The ceiling lights are dimmed as the colourful disco bulbs rotate around the panelled room. It’s dark enough for the more self-conscious members of staff to lose themselves in the music. I dance with Abbas (who can’t) and Liam (who can). In between dances, I am encouraged to imbibe more than I should. And I am already feeling wobbly and giggly. The 70s, 80s and 90s music is exchanged for rap and some modern stuff that I don’t recognise; it’s an ugly sound that drives a few of us oldies away. Abbas leaves at 10 pm on the dot. I retreat into Peter Principal’s office. I don’t switch on the light as there’s enough emanating from the corridor. I am alone, at last. The music is still pulsating; it’s offensive now and I am beginning to regret not leaving earlier. I take my “sabbatical letter” out of my handbag and place it under the telephone. There’s no going back. Peter Principal must either be careless or trusting; either way, it is expedient for me that he has left his computer switched on and his password appears to be “password”; this contravenes all the advice meted out to us last term. I have an overwhelming desire to know if he has lined up my replacement and if so, whom? It is odd that he hasn’t told me. Perhaps I won’t approve of his choice? I have a quick look at the contents of his double in-tray. There’s a copy of my timetable – which has been highlighted – and a few notes in Liam’s distinctive handwriting. There’s a memorandum from one of the Governors and a few randomly printed out emails that look personal so I don’t read them.
I can hear a series of heavy and light footsteps coming down the corridor in my direction. I hold my breath and press the button on the monitor making it instantly dark. The male and female footsteps retreat into what sounds like my office. I am too scared to follow them in; besides, technically, it’s not really my office anymore. I turn the monitor back on and resume my search. There are hundreds and hundreds of emails; even more than in my inbox. I am getting nowhere.
Naughty, naughty, naughty… I push the chair back against the wall behind me and hide under the desk. I can’t quite believe I am doing this. Come out, you know you want to. I tell the voice to go away. I know it’s not Principal Peter’s voice but I also know that I shouldn’t be snooping about in his office. I’m still crouching under the large desk; its modesty panel doesn’t quite reach the floor so I can see the voice’s feet, pacing up and down. Come on. Out. I need to lock up. It sounds plausible. The door closes and I can hear the lock turn but the feet are still inside the office. They’re wearing trainers, not leather shoes, and the feet are huge and smell of sweat. I crawl out from under the desk and sit awkwardly onto the swivel chair that I had been sitting on earlier. It’s still very dark. My visitor hasn’t turned on the light and I don’t think he’s going to. The tall figure is nothing more than a silhouette; it approaches me and stands between the desk and the chair; there’s barely room to swing a cat, let alone his one. Joe is no longer the friendly school caretaker. He is a hefty, vigorous man. I won’t tell if you don’t tell. His erect penis is making a huge bulge in his scruffy jeans. No, I say. No. I shouldn’t have been nosing around. I know that. Come on, Joe. Let’s be sensible. It’s my last day for ages. But he insists that we play Cat and Mouse for a few minutes, whilst I try to extricate myself from his misguided embraces. I am beginning to have one of my panic attacks. The large looming figure isn’t sympathetic and is getting impatient with me. Within seconds, one of his rough hands is grasping my neck whilst the other is unzipping his flies. He rubs himself up and down until he comes all over me; it’s a disgusting. I can’t shout or scream. All my self-defence training has evaded me. Besides, am I really doing to stab him in the eye with a biro?
Joe pushes his penis back into his stained trousers. He isn’t finished with me though. I am still on the swivel chair, trapped behind the desk. My new red dress is damp with his sticky sperm. At least he hasn’t raped me. I say: I am too old. I am nearly fifty. I plead with him and say I’ll do anything for him. I’ll help him find a better job. But he likes his job. He doesn’t want another one. And I’m not too old. He is older than me. He takes his eyes off me for a second. carpe diem: seize the day. I get off the chair and scramble over the desk, taking off one of my shoes so that I can use it as a weapon. I jab him in the chest with the heel and bash him over the head; it should really hurt but it doesn’t make much of an impact. We wrestle a bit and I make my way over to the door. My dress is torn; my hair is tangled and dishevelled; my tights are laddered and even though I can’t see myself in the mirror, I know that my black mascara has run down my cheeks. I start banging on the glass panel of the door, hoping that the owners of the male and female giggling voices I heard earlier – the ones in my office – will hear my shrieks and cries. Panic sets in again as I fear the worst. I have injured my hand with all the bashing and banging.
We can both hear the familiar plodding feet of our Principal. In an instant, Joe tidies himself up and unlocks and opens the door. He grabs the First Aid kit from the wall and opens it, yanking out a white bandage which he expertly unravels. He starts wrapping it around my bleeding hand. He is quick and professional. I begin to think he is wasted as a caretaker.
