by Georgia Hill
Andy had always been popular in the secondary school in which he taught, especially with the female pupils. He was young and even I could see, from a sisterly point of view, that he was good-looking. Then the bombshell struck. A pupil had made allegations that Andy had been having a relationship with her. The news hit the headlines with a vengeance, in both our hometown and in the national press. Of course investigations had been carried out. Andy was suspended from teaching and was, to our relief, eventually cleared. But by then the rot had set in. He’d become completely disillusioned with the education system and made the decision to move abroad. He’d travelled for a while and had finally settled in Spain. But the whole thing had changed him. It changed everyone in the family. He was Mum’s favourite and the scandal had all but destroyed her. She’d always been overly concerned with what the neighbours thought. And, of course, there had been the hate mail. It had poured through the letterbox like the deluge of filth it was.
Eventually my parents had sold up the old family home and had moved here, to this quiet market town in north Herefordshire. Neither of them had ever been quite the same again. For me, what was even worse, was the sneaking suspicion that Andy wasn’t the innocent he claimed to be. He had always been an incorrigible flirt and far too friendly with his pupils – especially the girls.
After tidying fruitlessly for a little while longer, I admitted to myself that I couldn’t delay the inevitable anymore; it was time to go home. As I entered my parents’ bungalow, I could hear laughter coming from the lounge. Curious, I poked my head around the door.
“Nicola!” said Mum in a gin and tonic soaked voice, “You’re home at last. We were getting so worried, it’s getting so late. Come and meet our new neighbour.”
I went into the lounge. Dad was standing by the coal-effect gas fire with a beaming smile on his face. I wondered if he too had been at the gin. Mum and a woman of ample proportions were sitting side by side on the sofa.
“This is Joyce Carter,” Mum said. “She’s just moved in next door.”
The bungalow next to Mum and Dad’s had been empty for some time, with a sold sign hanging at a drunken angle. I knew it had worried Mum to have it empty but that she’d also been fretting about who was going to move in.
The stranger stood up, “I only popped in to introduce myself and ask what day the rubbish was collected. Your Mum and Dad asked me in for a drink and I’ve been here ever since!”
Joyce Carter had kind eyes and a set of chins which wobbled as she spoke. She was wearing a kaftan of some description, in a lurid crimson. She made quite a contrast to my neatly dressed and frail looking mother.
“Joyce has been telling us that her granddaughter goes to your school, Nicola.” Dad was topping up his guest’s glass as he spoke. “What was her name again, Joyce?”
“Katy,” she answered and sat back on the sofa. “She’s in Mr. Sexton’s class. Soon be going to big school. Doesn’t time fly? I can remember her when she was just a bump. She loves that Mr. Sexton, he’s ever such a card she says, telling jokes and what not.”
I shook my head at Dad’s offer of a drink and perched on the arm of a chair. “He’s certainly very popular with his pupils,” I agreed. I knew Katy. A tall girl, who struggled with her maths.
“We don’t have any grandchildren,” sighed my mother. I raised my eyebrows at Dad who grinned back in sympathy. This was a familiar refrain. “Nicola is too busy with her career and our son Andrew is in Spain. I don’t know when we’ll see him again.”
“You should go there for a holiday, Betty.” Joyce patted my mother’s arm. “It’s hardly a difficult journey nowadays. Go for the winter; do you the world of good.”
As Joyce said this, an echo of exactly the sort of thing I’d been suggesting, I realised that Mum had hardly been out of the house, even to the local shops, for weeks now. The shadow of a thought passed through my mind – was she ill? I frowned, thinking back over the last few weeks, Mum’s behaviour had been getting quite strange. Dad and I were forever switching off lights and turning off taps that she had left on and, more worryingly, she’d once left the iron switched on and face down. It had burned a hole in my new trousers. She’d also got very agitated when I’d moved things around in the room I used as a study and insisted I moved them all back to their original places. She’d been shouting at Dad too, for no reason that I could see.
