by Kerry Fisher
‘When?’ Bronte’s eyebrows were nearly meeting in the middle.
‘Soon, very soon. Now, where’s that dung beetle costume?’
My heart did its usual dance as we drove up to the school. I was looking forward to a fix of a certain dark-haired man. Since parents’ evening over a week ago, he’d rung me every day. Whenever ‘Mary’ flashed up on the screen, I felt as though I was hugging a happy little secret. Every time I answered a call I promised myself it would be the last one. The truth was, he made me feel special. Way too special. We’d spoken long past midnight the night before as I told him about Colin’s unexpected appearance and Clover’s special method of helping him leave. We’d both killed ourselves laughing. I loved being able to make him laugh like that, even if it was at Colin’s expense. Especially if it was at Colin’s expense.
‘Do you think you’ll go back to him?’ he asked.
‘I don’t want to but the kids are getting fidgety. They really miss him and he is trying to be a bit better. He’s got a job now.’ I could picture Mr Peters shaking his head.
‘Promise me you won’t go back without telling me.’ There was a silence. ‘I’d really like to see you, Maia. I keep thinking about you.’
I did what I always did. Made a joke. ‘You’ll see me tomorrow at the dung beetle parade.’ I closed the conversation down. I knew that I couldn’t let Mr Peters get any more involved with me. He’d bust a gut to get from fast-fisted hooligan to well-respected teacher. I could only bring trouble to the party so it was better not to accept the invitation. I just needed to find the strength to refuse.
As we walked into school I was grateful for Bronte’s fussing about whether her dung beetle horns were on properly. I’d spotted Mr Peters by the hall and the last-minute costume faff meant I didn’t have to make eye contact until I got to the door. He was wearing a khaki suit with a pink shirt. I’d never liked pink on men – too long living with Colin and his ‘pink is for poofters’ prejudices, I suppose – but he looked like he’d stepped out from an advert for a top-of-the-range watch. The headmaster was standing next to him, all pointy-faced and frumpy silver-rimmed glasses. I saw the headmaster look at me, then say something out of the corner of his mouth to Mr Peters. Mr Peters shrugged. The headmaster greeted me with a breezy ‘Good morning’ but I didn’t care about him. Mr Peters said a quiet hello and smiled the sort of smile that didn’t even move the corners of his mouth.
I picked a seat on the end, a few rows back from the stage. The teachers gradually trooped in to take their positions along the side of the hall. Mr Peters sat a couple of yards in front of me, to my left. I waited for him to look up and catch my eye but he was staring at the floor. Maybe that grouchy old headmaster had got wind of the fact that the Head of Upper School was providing a little too much ‘support’ for me, but I couldn’t believe anyone had real proof. Mr Peters would piss me off if he gave up on me, even though I’d been encouraging him to do just that.
I turned back to the stage as Bronte pushed a huge brown ball along in her dung beetle role, lecturing the audience on CO2 gases produced by not composting your vegetable peelings. I was in the mood to be irritated. Setting up wormeries to eat your leftover mangetout and using banana skins to fertilise your roses was such middle-class bollocks. The prof would have tutted and told me that intelligent people are not governed by class. It was still bollocks. I was too busy trying to earn enough to buy food to worry about whether my carrot tops were making November a bit warmer. I clapped as though it was the most entertaining thing I’d ever heard, maybe a bit too loudly, in case Mr Peters hadn’t actually clocked I was there. The dung beetles gave way to a group of boys failing to keep a straight face as they read out little gems about recycling human waste – ‘Don’t waste your wee. It’s rich in nitrogen. Mix it with sawdust and use it as bedding for lettuces.’
I wondered if I was the only one who preferred pee-free iceberg. I glanced at Mr Peters. Judging by the big scowl on his face, he didn’t find the idea too appetising either. When it was prayer time, I squinted at him through half-closed eyes, while listening to the cheery words of ‘Greedy lifestyles, piles of waste, boundless avarice and irrational hate, excess packaging, contaminated air, mountains of rubbish, is anyone there?’
