In a Class of His Own

by Georgia Hill

  I didn’t know what to say. She was voicing my deepest fears. I hadn’t even discussed this with Dad. “I don’t know what you mean,” I managed in response.

  “Your mum. She’s been acting a teeny bit strange lately, hasn’t she?”

  I nodded reluctantly. It was true and we’d all been avoiding the issue.

  Joyce looked at me, her kindly eyes suddenly serious. “Do you think,” she hesitated. “Do you think she, I mean Betty, might be suffering from something like depression?”

  Now Joyce had my full attention. Depression? Other possibilities had occurred to me over the last few weeks – and before that if I was honest with myself. Ever since what happened with Andy.

  I concentrated again on Joyce’s words.

  “I used to be a nurse – in a GP’s practice. I’ve seen ever such a lot of this sort of thing. I just thought it might help, that’s if you didn’t mind me mentioning it.” As she spoke she laid her hand on my arm. “It’s sometimes hard for the family to see what’s going on. It takes a stranger sometimes.”

  I nodded, my eyes filling suddenly. “But Joyce, depression?” I began to say. Then I added idiotically, “But she doesn’t seem all that sad. She just keeps doing odd things.”

  Joyce smiled understandingly. “I know Nicola but the symptoms aren’t always as obvious as someone going around crying all the time.”

  I sighed, “She’s been doing that too,” I admitted. “I’ve heard her when she doesn’t think anyone’s in the house.” A few people went past, calling goodnight. I responded absently and then turned to Joyce again. “What should I do? How can I help her?”

  “She needs to see someone professional. She needs to get herself down to her doctor’s,” Joyce said in a matter of fact voice.

  I hesitated.

  “Do you want me to have a word, lovie? You know, from a professional point of view?”

  I looked at Joyce in relief. Had she understood so completely how difficult it would be to persuade Mum to leave the house? “I don’t know how to thank you, Joyce. After all, we hardly know you.”

  Joyce waved her hand airily. “No matter, no matter. Tell you what, give me a lift home and we’ll call it even-stevens.” She put her arm through mine and added companionably as we left the hall, “Do your muscles feel as wobbly as mine? And tell me,” she hissed in a provocative tone, “Are all headmasters nowadays as young and good-looking as your Mr. Thorpe? What a dreamboat! Hasn’t done much for my blood pressure, I can tell you. And I thought yoga was supposed to be relaxing!”

  Chapter Five

  Seven thirty on the first Saturday morning of the half term holiday. I stretched luxuriously, still in bed. I turned the pillow over to the cool side with every intention of sleeping in. With a sigh I snuggled down. Bliss.

  “Rise and shine Nicola!” Dad banged into the room, put a cup of tea on the bedside table and threw open the curtains. “It’s a lovely day.”

  I groaned and pulled the duvet over my head as bright sunshine pierced through my closed eyes.

  “Come on love, can’t stay idling in bed on a day like today!” And with that he went noisily back out of the room, whistling a jaunty tune. I was wide-awake by the time he’d slammed the door shut.

  With any chance of catching up on some sleep gone, I gave up, slid myself into a sitting position and sipped my tea. I thought over the events of the last few days. Joyce, loyal to her word, had talked to both my parents about her concerns. Mum had reluctantly promised to make an appointment with her GP but Dad had remained silent. I knew he’d found the situation impossible. He came from the school of “stiff upper lip and pull your socks up”. I knew he was completely bemused by any suggestion of mental illness – to him it just didn’t exist. He had compensated by becoming incredibly busy: cleaning shoes, polishing silver, pruning the garden to within an inch of its life. What he hadn’t done was talk about it. He changed the subject every time I brought it up but remained grey-faced with worry. As for Mum, she hadn’t as yet made the appointment to see her doctor. It had been on my mind since Joyce had mentioned it at the yoga class and I was exhausted just thinking about it. Previously in my life, if a problem occurred, I sorted out the solution and then acted. I felt powerless to deal with this.

  My thoughts escaped to those of school and I smiled. I leaned back on the pillows and watched the curtains move in the light breeze coming through the window which Dad had opened.