Joyce glanced at the clock on the wall. “Oh goodness me, look at the time! I must be going,” She rose with an effort from the low sofa. “It’s been really lovely to meet you all.”
“I’ll see you home,” said Dad, picking up his torch. “That’s the trouble with living in the country. No street lights!”
Joyce beamed with pleasure. “Well, that’s very kind of you and no mistake. I do find it dark here at night. You know, something tells me we’re going to get on famously!”
Joyce’s chatter faded as she and my father went into the hall. I turned to Mum and said brightly, “You’ll have to make Joyce one of your famous lemon meringues and take it round.”
“I can’t remember the recipe.” Mum blustered and drummed her fingers nervously on the arm of the sofa.
I was about to argue back, after all it was a recipe she’d made countless times before, when I noticed the look of panic my suggestion had created. I had a lot on my mind as I cleared up their glasses and made my way to bed.
The following Monday found me trying to inspire Year Six with narrative poetry. It wasn’t working. I thought hard and rapidly revised the morning’s plan in my head.
“Look, it’s a bit like a soap opera. Here’s this woman imprisoned in a tower.” I began again, trying a different approach.
“Why’s she in there then, Miss?” interrupted Emily.
“We don’t know exactly why The Lady of Shalott is imprisoned.” I continued.
“Then this geezer comes along don’t he?”
“That’s right Spencer, Lancelot comes riding past the tower and …”
“And he’s got all his bling on like, don’t he Miss?”
“Yes Spencer,” I replied, fervently hoping Tennyson wasn’t turning in his grave. “I suppose you could put it like that.”
“And Lady Whatsit looks out of the tower and thinks ‘Blimey, I don’t half fancy him’!” exclaimed Emily in triumph.
As the entire class fell into helpless giggles, there was a knock on the door. It opened and Jack stood there. “Glad to see you all enjoying your English lesson Class Six H,” he said, effectively quashing the hysteria. “Miss Hathaway, could I have a quick word with you outside?”
I nodded at him, “Certainly Mr. Thorpe.” Then I turned to the children. “Year Six, please read the rest of the poem and find out what happened when Lady Whatsit I mean when the Lady of Shalott looked out of the window at Sir Lancelot.”
I ignored the low but audible wolf-whistle which followed me out and shut the door firmly behind me. “Problem?” I looked up at him, recognising tension in his features.
“You could put it like that.” He gave a tight smile. “You know Tony didn’t put in an appearance this morning?”
I nodded. I glanced into his classroom where Mona was presiding over some group reading. I was slowly adjusting my opinion of her. Grim faced and monosyllabic she might be but she had stepped into the breach this morning while Jack had rung around trying to find supply cover. She was the foundation on which the school existed. Every school had a character like this and Mona was our rock.
“His wife has just rung to say he’s gone on indefinite sick leave. Stress apparently.” Jack’s face indicated precisely what he thought and it wasn’t in Tony’s favour.
“Oh, poor Tony!” I said, genuinely. Then another thought occurred. “Oh Lord, we’ve got another two weeks until his replacement starts. Any chance of Rupert Lawrence starting sooner?”
Jack shook his head. “None whatsoever, he can’t be released from his school.”
“What are we going to do then?”
“Well, it looks like you’ve got yourself a colleague. I’ll have to fill in until half term.” He grimaced sourly.
I had to laugh at his expression. I wondered how long it had been since he’d been in a classroom – teaching.
Uncannily he read my thoughts. “And the answer to that question is too long!”
“Well Mr. Thorpe, I suggest you begin with a little Tennyson,” I said tartly. “It seems to be going down well with my class.” We both looked at my pupils, all bent over their texts with apparent enthusiasm. I gave him a cheeky grin as I turned on my heel and returned to the classroom. “Well, Year Six what have you found out?”
“Miss it’s terrible – I think she dies!”
“It’s so unfair – we don’t even know why she was cursed in the first place!”
“Blinkin’ men, they’re always causing trouble!”
