No Sister of Mine (ARC)

by Vivien Brown

waited to send out their tiny specks of fresh new greenery in the weeks to come, standing, as I hoped I might be too, on the verge of new beginnings.

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  ‘Good break?’ Our PE teacher, Simon Barratt, warmed his big freckly rugby-player hands on his coffee mug, then put it down so he could take a biscuit from the tin. He was new

  to the school, only having been there a term, but I had already come to like him.

  ‘Not bad. Nothing special. You?’

  ‘Oh, the usual. Home to see the family. Too many games of Scrabble. Too many trips

  to the pub. I did manage to get to a match though.’

  ‘Match?’

  ‘Football. Just local, but there’s nothing like a chilly afternoon on the terraces. Except

  actually being out there on the pitch, of course. Football, rugby, hockey. I’ll give anything a go! Do you . . . ?’

  ‘No! Not me. Never been into sport, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, that doesn’t leave us much to talk about then, does it? I’m afraid it’s more or less

  the only thing I know anything about. A simple man, me!’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’ I dipped into the biscuit tin. Two broken custard creams and

  one very hard fig roll, left over from before Christmas. Time someone went out to buy more.

  There didn’t seem any need to hunt for something else to say, so we soon fell into an

  easy, companionable silence, each sipping at our drinks and nibbling at our stale biscuits until the rest of the staff came dribbling in, one at a time, hanging up coats and scarves, shaking their hair free from their hats and flopping into armchairs to take a quick look at the paperwork for their first lessons of the day.

  Sarah and I, although we hadn’t exactly parted as friends, had managed to clear the air

  somehow over Christmas. We’d both said what we’d felt, painful though it had been, and I

  knew nothing could ever change what had happened between us, so maybe the only way to go

  now was forward. Standing side by side, lost in our own thoughts and memories as Buster was

  buried beneath Dad’s old apple tree on Boxing Day had brought a strange sense of closure.

  Now it was time to put the past away and concentrate on what mattered.

  English was still my passion, and teaching it was my calling, the one thing that gave me

  a reason to get up every morning, that made me feel truly alive, as though I had a purpose. I

  had spent the last couple of days writing new and, I hoped, more exciting lesson plans, thinking more deeply about ways to bring my subject alive in the minds of the children in my classes.

  Dad had helped, without even knowing he was doing it. He had insisted on coming back

  with me, driving me all the way home so I needn’t get the train, and had soon set to work on

  the kitchen which was now painted a muted shade of pale grey with a pure-white ceiling. It

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  was something he’d said, as he’d wobbled at the top of the stepladder, paint dripping down his sleeve, that had made sense to me, acted as some kind of lightbulb moment. ‘Looking at paint

  charts is nothing like standing here and seeing the real thing, you know, Love,’ he’d said,

  leaning back and admiring his handiwork. ‘Somehow, just seeing that little coloured oblong on

  a sheet of paper, side by side with all the other little oblongs, doesn’t give you the full picture, does it? A sense of what it will really be like. Every time I tried to picture this smoky dove on your wall, the misty haze and the ecru explosion just kept edging into view, making me doubt my choice. Sorry, our choice.’ He laughed. ‘Oh, don’t mind me. I’m sure you have no idea what I’m talking about!’

  But I did. For some of these kids, a poem was just too packed, too full-on. There was

  just too much to concentrate on. They couldn’t take it all in at once. Image after image

  clambering for attention, fancy words taking the place of the vocabulary they were familiar

  with. And Dad was right. Grey wasn’t just grey, was it? Not if you were looking at a poem,

  where every word mattered and every picture formed just a little differently in the mind of

  every person who imagined it.

  I pulled the paint charts out of my bag now, piles of them, sneakily pocketed in the DIY

  store at the weekend, and set off for my first class of the day. The line-by-line examination of First World War poetry, with all its pain and hopelessness, could wait for now. It was time to

  get back to basics.

  The noise coming from the classroom hit me before I opened the door. Loud, bored,

  restless teenagers on their first day back after a long break. I was pleased to see their reaction as I came into the room though – the sudden muting of their chattering, the settling back into

  chairs. They may not be great English lovers but they were willing to sit still and listen. They respected me, which mattered more than I could say.

  ‘What colour is the sky?’ I threw the question out at them while still arranging my pile

  of papers on my desk, before I had even sat down.

  Of course I was met with puzzled faces. What was this? A lesson for four-year-olds?

  There were a few mumbles before the answers started.

  ‘Blue. Sky is blue.’

  ‘No. Look out there. It’s more like white, with all that cloud.’

  ‘I don’t think the sky really has any colour, does it? It’s just air, and the colour’s a

  reflection. Or something like that. Like water.’

  ‘That’s why it’s black at night.’

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  ‘Is it? What about red sky at night, shepherds’ delight?’

  ‘Sky is not red! It’s blue.’

  I laughed. Such a lively debate in progress, so quickly, and about something so simple.

  ‘Okay.’ I started walking down the aisles between the desks, handing out my paint

  charts. ‘If the sky really is blue – not today, obviously, but on a clear, sunny day – what sort of blue is it?’

