We only had about ten minutes together and 153
there was so much I wanted to ask him. But everything I wanted to know was too direct, too personal.
Do you think I'm really any good at art?
Do you like me?
Why did you draw me in your secret sketchbook?
Instead, I chattered childishly about fishing, asking about lines and hooks and bait, as if I cared. I felt as helpless as a fish on the end of a line myself. He was reeling me in tighter and tighter until I was out of my element.
We turned into my street and I gave him directions to the shop.
'Oh, it's this shop! I've been here. I've had a good browse in the art section, but someone gave me a sarcastic ticking off for using the shop like a library.' He paused. 'Would t h a t have been your dad?'
'That would definitely have been my dad,' I said. 'No wonder we have hardly any customers.
He's always so rude to them.'
'How is your dad?'
'Well, he can't talk much still, and he can't really walk either.' I sniffed, suddenly n e a r tears, feeling guilty because he'd have given Mum and Grace such a hard time at the hospital tonight.
Mr Raxberry didn't quite u n d e r s t a n d . 'Oh Prue, I'm so sorry,' he said. His hand reached out and covered mine.
The car took off like a rocket, soaring into space, 154
whirling up and over the moon, his hand on mine, his hand on mine, his hand on mine . . .
He gave my hand a gentle squeeze, and then put his own hand back on the steering wheel.
The car h u r t l e d back into the earthly atmosphere. He drummed his fingers on the wheel. We sat still, n e i t h e r of us saying anything, staring straight ahead.
'Well,' he said. I heard him swallow. 'Perhaps you'd better go in now.'
'Yes. T h a n k you for t a k i n g me home, Mr Raxberry.'
That made him look at me. 'Hey, what's with this formal Mr Raxberry thing? Everyone at school calls me Rax – you know that.'
'OK then. Rax.' I giggled. 'It sounds funny.'
'Better t h a n Keith.'
'Why doesn't your wife call you Rax?'
'Oh. She's known me too long. We were childhood sweethearts.'
I wasn't sure whether this was a good thing or not. 'You knew each other when you were at school?'
'From when we were fourteen.'
'My age?'
'Yep.'
'Goodness.'
'I take it you haven't got a sweetheart?'
'No!'
'I'm glad to hear it. Off you go then. See you at school.'
'Yes. Thank you. Goodbye . . . Rax.' I giggled 155
again and then undid my seat belt and jumped out of the car. He waited until I let myself in the shop door. I turned and waved and he waved back and then drove off.
I wanted to stay in the dark shop, breathing in the musty smell of old books, going over our car ride again and again, remembering every word, every gesture, every touch. I could hear Mum calling me from her bedroom, fearful at first in case I might be a burglar, though what self-respecting thief would want crumpled Catherine Cookson paperbacks, battered Ladybirds, leatherette Reader's Digest compilations and
£4.99 in the till?
'Prudence? Is t h a t you?'
No, Mum, I'm not me any more. I'm this new girl flying above the dusty floor. I want to stay up up up in the air.
I heard the creak of her bed, then the stomp stomp of her slippered feet. There was a patter from Grace too, and the bang of our bedroom door as she flung it open. I sighed and started up the stairs.
I told t h e m all about the house a n d the furniture and the children and the wife and the television programmes. Then I pressed the five-pound notes into Mum's hand.
'But it's your money, Prue!'
'I want to pay you back for the m a t h s tuition money.'
'You're such a good girl,' she said, making me feel bad.
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I kissed her goodnight and went to bed. Grace started asking me all sorts of questions, but I told her I was too tired to s t a r t answering anything. I lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling in the dark. I wondered if he was lying likewise, or whether he slept curled round his wife.
'Prue! Please tell me how you got on with Rax,'
Grace whispered.
I pretended to be asleep.
'Prue!'
I still didn't answer. She got out of her own bed and tried to clamber into mine.
'Prue, tell me, what did he say on the way home?' she whispered, her hair in my face, her big soft body pressed against mine.