Principal Peter appears. He towers over both of us, bending his head as he enters his own office. He sees the letter that I placed under his telephone and opens it whilst he stares at Joe, my bleeding hand and the well-applied bandage. I hope that doesn’t hurt. How on earth did you manage that on your last day? I reply: no comment. And feign a weak smile. I thought you should know that your predecessor, Elizabeth, is returning to hold the fort in your absence. I have managed to persuade her to come out of retirement. But you must promise to return in mid-August, when the results come out. I need you, Sophie Boswell. Try not to get yourself arrested between now and then. He has a dry sense of humour but the irony is not wasted on me. I have been somewhat reckless since Michael’s diagnosis.
I stagger down to the bus stop and manage to catch the 13. I normally sit on the top deck but I feel vulnerable so I don’t. I sit near the driver instead. I have about twenty minutes to come up with a plausible story for my wrecked appearance. I get off at Swiss Cottage; cross over the Finchley Road and pass the hideous Tavistock Centre and up Daleham Gardens and turn into the mews. It’s very dark and very late. I am hopeful that I will get home unnoticed.
Fortunately, everyone is in bed though Eddie’s bedside lamp is on. I stand under the shower for ages, removing any trace of Joe’s odour and fluids from my bruised and battered body. I screw up the dress and carefully place it into a plastic bag, dumping it in the corner of the bathroom, hoping that I remember to bin it tomorrow morning. I comb my hair into a parting, brush my teeth, put on a night-shirt, drink a large glass of water and clamber into bed next to my slumbering husband. He stretches out his arm and pulls me in beside him. We are like two bent spoons. I have forgotten what it’s like to be loved and cossetted.
Tomorrow is another day.
Chapter 36
Spring Forward
It feels a little strange being the Fab Four again. Each of our three bedrooms is occupied by its rightful owner; the fridge is well stocked; the cupboards are bursting with a variety of exotic teas and there’s a healthy mess in the sitting room: books; magazines; iPads; mobiles and chargers; countless pairs of shoes and hoodies not to mention a recycling bin that is practically overflowing. The mountains of clutter are welcome. We’re almost a regular, nuclear family. And the best thing is still to come: an unexpected week on a cruise ship, paid for by my parents.
Sheila and Henry have never been on a cruise. They’re not “cruise people”, whoever they are, but for the first time in their lives, they have booked for us to join them for a week around the Mediterranean in mid-May. The twins took a little convincing; they’re probably “too cool” to be seen on a large commercial ship; however, the thought of a free and allegedly luxurious holiday, coupled with at least five stops to places of interest, was enough to convince them to join us. Besides, we all need a little distance from the
misery that has invaded our lives like the destructive virus that it is. Michael may not remember this holiday but we are determined to make it a happy experience for all of us. I have been reading people’s views on TripAdvisor: some are most encouraging whilst others are damning. I will reserve my judgement.
My colleagues have returned to school for the Summer Term. Elizabeth Keller, the retired deputy head, has made herself comfortable in my office, so Abbas tells me. She’s an English specialist so she can take over my timetable though I appreciate that there have been quite a few changes to the GCSE syllabus since she retired. She’s old school, which might be a good thing. I am not sure whether all the students will warm to her but at least they should achieve the grades that they deserve. When I was on maternity leave, all those years ago, I felt resentful that someone occupied my office and stole my beloved students from me; this time, it is different. I see my replacement as an angel of mercy. I have even left Diet Coke in my office fridge though Elizabeth probably doesn’t touch the filthy stuff. The sixty-eight-year-old lady is a little like my mother: firm; professional, has silvery grey hair in a tidy bob, wears her dark suits well and speaks with a clipped, slightly old-fashioned accent. Principal Peter has given me some reassurance about my job prospects though this came with a long lecture about paying for suitable help or finding a decent care home for Michael. He isn’t wrong. He has told me categorically that Elizabeth won’t be displacing me for long as the polymath is far too busy. I hear she organises and attends various U3A groups which comprise Loving Literature; a German conversation class and Art and Architecture. She walks, swims al fresco, plays golf and has taken up Pilates. She also has six grandchildren. I am grateful that Wonder Woman has a fulfilled life as I am not ready for early retirement.
I cannot pretend that things are totally uneventful at home. Michael is prickly about being given instructions. Each day, I lay out his clothes on our bed, hoping that he will get dressed without making a drama out of it. It is never straightforward. He wears odd socks, even if I leave a pair out for him; his tee shirts are worn inside out or back-to-front; his boxer shorts or Y-fronts are taut over his trousers. He is my Superman. I can see that he is losing his coordination. Buttons remain a challenge. We avoid them where possible. We have abandoned shirts for now though I will be packing a few for the cruise. The travel agent has advised my parents to do as much “fine dining” as possible, so that they can avoid the large canteen; besides, it will be a nightmare keeping track of Michael. I hardly need Old King Hamlet’s ghost to come and tell me this.
Eddie and I fetch the cases out of the loft and dust them down. Olivia removes the old luggage tags from Croatia. That was the past. This is the present. We are all thinking the same thing but none of us says it out loud. Michael and I will share a case, as will the twins. We have been advised that the cabins don’t have much storage space, unsurprisingly, so we need to pack prudently. Eddie is worried that Olivia will bring twice as much as him. I advise him to pack first! The Day Centre in West Hampstead is closed for an industrial clean; apropos of this, I am going to encourage Michael to help me pack as this was his speciality in the past. The prospect, however, fills him with anxiety and dread. He is convinced that I am sending him to a care home. Our conversations are constant battle grounds though I have learned to be less confrontational and more conciliatory.
