“I’m sorry, my condition precludes me from joining you in a drink.”
“Oh, no,” Kate laughed, reddening. “It’s not wine. I know the score by now. It’s sparkling elderflower pressé. I used to drink it all the time when I was pregnant. I’d try to convince myself I was getting drunk on champagne. Come on, share it with me. I don’t often get a night out.”
From the evidence so far, Kate didn’t appear to be the type of woman for whom social intercourse with anyone over the age of two came easily. She was clearly making a huge effort. I took pity on her, invited her in and directed her to the sitting room.
* * *
As you know, I’m not someone who’s comfortable admitting people into my private domain, and I certainly don’t relish uninvited guests. I was exactly the same as a child. At a very young age, I realized it was in my own best interests to keep my father’s drinking secret, especially from my classmates at school. I soon became an expert. My primary defense strategy was to avoid making friends so that nobody would be tempted to call at my house and encounter my father. I achieved this by refusing to join in with playground games, turning down invitations to other children’s houses and parties, and generally keeping to myself. My second defense strategy was to avoid going anywhere in public with my father. Unfortunately, that wasn’t always possible.
An incident occurred, when I was fourteen years old, that had exactly the consequences I’d set out to avoid. We were driving back home from a rare, and particularly strained, whole-family visit to Aunt Sylvia’s bungalow. My father asked my mother to park outside the local off-license, and she knew that nothing would be gained by objecting. He staggered from the car to the shop, then staggered out shortly afterward with a bulging carrier bag in each hand. By this stage in his life, the dimensions of his beer belly meant he was forever having to hoik up the waistband of his trousers, which would soon slide back down again over the bulge toward his hips.
As my father approached the car, I watched as his waistband slipped lower and lower. I knew what was going to happen. I opened the door and ran toward him, but I was too late; his trousers were already around his ankles, and his pale, skinny legs were on show for all to see. Rather than put down his precious cargo, he stood there, a look of panic on his face. I grabbed the bags from his hands, and he bent to pull up his trousers, almost toppling forward in the process. This scene may appear comical, but it wasn’t. Not to me, not at the time. I looked around, hoping no one had noticed, and spotted a group of girls nearby, doubled up with laughter: Carol and three of her cronies from my class, all of whom—not unlike my delightful cousins—took great pleasure in discovering the vulnerabilities of others. I scuttled back to the car.
I know this sounds cowardly, but on Monday morning I told my mother I was too poorly to go to school. I used the same excuse on Tuesday. By Wednesday morning, she was threatening to call the doctor, and I resigned myself to the fact that I’d have to face the music. Entering the form room for morning registration, it seemed to me that every single one of my classmates was sniggering behind their hand.
“Hey, Sue, saw you and your dad down the shops on Saturday,” Carol shouted. “Actually, saw a bit too much of your dad.”
“Good job the police didn’t catch him flashing himself at young girls,” added one of her gang.
“Looked like he was off his head.”
“My mum says your dad’s a wino.”
I stared at my desk and tried to block out the voices. It was impossible. Carol was the ringleader, going on and on and on; she just wouldn’t stop. I did something completely out of character, something I’ve never done before or since. I stood up, went over to Carol’s desk and slapped her, as hard as I could. She stumbled and hit her elbow on a radiator pipe just as our form teacher, Mr. Briggs, came in holding the register. I liked him; he was in his early twenties, slight, blond, kind. He taught English, but not to my class.
“What on earth’s going on here?” he demanded, throwing the register onto his desk.
“Sir, it’s Susan, sir,” Carol sniveled. “She slapped me for no reason, made me hit my elbow. I think she’s fractured it.”
Mr. Briggs looked astounded.
“Susan, did you hit Carol?”
“Yes, sir.” I looked down at my sensible school shoes.
He asked what had come over me; I mumbled that I didn’t know. He turned to Carol, whose cheek was glowing red.
“Let’s have a look at your elbow. Can you move it?”
