Love Lessons (12 page)

‘Are you being deliberately insolent again, Prudence?' Mrs Godfrey said, flushing.

‘No, Mrs Godfrey,' I said, lowering my eyes, though of course I
was
. She knew it, I knew it, the whole class knew it. Some of the tougher kids looked at me with a little more respect.

Mrs Godfrey noticed this, and went into serious rant mode. She asked me who on earth I thought I was, said she was sick of my attitude, stated that this was certainly not the way to start at a new school, etc. etc. It wasn't a full Dad-style rant, just an irritating bleat. I wondered why I annoyed her so much. I decided I was glad. How awful to be liked by someone so petty and arrogant and unfair.

I tried the trick I used whenever Dad flew into a terrible temper. I pretended I was in a suit of armour, with a helmet locked protectively over my face. I felt invincible inside my rigid silver suit. No one could get at me or hurt me or harm me.

I kept my armour on all through English and clanked along behind the other pupils when the bell went. It was time for the art lesson at last.

The art block was detached from the main building, in a special shack at the very end of the playing field. It took me a long while to get there. I trudged more and more slowly, as if I was truly clad in armour.

I looked longingly at the school gate. No one would notice if I slipped out now. It was so strange. The only reason I'd suffered this second day of schooling was to attend Mr Raxberry's art class, and yet now I didn't want to go. I felt shy and stupid.

I didn't understand. I was
good
at art. Mr Raxberry wouldn't ridicule me like the repellent Mrs Godfrey. Mr Raxberry was kind. He was so different from all the other teachers. He didn't
act
like a teacher. He wasn't sarcastic or pompous or patronizing. He was gentle and funny and truthful and self-deprecating and sensitive. I could add any number of adjectives, even though I'd spoken to him so briefly. I could write an entire essay on him. I could write pages on a physical description of Mr Raxberry. I could paint his portrait, showing the way he tilted his head slightly, the wrinkles at the edge of his eyes, the softness of his white cheeks contrasted with the dark springiness of his small beard, the diamond earring in the centre of his neat earlobe . . .

I could conjure his exact image in front of my eyes, but I was scared of confronting the real Mr Raxberry. I ran my fingers through my long tangled hair, trying to comb it into submission. I plucked at my hideous dress. I put my hand against my cheeks and felt them burning. I hoped my nose wasn't shiny. I wished I could wear make-up like the other girls.

I wondered whether to trek back into school to find the girls' cloakrooms and check on myself in the mirror there. I was five minutes late for the lesson already.

I stood dithering, wondering why I was in such a ridiculous state. I took several deep breaths, trying to calm down. ‘Go
on
!' I urged myself.

I imagined giant hands on my shoulders, pushing me forwards, frog-marching me to the art block. I stumbled along and got there at last, but I still couldn't force myself in the door.

I hung around outside, minute after minute ticking by. I could hear the sound of Mr Raxberry's voice, but not what he was saying. Every now and then the class murmured. Once they all burst out laughing. I longed to be in there, part of things, but I simply couldn't move. I didn't know what was the matter with me. I kept screwing myself up, teeth gritted, fists clenched, but my legs wouldn't move.

Then the art room door suddenly flew open and Daisy rushed out. She barged straight into me. ‘What are you doing, hiding there?' she said, shaking her head at me.

I tried to relax my face, but not quickly enough.

‘Have you got a pain?' Daisy asked.

I mumbled something vague.

‘Is it your period?' Daisy said, sympathetic now.

I felt myself blushing. I knew it was silly, but we didn't even say the word at home. Mum had whispered some stuff about monthlies and bleeding and towels and then left me to get on with it. It was treated like a shameful secret. If Mum saw me rubbing my tummy or getting an aspirin she might whisper, ‘Have you got your . . . ?' but she always let her voice tail away before uttering the taboo word. It was odd hearing Daisy discuss it so matter-of-factly.

‘Shall I tell Rax you're not well?'

‘
No!
' I said, dying at the thought of Daisy discussing my fictitious painful period with Mr Raxberry.

‘Well, you'd better go and get cracking then. We're all doing a still life. I'm going to look for daisies for mine – like my name, get it? Rax says I won't be able to find any of them little white daisies but says there are these purply Michaelmas daisies, big ones, growing in the garden. He says no one will mind if I pick just one.'

Daisy hurried past me. I still stood there, motionless.

‘Go
in
then, Prudence,' she said, turning. ‘Don't look so scared. Rax won't get mad because you're late. He's dead cool, he never gets narked with anyone.'

I gave a little nod, took the deepest breath ever, and then went inside the art room. It seemed happily chaotic, students bobbing about in billowing smocks, setting up all sorts of still life arrangements, chatting to each other and calling to Mr Raxberry.

They were all calling him Rax to his face, but he didn't seem to mind. He strolled around, giving advice, juggling pots and books and ornaments into attractive still life arrangements, laughing as he listened to Rita going on about something. He didn't have a clue I wasn't there. He couldn't care less.

I decided to slip straight out again while I had the chance. But as I turned he called my name.

‘Prudence?'

I stopped, my heart thudding.

‘Hi!' He came over to me. It was so strange seeing the real Mr Raxberry close up when I'd been imagining him so vividly. He was smiling at me, his eyes friendly, his head tilted slightly to one side, exactly the way I remembered.

‘Did you get lost?'

‘No. Well. Sort of,' I stammered idiotically.

‘Don't worry. It took me weeks to find my way around. Tell you what, I'll draw you a little map.'

I thought he was joking and smiled.

‘Now. We're setting up still life compositions, ones that hopefully reflect our personality, lifestyle, hobbies, whatever.' He looked at me. ‘A still life is a fancy name for a lot of assorted objects. Look, here's some postcard reproductions.'

