The Three Rs

by Ashe Barker

  Came. Past tense. It won’t be happening again. I’ve truly blown it. Even if I did decide to tell him the truth, all of it, he’ll never forgive me for leaving when he told me not to. Not again. He made it clear enough, couldn’t have been more explicit. Earlier today, it seemed worth it, seemed as though I had no alternative. Now, tonight, lying here alone and cold in my single bed, that decision looks like a big mistake. The biggest yet, and that’s saying something in the circumstances.

  What have I done?

  * * * *

  It’s Friday morning and I have a whole day to kill before I can go round to Sally’s to start my Grand Project. Operation Self-Betterment as I privately call it. And before much longer, I’ll be able to spell it too. Now, as I munch on some rather soggy cereal I found lurking at the back of my kitchen cupboard, the hours yawn endlessly in front of me. Sally won’t be home until about four at the earliest, maybe later than that as they’ll have lots of clearing up to do before the holidays. They always do.

  I can’t stay here, just thinking about Cain, and Phyllis, and Parrish Construction, and the total fuck-up I’ve made of my life. I need to get out. So I do. I end up at one of my usual haunts, this time opting for the Hockney collection at Saltaire. The gallery in Salts Mill is stunning. In fact the whole place is. I can pick out brief snippets of information from the signs around the place, but now I’m much more aware of all I can’t understand, all the details I can’t make sense of.

  I missed the HSE letter, what else am I missing? What more have I let pass me by in a lifetime of just looking at the pictures? No more. It ends here. Today.

  Late in the morning I buy a cheese sandwich in the Saltaire bakery, and phone Phyllis. I know Cain might answer, but I take the risk. I need to know what’s happening, how he went on yesterday with the HSE in Newcastle.

  My heart sinks as Cain’s voice comes on the line. “Good morning, Parrish Construction.”

  My throat constricts, I consider hanging up. My finger is hovering over the little red phone.

  He speaks again. “Hello? Parrish Construction.”

  “I… Hello. It’s Abbie. Is Phyllis there?”

  “What do you want, Abbie?” His tone has that chilled, deadpan quality he now cultivates especially for me I’m sure.

  “I-I was wondering how things are? What’s happening?”

  “And you care about this because…?”

  “Please, Cain, I never intended for any of this to happen. Please believe me.”

  “I’m done believing you, Abbie.” The line goes dead again, with another resounding coffin-like click.

  ‘I would never have walked out on you in the middle of an argument, Abbie. Not when there were things you still wanted to say to me.’ Weren’t those his very words to me a week ago, in my little flat above the office? I’d say hanging up the phone on me amounts to the same thing. And his actions just serve to reinforce how totally I’ve screwed up. Our relationship, or whatever it was, is over. Now, the rules have changed. Now, he walks away.

  Half an hour later, my phone rings. I glance at the screen—‘Ofis’. That means the office at Parrish Construction. Well, it’s my phone—the spelling is my affair and no one else’s. I hit the green button. “Hello?”

  “Abbie, it’s me.”

  Phyllis.

  “Cain said you rang, asked for me. He’s just nipped out to the bank, he wants to talk them into extending our overdraft.”

  “I see. Are we in trouble already then?”

  “Not as much as we could have been, as it’s turning out. The HSE have only suspended us on the one site, Rothbury. That’s our biggest single contract, and A.R.T. are grumbling, but we were ahead of schedule. If Cain can get it sorted in days rather than weeks, they probably won’t want to go to all the bother of finding a new sub-contractor for the stone masonry this far into the project. We may not be hit that bad.”

  I slump onto one of the long viewing seats in front of a set of landscapes, my feeling one of overwhelming relief. If anyone can make this go away, Cain can. He managed to sweet-talk Mrs Henderson, surely he can do the same with A.R.T. and the health and safety folk? And if he manages that, then surely he’ll be able to forgive me. Eventually.

  Except he won’t. He thinks I did this all on purpose, deliberately set out to destroy his business. The fact that I failed won’t be grounds for forgiveness. And even if it was, I walked out on him. Again. After he distinctly told me not to and what the consequences would be if I disobeyed him. No, there’s no going back from this. I knew that, and I did it anyway.

