Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1)

by Marita A. Hansen

  The photographer grimaced. “I was only assessing you for professional purposes,” he retorted, his tone snooty. He was a mildly attractive man in his early thirties, with slicked-back brown hair and an effeminate voice.

  “I don’t give a shit,” Dante replied, “just take my damn picture.”

  “Dante,” I said in a warning tone. “Apologise or no I.D.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m real sorry,” he said, batting his eyelashes at the photographer mockingly.

  The photographer opened his mouth as though he was going to tell him off too, but instead reattached his camera to the tripod, instructing Dante to lift his chin up. Dante did what he was told, flicking his gaze to me as he did it, giving me a look I couldn’t decipher. He refocused on the camera as the photographer chimed, “Smile!” The man took the picture, but instead of finishing, he continued ordering Dante to turn his head this way and that way, taking shots that weren’t needed for an I.D.

  I went to question what he was doing, but Dante beat me to the mark. “I’m not here for a fuckin’ fashion shoot,” he growled. “I just want a bloody I.D. so I can get some free and cheap shit.”

  Straightening, the photographer removed a card from his smart charcoal trousers. “I do some work for a modelling agency,” he said, holding the card out for Dante to take. “If you want extra cash, get one of your parents to give me a call and I’ll arrange an interview with the agency.”

  Dante’s eyebrows shot up into his unruly mop of black hair. “You’re pulling my chain?”

  The man shook his head.

  “Cool,” Dante said, taking the card. “How much will I get paid?”

  “You’ll have to discuss that with the agency, but they usually pay handsomely.”

  “How soon can I get paid?”

  The photographer shrugged. “Depends upon what campaigns they have on. Though, you’ll suit the one they’re doing for a popular menswear’s store.”

  “When will that one pay?”

  The photographer laughed. “It’s all about the money for you, isn’t it?”

  “When will they pay me?”

  The photographer laughed again. “They usually pay by the end of the month, but this campaign’s pay-out will probably be at the end of March.”

  Dante’s face fell.

  “But, they may have something sooner for you. Just get a parent to call that number so they can get back to you quick.”

  Dante’s smile reappeared. “Thanks, man.” He stuffed the card into his back pocket, looking a lot happier.

  The photographer nodded at him and resumed packing. I called out to my class, instructing them to get on the stage for the informal photo. They all headed up there, a number of the boys climbing onto the stage instead of taking the stairs. As the photographer left, I arranged the kids into three rows. I indicated for the girls in the first row to sit down, then arranged the shorter boys and girls into the second row. The tallest kids sidled up behind them, with Lindy in the middle of a line of boys. She looked even thinner next to their sturdy frames, almost emaciated in comparison. On her left, Jasper and Dante were talking animatedly. Jasper was teasing Dante about the modelling offer, working him up. Dante’s hands were already balling into fists, Jasper playing with fire.

  I switched on my camera. “Jasper, stop annoying Dante and face the front.”

  Jasper did as he was told, although Dante was still glaring at him.

  “Dante, face the front,” I said, lining up the shot.

  As he turned to the camera, I called out, “Say cheese!” The kids yelled out a plethora of words, most of them rude. I took the picture just as Dante raised his hand, flicking me the finger.

  I lowered the camera and scowled at him, “Dante!”

  “What?” he said, as though butter wouldn’t melt in his wicked mouth.

  “Smile and keep your hands to your side.”

  “Not unless you’re gonna pay me.” He turned to Jasper and punched his arm. “Call me a ponce again and I’ll smash your face in, you prick.”

  “I wuz just joking, bro,” Jasper said, following Dante down the stairs, rubbing his arm where he’d been punched. Phelia ran after the boys, the terrible trio disappearing out the main entrance.

  I turned back to the class, dismissing them, no longer interested in taking another photo. The end of day bell rang as I put my camera back into my satchel. Once secured, I slipped the strap over my head and headed out of the hall, following the remaining students into the corridor. More students were pouring out of their classrooms, their voices loud, the space alive with activity and noise. I went with the flow, getting the occasional bump from an overly enthusiastic student keen to escape school.

