I will keep my powder dry. I will keep my counsel. Deifying Mungo with the role of sex guru is definitely a no-no.
Images keep flashing into my head: Mungo on top of me, pumping away (and missing the point of entry thankfully) and me looking around his spare room, bored and embarrassed, and then seeing his sandals and socks neatly arranged on a chair.
I look at my watch and say I think we should be making tracks.
Mungo puts a different tape on for the journey home. Enya. Everything he does now I feel is loaded with sexual innuendo. I keep expecting him to say, ‘I like to make my own sweet music to Enya. She’s so . . . tantric,’ as we’re driving, but he doesn’t. When I see he is wearing driving gloves (why did I not notice them before?), I imagine him explaining how he likes to take them off and whip his naughty ladies with them, but he doesn’t say that either. And the way he manhandles that gearstick? Well, least said, soonest mended.
Bless him, he very kindly drops me off at my house, which is sweet of him. Just before I get out of the Noddy car, he looks at me earnestly. I fear he is going to say, ‘Shall I . . . come in for a coffee and a hot-finger massage?’
Instead he says, ‘Karen, I have been quite open with you today.’
‘I bet you say that to all the girls!’ I giggle, but he looks stung.
‘And I really hope I can rely on you to be discreet. I . . . would really like what we discussed in the pub to remain just between us. Not everyone is as broad-minded as you or I.’
Bless him again, he’s worried. I put my hand on his on the gearstick and coo reassuringly, ‘Don’t worry, Mungo. Your secret’s safe with me. I won’t tell a soul.’
He looks so relieved. I squeeze his hand. Anyone else, I’d kiss them, but I don’t want him to get the wrong idea. I don’t want his tongue to come poking out of that ginger beard. I scrabble around trying to open the door. Five minutes later I manage to get out of the car. I walk round to the pavement and look back at him. He’s opening his window. Another five minutes later he says, ‘Thanks, Karen. Our secret.’
‘My lips are sealed.’
He smiles, like I’ve made a joke.
I quickly shoot my finger to my mouth. ‘These lips!’ I gasp.
He nods, and I head inside.
Then I’m on the phone.
‘Meredith, you’ll never guess what! Mungo and his wife are a pair of dirty old swingers!’
‘No!’
‘I know. Can you believe it?’
‘Excuse me while I throw up!’
‘I know!’
‘Swingers?’
‘Well, they have an open relationship.’
‘How the hell d’you know this? What did you find? Did you go snooping in his office?’
‘No! I didn’t find anything. He told me to my face.’
And I tell her about our jaunt out to the pub where they sell cheap food.
‘Oh my God, he was so coming on to you.’
‘Meredith, don’t.’
‘Was there a motel nearby? Was it a pub with rooms?’
‘Meredith, change the subject! I wish I’d never told you! Let’s talk about something different.’
‘Face it, Karen. You only called to tell me that tasty morsel of gossip. We have nothing else to talk about. Did his hand brush against you while he was changing gear?’
‘No! I pushed myself up real tight by the door.’
‘Did he run his fingers seductively through his beard?’
‘No! Well, he might’ve done.’
‘Did he pick food out of it and lick it in a suggestive manner?’
‘No! I did that for him.’
I hear her shriek. And I shriek. And Mum comes through from the kitchen, wondering what high jinks she’s missing out on. She gives me an unimpressed glare, then heads back to the kitchen, where I assume she is making herself something to eat.
Meredith gets over her hysteria and sighs, like it’s taken it out of her, then says, ‘Oh, Karen, you have the most infectious laugh.’
I giggle nervously. Because it sounds a bit weird. Because she may as well have said ‘adorable’ and not ‘infectious’. It sounds almost like she’s making lovable doe eyes at me.
Which is preposterous and terribly arrogant of me. Meredith is my friend. Jeez, do I think everyone’s coming on to me right now? Mungo? Now Meredith? I need to get a grip.
So I do, and grab the bull by the horns.
‘So anyway, when are you moving in with me?’ I say, half joking but half serious. I need some bloody rent money!
