Love Lessons (11 page)

Dad frowned. ‘No –
nosh
,' he said, prodding at me with his good hand.

He'd always hated any slang. For once I didn't mind him nagging about it. It was such a relief to know that Dad was exactly the same inside – even though I'd longed all my life for him to change.

I gave him a kiss on the cheek when we said goodbye. He batted me away furiously, but he didn't call me the bad word.

‘You've always been able to handle your dad,' Mum sighed, as we trailed home from the bus stop.

She was wearing her comfiest shoes, awful boy's lace-ups she found at a jumble sale, but she still lagged behind Grace and me. She was breathing heavily, shuffling Dad's dirty laundry bag from hand to hand.

‘Here, Mum, let me carry it,' I said, ashamed.

‘That's nice of you, dear,' Mum panted. ‘Let me take your arm. You come the other side, Grace. There, isn't that cosy?'

It was anything but. I hated lumbering down the street linked to my mum and sister. I felt a total fool.

‘I'll run on home and get the kettle on for a cup of tea for you, Mum,' I said, breaking free.

The telephone was ringing as I got the door open. It always unnerved me. It hardly ever rang. Had Dad had a sudden relapse?

I snatched up the phone and said hello anxiously.

‘Hi, Piggy!' two voices squealed in unison.

‘Oh for heaven's
sake
. OK, hang on a minute, she's coming down the road,' I said.

I hollered out the door to Grace. She came thudding down the street, cheeks bright pink, her pale eyelashes fluttering, looking alarmingly aptly nicknamed.

She was still on the phone long after Mum had had two cups of tea.

‘Do say goodbye now, dear, it'll be costing Iggy's or Figgy's folk a fortune,' she said. She looked pleased, even so. ‘Isn't it lovely Grace has made two friends already?' she said.

I barely responded.

‘You'll make friends soon too, Prudence, just you wait and see,' said Mum.

‘I don't
want
to make friends,' I said.

I knew I sounded pathetic. I stole up to my bedroom, stared at my bear pit drawing and suddenly crumpled it up because it looked so weird and stupid.

I lay on the bed, my face buried in my pillow. Jane came and lay beside me, nestling up close. She understood without my having to say a word. She'd attended Lowood School. She knew how awful it could be. But even Jane had found a friend, Helen Burns. I had no one.

Grace came bouncing up to bed, going on and on about Iggy and Figgy. I pulled the covers over my head.

‘Prue?'

I wouldn't answer. I hoped she'd think I'd gone to sleep, even though I was still fully dressed in my terrible tablecloth frock.

‘Oh Prue, you're not crying, are you?' said Grace, thumping down on the bed beside me. Her hand squirmed under the duvet. She patted me like a puppy. ‘I know, it's so batty, me being the one to like school and make friends and stuff, but it's easier for me. I'm in Year Seven so we're
all
new. And I'm all silly and smiley so people can see I
want
to be friends.'

I couldn't bear Grace being so kind and understanding. Her sympathy somehow made things worse. I still wouldn't talk to her.

I lay awake for hours, hating myself for being such a mean sister. No wonder no one liked me.

‘I like you,' Tobias whispered.

Jane had long since stolen away in her shabby button boots, but Tobias was there in the dark, holding my hand. He told me that he liked me precisely because I was strange and passionate and peculiar. He said all the girls in my form were banal and ordinary by comparison.

‘I wish there was a boy in my form just like you, Tobias,' I whispered.

I felt sick when I woke up the next morning. I decided to stick to my original plan and not go back to school at all. What did I care about Mr Raxberry and his art lesson? He might be sweet to me but everyone else was so awful. Why should I put myself through such horrors?

I could walk to school with Grace and then keep on walking right into town. I didn't have any money to spend but I could window shop or go and browse in the library or walk in the park.

I packed my shoulder bag with sketchbook, crayons and my well-thumbed copy of
Jane Eyre
to keep me going all day long.

‘Are you reading
Jane Eyre
in your class?' Grace asked. ‘How lovely for you, as it's your favourite book! I bet you'll be top in English, and art, and everything else. I think I'm nearly at the bottom but at least Dad won't know and get mad at me. And Iggy and Figgy aren't, like, total brain boxes. Figgy kept getting the wrong answer in maths yesterday, but she didn't care a bit, she just got the giggles.' Grace giggled too just thinking about it.

I let her ramble on, deciding to keep quiet about my plans. I knew she'd worry and fuss. I didn't want her unwittingly giving me away to Mum.

But as we were walking down Wentworth Road there was a little toot of a car horn. I looked up and Mr Raxberry gave me a little wave.

‘Is that the art teacher?' said Grace, as if she really wasn't sure.

‘Yes!'

‘He's quite nice,' said Grace vaguely. She was looking all around. Then she suddenly grinned maniacally, did her two-handed fool's wave, and scurried forwards on her fat little legs. There were Iggy and Figgy at the gate, grinning and waving back.

I told myself to walk on smartly past the school. Grace was so keen to see her silly new friends she'd barely notice. But somehow my feet in their old red strap shoes were marching me in through the gate.

I had to go. Mr Raxberry would be looking out for me. I didn't think he'd tell on me if I didn't turn up, but he'd maybe worry and wonder where I was. I didn't want to let him down when he'd been so kind to me. He was the closest I'd got to a friend at Wentworth, even though he was one of the teachers.

I didn't know where to go meanwhile. I didn't want to hang around Grace on the periphery of the Iggy-Figgy-Piggy club. I wandered off across the playground, dazed by the shouting, the swearing, the pushing and shoving. I decided to find my way to my classroom and lose myself in
Jane Eyre
for ten minutes. I blundered up and down endless corridors, hopelessly lost. By the time I found it, the classroom was crowded, and there was no chance of slinking to my desk and burying myself in my book.