'You're squashing me! Move over. I was asleep.'
'No you weren't. You can't fool me, Prue. You're nuts about him, aren't you?'
'Of course I'm not. He's a boring old teacher, years and years older t h a n me, and he's married with two children.'
'Yes, but you still fancy him.'
'No, I don't,' I said, and I pushed her out of bed.
'You do,' she said, sprawled on the floor. 'Ouch!
I think you're nuts. You could have any boy you want. You could even have Toby Baker, yet you want old Rax!'
I pulled the covers over my head. I couldn't hear her any more. I just heard my own thoughts, drumming in my head like the blood at my temple.
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I hardly slept but I got up early and cleaned and swept the shop. I carefully dusted Dad's Magnum Opus, and then spent ages copying out the first few sentences in large print, wondering if Dad might be able to read it and then say the words out loud – words he'd been composing half his life, chanting them under his breath as if they were a holy mantra.
'That's your dad's book! Careful with it. What are you doing?' Mum fussed.
I sighed and explained.
'Oh Prue! What a good idea! Why didn't I think of that. You're so clever.'
'Tell t h a t to my teachers,' I said. 'They all think I'm thick thick thick.'
'Well, this Mr Raxberry can't think t h a t or he'd never leave you in charge of his kiddies,'
said Mum.
I ducked my head so she couldn't see I was blushing. I worked on Dad's book while Mum stood downstairs in the empty shop and Grace spent hours on the phone chatting to Iggy and Figgy. I flipped through Dad's various notebooks and stray pieces of paper and scrapbooks and journals, trying to pick out key passages. I stared at his small, cramped, backward-sloping scribble until my eyes blurred.
I still didn't really understand it. I'd thought it way above my head. Now I read it carefully, page after page, and I realized something so sad.
It wasn't really difficult at all. There was no extraordinary philosophical theory, no dynamic 158
take on the h u m a n condition, no overriding theme, no new angle. It was just Dad rambling and ranting. It held no meaning for anyone but himself. Maybe it didn't even hold any meaning for him now.
I closed his book, wanting to hide it away. It exposed Dad too painfully. It was like looking at him in his baggy underwear.
'Prue? Can you come down a minute?' Mum was shouting at me from the shop.
I didn't take any notice.
'Prue! Will you come down here? There's someone asking for you!'
I leaped up and went flying down the stairs, combing my hair with my fingers, tugging at my awful dress, wishing I h a d some decent clothes, wanting to check myself in the mirror but terrified he'd give up and go if I kept him waiting any longer.
I stumbled into the shop, cheeks burning, scarcely able to breathe. I looked all round. He wasn't there. I blinked. Mum came into focus, gesturing at some stupid boy standing by the door.
Not some boy, any old boy. It was Toby Baker.
I sighed. 'Oh, it's you,' I said ungraciously.
'Hi, Prue,' he said, not at all put out. 'How are you doing?'
I stared at him as if he was mad.
'Your mum says she doesn't need you to work in the shop this morning, so I thought we could maybe do t h a t tuition thing. Y
ou know, me help you with your maths and you could hear me do 159
a bit of reading. I've got my books with me.' He patted his rucksack.
'Isn't t h a t lovely!' said Mum. 'Well, where would you two like to work? I suppose you could always sit at your dad's desk, Prue.'
'No, I thought we could go out somewhere in the town, McDonald's maybe, and have a cup of coffee first. We'd kind of relax then, so it wouldn't be like a school situation,' Toby said.
Mum nodded, mesmerized by his blond good looks and sweet manners. I heard a little gasp behind me. Grace had come running downstairs after me and was gawping at him. Her fingers twitched to start dialling Iggy and Figgy on the phone.
'Sorry, Toby, I can't,' I said. 'I've got stuff to do.'
'No you haven't,' Grace said.
'You've been a lovely helpful girl. You can go and relax a bit now,' said Mum. She looked worried, but she added determinedly, 'I think it's an excellent idea you two getting together and helping each other with your lessons.'
