In a Class of His Own

by Georgia Hill

  “It’s beautiful,” I breathed as I looked up at the endless space above me. “Would you mind if I had a look round?” I gave him a cheeky grin.

  “Would you really like to?” Jack queried with a frown.

  “Would I? You’re asking the world’s nosiest teacher that question?” I grinned at him delightedly. “Second choice career was estate agent. I love looking around other people’s homes!”

  “I’m not sure how much of a home I’ve made this, as you’ll see.” Jack murmured. “We’ll start in here.”

  I followed him into a room which must have run the entire length of the back of the house.

  “Sitting room,” Jack said unnecessarily. “What furniture is here is mine,” he shrugged. “Although I haven’t got much, just the essentials.”

  He wasn’t lying. The only furniture in the vast space was a couple of deep red, comfortable looking sofas and some shelving holding a state of the art sound system and hundreds of CDs. That and a flat screen TV was it. I clattered over the oak flooring to the CDs; they always told you such a lot about people. I glanced quickly at Jack who remained near the doorway, as if longing to escape. He had that closed down neutral expression on his face again and his body language was giving out a clear defensive message. He stood with his arms folded and his lips thinned. I ran my finger along the shelves. I smiled, as I’d anticipated they were in strict alphabetical order. My smile widened as I remembered the heap of CDs piled near my bed at home.

  “At least you can find what you want easily,” he said reading my mind. It was starting to become an alarming habit of his.

  “Of course, very sensible,” I replied over my shoulder absorbed in his choice of music. It was an eclectic mix. Classical rubbed shoulders with Keane, an alarming amount of David Bowie, the inevitable Norah Jones and I couldn’t believe it! I whirled around holding aloft evidence that my oh so correct and severe headmaster wasn’t always what he seemed.

  “The Very Best of Bananarama!” I cried. “You dark horse!”

  He had the grace to smile and looked down at his feet. He shrugged. “My misspent youth. What can I say?” Then he looked up at me suddenly in that breathtaking way he sometimes had, his blue-green eyes sparkling. “So what’s the most embarrassing thing in Nicola Hathaway’s collection?”

  “Does ‘Black Lace – the Party Album’ count?” I giggled. “My brother bought it as a joke!”

  “And they had enough to fill an entire CD?” he laughed back.

  “Some disco remixes padded it out.” I said absent-mindedly.

  Jack winced, as well he might. “Want to see upstairs?”

  I looked at him and nodded eagerly. Then my eyes were caught by the large opera collection. Someone with that amount of Puccini must have hidden passions. Thoughtfully I followed him up the oak staircase, running my fingers along the smooth, hand carved banisters. We walked along a type of minstrels’ gallery over looking the main entrance hall.

  He gestured to a door at the end of one landing. “That leads to the granny flat. It’s completely self-contained and gets rented out occasionally, although no one’s in it at the moment. I’ll show it to you later.”

  As I followed him along the endless landing I couldn’t resist sneaking a look around one door which led into an enormous bathroom, all white tiles and chrome fittings. It shone blindingly clean. Either he had an incredibly conscientious cleaner or he didn’t wash.

  “There are five bedrooms,” he glanced at me and I could swear he was blushing. “I’m more of a shower person. I don’t have time for long baths.” He cleared his throat slightly. “I don’t use the main bathroom, I prefer the wet room as it’s next to the master bedroom.”

  I had a sudden vision of him naked, with water streaming down his well-muscled body. I gulped and to rid my mind of this disturbing image spoke without thinking. “Well of course, who wouldn’t?” I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice and was unsuccessful. And then I stopped dead because the room he had led me into simply took my breath away.

  “This is Jenny’s showcase. All her own work.”

