Reckless

by Gemma Rogers

  ‘Mum!’ Charlotte shouted from the bottom of the stairs, jolting me from my thoughts, and I sat up so fast, water erupted over the side of the bath.

  ‘What?’ I shouted back, my voice so high-pitched it was unrecognisable.

  ‘Where’s my PE kit?’

  I sighed and picked up the razor to shave my legs.

  ‘It’s in your PE bag in your wardrobe, already packed.’ I had yet to get out of the habit of packing PE bags, making lunchboxes and putting away ironing. Charlotte had it way too easy and she knew it.

  I didn’t linger in the bath. I could feel my mood sinking, so got out and put my pyjamas on. I curled up on my bed, skimming through the creative writing book I’d checked out in a rush. It wasn’t the best, quite dated, but I couldn’t change it now. Luckily, the trip to the library hadn’t been a total waste, there were some exercises on story planning in the book I could use. How many pupils would attend the after-school class? What if no one came at all? That would be embarrassing.

  At school the next morning, I saw Nicky across the playground and my stomach lurched. When he saw me, he grinned and waved. I managed a weak smile back. I could see him watching as I walked into school. I hoped it wasn’t because of the outfit I’d chosen.

  As I had free rein over what to wear, I had decided to be brave and chose a classic grey shift dress with a red cardigan to complement it. When I bought the dress last year, it came in grey and red, but I didn’t have the confidence to buy the red one. I knew it would be another of those outfits in my wardrobe I would put on, look in the mirror and then change into something else as the voice in my head whispered, ‘It isn’t you’.

  I’d ignored that voice, coming downstairs and earning a wolf-whistle from David, who was working from home. I’d smiled and rolled my eyes, refraining from challenging him on his empty promise. It has only been a light-hearted whistle, no desire burned in his eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time there had been. Perhaps I could suggest couples’ therapy? Would David be up for that? We needed to find our way back to each other.

  Charlotte hadn’t been quite as impressed when we’d got in the car. She didn’t mention the dress but that wasn’t a surprise. I could probably leave the house naked and she wouldn’t notice. I chose not to dwell on it and instead slotted the netball class into conversation. Surprisingly, Charlotte appeared interested in signing up. It transpired that Amy was sporty, so she figured they could do it together. I was delighted Charlotte was having a good week and settling in well. With her happy, it took the pressure off and I could concentrate on making this move work for all of us. I’d make more of an effort with David to talk about the miscarriage and not gloss over it like we had been.

  It was a day of Shakespeare. I was teaching Romeo and Juliet in the morning, then an hour on sonnets, followed by Macbeth in the afternoon, which was my favourite. A story so dark and twisted, I fell in love with the witches the first time I read it. I was more excited about my lessons than the weekend ahead, which was likely to be filled with finishing the unpacking. I hoped we could manage to squeeze in dinner and a movie, a suitable reward for completing the move.

  It was my turn on playground duty, which Matilda kindly pointed out on the rota in the staffroom. I hadn’t noticed there was one but wandering around outside at break time, making sure none of the children were up to anything they shouldn’t be, wasn’t much of a hardship. Plus, it was good to get a little fresh air and the circulation going. Left to my own devices, I’d sit at that desk all day.

  The sun was shining, and I was a little warm in my cardigan but too self-conscious to take it off. It wasn’t raining, which made a nice change. Playground duty on those days would not be fun.

  Mr Scott came out to join me briefly, letting me know all the after-school clubs had been featured in the newsletter which had gone out to parents yesterday and posters had been put up too. He told me not to be discouraged if numbers were low this week due to the late advertising. Grateful for the support, I said I’d let him know the turnout next week.

  When I was alone again, I carried on the circular route around the playground, taking the path towards the tennis courts where the boys played football. My skin prickled as I neared the crowd, apprehension creeping in, although I wasn’t sure why.

  Nicky jogged past me, saying something in passing that I didn’t catch.

  ‘Pardon?’ I called and he turned around.

