The Teacher's Secret (43 page)

‘Things aren't bad,' he says, trying to play it down. And that's the truth of it: things aren't bad at the school. It could even be said that things are good, despite all the trouble, despite everything.

A silence follows, and for the first time since they've known each other, it isn't an easy one.

In the end, it's Terry who breaks it and who says, in the voice of a man who has other things to do, ‘How about I leave you with Leonie, then? She'll pop everything through for you.'

Sid nods and, without speaking, the two of them make their way down to the front of the shop.

Standing at the register is a woman with a name tag that says
Hello, I'm Leonie
. Terry gives her a wink. ‘Watch out for him, won't you, love?' He nods in Sid's direction.

The woman laughs as she starts to ring the items through.

‘See you, mate!' Terry calls out in a jovial voice.

Sid tries hard to match his tone. ‘See you, Terry!' he calls back, his palms clammy. ‘See you soon.'

In the daylight, the house looks different: brighter and more welcoming. Welcoming enough to give him the confidence to walk up to the front door and ring the bell.

He hears the lock click before the door opens a fraction.

‘Hello?' she asks, her voice guarded.

Her wariness makes Sid nervous and he hastens to explain himself: that he just popped around to take a look at the porch light, to see if he can't fix it.

When he's said all that, the door opens wider and there she is, right in front of him. She looks nice, he thinks, in a green dress that's just about the colour of her eyes.

‘Thanks for coming,' she says softly.

This makes him feel chuffed. ‘It's a pleasure,' he says, ‘a real pleasure.'

He's brought a stepladder with him and she stays at the door, watching, as he climbs up it. ‘Water's starting to warm up again,' he tells her, trying to make conversation. ‘You swim much?'

She shakes her head. ‘Not much.'

He makes a clicking sound with his tongue. ‘That's no good. Because, tell you what, it's God's own country over here and we've got to take advantage of it. The rock pool, for example. From now through to May, it's beautiful. Especially if you're down there early.'

He throws her a quick look, keeping hold of the side of the ladder so he won't lose his balance. ‘Come down one morning. You won't regret it, I promise you that.'

She nods and says she'll think about it. It's all the encouragement he needs. ‘How about Tuesday, then?' he says, trying to sound casual. ‘If you're free, that is.'

But this suggestion seems to alarm her and his heart sinks to see it.

‘No pressure,' he says. ‘I just thought it might be nice.' He tries for a light-hearted tone, but his voice just comes out hoarse.

She looks up at him, then, her eyes shy and her face suddenly crimson. ‘I can't swim,' she blurts out. ‘I've never learnt.'

Relief pumps through his body so fast he finds it hard to keep his hand from shaking as he replaces the globe. ‘So, I'll teach you then,' he says.

Joan

Her sleep is fitful and she finds herself awake before first light. As she lies in bed, waiting for a hint of sunlight to push through the curtains, she thinks about him. About Sid. It is not the first time she has found herself thinking about him. To be honest, she has spent a lot of time thinking about him.

She imagines the rock pool and how it will be when she meets him there this morning.

She can't swim, that is true enough, but she does have a swimming costume. She just hasn't worn it in years. Not since she and her mother would take the bus to Raleigh Beach and spend the morning there, just the two of them, paddling in the water.

It's not a fancy swimming costume: it's just plain black with a built-in bra. At the time, she'd hankered after something bright, striped or even floral, but black was always going to be the sensible choice, especially for a woman of her shape.

Once it is light, she gets out of bed and starts to get ready. She lifts the nightdress over her head, steps out of her underpants and
ventures a glimpse in the mirror. Yet again she is dismayed by what she sees: breasts spilling down to a stomach that falls over itself, thick veins running down legs that no longer narrow nicely at the ankles.

She could cancel. She has his telephone number. She could give him a ring to say she doesn't feel up to it. A raincheck. She could ask him for a raincheck. He wouldn't mind.
Sure
, he'd say,
take a raincheck, that's fine
.

But her mother won't let her off the hook so easily.
Joanie
, she says,
you're going. No ifs, no buts, you're going.

So instead of cancelling, she steps into her swimming costume. Pulling it up over her stomach, she lifts the straps over her shoulders as she drops her breasts into the bra insert. She flinches as she turns back to the mirror.

But this time what she sees surprises her. It would be too much to say she looks sleek, but it wouldn't be wrong to say that the swimming costume has given her a different body: in it, her breasts are high and her stomach has flattened. Heartened now, she slips on her favourite sundress.

In the kitchen, she makes herself a cup of tea and puts a piece of bread in the toaster. No time for an egg this morning. Not that she has the appetite for it anyway; she can scarcely even finish her toast.

When she steps outside, the morning is bright. It is still a little early, but quickly she checks next door for Emily, to see if she is where she so often is these days: sitting on the front steps. She isn't, but her sandshoes have been left out on the lawn. With a soft smile, Joan gathers them up and leaves them beside the door.

It is a decent walk there and by the time she reaches the steps leading down to the pool, she is out of breath. There is a bench
and she lowers herself onto it. All at once, anxiety engulfs her. She should have cancelled. He'd have understood. And if she were to turn around now and head back home, surely he'd understand that, too. Once she's rung to explain. Once she's apologised. Another time, that's what she'll say; that they'll have to do it another time.

His voice catches her off guard. ‘Well, hello there,' he says, sitting down beside her. ‘Fancy meeting you here.'

His voice is jolly, but when he looks her way, he doesn't quite meet her eye. ‘You still up for a swim?' he asks.

His question gives her an out. She could still say no.
You go in
, she could say.
I'll watch.

‘Looks lovely in,' he adds.