  Cain might have got over all that’s happened, all that’s gone wrong, eventually, if I’d stayed. But then I’d never have forgiven myself for letting this moment slip away from me, this moment when I can change my life. But however things turn out for me, I am genuinely delighted that Parrish Construction might be okay after all, and that Phyllis and the others who depend on the firm won’t lose their livelihoods because of me.

  “That’s brilliant news, Phyllis. God, I do hope so. What happens now?”

  “The HSE will be here on Monday, going through all our files with a fine tooth comb. Me and Cain are working over the weekend to make sure there’s nothing at all they could pick fault with. They’ll give us both a grilling too. Then on Tuesday they re-inspect at the site. After that they go off and have a think, and if they’re satisfied we’re safe to be let loose, they’ll lift the ban. We’re just hoping they won’t take too long over it. Our other work is all going ahead as planned though, so we’ll be fine. What about you, love? Have you started your lessons yet?”

  “No. This evening I hope. I’m going over to the school where my friend works later, for when they finish. I’ll help her to clear up, then go back to hers for my first lesson.”

  “You sound excited. Are you looking forward to it then?”

  I hesitate for a moment to consider this. Then, “Yes, I think I am. I’m definitely looking forward to being able to read, read properly I mean, like everyone else can. Just to be able to look at a word and know what it says instead of having to work out every letter and then try to cobble them together into something I recognize. And getting it wrong half the time.”

  “It comes with practice, love. You’ll soon get the hang of it. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ve a whole filing cabinet to check through.”

  “Oh, God, I feel so guilty. I made all this extra work for you. And Cain. Your whole weekend ruined.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s not every day I get to spend the weekend with a sexy young man. My Stan has his attractions, I wouldn’t swap him for the world, but Cain definitely looks better in tight jeans. Not that I’d ever say as much, and I expect you to keep that to yourself too.” Her tone lowers, serious now, “And anyway, you and I both know you didn’t mean any of this to happen. It was an accident. And if you’d just explain everything to Cain, he’d see that too.”

  “It’s more complicated than that, Phyllis. I wish it wasn’t…”

  “I can’t believe you two are finished. You’ve hardly got started. And you seemed so right for each other.”

  More than she realized, I’m sure. But as I’m now painfully aware, sexual compatibility isn’t enough.

  * * * *

  I might be relatively new to reading. Well, to serious reading. But it’s pretty clear Sally’s done this before. My usually fun-loving and giggly friend is an absolute demon when on duty. She really makes me work. But I’m loving it. And I’m getting somewhere.

  We’ve been working together for three days now, though it seems less than that. Sally never lets me read for more than about twenty minutes, and always starts with something we’ve read earlier so I can remember and get it right, at least at first. She’s been picking out the most common words, marking these in the books we read with her yellow highlighter, and getting me to recognize those on sight. The list of words I know like that is getting longer every day. Much longer.

  Other words, words I don’t recognize,
we break down into sounds. I’m getting really good at skimming through a word on paper and picking out the sounds made by the letters, saying it in my head, or out loud. Out loud is best, it usually makes sense straight away then.

  Sometimes Sally tells me what I’m about to read, what the story or magazine article is about. Then I read it for myself, knowing what to expect and finding the meanings. Sally always stresses the importance of the meaning, what the words and sentences are saying. She insists we put it all together, and makes me tell it back to her in my own words. She calls anything else just de-coding the print, and says that’s easy. Anyone can do that. And she’s right. De-coding print is a piece of cake—I’ve been doing that for years and no more. Now, for the first time almost, a paragraph of writing is starting to mean something.

  Today, Monday, I had a breakthrough. A sort of light bulb moment. I started to read a paragraph from Harry Potter and The Philosopher’s Stone, got half way through then skipped most of it to read the words on the bottom line. Because I was interested, actually eager to know how it would end. I couldn’t wait. I’ve never done that before.