I ask Michael to choose some clothes for our holiday. I open his underwear drawer for him and suggest this is a sensible place to start. I say it quietly and casually, so that it doesn’t sound like an instruction. He takes everything out and unceremoniously dumps his socks, boxer shorts, some pants and even vests that I never knew he owned, onto the bed. Without prompting, Michael continues to ransack every drawer, gathering piles of clothes from his cupboards (all of which were labelled by the dreaded interloper). Our bed is tantamount to a jumble sale. I let out a little sigh; there’s no malice in it, only frustration. It’s a pity that I have not learned to curtail my emotions. He is quick to lash out. I sit on the edge of the bed whilst he continues raiding the wardrobes.
I want to stop him but I reign myself in as my directions will be misinterpreted as officious; I will be yelled at and censured for being a nagging and interfering wife. I don’t need this aggravation, especially before we embark on our trip. This acquiescent behaviour doesn’t come naturally to me. Years of being assertive in the classroom have probably turned me into a bossy control freak. I no longer know my true self. I will be an actor playing the role of a Stepford Wife. It might be easier that way. I thank my tetchy husband for his efforts and run downstairs to alleviate the agency carer, Aleksandra, from her date with her Americano. Could she take Michael out? Just for a bit? She reluctantly removes herself from the chair and follows me back up the stairs. Despite his reservations about my erroneous plot to send him away, Michael stuffs his clothes into the case, along with some random items of mine. It’s a far cry from the old days when he used to take charge. Everything had to be meticulously folded, colour-coordinated and bagged. Nothing was allowed to be loose. I used to accuse him of suffering from OCD though in reality I knew I was lucky to have a husband like this. I encourage Michael to go out for a walk with Aleksandra. She’s pretty and blonde. He takes little persuasion. But I tell the young Polish girl to stick to the roads and not to wander off onto the heath. Michael isn’t going to turn into a werewolf but even men with dementia have “needs”. I tell her to get back within the hour. No later.
I empty the case and start all over again. I let out a loud sigh, deliberately, as a retort for having to stifle my earlier one. I carefully sort Michael’s clothes into colours and fabrics and then do the same with mine. I fetch a few plastic bags from the kitchen and start shoving things into them. I zip the case up and drag it onto the floor; it’s not too heavy and, if push comes to shove, I will be able to carry it up and down the stairs myself. I open the folder with all the printed material about the forthcoming holiday. In the past, Michael used to do the checking in for all of us; order the Uber and basically take control. Now I have to do everything myself. It is not particularly onerous. I have organised many school trips in the past; this can’t be so different. I check through the details. I am paranoid that I will make a mistake. We are staying in Rome for two nights and catching a train to the port from there. My parents are flying from Gatwick. We are flying from Luton. We will meet them at the apartment in Italy. Safety in numbers.
A taxi drives the four of us to Via Labicana in Lazio, Rome; it’s a stone’s throw from the Colosseum and it has incredible views from each of its many windows. We have rented a three-bedroom apartment which has its own kitchen-diner, sitting room and two small Juliet balconies. My parents arrive a few minutes after us. We allocate the largest bedroom to them; after all, this is our way of saying thank you for the cruise. Eddie and Olivia take the bedroom with the two singles which leaves Michael and I with the smallest room; it has a tiny bed. It can’t be more than four-foot-six. I unpack our nightclothes and our toiletries; freshen up and change into lighter clothing. It’s a little humid in Rome and much warmer than in London or Sussex. Everyone changes, except for Michael. No one wants an argument at this time of night.
We traipse around the narrow streets in search of both a shop to buy a few provisions and a restaurant in which we can eat a light supper. We find both though the prices are exorbitant. We are clearly staying in a touristy area; either that, or we’re paying tourist prices. We eat too much bread whilst we’re waiting, and sample the famous artichoke dish which none of us much like. I know that I must be a philistine as I’d really just like English Italian food. Eddie asks for a spaghetti Bolognese but the restauranteur laughs in his face; that’s an English dish, Signor. You can have ragu. Michael orders a pizza which is met with derision. My parents are the only members of our family who order something sophisticated. They also drink a carafe of wine. The rest of us drink water.
We stroll back to the apartmen
t, two-by-two: Eddie and Olivia, Sheila and Henry, Michael and I. I am hopeful that we will mix and match over the next few days. We congregate at the glass dining room table at the far end of the sitting room. My father has brought his battered Insight Guide to Rome and put yellow post-it notes in its key pages. My mother has brought a pad and pen with her, and is poised, ready to take notes as if she were his secretary. She writes down a list of all the main sights and works out a route and a schedule. We are exempt from visiting the Vatican, this time, as the queues will be too long as we haven’t made an advanced booking. Eddie and Olivia are speechless. I can see that this is not what they had in mind. They both ask for permission to wander around Rome by themselves. They don’t really need to ask.
Imprisoned by Love Page 25
