrey said, flushing.
'No, Mrs Godfrey,' I said, lowering my eyes, though of course I was. She knew it, I knew it, the whole class knew it. Some of the tougher kids looked at me with a little more respect.
Mrs Godfrey noticed this, and went into serious rant mode. She asked me who on earth I thought I was, said she was sick of my attitude, stated t h a t this was certainly not the way to start at a new school, etc. etc. It wasn't a full Dad-style r a n t , j u s t an i r r i t a t i n g bleat. I wondered why I annoyed her so much. I decided I was glad. How awful to be liked by someone so petty and arrogant and unfair.
I tried the trick I used whenever Dad flew into a terrible temper. I pretended I was in a suit of armour, with a helmet locked protectively over my face. I felt invincible inside my rigid silver suit. No one could get at me or h u r t me or h a r m me.
I kept my armour on all through English and clanked along behind the other pupils when the bell went. It was time for the art lesson at last.
The a r t block was detached from the main building, in a special shack at the very end of the playing field. It took me a long while to get there. I trudged more and more slowly, as if I was truly clad in armour.
I looked longingly at the school gate. No one would notice if I slipped out now. It was so strange. The only reason I'd suffered this second 101
day of schooling was to attend Mr Raxberry's art class, and yet now I didn't want to go. I felt shy and stupid.
I didn't understand. I was good at art. Mr Raxberry wouldn't ridicule me like the repellent Mrs Godfrey. Mr Raxberry was kind. He was so different from all the other teachers. He didn't act like a teacher. He wasn't sarcastic or pompous or patronizing. He was gentle and funny and truthful and self-deprecating and sensitive. I could add any number of adjectives, even though I'd spoken to him so briefly. I could write an entire essay on him. I could write pages on a physical description of Mr Raxberry. I could paint his portrait, showing the way he tilted his head slightly, the wrinkles at the edge of his eyes, the softness of his white cheeks contrasted with the dark springiness of his small beard, the diamond earring in the centre of his neat earlobe . . .
I could conjure his exact image in front of my eyes, but I was scared of confronting the real Mr Raxberry. I r a n my fingers through my long tangled hair, trying to comb it into submission.
I plucked at my hideous dress. I put my h a n d against my cheeks and felt them burning. I hoped my nose wasn't shiny. I wished I could wear make-up like the other girls.
I wondered whether to trek back into school to find the girls' cloakrooms and check on myself in the mirror there. I was five minutes late for the lesson already.
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I stood dithering, wondering why I was in such a ridiculous state. I took several deep breaths, trying to calm down. 'Go on!' I urged myself.
I imagine
d giant h a n d s on my shoulders, pushing me forwards, frog-marching me to the art block. I stumbled along and got there at last, but I still couldn't force myself in the door.
I hung around outside, minute after minute ticking by. I could h e a r the sound of Mr Raxberry's voice, but not what he was saying.
Every now and then the class murmured. Once they all burst out laughing. I longed to be in there, part of things, but I simply couldn't move.
I didn't know what was the matter with me. I kept screwing myself up, teeth gritted, fists clenched, but my legs wouldn't move.
Then the art room door suddenly flew open and Daisy rushed out. She barged straight into me. 'What are you doing, hiding there?' she said, shaking her head at me.
I tried to relax my face, b u t not quickly enough.
'Have you got a pain?' Daisy asked.
I mumbled something vague.
'Is it your period?' Daisy said, sympathetic now.
I felt myself blushing. I knew it was silly, but we didn't even say the word at home. Mum had whispered some stuff about monthlies and bleeding and towels and then left me to get on with it. It was treated like a shameful secret.
If Mum saw me rubbing my tummy or getting an aspirin she might whisper, 'Have you got 103
your . . . ?' but she always let her voice tail away before u t t e r i n g the taboo word. It was odd hearing Daisy discuss it so matter-of-factly.
'Shall I tell Rax you're not well?'
'No!' I said, dying at the thought of Daisy discussing my fictitious painful period with Mr Raxberry.
'Well, you'd better go and get cracking then.
We're all doing a still life. I'm going to look for daisies for mine – like my name, get it? Rax says I won't be able to find any of them little white daisies but says there are these purply Michaelmas daisies, big ones, growing in the garden. He says no one will mind if I pick just one.'
Daisy hurried past me. I still stood there, motionless.
'Go in then, Prudence,' she said, turning.
'Don't look so scared. Rax won't get mad because you're late. He's dead cool, he never gets narked with anyone.'
I gave a little nod, took the deepest breath ever, and then went inside the a r t room. It seemed happily chaotic, students bobbing about in billowing smocks, setting up all sorts of still life arrangements, chatting to each other and calling to Mr Raxberry.
They were all calling him Rax to his face, but he didn't seem to mind. He strolled around, giving advice, juggling pots and books and ornaments into attractive still life arrangements, laughing as he listened to Rita going on about something.
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He didn't have a clue I wasn't there. He couldn't care less.
I decided to slip straight out again while I had the chance. But as I turned he called my name.
'Prudence?'
I stopped, my heart thudding.