I was feeling as though I’d sucked up a few evil chemicals myself. God was moving in very mysterious ways. I wanted a sign that Mr Peters wasn’t like all the rest. I didn’t need him to feed the five thousand, a little flicker of those eyes in my direction would do. Instead he sat there, serious-faced, clutching his hymnbook like he was scared ‘Abide with Me’ might escape.
I brought my attention back to ‘The world gets hotter, forests disappear, animals are dying out, can anyone hear?’ What was wrong with the Lord’s Prayer? The mumbling continued. I don’t think the kids even knew what they were saying, just trotting out the words like the five times table. I wasn’t feeling eco-friendly. Or anything friendly. I couldn’t find it in me to be bothered about non-organic pesticides and how they might make my eyelashes fall out when Mr Peters was doing the deep freeze. He’d obviously decided to put the mistake I was behind him. The last conversation we’d had, we’d joked about going to the Basque country together. Now it looked like we wouldn’t even be going for a coffee.
I glanced past him down the row to the other teachers. The headmaster was looking at me. Or probably looking down on me. I wished I had the guts to flash my tits at him. How could he know anything about me and Mr Peters? Maybe that nebby old bag of a secretary had opened her big mouth and dropped Mr Peters in it. Copping off with pupils’ parents, especially poor parents with no money to chuck at a new library/climbing wall/driving range would not be a good career move.
Finally, after the one hymn I recognised – ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ – we all shuffled out. I waved goodbye to Bronte. She was giggly and glowing which made me slightly less pissed off that the hour wasted at school would mean making up lost ironing time that evening. Mr Peters, on the other hand, stood by the door, the opposite of glowing. In non-professor speak, he had a right gob on him. His natural PR skills had taken a day off. He rewarded all those mothers trying to dazzle him with their sunniest smiles with a curt, ‘Goodbye, thank you for coming.’ I dawdled about, pretending to fiddle with my jacket zip until most people had gone. As soon as I spotted a decent–sized gap in the line, I nipped in and said, ‘Goodbye’ loudly, adding, ‘Are you okay?’ in a whisper.
He glared back at me, eyes dark with anger. ‘No, I am not okay. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Tell you what?’ He shook his head, as though I was super-thick. My mind was jumping about, trying to find the right direction to run in, when I saw the headmaster approaching out of the corner of my eye and had no choice but to leave, forcing out a ‘Thank you for a lovely service, very original’, as I went.
I stood by the van for ages. I thought he might come out but twenty minutes later, I realised that the Etxeleku Effect was over.
25
I’d texted Mr Peters after the assembly to ask what he was on about but he hadn’t bothered to reply. In between tidying up other people’s papers and bleaching sinks, I kept fishing the phone out of my pocket to double-check that I hadn’t somehow missed a message. I preferred life before mobile phones when two little bleeps didn’t make or break my day. However, I did discover a voice message from Colin, left earlier that morning while I was suffering toxic overload.
‘Darl, s’me. Sorry about last night. Sorry. It just didn’t come out right. I need you home, darl. I’m trying really hard, working and everything. Give me a chance. At least come and see what I done to the house. I’ve tried to make it nice for you.’
There was a time in my life when Colin promising to try harder would have guaranteed instant forgiveness. Instead, he just reminded me of a toddler whining to stay a bit longer at the park.
Mr Peters wasn’t going to save me. Clover wasn’t going to save me. No one was. I had to stop pretending I had c
hoices and get back to my old life. I needed to do it before the children could no longer rough themselves back down. If I was to survive there again, I was going to have a conversation with Colin to lay a few ground rules without the children as an audience. No hitting would be a great starting point, followed by a regular job. I’d go back all right but Mouse Maia was gone forever.
Now was as good a time as any. I steered towards home. I turned left where the fancy Victorian houses began to look a bit more run down, rusty gates, garden sheds in need of a coat of Cuprinol, weedy, stringy lawns. Then right into the Victorian terraces, where the front gardens had long been tarmacked over and vans and L-reg Fiestas took the place of roses. And finally, round the bend to our sixties rabbit hutches with stone cladding and small windows in a sea of concrete.
My heart didn’t lift. I didn’t belong. Not at all. It was amazing how quickly I’d adapted to Clover’s big rambly house. But bed, lie in it and all that. Everything in me was sinking as I walked up the path. The hedge between mine and Sandy’s house had a few more crisp packets in it. The paint on the front door had peeled a bit more. Only one of the curtains in the front room was open.