‘Oh, Karen, I’ve been thinking about that . . .’ and her voice trails off.
OK, she hates East Ham. She hates my house. She hates me.
‘. . . and isn’t your place two bedrooms?’
‘Aha? And your point is?’
‘Well, either I have to jump in with your mother or you.’
Ah. Good point. I’d not thought about that. I’d forgotten that Mum doesn’t just squirrel herself away under the stairs like a certain junior wizard each night. She does actually sleep in my spare room.
‘Oh, yeah,’ I say. ‘Duh!’
‘So . . . I mean, I’d like to, but . . .’
‘No, I’d love you to too, but listen, let me talk to my mum. I’m sure it’s time –’ and here I lower my voice, cupping my hand over the receiver ‘– she moved on.’
‘Oh. Well, if she’s heading back up North . . .’
‘She will be. I’ll tell her tonight. I’ll get her on her favourite subject, the rats in the loft . . .’
‘They’re back?’
‘Allegedly. I’ve never heard them.’
‘I don’t want to be responsible for kicking her out.’
‘Meredith, she doesn’t pay rent. You will be. It’s not me kicking her out; it’s my bank manager.’
‘Oh.’ Meredith’s voice is small with disappointment. ‘I’ll have to pay rent?’
And again we giggle. Me, of course, with my infectious laugh. When eventually we hang up, I look towards the kitchen and realize there’s no time like the present. I will go and tell her now. I get as far as the kitchen door, then turn and run upstairs. I might do my nails first.
The computer’s on in my bedroom, and I’m logged in to my school email system. As I paint my nails ‘Morello Kiss’, I hear the ping of some mail arriving. I blow on my fingers and read.
From: Kevin O’Keefe [email protected]
To: Karen Carpenter [email protected]
Subject: Connor
Dear Karen,
Thank you so much for coming along after the funeral last week. It was good to see you. We both appreciated it, and were glad you made the time to drop by. Hope you managed to attend to whatever it was you had to head off for.
I have taken this week off work and brought Connor to visit some relatives at the seaside in Suffolk. I’m just letting you know that he will be returning to school on Tuesday, as we are scattering Toni’s ashes into the Thames on Monday. (She loved water.)
I was wondering if I might come in and see you after school one day in a few weeks’ time to check on how he is getting on. Between you and me, he is being a bit quiet and withdrawn at home, and although I’m sure that’s to be expected, I just want to check how his behaviour is in school. I can come in at any time to suit you, as my hours are pretty flexible.
Hope all’s well with you and that you’re having a good week.
All best,
Kevin
Once my nails are dry, I ping one back.
From: Karen Carpenter [email protected]
To: Kevin O’Keefe [email protected]
Subject: Re: Connor
Hi Kevin,
Sure. I can do most days after school except Wednesdays, when I have a departmental meeting. I run Homework Club after school every day, but that is usually over by half four. Drop by anytime.
Let me know what suits.
All best,
Karen
&n
bsp; From: Kevin O’Keefe [email protected]
To: Karen Carpenter [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Connor
Great. I’ll come in Friday of next week, unless that messes up your plans for a debauched weekend.
Kx
From: Karen Carpenter [email protected]
To: Kevin O’Keefe [email protected] Subject:
Re: Re: Re: Connor
If you come to the special needs department, I’ll be the one most likely tied to a chair amid the debris of a riot. I’ll attach the details of my next of kin to my blouse.
KC
Well, I could hardly put a kiss, could I?
From: Kevin O’Keefe [email protected]
To: Karen Carpenter [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Connor
Total LOLZ! X
And there he was again, kissing me. How dare he!
From: Karen Carpenter [email protected]
To: Kevin O’Keefe [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Connor
Not sure what the head would make of a parent putting kisses on an email to a teacher!
KC
From: Kevin O’Keefe [email protected]
To: Karen Carpenter [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Connor
WHOOPS!!! XX
I thought it best to leave it there.