  Jack and I had met to discuss planning on most evenings after school, as he had to teach Year Six. I’d been reluctantly impressed with how he’d handled the situation. Tony’s class, not used to any semblance of routine, had succumbed to the Thorpe charm and implacable discipline. But my burgeoning admiration for the man was based on more than that. I’d seen Jack teaching individual children at break times, when he should have been catching up on his other responsibilities. And I knew from Joyce that her granddaughter, Katy, was making real progress because of Jack’s dedication. It had had an impact on staff and children alike; there was a grudging but discernible respect growing in the school for Jack’s hard work, even though some of his decisions remained unpopular.

  We had certainly been busy. On top of the usual workload, a series of parents’ evenings had made the last days before the holiday fly by. I knew Jack planned on getting a last minute flight to Greece. My aim was to sleep the week away, catching up with some fat novels, with maybe a drive down to see Bev.

  To my regret Jack hadn’t come to yoga again but I’d become quite addicted, especially to the meditation session at the end. Although we’d had ample opportunity, for some reason, Jack and I hadn’t mentioned the meeting of hands. It was my little secret, too precious to discuss and dissect but treasured like a nugget of pure gold.

  I yawned and stretched, catching sight of myself in the dressing table mirror. I pulled at my fringe with a grimace. I’d been so busy at work that I hadn’t had time to get to the hairdressers. I sighed. My hair was thick and shiny but had grown out of its layers. Highlights that had been put in months ago were no more and it was reverting to what at best could be described as mouse. I blinked. I’d been told once that my eyes were my best feature; they were large and brown and, thankfully, fringed with long dark lashes. The rest of my face I thought ordinary. My skin was good but my mouth was too big and I knew it revealed every emotion I felt. I’d make a lousy poker player, and not just because I didn’t know the rules. I flexed my thigh muscles, the yoga was making a difference and I definitely felt more toned. Then I reached down and felt stubble on my shins. My body could definitely do with some serious TLC. I leaped up, full of sudden energy and hunted for the sachet of hair dye and razor I still had lurking somewhere ...

  Mum had a long list of items she wanted from town and, as it was on the way, I popped into school to sort out one or two things. At least at school I could have a few hours to myself. No one was likely to be in today. Rupert Lawrence, the new Year Six teacher, was due to start after the half term holiday and I wanted to check everything was all right in Tony’s old classroom. As I let myself in, the thought that I ought to give Tony a ring to see how he was nagged uncomfortably.

  I walked down the silent corridor. Empty schools have a peculiar feel. It’s as if the very air has gone to sleep, waiting for life to return. Dust-motes swirled slowly in the sunshine and closed doors offered blank faces. I’d spent so much time here over the last few weeks that it had become like a second home but, even so, I wasn’t totally happy about being here on my own. Without the usual hordes of children there was something about the place which made you jump at your own shadow. Today was breezy and the wind made the building shift and creak eerily. After I’d checked on the room opposite to mine I put my head around the door of my classroom. I could just sort out a few things while I was here.

  An hour and two cupboards later I felt as if I was making progress. A CD was playing, covering any inexplicable noises that might disturb me and I was happily singing along to Maroon 5.
r />   “Nicky – what are you doing here?”

  The sound of his voice had me whirling around in panic. The pile of paper I was holding slithered from my hands and I stood there gaping open-mouthed, my heart racing.

  “Jack – you made me jump! You’re supposed to be in Greece!” I accused.

  “And it’s good to see you too, Nicky.” Jack smiled and began to kneel to help me pick up the mess I had dropped on the floor.

  I studied him as I recovered from the shock of being disturbed. He was wearing black Levis and a cashmere sweater, the colour of a robin’s egg. He looked younger and more relaxed but as sharply dressed as ever. I wondered if he ever looked as dishevelled as I often felt when in his company. He was such a contained man, I wondered what it would take to rouse him out of the iron control he had over himself. If he ever truly let himself go, I thought, it would be an interesting spectacle.

  “I had trouble getting a flight so decided to stay at home this week.” He grinned ruefully and shrugged, “And I’ve certainly got plenty to catch up upon.”