  ‘Sky blue!’ one boy called out from the back of the room, and everybody laughed.

  ‘Bit of a cliché, Jake. Now, why don’t you all take a look at these? See some of the

  different names the paint manufacturers have used for their blues, each one a slightly different shade.’

  Their heads went down, their interest captured.

  ‘How about this one? Crushed cornflower.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine a sky being just that colour,’ I said, peering over Jake’s shoulder.

  ‘But cornflour’s white, Miss. My mum uses it making gravy.’

  Now it was my turn to laugh. ‘Not that sort of cornflour, Jess. In this case, it’s an actual

  flower. Does anyone know what a cornflower looks like?’

  ‘No, but it must be blue.’

  ‘So, what do you all think about using flowers to help us name colours? Bluebell, rose,

  lily, poppy . . . What kind of images do they bring to your mind?’

  ‘Soft, pretty, delicate. Pale, maybe.’

  ‘And is that the sort of sky the soldiers in our poetry would have seen, looking up from

  the trenches?’

  ‘No, Miss. That would have been a much darker, scary sky. More like navy blue.’

  ‘They were in the army, not the navy!’ one of the boys chipped in.

  ‘So you wouldn’t use navy to describe your sky, if you were writing a war poem?’

  ‘No, Miss. It gives the wrong image. Makes you think of the wrong kind of navy. Ships

  and sea, not trenches. Or it does me anyway. It mixes up words that don’t belong together.’

  ‘It does, doesn’t it?’

  ‘And the sky would only be dark at night. In the day it could easily be pale blue or

  pretty, like a cornflower, couldn’t it? It’s not like t
he sky knows there’s a war on.’

  Some of them giggled, but I was impressed. This last comment had come from Robert,

  a boy who had never shown the slightest interest in poetry, and rarely spoke up in class.

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  ‘But if we were choosing a way to describe the sky that adds to the atmosphere of the poem? Does cornflower send out the right message? Help to form the right image?’

  ‘No, Miss,’ Robert replied. ‘But crushed cornflower does, doesn’t it?’

  They were getting it! Robert was getting it!

  ‘Can you explain what you mean?’

  ‘Well, it must have felt like the sky was crushing them, pushing them down, especially

  when they were lying there, being shot at, or there were bombs falling, Miss, all trapped lying down in the mud in that trench. Their spirits crushed, even while they were looking up at a

  clear blue sky. And their hopes, and their confidence, maybe even their actual bones, all

  crushed, Miss.’

  Was it ridiculous to feel a lump in my throat, a tear trying to ease its way out and down

  my cheek? I turned away and walked slowly back to my desk, giving myself time to recover.

  ‘And that,’ I said, waving my paint chart in the air, ‘is what imagery is! Using words to

  make pictures in readers’ minds. To make associations. Think how we’ve come from crushed

  cornflowers to crushed spirits, crushed men. The magic of words. And choosing the right

  words.’

  ‘And blue means sad too, doesn’t it, Miss? Like those men would have been.’

  ‘It certainly does.’

  ‘And it means rude, like in blue movies!’

  I couldn’t help laughing. The conversation was veering away from poetry, but these

  kids were interested, engaged, thinking about words and how to use them. Thinking for

  themselves. There were times when I wouldn’t swap being a teacher for any other job in the

  world, and this was one of them.

  ***

  When Simon Barratt asked me out for dinner, I was dumbstruck. Not just surprised, but actually

  speechless, his invitation coming so completely out of the blue. I must have looked like some

  kind of confused goldfish, standing there opening my mouth with no words coming out.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, slipping into his anorak and picking up his kit bag. ‘I didn’t mean to

  put you on the spot like that. If you’re already spoken for . . .’

  ‘Spoken for?’ I hadn’t heard that expression in years.

  ‘I just meant that I’d understand, you know, if you already have a boyfriend. Oh, not

  that I’m asking you out on a date,’ he spluttered, his usually pale face going almost as red as his hair. ‘Look, let’s start again, shall we?’ He grinned and busied himself fiddling with the zip 99

  on his bag which, as far as I could see, needed no fiddling at all. ‘Ms Peters, I wondered if you might like to accompany me – as friends, colleagues, whatever you like to call it – to a

  restaurant. It would save me having to eat alone, I am perfectly prepared to pay, and you might actually enjoy it!’

  His grin was infectious and I found myself grinning right back, my face probably

  turning just as red as his. ‘Well, now that you’ve explained it so clearly, I would be happy to accept. Except for the paying bit. I must warn you that I am absolutely starving and might very well eat more than you can reasonably afford, so we will split the bill. Deal?’

  He stuck out a hand and I took it. ‘Deal!’

  ‘Shall we go now, or would you like time to go home and do whatever it is you girls do

  before going out? Change out of your work clothes? Put on a bit of lippy? I am quite prepared

  to wait, and to pick you up at your door later. Not too much later though, ’cos I’m pretty

  starving myself. After all that running around the sports field this afternoon, I am in serious need of replacement calories.’

  ‘Now would be fine, actually. There’s nothing I need to go home for. Maybe a drink

  first though, as it’s only half past four. Not quite dinner time!’