  It was a stunning bedroom. Floor to ceiling windows opened out onto a balcony and then to the great stretch of countryside beyond the rear of the house. Billowing voile curtains, in the lightest shade of green draped artfully over them, providing some privacy. The room was painted in a paler shade of cream compared to the rest of the house and one wall behind the bed was shaded in a soft olive green. The bed itself, and I found myself swallowing suddenly for some reason, was dressed in the same soft green tones. Silk and velvet covered cushions were piled up in a heap on the enormous cast iron bed frame. It was a haven of peace and tranquillity. I imagined myself coming back here, after a long difficult day and sinking onto the bed and …

  “So what do you think?” Jack had walked over to the windows but his face was in shadow, so I couldn’t read his expression.

  I tried to put some words together and babbled nonsensically as was my habit when nervous. “It’s so beautiful, I can’t believe they can’t sell it. There’s so much space. It’s so light and airy. Did your sister do all the interior decorating herself? She’s so talented.” I stopped then for breath and sensed his smile.

  “Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the place and the real reason I’ve dragged you out here. And then I suppose I ought to feed you. I remember promising you some lunch!”

  As we ate in the beech wood and stainless steel kitchen I thought over what Jack had outlined as the solution to my housing crisis. To my relief he hadn’t suggested that I move in to share the house but had offered me the use of the granny flat. He’d shown it to me last, taking me through the door which led from the main part of the house to the flat beyond. It was small, with just a bedroom, bathroom, and a sitting room with one wall fitted out as a kitchen but it had the same stunning views as the bedroom Jack had shown me and was completely self-contained.

  “You’ll even have your own front door.” Jack was saying as he heaped smoked salmon onto my plate. “Wine?”

  I nodded my thanks and accepted the cool glass of white wine he offered.

  “The flat has its own door off the steps you can see at the side of the house. You won’t need to disturb me at all and you can have complete privacy. We can bolt the door onto the landing if it makes you feel happier.” He looked at me from under long dark lashes. “It’s all above board, Nicky. If it would help, you could take it on a temporary basis to see if it suited you.”

  I laughed, a little nervously and thought. It would solve so many problems. The flat was about ten miles from school and about twenty minutes from my parents. But I was already working closely with this man, would I be able to live in such close proximity as well? And then there was my growing attraction to him. I frowned and took sip of wine. It was delicious so I took another.

  Finally I voiced my thoughts, at least some of them. “I’m going to have to think about it, Jack. I’m still not sure my parents can cope on their own and I’m not sure if this is a good idea,” I finished lamely. I looked out of the French doors which Jack had opened onto the courtyard. Birds were singing and the distant rumble of a tractor could just about be heard. I sighed. It was all so peaceful and beautiful. I could live here. I could definitely live here.

  Jack shrugged. “No problem. Take your time. But it would be great to have someone else around and it would mean I could have a lift into school when my car won’t start.” He finished with a wicked grin: “Although I might have to reconsider my offer if you insist on playing ‘The Best of Black Lace’ at volume!”

  The thought made me smile all the way back to school.

  Chapter Seven

  It was my very first night in my new home and I couldn’t settle at all. I’d unpacked most of my things and sorted out what I needed for the following day at school and then tried to watch some TV. But I ended up roaming around the flat, sitting at the tiny breakfast bar, bouncing on the bed, staring out at the blackness of the country nig
ht. I tried out various lighting effects – sitting room light on, table lamps off - and vice versa. I tried some of my pictures against the walls and then decided that none of them looked quite right. With my clutter dotted around it was looking decidedly more untidy but homely. I kept hugging myself that I was here, that I was on my own, that it was all mine. Temporarily at least. I walked the short distance over to my kitchen and clicked on my kettle. I would make myself a cup of tea and raise a toast to independence.

  The half term holiday had turned out to be hectic. I hadn’t done any of the things I’d planned. I thought back to the moment I walked into the bungalow after having lunch with Jack.

  I just about had enough time to race around town and collect what Mum needed before heading back to the bungalow. I was already not thinking of it as home, so perhaps I’d made my decision. I’d told Jack I’d let him know before the end of the half term holiday, to which he’d casually shrugged and had driven off in the E-Type, tyres squealing.