  As I passed my classroom a rugby ball sailed over my head. The boy who’d beaten up Dante caught it several metres in front of me. Ronald raised the ball above his head, looking like he was about to throw it back. I went to yell out for him to stop, but a booming voice beat me to it, hollering, “No throwing balls in the hallway!”

  Paul Aston was standing in a doorway, glaring at the McDonald kid as though he was the resident evil. I questioned how I ever thought the man resembled Liam Neeson. His face was much harder than the actor’s, while his nose was crooked, suggesting it had been broken at least once. He also had a scar through his right eyebrow and a buzz cut. I wondered whether he’d served in the military, especially with the way he barked out orders like a sergeant major.

  The infamous Happy Meal ignored Paul and threw the ball anyway, taking off as soon as it had left his hand. The ball flew over my head, twisting in the air. I turned to see one of Ronald’s friends catching it. Grinning, the boy tucked the ball under his arm and ran in the opposite direction as Paul headed for him, Ronald already long gone.

  Paul came to a sudden halt when he saw me, his angry visage instantly morphing into a smile. It made him appear less harsh, the man actually attractive without his scowl.

  “Well, hello, Clara, I almost didn’t see ye there,” he said, his Scottish accent relatively mild, suggesting he’d been living in New Zealand for a while. “I swear, when Happy Meal graduates, we’re going to throw a wee celebration party.”

  Someone called out his name, drawing his attention away from me, but I couldn’t see who it was, his large frame blocking my view. He was incredibly tall, well over six foot, making me feel like I’d just stepped out of Hobbiton. Though, I didn’t have big feet, only two left ones.

  Beverly emerged from behind him. As usual, the other drama teacher was dressed in brightly coloured clothes, her skirt always matching her glasses, which right now were yellow. She reminded me of a character out of Grease, just older. I liked it, the woman adding some colour to the sea of grey, black, and red uniforms.

  “Are you coming?” she asked, tucking a ringlet behind her ear. Her black hair was pulled up into a bun with a few ringlets hanging loose.

  “Where to?”

  “For drinks. Paul was supposed to ask you.” She threw him an accusatory glance.

  He held up his hands. “Ye interrupted before I had a chance.”

  “Okay, ye’re forgiven, ma laddie,” she said, putting on a Scottish accent. “I cannae stay mad with ye for long. It’s nigh impossible.”

  He smiled. “Are ye trying to imitate me, because I don’t speak like that.”

  “You do when you’re talking to your niece. You sound like a totally different person, a Highlander who should be wearing a kilt not pants.” She gave him a cheeky wink. “And we all know what Highlanders wear under their kilts.”

  He chuckled, making her smile, her chocolate-coloured eyes looking at him with uncontained fondness. He stopped laughing and cocked a reddish-brown eyebrow at her in question, her stare lasting slightly too long.

  She quickly looked back at me, her cheeks a touch rosier. “Quite a few of us get together after school on Fridays,” she said, clearly embarrassed. “You should come. It’ll be a good way for you to get to know the other teachers. Spouses are als
o welcome to tag along.”

  My mind went to Markus, wishing he could come along. “My husband’s still in England.”

  “Which means you have no excuse not to come,” Beverly said, hooking her arm through mine.

  Paul followed us down the corridor, barking at a couple of students blocking the exit. They moved out of our way, allowing us to descend the stairs. Beverly pulled me in the direction of her car, which was a blue Mini. To my surprise, Paul squeezed into the back seat, his large frame taking up most of the space.

  “I’m the designated driver tonight, so you can catch a lift with us,” Beverly said, getting behind the wheel. “Actually, I’m It every time.” She jerked her thumb at Paul. “Because this one’s a lush.”

  Paul rolled his eyes. “Having a few wee drinks once a week doesn’t equate to being a lush.”

  Beverly went to say something back, but I cut her off. “What about my car?” I said, not making a move to get in.