After a brief examination, he told her there didn’t appear to be any serious damage. She should go to the toilets, get a wet paper towel and hold it in place for a few minutes. Returning to the classroom, she stared at me with a twisted smile on her face, as though she was visualizing the torment she was planning to inflict on me.
When registration was finished and it was time for the class to file out, Mr. Briggs told Carol and me to stay behind. He asked why I’d slapped Carol, and I repeated that I didn’t know.
“Carol, can you tell me?”
“It was just ’cos I mentioned her dad. We saw him staggering around drunk at the weekend, and I wanted to check she was alright.”
“Is this correct, Susan?”
“She wasn’t asking if I was alright. She was saying terrible things, calling him names.”
Mr. Briggs told me I shouldn’t ever resort to physical violence, whatever the provocation. But he knew it was completely out of character, so, on this one occasion, he’d let me off with a warning. If I did anything like that again, though, it would be straight to the head teacher for me. He told Carol he didn’t want to hear that she’d been bad-mouthing my father again. When he asked if we both understood, we confirmed that we did.
“Right you two, get to your lessons.”
The taunting continued, of course. What child gives up such entertainment just because a teacher says so? Carol and her friends took full advantage of having something to use against me. I did contemplate feigning a chronic ongoing illness, but I knew I couldn’t stay off school forever. And anyway, I told myself, I was tough, already proficient at detaching myself from what was going on around me and stifling any emotional reaction to it.
The following week, Mr. Briggs asked me to remain behind again after morning registration. He said he knew a neighbor of mine who’d told him a bit about my father.
“How are things at home?” he asked.
“Great.”
“Are they really?”
I didn’t answer.
“Susan, I just wanted to let you know, my own dad had a drinking problem. I understand what you’re going through.”
I still didn’t respond. He asked if my classmates had stopped teasing me, and I instinctively shook my head.
“Who’s doing it? Is it still Carol? I’ll have a word with her.”
“Don’t. It’ll only provoke her.”
“Alright, it’s up to you. But if you need to get away from Carol’s lot, you can come to my classroom at break time. And if you want any help, just say.”
* * *
I went to Mr. Briggs’s classroom at first break the next day—not because I couldn’t withstand the bullying, of course, but because I prefer peace and quiet. While he was marking homework, I sat at a desk in the far corner and took out a novel. After a while, he looked up and asked what I was reading. I recall it was Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome; he said it was one of his favorites. The next day, he brought in a P.G. Wodehouse novel he thought I’d enjoy. He said I could keep it; he had so many books he was pleased to make space on his shelves.
So this was my new routine. Each break time, after the bell went, I would go to Mr. Briggs’s classroom, take out a novel and read while he was marking homework and planning lessons. Sometimes he would bring in books for me and we’d discuss them. On a few occasions, he tried to get me to talk about what w
as going on at home, but I always sidestepped his questions. He told me it was best to keep my visits a secret, or the other pupils would be jealous, and I happily agreed. Mr. Briggs’s classroom was my own personal oasis of order and calm, and I wasn’t about to share it with anyone.
And then, of course, Edward had to get involved. He’d spotted a few books in my bedroom that had Mr. Briggs’s name on the cover. Then he noticed that I wasn’t in the playground at break times, and somehow managed to track me down.
“What do you do on your own all that time with Briggsy?” he asked, running ahead of me on the way home from school and blocking my path. I came to wish I’d been more evasive.
“He does marking, I read, he gives me books, we talk about them.”
“Sounds dodgy to me. Teachers aren’t allowed to spend time alone with their pupils like that, or give them stuff. I’ve heard about men like him.”
“Don’t be pathetic. He’s just being kind.”
Edward was distracted by the sight of his best friend, Steve (who was Carol’s brother), riding his new skateboard along the opposite pavement, and I took my chance to push past him. I thought no more about it. Then, in the cloakroom a couple of days later, Yasmin—a quiet girl with whom, in different circumstances, I might have been friends—tapped me on the shoulder as I was putting on my raincoat.