I didn’t knock, but I felt as though I should. The house had that empty, still feel. I called out ‘Hello?’ but no answer. Colin must have been telling the truth when he said he had a job. The mat was littered with flyers for junk food, Lidl’s and a dodgy place that cashed cheques, no questions asked. Colin had kicked the free newspapers out of the way rather than risk burning a calorie to pick them up. Made it nice for me, my arse. I could smell paint somewhere. Jesus, the great lard had actually moved off the settee in my absence. I opened the living room door. The dirty eggshell blue walls were now a bright pale cream. I pushed back the curtains. The spring sunlight drifted into the room. It looked much larger now. I wanted to be grateful. I’d been nagging him for long enough. But now he’d finally done it, I realised I didn’t want to be here, magnolia walls or not. My furniture looked shabbier and more old-fashioned than I remembered. I wondered if the children would notice and whine to get back to Clover’s.
I went out to the kitchen. Colin had either worn himself out lifting the paintbrush or hadn’t expected me back so soon. The table was covered in empty KFC boxes, McDonald’s wrappers, blobs of curry and empty cans of Lidl lager. He hated Malibu but he’d even swigged that down. I could smell the bin.
There was a pile of brown envelopes on the side, all unopened. The next forty years were looking horribly long. I picked them up, flicking through a series of unpaid life. In the middle of all the cheap brown utility envelopes was a good quality white envelope. I turned it over. On the back flap was the crest of Stirling Hall. I ripped it open. As soon as I read ‘. . . acknowledge receipt of your letter informing us of the withdrawal of Harley and Bronte Caudwell from Stirling Hall . . .’, the blurry bits of my life started to move into focus, sharpened by my anger that Colin, that lazy lump who would struggle to reach for a bucket of water if his arse was on fire, had somehow managed to post my letter. Which I hadn’t firmly, decisively, categorically, positively, definitively, decided to post. It probably wasn’t the moment to think about how much faith the prof had shown in me. Or Mr Peters. No wonder he had the hump with me. His words, ‘Keep talking to me, Maia, keep talking to me,’ kept coming back to me. Finding out from someone else – probably that Felicity secretary woman with the motor mouth – that the kids were leaving must have felt like a sharp jab of the two fingers.
I stomped upstairs. I’d fucked up. Not just the letter, but everything. Getting together with Colin in the first place. Allowing myself to get dragged down to his level, instead of yanking him up to mine. I glanced into Bronte’s bedroom. Colin had painted it a pale lilac. She’d love that. He did love the kids. But would that be enough? I felt like a rat trapped in a kitchen, scuttling about, banging into things, trying to find a hole to shoot out of.
I walked into our bedroom. It smelt of greasy hair, sheets gone too long without washing, morning breath trapped in a too small space. I’d have to have sex with Colin again. I couldn’t imagine his chubby fingers on me after Mr Peters’ gentle touch. I opened the window, feeling the weak sunshine on my face. I bet Mr Peters’ bedroom smelt of aftershave and shower gel. I’d nosed in when I’d been to the loo. It wasn’t perfect – a pair of trousers hanging over the back of a chair, an overnight bag still to unpack – but the bed was made, a big white duvet perfect for snuggling under.
Footsteps on the stairs next door broke into my daydream. I heard the muffled sound of a loud drawn out fart. The loo flushed. I’d forgotten how much of Sandy’s life I could share without her even knowing. Then the thumping started. I didn’t take much notice at first, still drifting in and out of the shock of discovering that a lot of people knew Harley and Bronte were leaving Stirling Hall before me. I needed to tell the kids and Clover before the Chinese whispers started up. Happy days.
The thumping got more rhythmical, faster. Sandy must have friction burns on her fanny. When she wasn’t at work, she was at it. I started flicking through my wardrobe, looking at my stuff as though it belonged to another life, trying to block out images of Sandy in her leopard skin stilettos. The girl wasn’t going to let me off that easily. I could hear her shouting encouragement, sounding as though she was doing singing scales before exploding in a ‘Yes, yes, yes! Go for it, right between the posts!’ I got up to go back downstairs. Other people’s orgasms were ridiculous. Then I heard it. The deep, unmistakable roar of ‘Gooo-aaaal!’