From where they are sitting, she can see over to the pool. He's right—it's a beautiful morning and already the water is sparkling.

‘It does,' she says.

He takes that as a yes, she's still up for a swim, because not only does he stand up, he also reaches out to carry her bag.

All the benches surrounding the pool are free. Sid claims one with his towel and gently puts her bag beside it.

Then, almost before she realises what is happening, he has taken off his shorts and his shirt, and is down to his swimming trunks. Embarrassed, she looks away.

When she looks up again, he hasn't moved. Only then does she realise he is waiting for her. He is waiting for her to get ready, too.

She slips off her sandals first. Slowly, then, she starts to unbutton her dress. After the third button, she is so self-conscious she has to stop. Quickly, she glances over at him. To her relief, he isn't looking her way at all. Instead, he is looking out at the water. For a moment
she, too, follows his gaze and watches the tiny waves that spill over the wall of the pool and into the bay. He is right, she thinks: it is a beautiful place.

With a deep breath, she undoes the fourth button on her dress, then the fifth and the sixth until, finally, the dress parts to reveal her swimming costume. Shyly, she slips off her dress and lays it over the bench. From her bag, she takes out her mother's old swimming cap and puts it over her head, tucking her hair in at the front, at the back, at the sides.

Only then does he turn to look at her. ‘Ready?'

She finds she can't answer him. She can't look at him either, paralysed as she is by the question that vibrates through her head:
Am I good enough?

Lightly, his fingertips touch the back of her hand. ‘Once you're in, you'll love it,' he promises.

And so, tentatively, very tentatively, she follows him over to the ladder at the shallow end of the pool. She should use it to get in, he tells her. So, holding on tight to the handrails, she uses the ladder to lower herself into the water. And although it is so cold it makes her gasp, still she keeps going until it is up to her thighs. With the next step down, she feels not another metal rung but only water. Stifling her fear, she keeps hold of the rail with one hand and reaches out to the water with the other. Then she lets go. The water is deeper than she has expected, coming over her stomach. But at least she can still stand in it, so she won't drown. Slowly, her fear gives way to a creeping sense of pride.

Sid is sitting beside the pool ladder, his feet dangling in the water. He catches her eye. ‘How about that? You're in.'

She gives him a shy smile. ‘Yes,' she says, ‘I am.'

Slipping into the water himself now, he swims the length of the pool, arms pushing in front of him, head out of the water. Fascinated, she watches and watches, until warily, self-consciously, she begins to copy him. Still standing, she brings her arms out in front of her, then pulls them back again. Again and again she does it, walking in circles through the water, over and over, so focused she doesn't notice him swim up behind her.

‘Hi there!' he calls out. Surprised, she turns around to him. With his hair wet and slicked back, he looks different. Boyish. His arms, she sees, are strong, although the skin around them is loose. She sees, too, that he is practically hairless; that the only hair he has is clustered around his nipples. Embarrassed, she looks away again.

‘Not too cold for you?' he asks.

She blinks. ‘Sorry?'

‘The water. Is it a bit cold for you?'

She isn't sure: she's stopped noticing whether she's cold or whether she isn't.

‘Some people,' he tells her, ‘they get nervous in the rock pool. 'Cause it's hard to see the bottom. You one of those people?'

His voice, so unhurried, relaxes her. ‘Probably,' she says.

‘That's okay. But you might find it a bit easier if you hang on to me.'

She nods, but when he clasps her hand in his, she feels herself start to shake.

‘Let's get you swimming,' he says.

She can't talk, so she just nods. His hand is big and makes hers seem very small. At first, she lets her hand lies loosely in his; but his hold is strong and eventually she, too, tightens her clasp. She cannot remember when she has last felt so happy.

He turns to her with a smile. ‘You right to give it a shot?'

‘Yes,' she whispers, though she still isn't sure.

‘Can you float?'

‘I think so,' she says.

He tells her to lie on her back. ‘Don't worry,' he says, ‘I'll help you. I'll put my hand on your back to keep you straight.'

She swallows. ‘All right,' she says, her voice scarcely audible.

‘I'll hold you,' he reassures her. ‘I won't let you fall.'

As she leans back, she feels his hand on the small of her back, pushing up until she finds herself horizontal, feet and legs on the surface, floating.

‘That's good,' he says as, slowly, he takes his hand away. ‘That's really good.'

Afterwards, when she is upright again, he is triumphant. ‘See?' he tells her. ‘You were floating by yourself; you didn't even need me.' His tone is so excited, he is almost cheering her. ‘Come down every morning, and you'll be swimming by Christmas. Mark my words, Jean, you'll be a swimmer by Christmas.'

And when he says that, something like a bubble forms inside her and travels upwards, from her stomach to her chest then right up to her throat, filling her with a momentum that makes the words rush out of her: ‘My name is Joan.'

Sid puts his head to one side. ‘What was that?'

She isn't sure whether she can say it again. But he's waiting, so she shuts her eyes tight, takes a breath and forces it out. ‘My name isn't Jean, it's Joan.'

He laughs then, shakes his head and laughs. ‘Why do they call you Jean, then?'

‘I'm not sure,' she says, ‘it just happened.' She doesn't know how else to explain it.

Again he laughs. ‘Which do you like best, Jean or Joan?'

She hesitates.

‘Yes?' he prompts.

‘I like Joan,' she says, ‘because that's my name.'

Rebecca

Soon it will be two months since the interview and still they have not heard anything. Sometimes she succeeds in convincing herself that this is a positive sign; that the time is being used to attend to those administrative tasks required to issue a visa. These things take time, she understands that. She understands, too, that she should be patient. And she will be patient, truly she will be. If only someone would reassure her that all will be well.