“I think you should know, there’s a rumor going around school about you and Mr. Briggs,” she said.
“What rumor?”
“That you and him are having an affair.”
“That’s nonsense. Who’s saying that?”
“Everyone. They’re saying he’s been giving you presents, like books and things, so he can have his wicked way.”
She apologized for being the bearer of bad news, smiled sympathetically and left. I stood there, one arm in my coat sleeve and one arm hanging limply by my side. I was appalled that something so entirely innocent could be sullied by vile suspicions. The books, I thought, who knew about the books? Only one person, other than Mr. Briggs and me. People will believe anything if it’s whispered to them, and Edward always was a spiteful little tittle-tattle. I intended to confront my brother as soon as I got home but, conveniently, he was having a sleepover at Steve’s house.
The rumors, it seemed, had filtered upward very quickly, because before I’d even taken my homework out of my schoolbag, my mother received a telephone call asking her to accompany me to a meeting with the head teacher the following morning. She asked me what was going on, but I told her I didn’t know. I didn’t want to think about the stories that were doing the rounds. I hoped the whole thing would go away.
Once my mother and I were seated, the head teacher got straight to the point. She said it had come to her attention that there had been an inappropriate relationship between myself and a newly qualified teacher, Mr. Briggs. There were witnesses, more than one. She asked me to explain, in my own words, what had happened. I told her I’d been going to Mr. Briggs’s classroom at break time to escape bullying by girls in my class. She asked whether he’d given me gifts. Yes, I said, but only secondhand books. Had he told me to keep it a secret? Yes, but only so other pupils wouldn’t demand to stay in at break time, too. She leaned forward, expressed her sorrow at having to raise this, but had Mr. Briggs ever touched me, or asked me to touch him? I could be completely honest, no one would blame me, I wouldn’t be the person getting into trouble.
“Definitely not,” I said. “Nothing remotely like that. Not at all, never.”
She looked at me skeptically, as if she’d known I’d deny it, whatever the truth. After reassuring my mother that she’d get to the bottom of this, the head teacher instructed me to return to class. My mother was tight-lipped as I kissed her goodbye.
The next day, there was a supply teacher at Mr. Briggs’s desk. We were told he was off sick, and probably wouldn’t be back before the summer holidays, which started in a couple of weeks’ time. He didn’t return the following term, and I never saw him again. I’ve no idea whether he was sacked by the head teacher, or walked out when questioned by her, or had always intended to leave at the end of the academic year. For me, it was back to the playground at break time, back to the taunts, which now were not only about my father. Eventually, after a few months, the rumors about Mr. Briggs and me became old news, and the main focus of Carol’s attentions moved to a girl who she’d discovered was adopted and a boy who she’d decided was gay. She still tormented me about my father’s drinking, but not with quite such gusto. I never forgave Edward, though, for destroying my place of sanctuary and wrecking what I still genuinely believe was an entirely innocent pupil-teacher relationship. I’d confronted my brother about it in the hallway as soon as I’d walked through the front door on the day of the meeting.
“Well, it was obvious he was a perv,” he countered. “That’s why I told Carol, when I was round at her and Steve’s house, because I knew she was a friend of yours. And that’s why I told the head.”
Strangely, my mother was furious with me, even though she seemed to believe what I told her. There was something very unhealthy, she said, about a grown man seeking out the company of a teenage girl and plying her with gifts. I should never have accepted them. It might have seemed harmless to me, but I was naive; you always had to be on guard with men. Mr. Briggs was probably biding his time, gaining my trust, and who knew where on earth it might have ended? She put her arm around Edward’s bony shoulders.
“Thank goodness Eddie was looking out for you.”
* * *
So here I was, landed with an uninvited guest. I would just have to make the best of it. I found I had no objection to Kate’s vinous fantasy so, using the sturdy oak casket as a step, I retrieved a box of unused champagne flutes from the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet. She filled the glasses with the elderflower pressé, and we sat curled on opposite ends of the sofa, cushions forming barricades on our laps. There was an awkward silence as we both wondered what on earth to say to each other. Whenever I visit someone, I prepare beforehand a mental list of conversational topics in order to avoid such a situation arising. Kate was obviously not a person who thought ahead.
