Kalpana's Dream (10 page)
Gull’s route homeward took him past the house where Ms Dallimore lived. It was a creepy house, thought Gull, tall and narrow, with two crooked chimney pots, its whole front veiled by a thick net of glistening ivy. The windows were shuttered and dark. Gull skated by as quickly as he could.
Could there be any truth in that story the Year Eight kids whispered round the school? That Ms Dallimore – oh, get real, he told himself – of course it wasn’t true. All kinds of weird yarns went round about the teachers: how Mr Crombie had been in the local paper because he had two wives and fifteen children; how Mrs Tierny had been taken to court for slipping a live ferret through her neighbour’s letterbox; how the headmaster had a weekend job as a children’s party clown – they couldn’t
all
be true.
Ms Dallimore was simply unusual. She was the kind of teacher you remembered, like his mum remembered Mr Glazby, who’d jump up on his teacher’s desk, arms waving, to recite a favourite poem.
‘Nirmolini, oh Nirmolineee–’ he carolled as he swooped into his drive. His sharp-eared mother heard him from inside the house, and smiled. Now where had she heard that name before? Because she had heard it, Mrs Oliver felt sure, somewhere, a long time ago.
‘Nirmolini–’ she whispered, as she lay awake that night. ‘Joe!’ she said, prodding Gull’s father awake. ‘Joe, listen!’
‘What?’ Mr Oliver mumbled, sleepily.
‘I’ve worked out who Nirmolini is!’
‘Nirmolini? What’s that?’
‘It’s a girl’s name, a name Gull keeps on – sort of singing.’
‘Yeah?’
‘She’s that little girl Gull used to shepherd.’
‘Shepherd?’
‘When he was in Grade One at Short Street, before we went away? Remember how they had that programme where the Grade One kids looked after the Preps? She was that little dark-haired girl who came here once, to tea?’
‘Ur, right, ’ said Mr Oliver foggily. ‘Yeah, nice little kid, she was.’
Nirmolini would be quite grown up by now, thought Mrs Oliver. And – and beautiful, perhaps.
In her creepy house, Ms Dallimore was also having trouble sleeping. ‘Vladimir! Vlad! Wake up!’
Vladimir’s hooded eyes sprang open instantly. ‘Madeleine?’
‘I’ve had the most awful nightmare, Vlad!’
‘A nightmare, my love? Of what?’
She drew a long shaky breath. ‘I dreamed this old, old Indian woman was standing right
there
!’ Ms Dallimore’s fine green eyes were glassy with fright as she pointed to a spot beside the bed. ‘Oh, Vlad! She was a perfect
crone
! In the most hideous sari, all clashing colours – violet, and orange, and puce – and she was
hissing
at me, Vlad!’
‘Hissing, my love?’
‘Violently! Her name was Sumati.’
‘She told you her name?’
‘No! I just
knew
it. This was a dream, Vlad.’ Ms Dallimore glanced nervously towards the side of the bed where Sumati had appeared. ‘Or at least I hope it was!’
‘And what did this ancient oriental lady have to say?’
‘That was the worst part; she
accused
me!’
‘Accused you?’ For a moment Vladimir seemed uneasy. ‘Of what?’
‘Of – of being bossy to children.’
‘Ah.’ Vladimir smiled.
‘Of – cudgelling their brains!’
‘Truly?’
‘Truly. Vlad, do you think I cudgel children’s brains?’
‘Of course not. They have no brains to cudgel.’
‘But 7B are having so much difficulty with that essay you suggested. You know the one: “Who Am I?”’
‘Pfft! 7B!’ Vladimir snapped his fingers. ‘As I said, no brains.’
‘They have got brains, you know, ’ said Ms Dallimore, a little uncertainly. ‘One simply has to get them working. But oh, Vlad, that
awful
woman! She was so aggressive, and so
convincing
! She said I’d be reborn as a cockroach in the next life . . . I won’t, will I, Vlad?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Imagine being a cockroach!’ Ms Dallimore shuddered. ‘I couldn’t bear it, Vlad! All that scuttling round in the dark, hiding from people–’
It didn’t sound bad to Vladimir: he liked the dark, and he didn’t have all that much time for people.
‘What if she comes back?’ fretted Ms Dallimore. ‘That old woman? Sumati? When I fall asleep?’