  We also play with plastic magnetic letters. Sally borrowed a bagful from school and we use those to make up words, moving the letters around to form new sounds. At first I felt silly, as if I were playing with kids’ toys. Maybe I was, but the words we made up weren’t for kids. The difference between ‘dick’ and ‘cock’ may not seem much, but just shifting those two letters around made it all so much clearer for me. Then we introduced ‘prick’ and I was on a roll.

  If anything, Sally works harder on this than I do. Whilst I’m taking time out to sketch or catch up on trashy day-time television, she’s planning our next sessions, choosing books for me, feverishly highlighting, always pushing me. Our twenty minute bursts are intensive, rapid fire. Drive-by reading. None of that pondering over hard words, which I remember being as such an ordeal at school—those endless sessions standing beside the teacher’s desk stuttering over something incomprehensible. If I can’t read a word pretty much straight away, Sally says it for me and makes me move on. But I know that word will be emerging out of our magnetic letters sometime soon, and I will learn it. And the next time, I’ll read it and move straight on.

  We’re doing writing too. Proper handwriting. Maybe it’s the artist in me, but this is the bit I enjoy the most. I love a perfectly executed aesthetic shape, who wouldn’t? So forming elegant, even letters on the page is a real pleasure for me. Sometimes we read a few sentences then I choose my favorite bit to copy out in my best not-quite-joined-up handwriting.

  On Tuesday we start on Phyllis’ Fifty Shades of Grey. Sally insists it won’t be unduly difficult, though she fears for my vocabulary. Words like ‘nipple’ and ‘vanilla’ quickly appear on our magnetic board, and I ache for Cain. Perhaps I could phone him. Or text. I could actually do that now. Maybe. Probably. I’ll ask Sally to help.

  “Are you sure? I thought you two parted on bad terms.”

  “We did. But I want to text him, just to ask how things are going.” I pull out my phone and press the messaging button. I glance up at Sally. “I just want to ask him how he is…”

  “Okay. Is he in your list of contacts?”

  I click to that and find Cain’s picture at the top of my list. Sally guides me through the process of putting Cain in the recipient’s box, then makes me work for it, spelling out—

  How are you?

  She absolutely forbids me to use text speak, insists I learn the correct way to write things before I start messing with anything fancy. Sounds sensible, I don’t want to be too ambitious too soon. I press ‘send’ and put my phone away to return to the magnetic letters. Soon I’ve added ‘clitoris’ to my repertoire.

  Cain’s response is curt to say the least.

  Fine, busy.

  It’s a start.

  Chapter Twenty

  The week with Sally passes in a blur. Each day it seems I make some sort of breakthrough, often several breakthroughs actually, and my rate of progress speeds up as the days fly by. Reading is becoming easier, my confidence growing in leaps and bounds. A paragraph of writing, which only a few days ago might have taken me an hour to extract even the most patchy shreds of meaning from, is making perfect sense at first glance. I can open any page in my trusty Harry Potter book and be certain of following the adventures of young Mr Potter, Hermione and Ron Weasley without much effort at all. There are some odd words I can’t decipher—that goes with the wizard territory—but I’m managing.

  I’m also looking at other things, items I used to assiduously avoid. Magazines, newspaper headlines, written instructions on the side of food packaging. I can manage fairly simple tasks on Sally’s computer, and most importantly she’s shown me how to turn the thing on and off properly. No more pulling the power cable out for me, no more grumpy messages from Windows complaining about my reckless behavior. We took a trip to a shopping mall on the outskirts of Leeds on the second Saturday afternoon, and for the first time ever I could make sense of the notices and special offer adverts plastered around the place. I even managed to choose my lunch in Pizza Hut based on the descriptions in the menu rather than the pictures—another milestone.

  But now, I have a real dilemma. I should be returning to Berwick tomorrow, and there’s nothing I want to do more. But Cain is clearly not having that. Since his curt response to my first text, he’s ignored any further overtures from me. I’ve sent him messages asking how things are going with the HSE, and he pointedly ignores me. I’ve tried to phrase my enquiries carefully—I appreciate it’s a touchy subject—but to no avail. I clearly need to be more direct. With Sally’s help I send him a text outlining my immediate plans.