I shuffled them politely. I recognized most of them but held my tongue. I'd learned that some teachers thought you were showing off if you told them you knew all about something.

‘Let's find you a little quiet spot in the midst of this bedlam.' He glanced round and saw an empty desk near Rita.

I couldn't bear the thought. ‘How about over there?' I said quickly, nodding at the opposite corner where Sarah was happily splodging paint, her tongue sticking out with concentration.

‘Great. Yes, keep Sarah company – but I think you'll need some kind of overall. Sarah gets a bit over-enthusiastic sometimes.'

‘I haven't got one.' I looked down at my awful dress. ‘I don't care if I get covered in paint, it won't matter in the slightest.'

Mr Raxberry raised his eyebrows but didn't argue. He found me paper, a couple of paintbrushes and six new pots of paint.

‘OK, now it's down to you,' he said.

It was simple. I set up the paint pots, one paintbrush, the handful of postcards, and took
Jane Eyre
out of my school bag. I smoothed out my paper and started blocking in the shapes.

‘You're doing that wrong,' said Daisy, bustling back with a handful of purple flowers. ‘You paint
with
the paint pots, they're not supposed to go in the picture.'

‘I
want
them to be part of my still life,' I said.

‘But that's daft,' said Daisy.

‘She's not daft, she's clever,' said Sarah. She smiled at me. ‘We can do what we want. I'm painting red, lots and lots of red. I love red. I love your dress.'

‘You're the only person in the whole world who loves this dress, but I'm glad you do,' I said. ‘OK, I'll paint some red too. I'll paint the red paint pot first.'

‘Nutters,' said Daisy, and barged past.

Sarah and I painted companionably. Sarah hummed tunelessly as she painted, but it was quite a soothing sound. I concentrated hard, so so so wanting to impress Mr Raxberry. He was wandering round the classroom, talking, rearranging, suggesting, trying to get everyone to settle down.

He came over to Sarah, holding a Red Delicious apple, a chilli pepper and a crimson china teacup.

‘Hey, more red things for you to paint. Let's mix up your palate and get lots of lovely different shades of red. A bit of yellow here – go on, splodge it around with your paintbrush, that's right. There, that's a perfect pepper colour.'

Sarah laughed delightedly. I loved the way he talked to her. Some of the teachers treated her like a baby, some of them simply ignored her, and some treated her warily, obviously uncomfortable. Mr Raxberry treated Sarah with gentle respect and she clearly adored him for it.

‘I love you, Rax,' she said, when he let her take a bite of the red apple.

‘You're a very sweet girl, Sarah,' he said. ‘Don't take a bite of the pepper now, it'll be much too hot and you'll be in serious trouble with your teeth if you bite my china teacup.'

Sarah giggled at the joke. Then Mr Raxberry came over to me.

He stood silently, looking.

I sat silently, waiting.

My mouth dried. I could feel my heart thumping. It had been so horrible when hateful Mrs Godfrey had been scathing about my English essay, but I could bear that. I needed Mr Raxberry to like my artwork. I needed it badly. I didn't dare look up to see the expression on his face.

Daisy was watching. ‘She's done it wrong, hasn't she, Rax? You're not meant to paint the pots and brushes, you're meant to do your own still life, aren't you? Like me with my purple daisies.'

‘No, she's got it absolutely spot on
right
,' said Mr Raxberry.

I breathed out.

‘You and your Michaelmas daisies are right for you, Daisy. Prudence feels that art materials and books are right for her.'

‘Boring,' said Daisy, pulling a face.

I swallowed. ‘So it's OK?' I whispered, still not looking up.

‘You know it is,' said Mr Raxberry. He paused. Then he said softly, ‘You're going to be the girl that makes my teaching worthwhile.'

I started to get into this new strange routine. I went to school, I stumbled through the fog of lessons, I went to Mr Raxberry's art class and the sun shone, dazzling me, and then I went to the stroke unit every evening and endured thunderstorms with Dad.

It was so unfair. I had to do all the talking to him. Mum contented herself sorting Dad's laundry and trying to feed him sloppy snacks – yoghurt and ice cream and cold rice pudding – though his false teeth were now firmly back in place and all too snappy.

Grace pressed herself right against the wall of his room, as if trying to burrow right through it into the toilet next door. She said nothing at all unless directly questioned. Sometimes her hands did tiny Iggy-Figgy-Piggy waves to herself.

I was the one who had to be the teacher for an hour or more, after a long day at school forced to be a pupil. I couldn't prepare what I was going to do because it so much depended on Dad's mood. I tried drawing a whole series of everyday objects familiar to him: a shelf of books, a shirt, trousers, a cup of tea, a plate of fish and chips, with the word carefully printed underneath. The first time I produced them Dad was tired after a tussle with the physiotherapist. He barely glanced at each card and shook his head lethargically whenever I asked him to say a word.

‘Poor dear, he's not up to it,' Mum murmured.

I felt Dad simply couldn't be bothered. I was tempted to draw pink and black lace underwear to see if that got any response.

I tried again the next evening and this time Dad
over
reacted. When I showed him the cards his good hand whipped out and smacked them away.

‘Damn-fool, damn-fool, damn-fool,' he growled. ‘Not blooming
baby
.'

At least he was saying words, even though they were unprompted ones. I gave up the cards after that, although lovely Nurse Ray collected them up and asked if she could use them for some of her other patients.

I was so pleased I did her a set for all the old lady stroke victims, drawing a lipstick, a hairbrush, a nightie, a photo of grandchildren and a television. The nurse gave me a kiss and said I was an inventive little angel.