“Have you been up to anything fun today?” she ventured.
“Not quite what I’d categorize as fun,” I said. I proceeded to tell her about my trip to the spa, including a description of my shallow aunt and cousins. She listened with commendable attention.
“They sound awful,” she said when I’d finished. “I bet they were furious when you escaped without feeding their hunger for gossip.”
Kate told me that, after spending several years working in the banking world, she was sick to death of superficial people. Apparently, she’d studied psychology at university, and had fallen into the world of “personnel” through sheer desperation for the steady income needed to repay her debts. She wasn’t suited to it, personality-wise, being a bit of an introvert, and hated every second of her job. She was about to start a master’s degree, and was aiming for a career in academia.
“It’s what goes on inside that I care about,” she concluded. “Not the labels on your clothes, or what car you drive, or whether you’re popular or fashionable or good-looking.”
It goes without saying that I’m not someone who likes to divulge personal information. There’s too much of that sort of thing going on these days. People increasingly feel the need to validate their thoughts, emotions and experiences by sharing them with friends or even with complete strangers. On this occasion, though, buoyed by Kate’s levelheaded views, I decided to explain the reason for the meeting with my aunt. I dispensed with the cushion, refilled our glasses with the ersatz champagne and began. I told her about my mother’s recent death, the outrageous terms of her will, my strong suspicions of duress on the part of my brother, my intention to pursue court proceedings to have the will overturned and the investigations I was in the process of carrying out.
<
br /> “What a can of worms,” she said, also abandoning her cushion. “And you really think your brother tricked your mum into giving him the right to stay in the house?”
“Almost certainly. Tricked, bullied, bamboozled—I’ve yet to establish which. But I will.”
“Shocking. Let me know if you need any help. It’s a lot for you to cope with in your condition, and I need something to take my mind off things at the moment. I’ve got a bit insular, with it just being the kids and me at home. And I go past Birmingham regularly. My family live in Lichfield. If you’re ever planning a trip up there let me know.”
A surprisingly successful evening, all in all. I might even consider doing it again if I can think of nothing better to do.
* * *
Not being someone who bothers to check her mobile phone regularly, I found, when I got back from the office on Monday, that I had three missed calls. I seemed to be becoming quite popular. I dialed voice mail and listened to the first message while I was turning the cacti that fill my kitchen windowsill.
“Hello? Hello? Hello, Susan, love. Are you there? It’s Auntie,” squeaked the message. “Ooh, silly me, you’re probably busy at work. I forget sometimes. Me and Uncle Frank are jetting off to the villa in Estepona this afternoon and I was hoping for a little word before I go. It’s just, you know, what you were saying on Saturday, about the will and the ‘live interests’ or whatever that your mum’s given Ed. You were saying you didn’t know why she’d done it. Well, I’ve bin thinking about it—haven’t bin able to sleep, which isn’t like me. I’ve always slept like a baby. ‘You sleep the sleep of the innocent,’ Uncle Frank likes to tell me. Anyway, I think the reason your mum might have done it is because she was always worrying about Ed. I mean, because of the ops he had to have when he was little, and because of your dad’s drinking. She read somewhere that it’s all to do with genes. Used to go on about it a lot. She thought Ed would’ve inherited the drinking gene, and that his biology or whatever would’ve set him on the same path as your dad. ‘The apple never falls far from the tree,’ she used to tell me. She thought it was her job to keep him on the straight and narrow. Well, I just wanted to tell you that. I mean, I’m not saying it was definitely the reason. It’s just, I don’t want you wasting your time with ferreting around and court cases and such like, when your mum was probably just trying to make sure Ed would be okay after she was gone. Right, that’s me done. Off to sunnier climes for a few weeks. Viva España!”
The Cactus Page 12