  ‘He fancies you, Miss.’

  I frowned, no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘Him, Mr Scott.’ Nicky shook his head at my lack of comprehension.

  ‘Looking hot today Miss.’ He gave me a wink and carried on jogging, rounding the corner and out of sight.

  6

  When I got home, David was still in the office upstairs. I could hear him on the phone laughing, but when he finished, he came down to make me a cup of tea and even asked about my day. What surprised me more was that he’d cooked a gammon in the slow cooker for dinner. Perhaps he was trying to close the gap between us?

  Charlotte asked for help with a piece of maths homework she was struggling with, which was ultimately David’s department. He was the numbers whizz, I had no head for figures. They sat at the table whilst I cleared away dinner, all the time Charlotte’s phone buzzed continually from the worktop where it was charging. She got up to answer a FaceTime call and I was about to tell her to ignore it, when David interrupted.

  ‘Its fine, honey, we’re done, she just needed some help to explain her workings out.’

  Charlotte disappeared upstairs as the shrill tone of landline rang out.

  ‘Wow, Clapham Junction in here today!’ David exclaimed as he picked up the phone.

  It was Stella, finding out how our first week had been at school. After exchanging pleasantries, David took his cue and left me alone in the kitchen.

  ‘Yeah, it’s been good actually. Charlotte is settling in well and seems to have made a friend so that’s great. The head teacher is pretty laid-back and is happy to let me get on with it,’ I said, sliding into a seat at the table.

  ‘That’s a relief then.’

  ‘Yeah, although I almost had a car crash on the first day. A bloody kid pulled out on me at the roundabout.’

  ‘God! Did you hit them?’

  ‘No, thankfully it was a near miss, but my anxiety shot through the roof, and then, guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Turned out to be a sixth former at St. Wilfred’s. Came to apologise the same day.’

  ‘Awkward.’ Stella giggled.

  ‘Just a bit.’ It was my turn to laugh. ‘Anyway, how are you?’ I continued.

  ‘Before that, are there any fit teachers?’ Stella asked, getting the formalities out of the way.

  ‘No, afraid not.’ I chuckled. My thoughts drifted to Nicky for a second, but I quickly pushed that notion away. There was no way I was going to mention him.

  Stella told me how she was trying to readjust to living ‘up North’ again. The village she’d grown up in was beautiful and the people friendly, but it was hard work with her dad’s dementia getting worse. She’d moved in to the family home to take care of her parents, leaving her job, and pretty much her life, in London behind her. I felt heartbroken for her.

  My parents had retired to Dorking a few years ago to a picturesque bungalow in the heart of the Surrey hills. We visited often, although they were yet to come to the new house. Wanting to wait for us to settle in. With them getting older, it was another incentive for us to move closer, but Mum was a volunteer at a charity shop and Dad had taken up birdwatching, they were both busier now than before.

  Stella said she hoped to visit in a few weeks, she was waiting for her brother Robert to come up from Battersea for a few days and take over until she could arrange some regular care. It sounded like she could do with a break. We had plenty of room and she and David got on well, so dates were pencilled in the diary before we said goodbye.

  After the call, I found David
in the lounge watching television and I flopped down beside him, regaling my conversation with Stella.

  ‘You know she’s always welcome to stay. I know her moving away has been difficult,’ David said, resting his hand on mine. My skin warmed beneath; the touch welcomed like a comfy pair of slippers.

  When we went to bed later, I tried to instigate some intimacy with David again. This time, he responded with a little more enthusiasm and we had sex for the first time in months. It was over quickly, which I had expected, but it felt more functional than passionate. Although David made the effort to hold me afterwards, I couldn’t help but feel empty and unsatisfied.

  Finally, Friday arrived and despite feeling apprehensive, I was looking forward to the creative writing class. A few of the students I’d mentioned it to had said they would come. The day flew by and every spare minute I had I reviewed exercises and tried to keep the palpitations at bay. Charlotte was going to go to Amy’s again and I was relieved; she wouldn’t have to hang around and wait for me. I made a mental note to check if any bus routes could take her home from school, so she had another way to get there in case I ever got caught up.