ELEVEN
I am quite proud of the way I handle Connor’s return to Fountain Woods. As he’s coming back on Tuesday morning, I have a chat with the tutor group at afternoon registration on Monday about how he might be feeling. I ask them to imagine what he must be going through, which is a nice idea in my head but does result in some of the girls having a competitive crying competition, which kind of drowns out the rest of the discussion. Keisha-Vanessa is almost hyperventilating when I eventually tell her to shut up, as any fool can see she’s attention-seeking. She gasps, ‘My . . . mum’s . . . my . . . best . . . friend!’ before legging it from the classroom, never to be seen again.
At least it lets the rest of the group reflect on and come up with suggestions for how they might support Connor if they see him upset. These mostly involve the lads proposing they tell him to ‘cheer up – your dad’s next girlfriend might be a MILF’, and the girls say they’ll offer him cuddles and a read of their Heat. I suggest that if they see him in a state of distress, they should tell whichever teacher is taking them for that lesson.
‘But what if it’s in the playground, Miss?’ asks Elizabeth, thrilled, it would appear, to be catching me out.
‘Then tell whichever member of staff is on duty,’ I reply. With the subtext of ‘And now shut up.’
‘Yeah, but what if all the members of staff have been annihilated by a passing gunman?’
‘That’s highly unlikely, Elizabeth.’
‘No, Miss, yeah, ’cos it happened in America, yeah? I seen it on Channel 5 and that.’
A murmur of apprehension ripples round the class.
‘Yes, well, it’s not going to happen here, so there’s no need to worry,’ I confirm.
‘Miss, is you, like, a psychic ’n’ shiz?’
‘No. I’m just thirty-six and know more about life than you.’
Elizabeth tuts her affront.
‘And don’t say “’n’ shiz” to me.’
Which makes the rest of the class erupt into laughter, some of them flicking their fingers towards Elizabeth, shouting, ‘Rinsed, man!’
‘Yeah, ’lizbeth, you is well rinsed!’
‘Shaaaame, ’lizbeth, ’n’ shiz!’
Elizabeth drums her false nails on the desk, staring at the wall, trying not to let their mickey-taking get to her, which is when she utters, ‘Everyone’s proper screwing me up, bruv.’
‘Elizabeth, nobody is screwing you up, least of all me. Now face the front and join in.’
But she doesn’t.
One of the lads shouts, ‘Do what Miss says, ’lizbeth!’
She spins round. ‘Why? Miss is a bitch anyway.’
I then point out that false nails are not allowed in school and send her to the Student Support Centre. I call down to let them know she’s on her way, though whether she’ll actually turn up is anyone’s guess.
Tuesday morning and I meet Connor in the foyer as he arrives, looking pretty cheery, it has to be said. I take him to my office before registration and give him a pep talk about strategies for coping now he’s back in school. I tell him that everyone in his class is aware of what he’s been through, and although they won’t be intrusive (fingers crossed, though I don’t say that out loud), they will be happy to let a member of staff know if he ever feels like some time out. He doesn’t say much, does a bit of nodding, clutches the sports bag perched on his lap and occasionally looks out of the window.
I am just extolling the virtues of how lovely and understanding all our staff are here at Fountain Woods, and how many of us have lost our parents (little white lie there. Some of the teachers, mentioning no names, would go to pieces if confronted by a grieving twelve-year-old boy, but a school cannot survive on touchy-feely alone. Some teachers ‘need to be bastards to get the fuckers to work’. That’s a quote from a colleague. I would never be so coarse. Yeah, right) when Connor interrupts me with, ‘Miss, is my dad coming to see you this week?’
I shake my head. ‘Not this week, but he’ll be in at some point.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, he just wants to make sure you’re OK.’
Connor takes this in, nodding.
‘Is that all?’
This throws me.
‘Well, yes, that is all. Why, what were you thinking of?’
Connor shrugs, then gets his phone out and starts playing on it.
‘And that stays in your bag, right?’
He nods, and continues to text someone.
My work here is done.
As I head back to my tutor room, Ethleen is hovering near the door to the corridor.
‘Oh, there you are, Karen,’ she bleats nervously, still hovering, like she’s unsure whether to come in or not, like a snobby, disapproving mother-in-law from a 1970s sitcom, unsure of your décor.