I didn't want to at all, but I couldn't say so right to Toby's face. I mumbled my way through several more excuses, none of which held up –
and ended up being dispatched towards the town with Toby.
'I can't stay long though,' I said.
I'd got it into my head that Rax might just come by the shop, maybe while his wife was trailing round Sainsbury's. I'd die if I missed him.
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I rather hoped all this tuition nonsense was a ploy and t h a t Toby would try to drag me somewhere quiet to kiss me. Then I could simply shove him off me and run back to the shop. But to my irritation he seemed determined to behave perfectly, keeping a little distance between us as we walked into town, talking earnestly about his dyslexia and how he'd felt so humiliated as a little kid and he'd hated books so much he'd scribbled all over his sister's paperbacks.
I made all the right responses but it was such an effort I started to get a headache. However, there was a little bit of me that was pleased a boy like Toby seemed to like me. As we got nearer the town centre little gangs of girls going shopping looked round and stared enviously.
They raised their eyebrows at my S a t u r d a y outfit. I was wearing last year's dreadful blue cord dress, which was way too short for me, and a shapeless hand-knitted purple sweater t h a t had stretched in the wash. I'd threaded blue and purple glass beads into a strand of my hair and painted a blue cornflower on one of my old black shoes and a purple daisy on the other. I was worried t h a t these homespun embellishments made me look weirder than ever.
Toby had made a serious effort. His shirt was always hanging out at school, his tie undone, his shoes unlaced, but now he was wearing a hooded jacket with a coveted logo, black sweater and black jeans so obviously new he could barely bend his legs. He'd just washed his famously 161
floppy blond hair. It fell silkily over his forehead into his eyes, so he had to keep shaking his head every so often. I knew all the girls at Wentworth t h o u g h t this a fabulously sexy gesture, but I was starting to find it intensely irritating.
We went to the McDonald's in the shopping centre. Toby insisted on buying us two Cokes, plus two portions of french fries. I thought of Grace and how she'd die for a chance to sample McDonald's chips.
Toby manoeuvred us to a table right at the back and then opened his rucksack. He really did have half a dozen textbooks and two pads of paper tucked inside.
'OK, I thought I could maybe talk you through some basic m a t h s . Not t h a t I'm any great shakes, mind, but I'll help if I can.'
'Please don't,' I said. 'I mean, it's very nice of you, but I hate maths. I don't want to do it.'
'But you'll have to master it sometime.'
'No I won't. I can do enough. How many people are sitting at this table? Two. How many Cokes have they got? Two. How many chips have they got left?' I helped myself to a handful. 'Not many at this rate.'
'You're so different from all the other girls, Prue. I really reckon you, you know that.'
'Don't start all that. Look, I'll help you with your reading if that's what you really want. Get your book out.'
He brought out this grim little reader in big 162
print with cartoon pictures of teenagers and a lot of stilted phrases and dated slang.
'Oh God,' I said.
'It's not my fault. It's better t h a n some of the others – Peter and J a n e and Pat the flipping dog.'
'OK then, get cracking. The Big Match. Start!'
'I feel a fool. OK, OK. The – Big – Match. Why does match have a "t" in it anyway? It's stupid.
Right. The – Big – Match.'
'You've said that. And I've said it too. Now start on the rest.'
He started. I realized how bad he really was at reading. I thought he'd just trip up on a few of the longer words, maybe mix up the odd were or where, the way Grace used to when she was five or six. But Toby was still way back at the beginning stage, stumbling through each and every word. It was as if the letters grew into tall trees and he was blundering through a dense forest, unable to find his way out.
I sat and listened. I helped him out, prompting him, sometimes taking over and reading out a whole phrase. I kept my voice gentle, neutral, encouraging, the voice I used for coaching Dad.
Toby was much sweeter n a t u r e d . He kept apologizing, thanking me over and over, telling me I was a born teacher. He thought I was being so kind because I really cared, when inside my head I was hot, angry, bored. I listened to him stuttering away and I had to press my lips together to stop myself screaming at him.