  The last lesson wasn’t great, and I had to have words at the end with one disruptive year-nine girl who insisted on talking over me at every opportunity. I wasn’t stern by nature but had learned that, given the opportunity, children would walk all over a teacher if they could. I found if I nipped certain behaviours in the bud the first time they occurred, my pupils treated me with respect. After the girl left the classroom, a few eager students that had been loitering in the corridor as soon as the bell went came through the door securing themselves seats in the front row. I smiled at them warmly, pleased that not only had some students turned up, but I recognised several of them from my classes.

  ‘Is this the creative writing class?’ came a familiar voice.

  I turned to look at the door, surprised to see Nicky standing there, filling the space, two students standing awkwardly behind him.

  I felt the miniscule muscle behind my eye begin to twitch. I’d been relieved I didn’t have to teach Nicky during the day, but I couldn’t stop him from attending an extracurricular class. I nodded and waved him in, feeling my anxiety spike. He sat in the front row and plucked a notebook out of his bag and a pen from behind his ear.

  I turned away, greeting five more students who wandered into the room, ascertained they were in the right place, and sat down. The turnout hadn’t been too bad, eleven students in total and hopefully more next week.

  Facing the group, I perched on the edge of my desk, fingers drumming the wood underneath, out of view, as I did a couple of rounds of counting. Realising I couldn’t put off starting any longer without seeming odd, I took a deep breath.

  ‘Welcome to the Creative Writing Class, thanks for coming today. In this class I’m going to aim to show you how to get the most out of your writing, using some exercises and tips that will help you focus on being more imaginative.’

  I handed out a sheet of paper to each student. On it was a block of colour and the word RED written in large letters underneath. I gave Nicky his last, unable to mistake his eyes gazing up at mine as he took the paper. I turned away, moving back to my desk.

  ‘I know some of you, but if we could go around the class, let me know your name and year group please.’

  I glanced at Nicky, who was closest to the door, and he spoke without hesitation, his voice deep and ragged, like he’d smoked a packet of cigarettes before he came in.

  ‘Nicky Stevens, sixth form.’

  The rest of the group took their turn as I recorded the information, it was a mix of year sevens, nines and Nicky.

  ‘Brilliant, thank you. OK, so today I want you to think about the colour red. How does it make you feel? What do you associate it with? I want you to write a six-line poem about the things you connect with it. Does it make you think of danger? Of love perhaps, or anger? It doesn’t have to be an emotion at all. What about red apples, red leaves in autumn, red sunsets – whatever springs to mind. We’ll spend most of the time working on this activity and we’ll read them at the end.’

  One of the girls at the front, Emma, raised her hand and I smiled at her.

  ‘Does it have to rhyme, Miss?’

  ‘No, Emma, not all poems rhyme and whether yours does is entirely your choice,’ I replied.

  They all started to scribble ideas in their notebooks and sat, occasionally chewing their pens, staring into space for inspiration.

  What was Nicky going to write? I couldn’t believe he was honestly interested in creative writing, assuming he was more of a sportsman. Why was he here? I let twenty minutes pass whilst I pondered the question, drawing a cluster of tiny squares on my doodle pad, before asking the students if they were ready. Most were, but some wanted an extra five minutes. It was already ten to four, the time had sped by, and I was keen to ensure everyone got to read their poem.

  I asked Emma to go first and went around in a circle before coming back to Nicky. All of them had presented a well-thought-out poem in the time allotted to them.

  ‘Nicky, what have you written?’

  He glanced at me, his eyes displaying a vulnerability I hadn’t seen before. Clearing his throat, he leant forward over the paper.

  ‘Red is the colour of roses with thorns,

  Of new beginnings and beautiful dawns,

  Red is the colour of love at its best,

  With romance and flowers, the courtship test,

  Red is the colour of lust and of lies,

  The two together a perfect disguise.’