How long? How bloody long? How long had my ‘best’ mate been shagging my not-quite-husband? She was always taking the piss out of him. Always going on about what a thicko he was. What a lazy git. How fat he’d got. How he was such a loser. I tried to shove away an image of them lying in bed, giggling about their little secret while I lay on the other side of the wall nursing my black eye. Clouds of realisation started to drift in. She knew his mobile number when Bronte was missing. The reason I’d never once spotted Sean, Shane or any other shithead beginning with ‘Sh’, was because the shithead began with ‘C’. She didn’t care about Stirling Hall. She just wanted a reason to fall out with me, so she could see Colin on Friday nights instead of me when he was supposed to be at the Working Men’s Club. Her brilliant smokescreen of slagging him off at every opportunity. The empty Malibu. And Mr Peters said I was bright.
The thought that they’d been sniggering about me behind my back made me want to put my fist through the wall. Punch a hole in it – it wouldn’t take much – and stick my head through it. ‘Helloooo-eee.’ I couldn’t face the picture of Sandy’s little chicken legs wrapped around Colin’s blubber imprinted on my mind forever. I stood in the doorway debating what to do. Bastards. I felt like forcing my way into her house and seeing the panic as they snatched up their clothes, Colin stuttering and flapping about. I itched to bang on the wall and shout through to Sandy to watch out for Colin wiping his willy on her dressing gown. I’d get revenge.
Relief joined my rage. Hoo-rah. Sandy’s responsibility now. She wanted to open her legs for him, so over to her. She wasn’t going to hand him back to me. She could support him, listen to him drivelling on about bloody West Ham, wipe his wee off the bathroom floor, deal with the endless stream of low life coming to demand money for his gambling debts. I wanted to go round and snap her raddled little neck for pulling a fast one on me. But real sadness that she’d had the honour of Colin humping away, grunting with pleasure like a pig in potatoes? No. It was Sandy’s turn to be poked awake to pretend to be a streaker at a football stadium now.
Excitement calmed my fury. Colin wanted to get me back here for a reason. I didn’t know what that reason was, but it had nothing to do with love. That suited me, because he’d chipped away at that huge love I’d once had for him until the remaining grains had blown away, leaving nothing but a few good memories and a shedload of bad ones. We could stop pretending. Perhaps not yet, not before I’d had time to think of a plan. Harley and
Bronte would have enough to deal with changing back to their old school again. I couldn’t drop this on them as well. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, a tiny thought was stretching itself out. I was free. So was Mr Peters. I had to talk to him.
I pulled my memory box out from under the bed and tiptoed downstairs. I wasn’t about to start sewing prawns into the lining of the curtains because I’d definitely have to come back with the kids even if I managed to get rid of Colin. Instead I buried the TV remote under the cleaning cloths in the kitchen.
Then I was gone.
26
The need to speak to Mr Peters consumed me. I stomped about in Clover’s house, trying his mobile over and over again like someone who puts things with long ears and white fluffy tails into big saucepans on a regular basis. I needed to get on with ironing the shirts I’d picked up from one of my customers but I couldn’t settle. Egyptian cotton was a bastard to get right on a good day, but today, I was making more creases than I was taking out. After my fifth go at pressing the darts in the back of one shirt, I gave up.
I could either go steaming up to the school, burst into his office and tell him he’d got it all wrong, which would be like taking out a full page ad in the Surrey Mirror – Etxeleku has got the hots for Peters – or I could phone the secretary and ask to speak to him. I kept rehearsing what I wanted to say, trying to get it into my head that I was a paying parent, at least until the end of next term, and I had every right to be put through to the Head of Upper School. My voice kept coming out like a relative of the queen. I brought myself back down to earth by imitating Sandy. Slapper. Eventually I dialled the number. Felicity answered, sounding as though she’d recently come back from a pheasant shoot. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, Mrs Etxeleku, Mr Peters isn’t on the premises at the moment. Is there something I could help you with?’
