by S. E. Lynes
Reggie has written an accompaniment to the Mick Jagger poem from this afternoon. ‘Bill Wyman,’ Samantha reads under her breath, ‘broke many a hymen.’ This makes her laugh out loud. Good old Reggie, giving her a giggle after the tension of the evening, her father’s continuing and barely believable crassness, her poor mother.
Still chuckling to herself, she slides Reggie’s work to the bottom to find the last clerihew – the ninth poem. Anticipation catches in her chest. There is no name at the top or bottom of the page. The sheet is unlined. The poem has the correct number of lines: four. But when she sees her own name at the top, her laughter dies on her lips.
Little Miss Frayn
Will be driven insane.
She thinks she’s the only one
But her happiness will soon be done.
Eleven
Samantha drops the poem, watches it skitter to the floor. She jumps up, tears a strip off her thumbnail with her teeth. The shutters are closed. She strides over to them and pushes them open, just a little. Outside, the black sky is hazed in orange from the street lamps. She paces out of the living room, across the hallway to the kitchen. Checks the back door. It’s locked. She lowers the blinds on the back windows, pulls the heavy curtains across the patio doors. Opens the curtains a centimetre and, hand visor-like to her brow, nose touching the cold glass, peers out.
The garden is in darkness, the shrubs and trees gothic shadows under the starless sky, the white sliver of moon. She strains her eyes, scrutinises the scene for movement, but there is nothing. No one.
She closes the curtain, tells herself she is being stupid. Pathetic even. Her heart is racing over what? A poem. A stupid poem that could be, probably is, actually, a silly prank. Yes, a joke. A student with misjudged ideas about what’s funny, with what Marcia would call ‘a shit sense of humour’.
She was not looking forward to Peter’s return, but now she wills him to come home. She calls him but he doesn’t answer. A good sign; it means he’s on his way. Hopefully. She paces, looks out of the window, tells herself that pacing is a cliché, to stop, stop it, stop it. She sits, finally, tries and fails to read the new Kate Atkinson, checks Facebook, feels a pang at the picture of Marcia and Jacob outside the Barbican, about to go to a gig.
She scrolls through her own page, the photos of her and Peter, of her, Peter and Emily when Emily was first born, when she was a few weeks old; her announcement that she would be teaching at the local adult community college in the new year, the link to the course her feeble attempt at advertising. It’s all so recent, yet it feels like so long ago. She puts this down to the dramatic changes in the last year or so. It’s been intense, a life concentrated to a pulp.
She uploads a picture of Emily sleeping, tags Peter, and adds the caption: Zonked out after a super-busy day! She throws down her phone, paces some more, looks out of the window. Listens.
She is checking her non-existent notifications for the tenth time – only Marcia has liked the photo – when she hears the roar of the Porsche on the drive. She leaps up from the sofa, half runs to the front door. The freezing January night rushes in, making her shiver. In the porch light, Peter’s face is tired and stern, his neck a little forward, as if he has something heavy on his shoulders. He doesn’t know she is watching him, has not seen her. She wonders whether this is how he moves when he thinks she isn’t looking, how he really moves. It is nine o’clock. He is over an hour late, but that’s the least of her concerns.
He looks up, seems to straighten his shoulders, lighten his step as he walks towards her.
‘Hi,’ she says. ‘Sorry about earlier.’
‘That’s all right.’ He leans in to kiss her on the cheek. He smells of cigarettes.
‘Have you been to the pub?’
‘Supervision meeting with a PhD student,’ he says, hanging up his coat. ‘We were both starving, so we went to the Marlborough Arms. You haven’t made dinner, have you? I grabbed steak frites.’ He heads through to the kitchen. She stands in the doorway while he pours a glass of red, takes a large slug – about half the glass – and tops it up. He sighs, rests his hand on the counter, looks at her, finally. ‘Emily go to bed all right?’
Samantha nods. ‘She’s asleep.’
‘Good, I—’
‘Peter?’
‘What?’