  Both on our knees we began to gather together the papers in front of us.

  “You’ve changed your hair. It looks nice.” He said it so softly I hardly heard the words. The neutral expression was still there but his eyes were alive with meaning. As compliments go, it was hardly effusive but it made me catch my breath slightly. He had such an attractive voice, one I’d heard him use in so many different ways: to reprimand children – and staff, to encourage, to control. Fancifully it occurred to me that his northern accent sounded almost exotic amongst the long, soft vowels of this part of the country.

  “Thank you.” I said inadequately.

  We smiled at one another. The words of the Maroon 5 song, as the music played softly in the background, dropped into the stillness between us. Something about wanting but not knowing ... something about wanting that person really badly ...

  It was a moment encased in magic; we were both breathing slightly heavily and were aware only of each other and one another’s eyes.

  Then the moment splintered and Jack sat back on his knees abruptly and frowned. He shook his head slightly, blinking rapidly, as if coming back to reality.

  “So why on earth are you here?” He helped me up and we sat on two of the pupils’ low plastic chairs, he with his long legs comically bent.

  I explained and then somehow I found myself pouring out all my frustrations about living with my parents, about how cramped it was but most importantly and how worried I was about them both. I stopped suddenly, now embarrassed about how much I’d revealed. I didn’t want to sound petty or spoiled but there must be somewhere I could rent, near enough to my parents’ but where I could enjoy some privacy?

  “Trouble is, it’s so expensive to rent anywhere around here. And if it’s a holiday let they’re not keen on a long lease – I’d want at least six months.” I said, thinking aloud. “And it would need to be furnished. I haven’t got any furniture of my own.” I added.

  Jack rubbed the back of his neck; a gesture I’d got to know to mean he was mulling something over, usually something difficult. “There might be a solution to this but …” he paused frowning deeply.

  “What? I’d consider anything!” I said, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.

  The answer wasn’t what I was expecting.

  “Come on, you can’t spend all your half term holiday at school.” He stood abruptly and pulled me out of the little plastic chair on which I had been sitting. We stood close together and he didn’t let go of my hand immediately. I was in breathing distance and I could see the flecks of green in his light blue eyes; darker blue rings surrounded the irises and they made me think of a wolf suddenly. Predatory and masterful.

  He spoke at last. “Would you like some lunch?” He smiled very slightly, looking down and seeming embarrassed, not quite meeting my eyes.

  I grinned back, hugely. “Have you ever known me to refuse food, Mr. Thorpe?”

  “Oh Nicky,” he replied irritably. “Remember to call me Jack.” Then he caught my amused look and grinned back. It lit his face. I could fall for this man I suddenly thought. Underneath the granite exterior was something so much more alluring. Dangerous territory. I still had to work with him, for him, after all. And while I might be falling for the man, I still had grave concerns over the headmaster.

  Chapter Six

  Jack offered to drive, saying he could drop me back at school later on in order to pick up my car. I readily agreed as I was curious about his car. I’d often wondered about it when I’d seen it in the school’s car park. I hadn’t a clue as to the make but I thought it seductive with its low, curvy lines. As we got in I reflected it wasn’t the sort of vehicle I’d have thought he’d go for. A classy and discreet BMW was more his style surely. As I looked around the dated and shabby beige leather interior he caught my look.

  “She belonged to my father. Totally impractical and some days I’m not sure if she’ll get me into work but I love her.” He stroked a long finger over the spokes of the steering wheel as he spoke – there was more warmth in his voice than I could ever recall hearing before.

  “Series Two Fixed Head Coupe. 1970 model, British Racing Green.” He rattled off. Seeing as I looked even more mystified – to me cars were for getting from A to Z, he added, “E-Type Jaguar.” He grinned at me again, pushed up the sleeves of his sweater and switched on the ignition. “I always like this moment – I never know if she’s going to come up with the goods for me. Everyone should have moments of uncertainty in their lives!” Then he laughed throatily as the engine fired into life.