  You could hear a pin drop in the classroom. I was floored by what Nicky had written. The rest of the class eyed him suspiciously, as it was clear his poem was superior.

  I shook myself out of my daze. ‘Fantastic, Nicky, well done. Well done to everyone, they were all fantastic poems. Now it’s almost time to go, but if you can, I would like you to write another poem for next week, but this time I want you to pick your favourite colour.’

  The students gathered their books and started to make their way to the door, saying goodbye to me as they passed.

  Nicky was the last one to leave, deliberately putting his things away slowly. Once the corridor fell silent, I was acutely aware we were alone together. I tried to push it to the back of my mind, but something about him unnerved me. His stare was penetrating, like he could see inside my head.

  ‘That was amazing, Nicky, I had no idea you were so talented,’ I said, watching his eyes light up at my compliment.

  ‘Thanks, Miss, I like writing. I read a lot too. I’m not all about football, you know,’ he replied, and I knew instantly I’d made the mistake of stereotyping him. From his tone, I assumed it was something others did too.

  ‘I’m impressed, truly.’ I zipped up my bag, resisting the urge to do it more than once, and put my coat on.

  Nicky stood to one side and let me walk through the classroom door first. Chivalry I wasn’t expecting from a teenage boy.

  For a second, I thought I felt his hand on the small of my back, guiding me out of the room. So light, I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined it.

  7

  He was so close, our shoulders almost touching, I could see stubble emerging through the pale skin of his jaw. I widened the gap between us, the awkward silence excruciating. The only sound were my heels echoing down the corridor.

  We exited the school and he carried on with me to the car park.

  ‘What are you up to at the weekend?’ I asked, not being able to bear the silence any longer.

  ‘Not much. I need to get some football boots and I’m probably going to work on my car, it needs an oil change.’

  ‘I’ve got some shopping to do as well, I think,’ I volunteered awkwardly, although I didn’t.

  ‘I’ll see you later, Miss,’ Nicky said, after we’d reached my car, heading off through the gates.

  I got into the driver’s seat and sat, mind whirling as I watched him walk aw
ay. I couldn’t start the car, not until I wound down the windows four times. Talking to Nicky was like interacting with a man, not a boy. I was floored by how articulate his poem was, as though he was wise beyond his years. I was annoyed I’d typecast him so easily. I wasn’t normally so quick to judge.

  I drove to Amy’s house to collect Charlotte. This time, I managed to have a brief chat with her mother on the doorstep. Louise was pleasant, a trendy young mum in skinny black jeans with platinum blonde hair. Standing next to her, I felt frumpy. She said Charlotte was welcome at her house any time. It was good company for Amy as she was an only child like Charlotte. The words stuck in my throat as I agreed. I suggested Amy came to ours for dinner one afternoon next week so we could return the favour.

  When we got in the car, Charlotte told me the plans she’d made for the following day.

  ‘Mum, if you can drop me into Crawley, a group of us are going shopping, then MacDonald’s and perhaps the flicks, if we can all get into the fifteen-rated film. I’m not sure whether we all will, Katy is still fourteen, but I’ll let you know,’ Charlotte babbled, checking her phone for anything she might have missed in the last five minutes.

  We’d given in when Charlotte started high school and let her have David’s old iPhone when he’d upgraded. My husband liked to have the latest gadgets, the most recent phone, iPad and anything else that required software updates. He revelled in being a bit of a tech geek. Charlotte benefited from his cast-offs as I wasn’t interested. In contrast, I just wanted a smartphone that worked, not caring about the year or model. Initially, I was worried about Charlotte having a phone, my main concern was hearing about children being bullied via social media outside of school hours. But we’d decided we had to trust Charlotte to tell us if that was ever the case. Plus, I wanted her to keep in touch with us whilst she was out, and so far, there hadn’t been any problems.