I smiled in relief. I had them. Good old Tennyson had once again worked his magic. I gave a cheery wave to Jack, still standing for some reason, outside my class.
Chapter Four
A few days later, at the end of the school day, I walked into the staff room to find a gaggle of teachers crowded at the window looking out into the playground. As I got nearer I could hear their fevered whispers.
“Say what you like about the man, he’s got an arse to die for!” said Emma, the normally very restrained Year Three
teacher.
“I like his eyes, I’ve never seen anyone who can pin you down with one glance like that!” said Irene, the normally very reticent Year Two teacher.
“He can pin me down anytime!” said Janice, the rarely silent Year Five teacher and mother of four grown up daughters. “Either I’m having a hot flush or he’s having an effect on my hormones that no-one else has had in a long time!” She fanned herself frantically. The women laughed as only women can when discussing an attractive man.
As I joined them at the window I could see the object of their lust. In Tony’s absence Jack Thorpe was taking football club. Dressed in a snug tracksuit he was bending over to retrieve a ball. And boy, did he look good! The navy jogging trousers made his lean legs look even longer – and they certainly emphasised one or two features usually hidden under the conservative grey suit which was his daily wear.
Janice became aware of my presence. Expecting the normal brush off, I was surprised when she turned to me and winked. “He’s certainly making my day a lot brighter. What do you think Nicola?”
“Well he’s having a definite effect on some of the parents.” I replied, with a laugh. “Why are all those mums here when football club doesn’t finish for another thirty minutes?”
As one we strained to look at the benches around the perimeter of the playground. There, sat along them, was a group of mothers waiting to pick up their children.
“Ooh! Mrs. Butcher really shouldn’t wear skirts that short.” I said, very unprofessionally and without thinking. There was the slightest pause and then the raucous laughter caused by my remark made Jack to look over to where we were still shamefully ogling him. We fled from the window and flopped down in the chairs, giggling.
“Cup of tea, Nicola?” asked Janice. “I’m just making a pot.”
“It’s Nicky – and yes I’d love a cup,” I answered with a grin. “Ooh and I’ve got some choccie biscuits in my locker. Does anyone want one?”
Everyone naturally said no as they were on diets and then, as women do, demolished my entire packet of digestives. I didn’t care. Was it too much to hope that I was beginning to be accepted?
“Janice,” I began cautiously. “What do you think about an in-school ironing service?”
That evening, Ann and I planned on trying out the new yoga class starting in the school hall. For some time Jack and I had been looking around to find ways of raising revenue for the school – and of providing a service for the community. When one of the parents had offered to run a beginners’ class, all proceeds to go to the school fund, we’d agreed immediately. I hadn’t a clue as to what yoga was all about but thought I’d show some support and welcomed Ann’s invitation to join her. Perhaps a tentative friendship was being forged? I didn’t have time to go home and change so had brought with me some old clothes I thought might be suitable for the class. When I changed into my leggings I realised Dad’s huge packed lunches had taken their toll. The leggings were tight and very revealing and worse still, had a hole in the thigh. I tugged my baggy T-shirt self-consciously over my bottom and went to meet the others in the hall. As I hurried past Jack’s office he rushed out and we ran slap bang into one another.
His hands came up to my arms to steady me. “Nicky,” he said a little breathlessly. “You going to yoga too?”
I stared at him in amazement. “You are going to a yoga class?” It came out as a squeak.
He shrugged. “Not sure if it’s my thing but seeing as Mrs. Homer has organised it I thought I’d put in an appearance.” He gave one of his all too rare grins and added, “And I’m dressed for it,” he gestured to his clothing.
He was still wearing his navy tracksuit. The colour made his strange greeny-blue eyes look even more vivid. I blushed. I could feel the heat spread over my face. Why hadn’t I brought something more attractive to wear? My hair needed washing and I’d tied it up hurriedly. And I knew the stains of a busy day were on me. I backed away sharply, aware that I might not smell all that fragrant. “I didn’t know you were going.” I pushed at my fringe and said without thinking: “I look such a mess.” God I was babbling. The man was making me babble.