‘She won’t.’ Vladimir gazed tenderly at her sweet white throat. ‘You work too hard, my lovely Madeleine, you wear yourself out with this 7B of yours. These brainless–’
‘But Vlad! I told you they
do
have brains! They only need–’ ‘Hush!’ Vladimir put a finger to her lips. ‘What you need, my love, is a holiday.’
‘A holiday! As
if
!’
‘Far away in the mountains, ’ Vladimir went on dreamily.
Ms Dallimore clasped her hands. ‘Oh, that would be so wonderful!’
‘In a castle.’
‘A castle? A castle, Vladimir?’
‘A castle, my love, ’ said Vladimir softly. ‘One day, not too far away.’
Once again Ms Dallimore was struggling to stir a little creative enthusiasm in the citizens of 7B.
It was hard work, and beads of sweat glistened on her broad white forehead. ‘Paler, ’ the Year Eight kids still whispered. ‘She’s getting paler.’
Ms Dallimore surveyed her charges, those tender hearts and minds she had within her keeping. ‘Hearts and minds, my love?’ Vladimir was always asking. ‘Are you sure they have them?’
‘Yes, they do, ’ Ms Dallimore would answer, but as she looked around the room, something deep inside her faltered. Neema Grace had been staring out of the window for most of the period, Kate Sullivan was daydreaming. Molly Matthews was drawing a little border of tiny baby shoes around an empty page, Kerry Moss had her hand-mirror out and was scowling at her chin. And as for Blocky Stevenson and his mates down the back, Tony Prospero and Leonardo Mack–
Ms Dallimore sighed. If only they would use their minds, if only they would think, imagine, fly – why was it that anything to do with school work seemed to turn their brains to stone?
Jessaline O’Harris raised her hand.
‘Yes, Jessaline?’
‘Ms Dallimore, how long does this essay have to be?’
7B looked up from their various occupations because this was something they really wanted to know. How
loooong
did they have to write for?
‘As long as you like, ’ replied Ms Dallimore.
‘But, Ms Dallimore,
how
long? How many words?’
‘As many as you wish, ’ smiled Ms Dallimore. ‘Or as few.’
‘As few?’
‘How few is few?’ asked Leonardo Mack, and now every single soul was listening. For they did have souls, even though Vladimir kept suggesting that they mightn’t.
‘You mean, like – two hundred?’ asked Jessaline.
‘Or one hundred, ’ said Tony Prospero. ‘Or, say, fifty?’
It was like some kind of dreadful auction.
‘Fifty, Miss?’
‘Could we do just fifty, Miss?’
Ms Dallimore’s head was whirling. ‘Less if you like, ’ she said faintly.
Less?
How less was less?
‘Five words?’ ventured Leonardo.
‘One if you like, ’ gasped Ms Dallimore. ‘It could be one word – as long as you get the essence of who you are.’
Essence? wondered Blocky Stevenson and several other people. Wasn’t that to do with cakes? Cakes like Blocky’s gran made: vanilla, that was one, and then there was lemon, and coconut . . .
‘It’s what makes a cake a cake, Brian love, ’ Gran had told him, showing the tiny bottle with the red and yellow label. ‘It’s an essence which goes all the way through, that makes the cake the sort of cake it is.’
So with a person, Blocky figured slowly, essence would be what made you the sort of person you were. Which was? With him?
Well, footy for a start – no doubt about it, he was a footy person. But so were lots of other guys, and they weren’t him. So what was the essence of him? What was Blocky essence? As he pondered, Blocky suddenly remembered that night when Ivy wouldn’t lend him a pen, when she acted like he hadn’t any feelings. And how he’d felt sort of all soft and hurt. Then there was how he felt with Gran: how he loved it when she showed him how to make cakes. It was as if, inside him, there was this person who– Blocky put a hand up to his head; his scalp had gone all tingly. What was happening? What was he doing?
He was – thinking. He was thinking about stuff, stuff that had to do with homework! How come? It had never happened before. It felt unnatural. Or did it? Blocky narrowed his eyes in Ms Dallimore’s direction. It was all her fault, she was to blame, she was
dangerous
!
One word! thought Kerry Moss scornfully. Like – like bugger! Or two words: bugger homework! That was her all right: bugger homework! Imagine if she wrote that! Imagine Ms Dallimore’s face; the pale face which rose like a flower from her slender throat. There was a small red mark at the base of that throat which Kerry Moss knew was an ordinary love bite from that weirdo she went around with, even though the Year Eight kids said it was the mark of Dracula.