  Joyce was at the bungalow when I let myself in. I could hear she and Mum chatting in the lounge. As I unloaded the shopping in the kitchen Dad came in and began to help.

  “You’ve been a long time, love. Had a lot to do at school?”

  I looked at him and saw age marked on his face and in the way his shoulders stooped. The strain of the last year or so had taken its toll. I went up to him and gave him a kiss. He turned away, embarrassed by my sudden show of affection. As a family we didn’t touch much and certainly didn’t kiss each other. The strangest feeling came over me as I looked at him again. Was this the threshold of true adulthood, when you realised your parents wouldn’t be around forever? And could I really be justified in leaving them when they both needed me so much?

  Dad busied himself by putting away a loaf of bread. “Your Mum has been out with Joyce today,” he said casually, as he slid the yellow pine bread bin lid shut.

  I stopped what I was doing, a packet of frozen peas held in mid air. “They went out?” I exclaimed in surprise.

  “Yes,” he nodded. “Only to the park to feed the ducks, mind.” He smiled at me, “But she went out, Nicola!” I could see tears standing in his eyes behind his brown plastic frames and my throat closed suddenly too. First step the park, second the doctor’s perhaps? I prayed fervently to myself.

  Joyce had been wonderful throughout that week and we couldn’t have managed without her. We certainly wouldn’t have got Mum to the doctor’s without our neighbour’s calm and insistent persuasion. Dad and I had been on tenterhooks on the morning of Mum’s appointment. Until we finally saw her into the surgery I hadn’t been convinced she would do it. As it turned out, after the build up which had been mentally exhausting, the end result had been a complete anti-climax. Mum had asked Joyce and not Dad to accompany her in to see the doctor and, although I sensed his hurt, I could see why Mum had insisted. Joyce apparently knew Dr. Johal from her old surgery. Mum looked small and tearful when she came out, with Joyce all but holding her up. As soon as I’d driven everyone home and we’d settled Mum down in front of ‘Countdown’ with a cup of tea, we held a quick meeting around the kitchen table.

  “Dr. Johal said everything’s fine!” exclaimed Joyce in her cheerful way, chins wobbling. “She said your mum’s just a bit down and might need a few sessions of counselling.” She took an enormous bite out of a ginger biscuit and slurped some tea.

  I saw Dad’s brows contract in disapproval. “I’m sure that isn’t necessary,” he began to bluster.

  I put a hand on his arm, “Wait a minute Dad, listen to what Joyce has got to say.”

  “Well, the doctor’s going to refer Betty for counselling first. She thinks it might be just the ticket. It did wonders for my friend Valerie after she lost her husband,” Joyce continued airily.

  “Betty hasn’t lost me!” Dad exploded. “I’m not dead and I’m not going to be for a long time!” His hand was trembling and he replaced his cup back on his saucer with a clatter.

  “Oh no, Val’s husband didn’t die.” Joyce looked alarmed as she realised she’d said something amiss. “He ran off with their neighbour. Bit of a scandal that caused – the girl was only thirty two,” she added, pursing her lips.

  I choked on a mouthful of tea. “How old was Valerie’s husband then?” I couldn’t resist asking.

  “Les? Oh, he was all of seventy-four. Always had an eye for the ladies that one.” Joyce giggled.

  I tried to get things back on track. “Look Joyce, did the doctor really say there wasn’t much to worry about?”

  “Well, she did say it was hard to tell at this stage but she thought that there wasn’t too much to be concerned about. She’s a good doctor that one, I don’t think she’d miss much.” Joyce smiled at Dad and myself once again. “But she did say it might help if your mum had something to occupy her mind.” Joyce slapped her chubby hand onto the pine table. “So I thought, what a good idea, I’ll get her to that yoga class we go to Nicky! You know the one at your school? I thought that might help. And I thought she might like to join the WI as well. They’re ever such a nice crowd.”

  At this point I thought Dad was going to explode again so I suggested he join Mum in the lounge. He left, walking stiffly, with a plate of custard creams in his hand.

