Saving Daisy

by Phil Earle

  He had my tin. I could hear the scissors rattling inside and prayed he couldn’t work out what it was for.

  I snatched this time, eager to have it in my hands.

  ‘Steady on, Daisy. I’m trying to help.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’ I blushed. ‘Just in a rush to get home.’

  ‘Well, let me help you, then.’ He turned to pick up my bag, delaying a second with it before coming back to me.

  ‘It’s like the Tardis, this thing. I can’t believe how much stuff you fit in it. So, how are you? How’s … things?’

  ‘Fine,’ I mumbled. ‘Great.’

  ‘Really? It’s good to see you back in class, but it’s only really in body, isn’t it? I didn’t hear from you again today.’

  I bit my lip at what I’d gifted Donna.

  ‘What can I say?’ I offered. ‘I never was the sharpest tool.’

  He sat on the desk in front of me with a sigh.

  ‘What a load of bollocks.’

  The sharpness of his words made me look at him.

  ‘We both know that’s not true. I look around the room and I see more potential in you than in any of the others.’

  ‘Course you do,’ I scoffed.

  ‘It’s true. You have something very special, Daisy. You’re intuitive, instinctive, and it kills me to see you not fulfilling your potential.’

  ‘I’m getting by.’

  ‘But that shouldn’t be enough for you. I’ve read your file in the office, spoken to the other teachers, and they’d like more from you too. I know there’s something holding you back. I realize we’ve had this conversation before, but you need to know that whatever is on your mind, we can sort it out.’

  ‘Honestly, sir, there’s nothing going on.’

  ‘Daisy, we both know that’s bull.’

  ‘How do YOU know?’

  ‘Because I’ve been there, and I acted just like you,’ he added quietly, before pulling himself to his feet. ‘There were things I bottled up for a long time. Stuff that ate away at me, and until I got brave and told someone, someone I trusted, it messed me up badly. I don’t want the same to happen to you. You’re worth more than that, do you understand?’ He laid his hand on my arm, my bad arm, but I didn’t pull away in pain. Instead I felt a buzz ripple up it, all the way to my shoulder.

  ‘Think about what I’ve said, won’t you?’ he said as he gathered his stuff and headed to the door.

  ‘I will, sir. Thanks,’ I answered, instinctively feeling for my scars, still sensing the rare good feeling that he’d left there.

  I thought about little else all the way home. In a way he was right, I needed to unload, but I daren’t. What I’d caused was so unforgivable, how would anybody understand or want to help? It wasn’t as if I could talk to Dad either. It was hardly a roaring success last time I tried, and we’d barely spoken since.

  I kept going back to something Hobson had said, that he’d been there, done the same as me, and I wondered, hoped even, that maybe he might be the one person who’d get it, who wouldn’t laugh or run off in disgust. The thought of sharing started a new wave of fear circling me, forcing both my step and my heartbeat up from an amble to a jog. I needed to be home, in my room, where I could fend it off safely, where no one could see me or my scissors.

  I managed it as well, or did for a while. Dad wasn’t home, which calmed me a bit, and for once I kept the panic at bay with a shed-load of pacing about. I tried to force my head into other things too, thinking that unpacking my bag would divert my thoughts elsewhere, and it did until I found a parcel in the bottom of it, wrapped clumsily in brown paper. Frowning, I turned it over, fearful of it being a gag from Donna, another way of humiliating me. Binning it went through my head, but I couldn’t shelve the curiosity and found myself peeling back the wrapping at the top right-hand corner.

  Instantly I recognized the packaging. DVDs. Two of them, When Harry Met Sally (the film he’d banged on about at the cinema) and one called Frankie and Johnny. Both looked old, like they’d been on someone’s shelf for years, and I frowned because I hadn’t seen either of them. Both were rom-coms, identical-looking to the film I’d seen when he caught me leaving the Ritzy. There was a note tucked into one of the sleeves, a scrawl I could just about make out:

  If it’s comfort viewing you’re after, try these two. I love ’em! Don’t worry about giving them back … I have spares … enjoy!

  TH

  He must have slid them in there when he was helping me with my stuff. But why hide it? In a way it didn’t matter, it was the size of the gesture that counted. I couldn’t remember the last time someone did anything like that, or knew me well enough to get it right. I was stoked and terrified in equal measure, but chose to push When Harry Met Sally quickly into the DVD player. Watching it would give us something to talk about, things that might allow me to get on to the stuff that really mattered.

  Chapter 9

  He was right about the films, both of them. All right, they were rom-coms like he said, a bit cheesy and soppy with inevitable happy endings, but that was what made them so great. They were like comfort food, perfect to escape into, away from all the other nonsense cluttering up my head.

  When Harry Met Sally was so great I watched it every night for the next three days. I didn’t share it with Dad either. I wanted it for myself for a change, plus it gave me an excuse to steer clear of him. From the maudlin look on his face he didn’t look ready to talk about our argument either.

  The most pressing thing was finding a way of thanking Mr Hobson without embarrassing myself in front of everyone else.

  I couldn’t march up to him at the end of the class without drawing unwanted attention, but also because his gift had kind of changed things in my head.