  Hi Cain. Hope you’re fine. I’ll be back Monday. Train due in at 5.20pm

  That works, though not quite as I’d hoped. No gushing welcome, no offer of picking me up at the station. Instead…

  Your choice. Taxi rank outside station. Will ask Phyllis to insure heating in flat is turned on.

  Right then, that seems clear enough, even to one with my limited reading prowess. I could go back and take up residence in the flat over the office. I daresay I’d run into Cain pretty frequently, couldn’t be avoided, but frankly, I’d rather stay in Bradford. Sally has to go back to school, but we still have the evenings to further my education. And in the daytime I can prowl the art galleries, this time lingering over the displays and other information telling me all about my favorite artists. I can’t keep this up long term, and in any case I need to earn a living, whether here or in Berwick. I consider asking Mr Cartwright for my old job back, but cleaning for a living is not what I want anymore. I can do better now, I need to do better. I owe it to myself.

  * * * *

  Three weeks later, I’m still passing my days soaking up the cultural delights of my home town by day, and spending every evening with Sally. Her patience and support has been nothing short of awesome, her professionalism impeccable as she’s put me through my paces and released me from my self-imposed isolation. The mysteries of the written word are now unlocked for my personal delight and delectation. I’m part of the club now, included—an insider. I like to think I’ve been a rewarding pupil, I really have made a supreme effort, in a way that I never did before. My determination and sheer will to crack this thing have driven me forward, created the energy I needed to get past my imagined roadblocks. And Sally has built on that, used my motivation, fanned the flames of it and pulled down the barriers I allowed to prevent me from learning for all this time. She has transformed my life, nothing short of that. I’ll never forget it.

  I’ve continued to text Cain, but he rarely replies, and when he does it’s with just one or two words. He made no comment on my decision to remain in Yorkshire, though I did let him know. I keep in touch with Phyllis on the phone, though not recently as she’s been off work for a few days. Her Stan is ill again. When I talk to her she sounds worried. I know she wants to retire and devote her time to him pr
operly, and her latest recruit, young Jenna, fresh from business college in Newcastle and desperate for a local job is apparently to be Phyllis’ ticket to freedom. She hopes to be able to train Jenna up over the coming months then hand over the reins.

  How do I feel about that? I think it’s fair to say my feelings are mixed. I love that I can read now, but it’s all still so new to me. My confidence is growing, and I do genuinely enjoy reading stories, newspapers, even the side of my cereal box in the morning. But I couldn’t contemplate a job that consists mainly of paperwork. That’s just not me and never will be. I hope Phyllis’ plan works out and Jenna makes the grade. For myself, I want to draw and paint. Even if I can’t make my living as an artist, I definitely want to work with my hands. I keep coming back to plumbing—I really should get in touch with Beth, find out how she got started. I daresay it’ll involve some sort of college course, and for that I’ll need other exams. Literacy. Numeracy. The Three Rs. But with Sally’s help I really do see this as a possibility now.

  Maybe I’ll re-start my formal education with something a bit lighter, for me at least. An art course, that’d be nice. Interesting. Something I could excel at. Perhaps I should get a brochure.

  I’m in my tiny kitchen putting the finishing touches to a home-made pizza when my door buzzer sounds. Sally’s coming round here this evening, I’ve agreed to feed her and later we’ll do some of what she calls ‘guided reading’. I’m looking forward to it, I really enjoy these sessions of ours. The voyage of discovery gets better all the time. Not unlike the discoveries I started to make with Cain, although the rewards are more cerebral than physical. I think about Cain a lot. All the time, if I’m honest. Almost everything reminds me of him in some way. Still, the future stretches a long way ahead, it’s full of wonderful possibilities now, and my natural optimism hasn’t deserted me. I’ll find a way. If nothing else, the terms of James Parrish’s will mean we’re bound to each other for the next five years. He can’t avoid me forever.