‘Everything OK, Ethleen?’
And she takes the plunge. She comes in. I’m not sure what she’s worried about catching in here. I like my tutor room. I took down that poster of Rihanna that Janet next door claimed was exploitative, didn’t I?
Ethleen has a small piece of paper in her hand, which she offers to me. I take it.
‘Any thoughts on this?’
I look at it. It takes a while to decipher.
Dear Mrs Burtterly
Yesterday my Keisha-Vanessa got told by her teacher Mrs Carpenters that they had to fink about mums dying. And when my Keisha-Vanessa starts crying Mrs Carpenters wen told her to shuyt the fuck up. My Keisha-Vanessa is now very very fick, what wit her nerves. I wish to make complain bout Mrs Carpenters. I aint fotgot how that place treat me when I was there. I wanna now what you gonna do bout it.
Shirelle Pepper
I groan, roll my eyes and explain. I imagine if Ethleen could rip the letter up and chuck it in the bin right now, she would, but it will have to be put on Keisha-Vanessa’s file, with a copy of her response via letter and any log of phone calls made relating to the matter. A silly amount of paperwork just because someone somewhere along the line got the wrong end of the stick. And that person wasn’t me. I know Keisha-Vanessa and Mrs Pepper will be invited into the school to discuss the incident with myself and Ethleen if Mrs Pepper (even thinking her name makes me want to sneeze) is unhappy with Ethleen’s comeback. The dread washes over me like a hot flush and I have to sit down to get my breath back. Maybe this is my fault. Maybe I wasn’t clear enough when explaining what I wanted the kids to do. Maybe Keisha-Vanessa is too young to grasp the concept of empathy.
Or maybe she’s a spoilt brat whose i
lliterate mother believes every word she says and assumes she will always be in the right and Fountain Woods in the wrong. Opposing sides of a boxing ring, slugging it out to prove who has her daughter’s best interests at heart. At moments like this I could give up.
After Ethleen has gone, I sit there stewing. It’s then that Connor puts his head round the door and practically whispers, ‘Are you OK, Miss?’
There’s a catch in my voice as I tell him I’m fine. This boy’s not stupid, though. This boy’s witnessed and felt raw emotions recently. He knows I’m not. He walks to the filing cabinet in the corner of the room and opens the top drawer. He pulls out my ‘emergency paper hankies’, which are nestled next to the ‘emergency pantyliners’ (for the girls, not me), and offers me the box.
Gosh. I didn’t even realize I was crying.
‘Thanks, Connor,’ I say as I pull out a couple and blow my nose.
‘Life’s shit sometimes, innit, Miss?’ he says, far too worldly-wise for his years.
I chuckle softly. ‘Oh, you got that right, Connor O’Keefe,’ I say, then reach out and ruffle his hair. ‘Life is shit all right.’
He nods.
‘But you didn’t hear me say that.’ I wink.
And he winks back.
I coast through the day on a cloud of detachment, my mind elsewhere, which is not a great idea when you’re in charge of children. Fortunately today I spend most of my time supporting other teachers in their classrooms, sitting with the slower kids, helping them with their spelling.
The irritating letter from Mrs Pepper has annoyed me and thrown me because it has reminded me that we all make mistakes, that life has a habit of coming along and slapping you round the face when you thought you were only trying to do something good, something right. And of course it reminds me of Michael.
Not only that he has left me, but that he hasn’t replied to my card. Every time the phone has rung, every time an email has popped into my inbox, every time there’s been a knock at the door, every time the postman has dropped the mail through the letter box, every time a text has pinged through on my phone, I’ve been hopeful, then disappointed. It leaves me feeling vulnerable. Almost as vulnerable as the time when he first disappeared. Which is how it feels. He is a missing person, vanished from my life, with no ‘why’s or ‘wherefore’s as to why or where he has gone. Am I that awful? Am I such a monster that that is all I deserve? I’ve always been strong in my opinion that I am worth more than that, but as the days grew into weeks, and now almost months . . . well, I’m not so sure.
The Confusion of Karen Carpenter Page 12