  I started feeling nervy every time he walked in, and instead of not answering his questions for fear of Donna, I was silent for fear of him changing his mind about me, about me being special. I mean, he’d said that, hadn’t he?

  It was stupid, I know, but no one had shown interest in me before, and it felt like he understood me, like he could see the thought processes behind my eyes. And if that was the case I didn’t want to stuff it up, even if it meant I told him nothing else.

  It took me about a week to find the opportunity to speak to him properly, and in that time Dad and me had spent zero time together. I couldn’t remember when we’d last gone two nights without flopping down in front of a film, and it was eating at me, taking the shine off the positives I was feeling.

  It had been a difficult day. I’d felt on edge, like the next humiliation was just ahead of me, and as a result I’d hung around in the toilets until most of the kids had gone – it seemed easier to do this than face the chance of one last run-in – and was just passing through the gates when Mr Hobson strode up next to me, looking like he could do the whole day over again.

  I admired his energy, wanted to be able to suck a bit of it up and let it whiz round my body too.

  His grin was infectious, and, it seemed, he knew it.

  ‘Now that’s what I like to see. A smile on your face.’

  ‘Bit of a rarity, is it, sir?’

  ‘Not just with you. With exams going on, I’ve never seen so many arsey people in one place.’

  I’d had no idea that the other kids had stuff going on for them. Stuff that made them unhappy. I’d been so wrapped up in myself, going round in endless circles trying to work out how to deal with Dad, the fear and the fallout, that I didn’t have space for anything else. And I couldn’t see how that was going to change unless I unloaded it all somewhere.

  ‘So what’s news with you, then?’ He’d obviously got bored of waiting for me to respond.

  ‘Oh, you know, not much.’

  ‘Seen anything good lately?’

  ‘I have as a matter of fact.’

  He knew which films I meant, he must have done.


  ‘And what were they, then?’

  ‘I think you know the answer already.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you liked them. They’re definitely favourites of mine.’

  My cheeks flushed as I tried to work out how to say thank you in a way that told him what it really meant. But typically I failed. Instead I went for the dumb option.

  ‘Why did you hide them in my bag? Why didn’t you just give me them?’

  ‘Seemed like the right thing to do. You were so flustered with your stuff going everywhere, I thought you might explode if I sprung them on you. Anyway, everyone needs a surprise every now and then.’

  ‘Well, it was definitely that.’ I smiled from behind my fringe. ‘Cheered me up it did. Big time.’

  ‘So it should too. Modern classics. Both of them.’

  I nodded before realizing I didn’t know what to say next. He didn’t either, and there was a moment that felt awkward. I wanted to fill it with something that would keep him talking to me. Beyond our conversation stretched another frosty night with Dad and I wasn’t ready for that yet.

  ‘You taking the path home tonight?’ he asked.

  I gazed across the road to ‘the path’, a concrete walkway that led down the river towards home.

  How he knew it was always my route I didn’t know, or choose to worry about. I nodded.

  ‘Mind if I walk with you?’

  ‘Er … no. I mean fine.’

  We crossed the road and down the path in silence, my heart thumping, until we hit the river.

  ‘I like this bit of town,’ he said, as if almost to himself. ‘Reminds me that we’re not far from the sea.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I looked at the water, at the scum and rubbish that collected at its edges. ‘Hardly attractive, though, is it?’

  ‘Venice of the North!’ He grinned. ‘I like it. I’ve never lived on the coast before, so it’s a bit of a novelty.’

  I nodded, trying to look interested without being dorky.

  ‘What about you, Daisy? You always lived here?’

  ‘Yeah. Can’t really imagine living anywhere else. Dad was born here too. Reckons there’s no escape, says the road that comes in is strictly one-way.’

  ‘And what about your mum? She local too?’

  It felt like an innocent question, so I allowed myself to answer.

  ‘Nah, she moved around loads when she was young. Her dad had some big job that took him all over the place.’

  ‘Mine too,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Makes you want to find somewhere good and stay put. Is that what happened with your mum?’

  I chewed the inside of my lip, wondering how to respond to that one. How much I could say without opening the box too wide.

  ‘Yeah, probably.’

  I waited for his response, my breath holding, hoping he’d move the conversation along.

  ‘What does your dad do, then?’

  ‘He’s a sales rep for a publisher.’ It felt good, safe, and I let the sentence out quickly in relief. ‘Has been ever since I was born.’

  ‘So he’s a big reader?’

  ‘Kind of. He does read and that. But he’s more of a film man really.’

  ‘Of course. That’s where you get it from, eh?’

  ‘Right.’ It felt good to have had thirty seconds of comfortable conversation. Shame, then, that it came crashing down with the next question.

  ‘And what about your mum? Does she work as well?’

  I couldn’t remember the last time someone asked me a question about Mum. Everyone knew she was dead, and that conversations about her were too. Everyone except Mr Hobson, who didn’t know any better.

  I’m not sure what my face was saying to him, but it must have been something grim, because it stopped him in his tracks.

  ‘Daisy? Are you all right?’