Dracula! Fat chance! scoffed Kerry. As if a
teacher
would be game for Dracula! And yeah, she just might write ‘Bugger Homework!’ for her essay. She was tough, wasn’t she? She came from a tough family: Dad was a softie, of course, but Mum was tough, and Danny, and even little Charlie was showing signs of it: Miss Lilibet was talking about banning him from Kindness Kreche.
She was tough, all the way through – except, if she was, then how come she couldn’t stand some of that stuff on the TV news, stuff about wars and terrorists that worried her in bed at night so that she couldn’t get to sleep and kept on whispering, ‘Please, God, please–’
And how come she loved winter so much, especially those rare frosty mornings when the grass was all crinkly with ice and she’d walk across it because she loved the sharp little pin-pricks of ice beneath her feet? ‘Kerry! Are you bloody crazy!’ Mum would yell out through the fuggy kitchen window.
No, not crazy, thought Kerry. Not crazy, but real, sort of –
her
.
The bell rang.
Ms Dallimore was glad of it: a single period always seemed like a double with 7B. She could feel a headache coming on; she’d be glad to get home and have a quiet dark evening with Vlad.
Blocky’s head was feeling funny, too. A few minutes back, when he’d been thinking, he was almost sure he’d heard a creaking noise inside it, like the sound of long unused machinery moving into gear. Blocky put his hand up to his head again; his elbow jabbed Tony Prospero in the chest. Tony punched Blocky on the arm, Blocky punched him back. Things were getting back to normal . . .
7B erupted from the room, little bits of paper drifting from their pockets and their bags, the screwed-up abandoned beginnings of ‘Who am I?’ Ms Dallimore followed wearily, turning left to the staffroom and a reviving cup of tea. Halfway there, she felt an odd sensation in the middle of her back, a kind of burning. She turned and saw that frightening Mrs Drayner glaring at her, her eyes like smouldering chunks of coal beneath her red plush hat.
Why? wondered Ms Dallimore. Why would the chief school cleaner be glaring at her? Probably she wasn’t, Ms Dallimore decided. After all, Mrs Drayner glared at everyone. ‘You have too much imagination, my love, ’ Vladimir was always saying. Yes, that was it, thought Ms Dallimore: she had too much imagination for her own good, while 7B had far too little for theirs.
Kate ran all the way home from school. She was glad it wasn’t an afternoon for picking Lucy up from crèche, because this morning . . .
This morning she’d been woken early by the sound of a truck outside their house. When she’d looked through the window she’d seen big flat boxes propped against their garage wall. Kate knew what was inside them; she didn’t need to read the labels which said ‘fragile’ and ‘glass inside’. The windows for her sleep-out had arrived!
‘When?’ she’d asked Dad.
‘Watch my lips, ’ he’d said, and Kate watched them pucker for the long
ooo
sound of his favourite answer: he was going to say ‘Soon’.
Only he didn’t.
‘Tonight, ’ he said, and grinned at her. ‘Tricked you, eh? You thought I was going to say “soon”!’
‘
Tonight
?’
‘That’s right. I’ve got a day off and your uncle Jake’s coming round to give me a hand.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Nothing to it! We’ll be finished by the time you get back from school. You’ll be in there by tonight!’
And unbelievably, it
was
finished. She saw the glitter of those new windows the moment she flung open their back gate and ran into the yard. And she was, exactly as Dad had promised, ‘in there by tonight’.
Kate looked around her new room. What did she love best, here? Mum’s curtains? ‘I made them yonks back, love, ’ she’d said. ‘But I thought I’d keep them secret till your dad got round to it.’
Gran’s brilliant tufty homemade rug in the middle of the floor?
The way her clothes and all her other things had their own private place, instead of being tangled up with Lucy’s?
At the thought of Lucy, Kate’s brows drew together in a small tight frown.
Lucy had been unusually quiet while the sleep-out was made ready, and it wasn’t till after dinner, when Kate’s bed was moved in, that Lucy spoke at last. She came up to Kate in the hall outside their old room and stood right in front of her, so close that the toes of her runners touched Kate’s. ‘Aren’t you going to sleep in our room?’