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When he eventually made it all the way through the story and Bil-ly had fi-nal-ly got tick-ets for the Big Match we both cheered as if Toby had scored a goal.
'Wow! That's the first book I've ever read all the way through!' he said.
He was flushed with pride at his achievement, even though The Big Match wasn't really a book and I'd told him three-quarters of the words.
'It's all down to you,' he said, and he squeezed my hand.
I snatched it away quickly. I didn't w a n t anyone else holding my hand now. I stuck it into the empty french fries packet, pretending to be looking for a last chip.
'We'll get some more! And a burger? Or are you more an ice-cream kind of girl?'
'No, no, I don't want anything, really,' I said.
'I've got to get going. Mum will need me to help in the shop.'
'She said it was fine. I'm sure you can stay out longer. We really ought to give you a bit of maths tuition now.'
'I said. No!'
'Well then, we could go round the shopping centre if you want. Anywhere you like, I don't mind. Even clothes shops.'
'There's not much point my going round any clothes shops. I haven't got any money for any decent clothes.'
'I thought girls just liked to look. Rita always wants to spend hours in New Look and TopShop.'
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I fingered my awful sweater defensively. 'I know I look a freak,' I mumbled.
'You don't. I love the way you look. You're not boring like all the other girls, you've got your own style.'
'Yeah, part jumble sale, part botched home-made,' I said.
I was pleased all the same. I hoped Rax felt like t h a t about me too. I wondered if he ever took his wife and kids to McDonald's on their Saturday morning shopping trips. I wanted to see him so much. If he spotted me with Toby he'd realize I wasn't completely a sad little Prudence-No-Friends.
I supposed I counted Toby as a friend now, just so long as he didn't try to be anything more.
I wandered round the shopping centre with him for half an hour, but I couldn't really say I enjoyed myself. Toby was very eager to please, shuffling along one pace behind me so I had to keep choosing where we were going. I didn't know which shops to amble in and out of, how long to take admiring different outfits, which racks to spin with interest. It all seemed so false and uncomfortable and awkward. I tried h a r d to keep up a steady s t r e
a m of chatter. His answers were mostly monosyllabic. Maybe he was used to small simple words, like the ones in his reading book.
I seemed to be fated to help people with their reading. It had been tedious with Toby but it was far worse with Dad. He was clearly furious with me for not turning up on Friday. He wanted to interrogate me but couldn't find the words.
He came out with a long semi-comprehensible splutter: 'Baby? – No! – Not!' I knew he was expressly forbidding me to do such a thing again but I chose to misunderstand.
'Yes, Dad, I simply wanted to start earning some money of my own. I'm so glad you think it's a good idea,' I said.
Dad reached boiling point, straining to say what he meant. He thumped the bed with his left arm. He even did a feeble mini t h u m p with his right.
'Oh Arthur, you're really getting lots of 166
movement back now!' Mum said, clutching his bad h a n d and stroking it.
Dad snatched it away from her, not wanting to be distracted. 'Baby – no-no-no!' he repeated.
'Yes, Dad. Lily's the baby, and Harry's the little boy. They can be a bit of a handful, but I can get them sorted out. J u s t call me Mary Poppins, eh?'
Dad looked as if he wanted to call me all sorts of names, though Mary Poppins wasn't one of them. But then I took out the compilation I'd made of extracts from his Magnum Opus. The moment I read out the first line Dad lay still.
He listened, his head cocked to one side, his mouth snapped back into a straight line. He looked almost his old self.
'Now you try to read a little, Dad,' I said.
He reached for the book. He cleared his throat.
He pronounced the first four words clearly, with proper expression. I thought a miracle h a d happened. Dad had recovered all his faculties and I could stop feeling chewed up with guilt. But then he stumbled, he repeated himself, he couldn't get any further though he strained to the utmost.
His entire Magnum Opus was reduced to four words: I, Bernard King, think . . .
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