The girls all gathered round me. I couldn't get them sorted out as individuals, apart from big Daisy with the tufty hair, and smiley Sarah, the girl with learning difficulties. But they all knew who I was, of course.

‘It's Posh Prue, in her red-checked tablecloth
again
!'

‘Yuck!' said another, holding her nose. ‘I couldn't
stick
wearing yesterday's dirty clothes.'

‘She's too posh to wash,' someone giggled.

I hadn't realized that most people wore a clean outfit every day. Mum made Grace and me wear the same dress all week, unless we spilled something down it. Our ancient washing machine hadn't worked for months, so Mum had to lug great plastic bags down to the launderette or wash everything out by hand.

I decided to ignore their hostile remarks. I settled at my desk, got out my book and tried to read. The words wiggled up and down the page, refusing to convey any meaning. My eyes blurred. I prayed I wasn't going to burst into tears.

‘Hey you, Posh Prue, we're talking to you!'

One girl jabbed at me with her long pointed nail. Another snatched at my skirt, trying to lift it.

‘Stop it!' I said.

‘Just wanted to see if you've got your slag's underwear on again, that's all.'

‘Get off! Leave me alone!' I cried.

I hadn't thought to change my dress but I'd had the wit to leave my beautiful doomed lace underwear at home. However, I knew my substitute grey-white baggy knickers would be equally ridiculed. I was determined to keep them hidden, though four or five of the girls were now scrabbling at my hem, exposing my thighs.

‘There are boys in the room, for God's sake!' I shrieked.

They all fell about laughing, making silly ‘Ooooh!' cooing noises, like demented doves. One of the bigger boys was lounging on the teacher's desk, legs dangling. He looked over at us.

‘Leave her alone, girlies,' he said.

They backed off immediately, giggling and grinning. I stared, surprised. He was the only boy in the class who was remotely good looking. He was tall and slim, with longish fair hair. He'd customized his school uniform, his shirt hanging loose, his sleeves rolled up, and he was wearing cool pointy boots instead of scuffed trainers like the other lads. It was obvious all the girls tormenting me fancied him like mad.

‘So why have we got to back off?' said one of the girls. She was the fiercest, and probably the prettiest, with carefully curled dark hair and heavy black eye make-up like Cleopatra. She narrowed her outlined eyes at the boy. ‘Are you waiting to have a shufty at the slag's underwear yourself, Toby?'

‘Give it a rest, Rita,' he said, laughing at her.

He was called Toby! He did look just a little like my Tobias, though this was a real rough lad, not an ethereal boy with an angel for his best buddy.

I gave him a shy little nod. He winked at me and then carried on chatting to his mates. I knew he'd just taken pity on me. I was new and weird and hideous in my home clothes. He'd put me in the same category as smiley Sarah. He'd protected me automatically without even thinking about it.

It didn't look as if Rita saw it that way. She glared at me.

‘Stupid little tart,' she hissed in my face. ‘Don't you dare go making eyes at my Toby.'

‘Don't worry about it,' I said, picking up
Jane Eyre
again.

My hands were shaking. I hoped they wouldn't notice. I dropped my book and hunted for my new timetable instead. I looked to see when I had an art lesson. It wasn't until the afternoon. It seemed as far away as Christmas. I had God knows how many terrible lessons to get through first, plus a session in the Success Maker.

It was the Portakabin we'd taken our tests in. It was clearly for pupils who were currently utterly
un
successful. Most of them were refugees, with an obvious excuse for their lack of ability in a completely foreign language. Even so, they mastered basic maths and science quicker than I did.

I was the worst student in the entire unit at IT. I couldn't even initially tell the difference between a television and a computer. Mr Widnes the tutor thought I was being deliberately insolent when I sat down in front of the unit television and struggled to switch it on.

‘All right, Miss Clever Clogs, stop taking the mickey,' he said, sighing. Then he saw my expression. ‘OK, you're obviously not into computers. But surely you've got a
television
at home.'

‘We haven't, actually,' I said miserably.

It wasn't for want of trying. Grace and I had begged Dad year after year to let us have a set. Mum had stressed that it would be highly educational, and we'd just watch the arts and nature programmes.

‘Educational, my bottom,' said Dad, though he'd put it more crudely. ‘They'd just gawp at cartoons and sleazy rubbish – and you'd all get hooked on those wretched soaps.'

So we'd gone without, and consequently felt more out of touch than ever with the modern world. Mr Widnes clearly thought I came from a bizarrely impoverished background and treated me very gently from then on. I was so stupid trying to do the most basic things and I couldn't even move the mouse around properly. His patience must have been severely tested.

It was a relief to escape the Success Maker at lunch time, but then I had to steel myself for English with Mrs Godfrey.

‘Where's your English comprehension homework, Prudence King?'

‘I haven't done it yet, Mrs Godfrey. I forgot to take my books home last night.'

I remembered to say her stupid name. I spoke politely. I still infuriated her.

‘You don't “forget” to take your books home, Prudence King. Homework isn't a choice, it's compulsory at this school. You will do
two
comprehensions tonight, the one on page thirty-one
and
the one on page thirty-three, do you understand? Come and find me first thing tomorrow morning and hand in both completed exercises or you will find yourself in very serious trouble.'

I wondered what her very serious trouble could be. I thought of Jane Eyre, forced to stand on a table with a placard round her neck in front of all the other pupils at Lowood. I'd rather enjoy standing there like a martyr, gazing over their heads. I tried out an eyeballs-rolled martyr's gaze.