  ‘Sounds like a good plan. The Red Lion’s not far. Then what do you fancy after? Italian?

  Indian? Steak and chips?’

  We left the staff room together, and I was sure I saw at least two or three pairs of

  eyebrows raised in interest. The gossip would be all round the school by the morning.

  ‘Let’s skip the Red Lion and try somewhere a bit further out, shall we?’ Simon said,

  looking back over his shoulder. ‘I have a feeling, with it being so close by, we might end up

  not being entirely alone in there.’

  ‘You read my mind!’

  As it turned out, Simon, despite his earlier protestations that he could talk about nothing

  but sport, was surprisingly good company. The absence of a Welsh accent had made it clear he

  was not a local, but I had never tried to work out where he might come from.

  ‘Buckinghamshire,’ he told me, taking a long swig of his pint, then wiping the back of

  his hand across his mouth in search of misplaced froth. ‘I’m one of the Bucks young bucks! Or

  that’s what my dad always called my brother and me. Still, we were off like a couple of stags

  the moment the door was left open, so he wasn’t far wrong. Running wild, having a lark, getting into trouble! Oh, not the breaking the law type of trouble. Just high spirits, you know. And the occasional drink-sodden party. How about you? Miss prim-and-proper convent girl?’

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  ‘No!’ I said, indignantly, before realising he was pulling my leg.

  ‘Londoner though, right?’

  ‘I didn’t know it was that obvious. I don’t have an accent, do I?’

  ‘Eve, everyone has an accent. Just some are a bit easier to recognise. No, I grew up on

  the outskirts, remember? Even the Underground comes out as far as Amersham. You’re no

  Eastender, but you have that London sound to you. Somewhere west, right?’

  ‘Ealing.’

  ‘I knew it! Used to play there with my brother sometimes. On the common. A picnic, a

  cheap ball, a pile of jumpers for a goal, while Mum and Dad went into the pub for a sneaky

  half!’

  ‘Do you have any memories that don’t revolve around a ball or a beer?’

  ‘I did warn you I’m a simple man. Best things in life, sport and booze. Oh, and a touch

  of romance of course, but I’ve had slightly less luck in that department.’

  ‘No Mrs Barratt then?’

  ‘Only my mum! How about you? Any boyfriends, fiancés, husbands, ex-husbands

  lurking in the background?’

  ‘No. Always been single. Work takes up so much of my life, I haven’t really had the

  time.’

  ‘Now, there’s an excuse I’ve heard plenty of times before. Probably coming out of my

  own mouth! But in your case, it’s a shame. Pretty girl like you . . .’

  ‘Simon,’ I was blushing again, and I wasn’t sure where all this was leading.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You know, you remind me of someone. He used to say sorry a lot too.’

  ‘Ah, but did he mean it?’

  ‘I thought he did. At the time. But no, I don’t think he did, not in the end.’

  ‘Meant a lot to you, did he? Sorry, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

  ‘He did, yes. Too much, probably.’

  ‘Yeah, I had one of those. Anthony, his name was.’

  ‘Oh! You’re gay?’

  ‘Don’t sound so shocked. Yes, I know I’m not the stereotypical gay man, what with my

  beer habit and my rugby-playing and all. But we come in all shapes and sizes, you know.’ He
<
br />   didn’t say any more, just sat and gazed into his beer, and for some inexplicable reason I leant across and put my hand over his. He looked up and smiled. ‘So, now you know why this isn’t

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  exactly a date that we’re on! Still, Anthony’s history. And history’s not our specialist subject, is it? Let’s stick to what we’re good at, eh? And what we care about. And right now that’s food!

  Come on, Eve Peters, put your woolly hat back on. Let’s go and eat.’

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  CHAPTER 14

  SARAH

  Josh was in one of his moods. Janey had been awake half the night and, although it was me

  who’d got up and seen to her, his sleep had been disturbed, and now the toaster had set the

  smoke alarm off, he couldn’t find an ironed shirt and he was in danger of missing his train.

  ‘I’ve got a meeting. I might be late back.’ Still buttoning the same shirt he’d worn

  yesterday, he grabbed his briefcase and offered a half-hearted peck that missed my cheek by a

  good couple of inches. ‘Don’t do me any dinner. And, for God’s sake, get the bloody iron out

  today. I can’t keep turning up looking all creased and crumpled. This job is important. It’s what keeps food on the table and the rent paid, remember?’

  I stared after him as the front door banged so loudly I expected it to shake the walls.

  Silence fell. I went over to the window and lifted the edge of the nets, if only to check he really had gone. And there he was, rushing off in the direction of the Underground, his case bashing

  against his thigh, tie flapping loosely at his neck. I waited until he’d rounded the corner and had disappeared from sight before I turned back to the mess that had once, pre-Janey, been an

  ordered and tidy flat.

  It was one of those lucky mornings when, having guzzled an early bottle – I had long

  since given up on breastfeeding – Janey had fallen back to sleep and, still in my pyjamas and

  with my hair in desperate need of a wash, I had a little time to myself. I knew I had to use it to make a start on the chores. And that’s what they felt like these days. What had once been the

  exciting grown-up experience of looking after our home, keeping it clean, arranging flowers in