'Hi!' He came over to me. It was so strange seeing the real Mr Raxberry close up when I'd been imagining him so vividly. He was smiling at me, his eyes friendly, his head tilted slightly to one side, exactly the way I remembered.
'Did you get lost?'
'No. Well. Sort of,' I stammered idiotically.
'Don't worry. It took me weeks to find my way around. Tell you what, I'll draw you a little map.'
I thought he was joking and smiled.
'Now. We're setting up still life compositions, ones t h a t hopefully reflect our personality, lifestyle, hobbies, whatever.' He looked at me. 'A still life is a fancy name for a lot of assorted objects. Look, here's some postcard reproductions.'
I shuffled them politely. I recognized most of them but held my tongue. I'd learned t h a t some teachers thought you were showing off if you told them you knew all about something.
'Let's find you a little quiet spot in the midst of this bedlam.' He glanced round and saw an empty desk near Rita.
I couldn't bear the thought. 'How about over there?' I said quickly, nodding at the opposite corner where Sarah was happily splodging paint, her tongue sticking out with concentration.
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'Great. Yes, keep Sarah company – but I think you'll need some kind of overall. Sarah gets a bit over-enthusiastic sometimes.'
'I haven't got one.' I looked down at my awful dress. 'I don't care if I get covered in paint, it won't matter in the slightest.'
Mr Raxberry raised his eyebrows but didn't argue. He found me paper, a couple of paintbrushes and six new pots of paint.
'OK, now it's down to you,' he said.
It was simple. I set up the paint pots, one paintbrush, the handful of postcards, and took Jane Eyre out of my school bag. I smoothed out my paper and started blocking in the shapes.
'You're doing t h a t wrong,' said Daisy, bustling back with a handful of purple flowers. 'You paint with the paint pots, they're not supposed to go in the picture.'
'I want them to be part of my still life,' I said.
'But that's daft,' said Daisy.
'She's not daft, she's clever,' said Sarah. She smiled at me. 'We can do what we want. I'm painting red, lots and lots of red. I love red. I love your dress.'
'You're the only person in the whole world who loves this dress, but I'm glad you do,' I said.
'OK, I'll paint some red too. I'll paint the red paint pot first.'
'Nutters,' said Daisy, and barged past.
Sarah and I painted companionably. Sarah hummed tunelessly as she painted, but it was quite a soothing sound. I concentrated hard, so 106
so so wanting to impress Mr Raxberry. He was w a n d e r i n g round the classroom, talking, rearranging, suggesting, trying to get everyone to settle down.
He came over to Sarah, holding a Red Delicious apple, a chilli pepper and a crimson china teacup.
'Hey, more red things for you to paint. Let's mix up your palate and get lots of lovely different shades of red. A bit of yellow here – go on, splodge it around with your paintbrush, that's right.
There, that's a perfect pepper colour.'
Sarah laughed delightedly. I loved the way he talked to her. Some of the teachers treated her like a baby, some of them simply ignored her, and some t r e a t e d her warily, obviously uncomfortable. Mr Raxberry treated Sarah with gentle respect and she clearly adored him for it.
'I love you, Rax,' she said, when he let her take a bite of the red apple.
'You're a very sweet girl, Sarah,' he said. 'Don't take a bite of the pepper now, it'll be much too hot and you'll be in serious trouble with your teeth if you bite my china teacup.'
Sarah giggled at the joke. Then Mr Raxberry came over to me.
He stood silently, looking.
I sat silently, waiting.
My mouth dried. I could feel my h e a r t thumping. It had been so horrible when hateful Mrs Godfrey h a d been scathing about my English essay, but I could bear that. I needed 107
Mr Raxberry to like my artwork. I needed it badly. I didn't dare look up to see the expression on his face.
Daisy was watching. 'She's done it wrong, hasn't she, Rax? You're not meant to paint the pots and brushes, you're meant to do your own still life, aren't you? Like me with my purple daisies.'
'No, she's got it absolutely spot on right,' said Mr Raxberry.
I breathed out.
'You and your Michaelmas daisies are right for you, Daisy. Prudence feels t h a t art materials and books are right for her.'
'Boring,' said Daisy, pulling a face.
I swallowed. 'So it's OK?' I whispered, still not looking up.
'You know it is,' said Mr Raxberry. He paused.
Then he said softly, "You're going to be the girl t h a t makes my teaching worthwhile.'
I started to get into this new strange routine. I went to school, I stumbled through the fog of lessons, I went to Mr Raxberry's art class and the sun shone, dazzling me, and then I went to the stroke unit every evening a n d e n d u r e d thunderstorms with Dad.
It was so unfair. I had to do all the talking to him.
M u m contented herself sorting Dad's laundry and trying to feed him sloppy snacks –
yoghurt and ice cream and cold rice pudding –
though his false teeth were now firmly back in place and all too snappy.
Grace pressed herself right against the wall of his room, as if trying to burrow right through it into the toilet next door. She said nothing at all unless directly questioned. Sometimes her hands did tiny Iggy-Figgy-Piggy waves to herself.
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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 t h a t 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.
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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 r a n 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',
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