  “We’ll get it tomorrow,” she replied, fastening her seatbelt. “It’ll be safe until then, since the school locks the grounds overnight. Paul has a key to get in.”

  I hesitated, not really wanting to come in tomorrow. I had planned a day of reading books and lounging around in my PJs, not having to converse with people.

  “Oh, come on, don’t be a party pooper,” Beverly said.

  I glanced at my car. The yellow Volkswagen was a few spaces away, shaded by a tall oak tree.

  “It’ll be fun,” Beverly added. “Plus, Paul’s great entertainment. We can bet on how fast it’ll take before he gets slapped for being sleazy. I won last week for guessing right.”

  “That’s because it was you who slapped me,” Paul said.

  “Well, you shouldn’t have been sleazy then, you dirty bugger.”

  I laughed and got into the front passenger seat, keen on getting to know Beverly better, the woman funny.

  ***

  We got to the pub just after four. Despite it still being the afternoon, the place was more than half full. A number of the male patrons were staring up at the two flat-screen TVs hanging on walls, their expressions almost reverent. A cricket match was playing, with an Australian batter about to go up against one of New Zealand’s fast bowlers. A raucous cheer rose through the air as our man took out the Aussie’s wicket, sending him back to the stands.

  Beverly steered me past the bar, which curved out to our left. A number of the stools framing it were full, with casually-dressed women and men nursing their drinks and chatting to one another.

  “This way,” Beverly said.

  She guided me to the far corner, where a medley of people were either sitting or standing around a cluster of tables. I recognised a number of them from the staffroom, mostly teachers with a couple of admin personnel thrown into the mix. Beverly pulled me over to a woman, who looked either in her late sixties or early seventies. She had a thick layer of makeup caked onto her face, her red lipstick bleeding into the cracks around her mouth. It made me want to check my lipstick, the look definitely not attractive.

  “Where’s Harry?” the woman asked, focusing on Paul. He was hovering behind me, his close proximity starting to put me on edge, the man not understanding personal space.

  “Sorry, Marcia, he’s not coming,” Paul replied, talking about the other half of Britain. “His ma’s unwell.”

  Grimacing, the woman pushed up and left without saying goodbye.

  “What was that about?” I asked, glancing at Beverly.

  Paul answered instead, “She’s a cranky auld cow, who only comes because she wants me friend to clean oot her cobwebbed knickers.”

  “Paul!” Beverly gasped. “Don’t say that.”

  “Well, it’s true. And she’s dreaming if she thinks Harry will ever be interested in her. He only talks to her because he’s too much of a pussy to tell her to piss off.”

  Beverly shook her head. “More like it’s because he’s a gentleman, unlike someone else I know.”

  Paul looked around. “Who?” he said, sounding amused.

  “You know who, you horrid man.”

  He laughed. “Just being honest.” His gaze moved to me. “What can I get ye, sweet Clara? A wine, a beer?” he asked, his green-eyed stare almost intrusive.

  “You don’t offer me any free drinks,” Beverly harrumphed. “And kindly keep your adjectives to yourself. It sounds creepy when you add them.”

  He smirked. “Ye only say that when it’s not you I’m complimenting, and I was just being a gentleman like Harry.”

  “No, you were being sleazy.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “For offering Clara a drink?”

  She crossed her arms over her ample chest. “You know what I mean by that.”

  He mirrored her. “No I don’t, please enlighten me.”

  She glanced at me, seemingly embarrassed. “You’re hitting on her.”

  “No, I’m being friendly, so don’t get yer granny knickers in a twist.”

  She smacked his arm. “I don’t wear granny knickers.”

  “Aye, ye do. Remember that time ye arsed over?” He glanced at me with a smirk. “She had her legs up in the air for all the world to see.”

  “Stop being an arsehole, Paul,” she growled out, looking immensely embarrassed.

  He rolled his eyes. “Sheesh, ye women cannae take a wee joke.”

  “Because it wasn’t funny.”

  “It was to me.”

  “Just go away if you’re not going to be nice.”

  “Fine.” He turned and headed for a table full of men.