He looked me up and down leisurely and raised his eyebrows. “You look fine to me. In fact ...”
Whatever he was about to say was interrupted by the incongruous sight of Mona coming out of her office, dressed in an immaculate pale grey tracksuit. “Mr. Thorpe, Miss Hathaway,” she nodded to us coolly. “Hadn’t we better go if we’re not to be late? We don’t want to keep everyone waiting, do we?”
Like two naughty children Jack and I followed her along the corridor.
“I think I’ve just about seen everything now,” he whispered to me. “The sight of Mona Thompson doing a yoga class will be the crowning moment of my glorious career.”
I stifled a giggle and made sure Jack went in front. There was no way he was getting a look at my bottom in these leggings. At least yoga was all about lying around, wasn’t it?
Wasn’t it?
The hall was full; Mrs. Homer had done the school proud. To my surprise I spied Joyce Carter at the back who waved to me cheerfully, her face nearly as pink as the tracksuit she was wearing.
Ann had obviously found time to go home and had changed into a pale blue leotard and matching footless tights. She looked long and toned as she bounced over to where Jack and I were standing and exclaimed in a jolly hockey sticks sort of a voice, “I’m so looking forward to this. I love yoga, don’t you?” She then proceeded to get into an eye-popping stretch right in front of us.
I felt rather than saw Jack’s mouth twitch and his shoulders begin to shake. I took a deep breath to prevent myself from laughing out loud and began to unroll my mat on the floor. To my alarm he took the space to my left. We were, due to the large numbers, a bit too close together for my liking. Ann, seeing where he’d decided to settle himself, unrolled her mat and matching rug on his other side. We sat self-consciously waiting for the class to start.
I soon had cause to reflect on my misconceptions about yoga. Of all the embarrassing things I had ever been asked to do this was the worst. Far from lying around half-asleep, I was expected to stretch muscles I hadn’t known existed and to get into positions no human being in a pair of too-tight black leggings ever should. At one point I had my bottom stuck up in the air as I tried desperately to reach the fingers of my left hand over to the toes of my right foot.
I’m sure Jack Thorpe had an interesting view of that particular manoeuvre.
To make matters worse Ann, Jack and even Mona Thompson seemed to be doing it all with ease. It was
far more strenuous than I expected – or had I allowed myself to get very unfit? I began to concentrate hard on the increasingly elaborate positions we were expected to achieve and almost forgot Jack’s presence next to me.
At long last it was time for the cool down. We lay on our backs as Meryl Homer’s voice silkily encouraged us to imagine blackness, to stretch our arms out wide and relax. By this time I had really got into the class and I stretched out my arms as instructed, eyes closed, letting the soothing music wash over me. Relaxed. My hand encountered someone else’s warm firm fingers. For a delicious second I allowed myself to sensuously explore the hand under mine. I felt along the length of a finger, it was smooth and finely tapered and undeniably masculine. Then my brain clicked in. I opened my eyes and looked to the left. Jack and I had accidentally made contact. But instead of snatching our hands away we left them lightly clasped together as we smiled into each other’s eyes. It was a densely intimate moment; almost as if there was no one else in the entire room. Electricity charged between us.
Perhaps there was something in this yoga thing, after all?
After the class finished and everyone was blinking sleepily and trying to return to real life, Joyce came over to talk to me. Somehow I missed Jack and Ann’s departure, together no doubt.
“Nicola, nice to see you again, did you enjoy the class? Ooh I did,” she said cheerily, her round face aglow. Since moving in she had been a regular visitor to my parents’ house. She leaned in conspiratorially. “Do you think I could have a word?” She paused. “Do you mind?” She hesitated again. “It’s about your mum.”
I looked at her in alarm as she edged me away from the rest of the group.
“I don’t want to worry you, lovie but is your mum all right?”