‘I need to talk to you about something.’
She gestures towards the living room and goes in. Sits down.
‘Peter?’ she calls after a moment.
‘One second.’ A minute or two later, Peter appears at the door, chewing a breadstick and carrying two glasses of wine. ‘You look like you need one,’ he says, handing her a glass and sitting beside her on the sofa. He glances about him. ‘This is all a bit ominous.’
‘It’s not about us, don’t worry.’ She does, she realises, fancy a glass of wine. Tonight, with Peter not here to pour it, and her so preoccupied, she has forgotten to have one, but it is her habit now as much as his. She takes a long draught, another, enjoys the alcohol hit. Her head swims a little, pleasantly, and she feels a bit calmer.
‘At the end of the class today I took in their clerihews,’ she begins. ‘Anyway, there are eight students, right? But when I looked in the folder, there were nine poems. I thought nothing of it. And then I got home and had to tend to Emily and all that so I didn’t get round to checking them until after dinner. But anyway, one of the poems didn’t have a name on it, the handwriting doesn’t match any of the others and it’s … it’s a bit … I don’t know, have a look.’ She hands the sheet to him and studies his face while he reads. ‘I guess it’s just given me the creeps a little bit.’
His frown deepens. He runs his fingers through his hair, takes another slug of wine. ‘Did you see anyone hand this in?’
The dull pain in her sternum tells her that she was longing for him to dismiss it instantly as nonsense. But he has not.
‘No,’ she says. ‘They collected them in a pile and one of them, Lana, she gave the stack to me, I think … Yes, she did because she asked me about limericks.’
He presses his lips together in thought before shaking his head. ‘It’s probably meant to be funny. They might even have handed it in by mistake, you know. What about the paper? Does it match any of the others?’
She flicks through. ‘No. No, that one’s plain white. The rest of them are on lined sheets. It could have been stolen from the photocopier or something, so that suggests something a bit more purposeful.’ She meets his eye, their grumpy exchange from earlier forgotten. ‘What should I do?’
‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘Do nothing at all. Just hand out the named sheets and throw this one away. Whoever it is either gave it in without meaning to or is trying to provoke some sort of reaction. It’s classic attention-seeking – I get it sometimes. Is there anyone who appears odd or needy in any way?’
‘Not really. Well, a bit. There’s a guy called Sean who’s slightly geeky, nerdy, you know? Stained anorak, writes speculative fiction in which he features as a priapic love god.’ She feels a wry smile spread across her mouth. ‘There’s a recovering drug addict, Tommy, a Polish girl who’s more serious than anyone I have ever met and a punk septuagenarian writing soft porn, but apart from that …’
Peter laughs. ‘The joys of adult ed.’
She can’t quite laugh with him. ‘So I just do nothing?’
He nods. ‘Just ignore it and they’ll give up eventually when they see you’re not reacting.’
‘Thank you.’ She leans in for a kiss, recoils a little. ‘Have you actually been smoking?’
‘Young people,’ he quips, draining his glass. ‘Such a corrupting influence. Why don’t we head upstairs? I’ll clean my teeth twice, I promise.’
Samantha follows him up. Despite his advice, she knows she will not be able to stop herself from asking next week who wrote that poem. She can dismiss it, laugh it off, as long as someone claims it. As Peter said, it’s probably a wind-up. Someone has got the tone wrong, so
that could mean Lana. Perhaps her grasp of nuance in a language that isn’t her mother tongue isn’t quite on point. And that’s the thing about writing, it can be hard to get the tone right. Hasn’t she found this in her own poetry? Getting the exact thought, emotion, feeling, crystallising that with words – that’s difficult, that’s what she’s trying to teach them, after all.
But as she waits for Peter to shower and clean his teeth, the poem turns over in her mind, memorised now to perfection.
Little Miss Frayn
Will be driven insane.
She thinks she’s the only one
But her happiness will soon be done.
She tries to remember Lana’s clerihew, can recall only the first two lines:
Stan
Was very bad man.