  I stared at him. Until now I’d thought him the sort of man who knew precisely where he was going and how to get there, with any distractions, or uncertainties, batted masterfully out of the way on the journey. As the layers of his complicated personality were being peeled back I felt myself being sucked into the attraction further. Dangerous territory I reminded myself again.

  It was a lovely day – Dad had been right when he’d made the comment that morning. I loved this season; being in teaching I always associated it with new beginnings, fresh starts. And today was a classic Autumn day. The breeze was keen, with the hint of winter approaching but the sun was faithfully squeezing the last of the year’s heat down onto us. As we sped past trees gloriously clad in golds and crimsons, Jack put on a pair of black Ray-Bans then wound the window down. The wind ruffled his dark hair attractively.

  More disorder in his apparently very controlled life.

  I risked a furtive glance to my right. What is it about being driven by a man? There is something so deeply erotic about it. Jack was a skilful driver, the powerful engine responded with a guttural roar and we took a racing line through the bends on the country roads. I felt as if I was almost lying down in the passenger seat and felt very near the road speeding past outside. I could feel every bump and vibration. Jack was a big man and, to accommodate his long legs, he’d had to push the driving seat as far back as it would allow. We were very intimately confined in the small space. The faint aroma of the after-shave he was wearing wafted over. The muscles in his bare forearms were flexed but one hand rested casually on the steering wheel. He had good arms I thought. Toned, with the muscles strongly defined. I’ve long had a weakness for a pair of fine hands and Jack’s were beautiful. Long fingered, with square, capable looking palms. One was resting lightly on the gear lever. When he changed gear his fingers closed firmly around the knob and the back of his wrist brushed up and down my thigh in a whisper of a touch. I didn’t move my leg away.

  We didn’t talk much on the journey, he mentioned his parents were still living in Manchester, where he’d been brought up. He told me that his father was unwell, that he had a younger sister called Jennifer. I didn’t respond but let his low, earthy voice mesmerise me. The words were ordinary and commonplace but I began to feel quite faint and sincerely hoped it was only lack of food. I had no idea where he was taking me and didn’t overly
care – I was enjoying the experience too much. When he turned into a courtyard of converted barns I was almost disappointed that the drive was over. I thought it a strange place for a pub or restaurant – where I’d assumed he was taking me.

  I clambered out of the low car inelegantly. Somehow I’d managed to miss the lesson about getting out of sports cars at the comprehensive I’d attended. I looked around me, fascinated. It was an upmarket sort of a place and Jack’s E-Type fitted in perfectly. A selection of four or five farm buildings had been converted into what an estate agent would call ‘a superior and luxurious development’. One house had the obligatory large glass panels filling in the cart entrance, another had steps winding up at the side, each step decorated with a pretty pot of late flowering geraniums. Two further buildings were semi-detached and had unusual arched windows reaching to the ground. It was private, very exclusive and seemed a million miles from my parents’ bungalow.

  I looked at Jack over the low roof of the car. “Why have we come here?”

  He shrugged. “This is home – for the moment.”

  Stupidly, it took a second for me to catch on. “This is your home? This is where you live?”

  He led me to the building in the furthest corner of the courtyard, the one with the geraniums. He was fidgeting with his keys and seemed almost embarrassed. “This is me. I’m renting it from my brother-in-law. He and Jenny develop a bit of property now and again. They couldn’t sell this place for some reason. I suppose the market’s a bit flat at the moment. It’s a little unusual too.” He gestured to the small, enclosed garden. “Not much land with it so it’s no good for a family and, as you’ll see, it’s a bit on the large size for couples. I rattle around in it.”

  He unlocked the front door and led me into an enormous entrance hall, flooded with light from a roof window. I followed him to where stairs rose up reaching towards an exposed ceiling, criss-crossed frantically with oak beams. Plain walls were painted a warm colour redolent of clotted cream and heavy curtains in rich shades of reds, indigo blues and creams hung at the windows, softening the stark, empty interior. The scent of lavender and beeswax polish hung in the sun-filled air. It was as far from the bachelor pad that I’d vaguely imagined him living in as it could be.