  Beverly shook her head, her annoyed gaze following him. “Sometimes I don’t know whether to kiss him or hit him,” she said, through gritted teeth.

  “Are you two an item?”

  “I wish.”

  I focused on the table Paul was now sitting at. A couple of the men glanced our way, whispering between themselves, making me wonder whether Paul had said something to them.

  Grimacing at the men, Beverly grabbed my arm and pulled me over to the bar. She let go and climbed onto a barstool. “Don’t broadcast it to everyone,” she said.

  “Broadcast what?”

  “That I fancy him.” She nervously smoothed out her yellow skirt, the flutter of her fingers stopping on the hemline, yanking it over her knees. “But I’m not a blonde bimbo or Harry, so I don’t have a chance.” Her face dropped a second later. “I wasn’t referring to you as being a bimbo; you’re definitely not one. He just has a thing for blondes.”

  “Why did you mention Harry, then?” I asked, not taking offence.

  A smile pulled at her lips, wiping away the worry from her face. “Just a fantasy I like to have of Scotland topping England.”

  “Topping?”

  She leaned her head forward. “Fucking,” she whispered.

  I spluttered out a cough, not having expected her to say that. “I can just imagine what Paul would say to that.”

  She grinned wickedly, her chocolate eyes sparkling. “You don’t have to imagine, his face went redder than his hair.”

  “You seriously said that to him?” I asked in disbelief.

  She nodded. “And the next time we have a school camp, I’m going to suggest they go Brokeback Mountain and share a tent.”

  I snorted out a laugh this time, sounding like a pig getting its tail pulled. “I like you, Bev, I really do.”

  She nudged me. “I like you too; just not in a girl on girl way, you know what I mean.”

  I continued to laugh, drawing people’s attention.

  Beverly grinned wide. “Laugh at Paul like that; he won’t hit on you ever again.”

  I covered my mouth, trying to stifle my snorts, fully aware my laugh was godawful.

  “So, what’s your poison? First drink’s on me.”

  I dropped my hand. “A lemon, lime, and bitters, thanks.”

  “Sure thing.” She indicated to the bartender, who came straight over, giving her a friendly hello, the tall man appearing to know h
er. She ordered our drinks, passing over mine once he’d made it.

  “So, how’d your first week go?” she asked, taking a sip of her virgin cocktail.

  “Really good,” I replied, stirring my drink with the straw. “The first day was a bit rough, but once I got past it, I’ve had hardly any trouble.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear. I’m glad Dante Rata didn’t drive you away like the last English teacher. She lasted only a few days before she quit.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?”

  She nodded. “You must be an angel or have an ironclad will to put up with that ratbag. Paul’s always losing his temper with him. Last year, Dante spent more time standing outside his class than in it. Anyway, enough talk about school. What do you do in your spare time?”

  “I mostly read, go to the gym, or hang out with my husband when he’s not halfway around the world. What do you do?”

  “Watch infomercials and order exercise equipment I never use. Got Ab Master last week. Did one sit-up and decided to give it to my younger brother for his birthday.”

  I laughed, finding her fun to talk with. We spent the next half hour chatting about infomercials and everything she’d ever bought off TV before Paul interrupted the conversation. He pushed in between us rudely, ignoring Beverly’s loud complaint. He flagged the bartender and ordered an ale, then leaned his back against the bar, openly looking me up and down. Sleazy was definitely the right word for him, his gaze making me feel dirty.

  “So, Clara...” he paused, “how long have ye been married for?”

  “A year.”

  “Och, I was married once. The bitch took me for all I had.” He scratched his chest, a puff of reddish hair peeking out from underneath his blue button-down shirt. “Marriage is a waste of time; it’s more fun being single.” He glanced at Beverly. “Ain’t that right, Bev?”

  “I’d rather be married,” she replied.

  “That’s because ye have no clue what it’s like.”

  “Don’t be mean, Paul.”

  He frowned, appearing perplexed. “What was so mean aboot that? It’s a fact.”

  “You know damn well.”