Lana misses the definite article even when she speaks. She wouldn’t, probably couldn’t, have written the offending clerihew. She would have written She thinks she’s only one, not She thinks she the only one. So no, probably not Lana, gruff as she is. The others drift into her mind’s eye: Sean, Aisha, Jenny … Reggie, Suzanne … Tommy, Daphne … Who is a bit odd? All of them. None of them. We are all a bit odd. All of us prey to all sorts of issues and neuroses, jealousies and rage.
It’s just that some of us hide it better than others.
She of all people knows that.
Twelve
Samantha gets to the college fifteen minutes early to prepare the classroom. The week, with its routines, daily walks and baby groups, has helped her to settle, to reassure herself that Peter will do better in her absence this time and to process the nasty clerihew, which she now thinks is nothing more than some ill-conceived mischief. She has been busy preparing her classes too, which has helped. Peter sent her three books on writing prose fiction from his Amazon Prime account. She has spent hours poring over them, taking notes and devising the most interesting classes she can. She has even started to write a little herself, while Emily sleeps, and has started work on a short story.
‘Hello there.’ It’s Daphne, first again. ‘My bus gets here early; I hope you don’t mind my coming in.’
‘Not at all,’ Samantha replies. ‘No point waiting in the cold, is there?’
Daphne sits heavily and sighs. Her colour, now that Samantha looks more closely, is a little grey.
‘Daphne, are you all right?’
She nods, but her smile is watery. ‘It’s really rather chilly out.’
Samantha crosses the room and without thinking reaches for the older woman’s hands. They are like ice, a bluish purple. ‘Daphne, you’re freezing.’
‘I got to the stop too early. I’m too early for everything. I do so hate to be late.’
Samantha leans forward and brings Daphne’s hands to her lips. Softly she blows hot air on them before chafing them together in her own hands. ‘Wait there and I’ll run and get you a cup of tea.’
‘Don’t be silly, dear, I’m fine.’ Daphne’s pale grey eyes are filmed with tears.
‘Tea or coffee? If you don’t tell me which, it’ll be tea whether you like it or not.’
Daphne’s smile widens. ‘Tea would be lovely. That’s kind of you, thank you.’
Samantha runs across the courtyard to the cafeteria. With an apology, she joins the front of the queue. A minute later, she’s back in the classroom, armed with takeaway tea, two cartons of milk and two sugar sachets. ‘Here,’ she says. ‘Put your hands around the cup for now. I think I should add some sugar – shall I do that?’
Daphne stuffs her tissue into her sleeve and does as she’s told. Her elegant fingers are bedecked with rings. ‘Thank you, dear. How much do I owe you?’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Samantha adds the milk and sugar and stirs the tea.
‘Hello.’
She turns to see Sean shambling in, talking all the while. He is on time, he tells her, in case she didn’t know, and goes on to explain in some considerable detail that he came on public transport today as the roadworks were ongoing. Daphne sips her tea, her colour returning. She glances up and gives Samantha a beautiful smile.
The others file in. By midday, seven students are sitting ready for the class to begin, but Reggie is still missing. Perhaps he didn’t enjoy last week’s class and has decided not to come back. Maybe he is the author of the horrid poem – a parting shot after a disappointing first lesson. No. No, it can’t be.
Samantha pulls back her shoulders, faces them. She will not be intimidated by four lines of silly poetry.
‘Hello, everyone. Looks like Reggie might not be joining us today, so I’ll crack on. I read your poems and they were all very good. Very amusing, well done.’ She hands out their work, making sure to give a little word of encouragement to each student in turn. It was such a small task, but these early attempts are important, she feels, for building the necessary confidence to tackle harder, perhaps more exposing work. Whilst they’re in this room, it is her job to make them feel safe.
Even if she herself doesn’t.
Once everyone has their poem in front of them, she rests her bottom against her desk, crosses her feet and takes out the remaining sheet of paper.