  “So?” I fixed Joyce with my best teacher-of-Year-Six-glare. She didn’t quail. “Joyce, what did the doctor really say?” I hissed at her, using the noise from the TV in the next room as cover.

  Joyce looked behind her quickly, put down her teacup and finally got serious. She put her hand on my arm. “Your mum’s showing signs of depression, as we thought.” She nodded, almost to herself, hesitated then went on, “If the counselling doesn’t work then the doctor’s going to put her on a course of drugs.” She must have seen my look because she then added, “But Nicky, I didn’t want to get your Dad alarmed. He doesn’t understand this kind of thing does he?”

  I agreed vehemently: “Understatement of the century!” “But Joyce I’m at school all day and often work into the evenings as well, I don’t know if I can do anything for her.” I had visions of my new found and tiny but perfectly formed flat disappearing. Then I shook my head and grimaced at my selfishness.

  Joyce smiled. “Listen lovie, Betty is my friend and she’s my new project. Your mum is a proud woman, she doesn’t want any help from her daughter or husband. She doesn’t want you to think there’s anything wrong.” She patted my arm again. “But she’ll take it from me, either as a professional or a friend. It doesn’t matter. What really matters is she gets well again.” Joyce paused, sighed and then went on, “Mind you Nicky, there’s sometimes no cure, as such, for depression. Your mum might have to learn to live with it, to cope with it as best she can.” Then Joyce smiled again and wagged an affectionate finger at me, “And you’ve got your own life to live, I don’t see you doing much for yourself at the moment. Would your mum and dad want that?”

  I saw Joyce out and returned slowly to the kitchen where I poured myself yet another cup of tea. It was cold but I needed it to think with.

  “Well, I just don’t know what to think of that Joyce woman but she certainly seems to do your mum good.” Dad returned with the tea tray. He nodded towards the lounge. “Your mum’s in there saying she and Joyce are planning a trip to the cinema. There’s a showing of ‘Dr. Zhivago’ at the Roxy next week. Still, at least she’s on the mend, eh Nicola love?”

  He began to fill the sink with hot water and frothed some washing up liquid into it energetically. Then he changed the subject, as I knew he would. “You never did get around to telling me what you got up to on Saturday. Seeing friends, were you? You can’t have been at that school all day. You work too hard you know, Nicola. It’s about time you had a life of your own. It’s not good for you to be stuck in with us all the time.” He rattled this speech off, without looking at me. “Now that your mum’s better, why don’t you start looking for a place of your own?”

  The kettle boiled and clicked off, making me jump
and bringing me back to my surroundings. I looked around the little flat, which had now become the place of my own. As I did so I remembered how, with that cue from Dad, I’d poured out all my worry and frustration. About the offer of the flat, about how concerned I’d been about Mum and him too. How I felt I couldn’t leave them on their own. Dad had been astounded. He’d turned from the sink and had flipped the lucky black cat tea towel over his shoulder.

  “Nicola love, is that the reason you moved back in with us?” He’d tutted and shook his head with infinite weariness. “And here’s me thinking you’d got fed up living in London!” He’d dried his hands on the tea towel with great concentration and had continued to speak, in a rush, as if he didn’t get it out now, it wouldn’t get said. He’d said that if I really wanted to go ahead with the flat that I could always move back in again if things didn’t work out and wasn’t I only just down the road? That it would do Mum the power of good to come over to see me and I could come back for Sunday dinner, every now and again. I had no idea if he really felt this way or if he was sensing the unhappiness warring with my guilt but it put the seal on my decision.

  And so a few days later, here I was in my flat. I put my ear to the adjoining door, which led onto the landing of the main house but couldn’t hear a thing. I slid the bolt quietly into place on my side. I trusted Jack but it made my feeling of privacy complete.

  He had said a polite hello to Dad, had helped us move in my few belongings and had then tactfully disappeared. Perhaps he’d gone out? From my flat I couldn’t see where he parked his car. Perhaps that was just as well. The temptation to spy on my new neighbour was becoming overwhelming.