  I pushed some hair behind my ears and breathed in deeply, steeling myself.

  ‘No, I’m fine. It’s just … well, we … Mum’s dead, you see.’

  The words didn’t feel any better out in the open. They never did. It felt like they paved the way to people seeing what I’d done to her. That it was only a few more questions until they worked out that it was all my fault.

  ‘Oh, that’s awful. And crappy of me to bring it up like that. Sorry, I didn’t think.’

  I tried to pull myself upright, pass it off as no big deal.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. How could you know? Anyway, it was a long time ago.’

  We plodded on in silence. Minutes passed as we walked beneath the bridges that ran over the river. In that time I searched for a new line of conversation in my head. For anything that would take us away from dead mothers.

  But typically, nothing popped up. Not even a fail-safe favourite film or actor to take us off on a tangent.

  So much time had passed and I was so deep in thought that when his next words came, I had no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘I’ve always hated that assumption about time.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘That time makes it easier when it comes to death. It’s never worked like that for me anyway. Not with my mum.’

  I looked at him, trying to work out if I’d heard him right.

  I threw his words up in the air to see if they landed in the same order.

  Did he just say that he’d lost his mum too? And if it was true, then why wait those minutes before coming out with it? Why let the silence and awkwardness of what I’d said hang there?

  I sneaked a look at him, to try and work out if this was just some weird wind-up, or whether he was spinning me a line to make me feel better.

  But his face matched mine. He wasn’t close to tears, or milking it like some crap soap actor. There was something there. Something around his eyes that told me it was true, and it was a realization that bumped the fear closer to the surface, forcing me to breathe deeply and keep it in check.

  Silence again, except for the gravel crunching underfoot and the hopes whirring round my head.

  Hopes that finally, finally, I might have found someone who understood.

  Chapter 10

  I’d never really thought about walking home from school alone before. It had always been about getting from A to B, half an hour where I thought about what I might watch that night, that or beat myself up about something or other.

  I saw the other kids trooping out in groups, bursting to share their news from the day, but I didn’t envy them or wish it for myself. Or I hadn’t until that first walk with Mr Hobson. After that night I wanted it all the time, the company, the banter, the smiles it brought to my face. And it had to be from him.

  He didn’t appear every day as school ended, and on those nights I’d meander down the path alone, turning every minute, desperately needing to see him trotting along to catch up. Sometimes he did, sometimes not. I even found myself slowing down as I left for the day, giving him time to gather up his stuff, increasing the chances of running into him ‘accidentally’. It mattered that much, made the hugest difference to my mood for the rest of the day.

  We didn’t always talk about much. Well, apart from the obvious. He had weird taste in films, was always banging on about art-house things from directors I’d never heard of. I’d wind him up, telling him he couldn’t possibly like them if he was into rom-coms, that he was a film snob. He always took the wind-up with a smile before dishing the abuse straight back at me.

  We’d walk for a bit, and chat for a bit, and sometimes sit on this bench by a particularly ugly bit of the river, all silt and marooned shopping trolleys. Not that it mattered. I’d forget about everything apart from how I was feeling. How he was making me feel.

  And how was that?

  Well, it was just different.

  Nothing corny or dramatic.

  Half an hour in his presence stopped me drowning for the rest of the day, stopped me fretting about what might or mi
ght not get said to Dad when I pushed through the front door. He made me feel like I was worth something, like what I said counted. And it felt good.

  ‘I worked out last night that this is the eleventh school I’ve taught in.’ He sighed and sat down.

  ‘And how long have you been doing it?’

  ‘Couple of years.’

  ‘Why move about like that? Wouldn’t you rather stick around and get to know places better?’

  ‘It hasn’t appealed,’ he sighed. ‘Not since my mum died really. It’s easier to keep moving around. New places mean new challenges. It stops me thinking about her and getting maudlin.’

  His words hit me hard. At least he knew what it was he was trying to replace. I’d never had that luxury. I would have killed to have known Mum for even a year or two. The thought alone started the fear circling.

  ‘This place feels different, though. Better.’

  ‘Why’s that, then?’

  ‘Not really sure. I’ve taught in places with better resources and brighter kids, but your school has got under my skin, you know?’

  He fixed me with a stare that made me nod automatically, although I didn’t relate to what he was saying. I had no idea why this place would appeal to anyone. But I couldn’t help hoping that I might have something to do with it. The fear laughed at the thought, causing my skin to prickle in embarrassment.

  ‘So you think you’ll stick around for a while, then?’

  I cringed after saying it.

  ‘Yeah, I reckon so. Miss Addison’s no closer to coming back, so you’re stuck with me for a while yet.’

  ‘Donna will be pleased.’

  ‘What is it with you and her?’ he asked. ‘Have you had a falling-out or something?’

  ‘We were never friends to start with.’

  ‘But I’ve seen the way she relies on you in class. She obviously looks up to you.’

  ‘You’re kidding me?’

  ‘Well, she obviously sees that you know the answers.’ He paused for a second, noticing the tension in me at the mention of her.

  ‘Is she the reason you’ve been ducking out of class, Daisy?’