‘So, there was one extra piece.’ She waves the sheet as casually as she can manage. ‘Anyone?’ She tries to decipher all their faces at once. She doesn’t want to read out the poem; it is too unpleasant, has affected her too much and she doesn’t think she can give it the flippancy it requires. Sean sips his coffee. Jenny tears the end off a croissant and shakes her head.
‘It’s on a plain sheet, no lines,’ she adds. ‘No? Anyone remember writing two poems, perhaps one with my name in it for a joke? It’s OK, I’m not angry or anything, and it’s a perfectly good clerihew. I was just curious who wrote it, that’s all. Perhaps handed it in by mistake? No?’
No one looks away. No one coughs or fidgets. Nothing. Which leaves Reggie. But not for one second can she imagine that lovely Reggie is capable of anything mean-spirited. Besides, it doesn’t really seem like his sense of humour, which is warm and harmless and, frankly, funnier. But then, she doesn’t know Reggie. She doesn’t know any of them, not really. She doesn’t even know if this poem is mean.
But no one owning up is worse than someone admitting to it.
‘All right,’ she says, hearing herself falter. ‘Let’s … let’s have a look at your limericks.’ A faint fog of stress clouds her brain a little; she has to steel herself to persist, to force the confidence back into her voice. ‘How did you all get on?’
Like kids, they mumble and fidget and glance at each other.
‘I enjoyed it enormously,’ Daphne says, the colour returned to her cheeks. ‘I haven’t written a limerick since primary school. And I never owned up to that one.’
The others laugh.
‘I find difficult,’ Lana says.
‘That’s OK.’ Samantha notices, can’t help but notice, the speech patterns in Lana’s second language. ‘We’ll try again once we understand what we’re aiming for, how does that sound?’
Lana nods. It has to be said, her intense seriousness is really quite unsettling.
For the next hour, Samantha uses There was an old man from Peru and other popular limericks to teach them about rhyme and meter. She gets them to tap the beats on the desks. The familiarity will, she hopes, take the fear of poetry away. Peter was working last night, so she didn’t run the class through with him, and she is pleased now to see her own ideas being enjoyed. Together they reverse line lengths, try lines with too many syllables, make limericks that don’t rhyme. Together they discover what happens when the rules are broken.
‘So if the line length is wrong or the rhyme is off, you lose the comic effect, see? Like a mistimed joke.’ She returns their smiles, feeling that she has communicated something. ‘For those of you wanting to write comic dialogue, that’s something to think about later perhaps – rhythm, timing.’
Still Lana looks unsure. Samantha makes a concerted effort to keep meeting her eye. Together the class c
orrects a ‘broken’ limerick by rearranging the lines into the correct shape.
‘The trick is to keep playing,’ she says. ‘If you just keep playing until you get everything spot on, you’re basically manipulating language. You’re bending sentences into different shapes, for different effects. You’re putting yourself in control. Once you put yourself in control of things like word order, punctuation and all the things that make up writing, once you understand how those things create particular effects, you step from the world of writing for your own daily needs into the world of writing as an art form, which is basically telling lies. If you tell longer and longer lies, you become a writer. You gain all the power and arrive at your own truth.’
It is a satisfying note on which to end the class. The students give a hum of appreciation, which lifts Samantha’s spirits, almost makes her forget her sliver of unease.
‘If any of you have limericks to hand in,’ she says, ‘just leave them on my desk.’
A scrape of chairs, the indeterminate rustle of notes and coats, of stuff going back into bags, chatter.
Samantha gathers her things, pretends to be glancing up only to smile, say goodbye and acknowledge each sheet of paper as it lands, when in reality she is watching for another anonymous sheet, the hand that delivers it. Tommy looks a little red around the eyes, Daphne squeezes her arm and waves goodbye. Lana gives a perfunctory nod.
‘Thanks,’ Samantha says, and, ‘Cheers,’ and, ‘That’s great.’
Aisha and Jenny stop a moment.
‘See you next week then,’ Aisha says.
They are both smiling at her; both appear to be lingering a little.
