Love Lessons

by Jacqueline Wilson

  'Please, Rax.'

  'No. Stop it.'

  'I can't bear the thought of not seeing you.'

  'Listen. I told you, one day someone will ask you about the first time you fell in love and I bet you you'll struggle to remember my name.'

  'I'll always remember you, and every little thing about you.'

  'You wait and see. Now, I think I'd better take you home.'

  'No!'

  'If you arrive long after Grace your parents will think it strange.'

  'I don't care. I'm in enough trouble as it is.'

  'What do you think they'll say when you tell them you can't go back to Wentworth? I wish I 252

  wasn't such a coward. I ought to go and meet them and try to explain.'

  'To my dad? Don't be silly, Rax. Listen, couldn't we meet up sometimes, after you've finished school?'

  'No.'

  'We would be very careful.'

  'We'd still be found out sooner or later.'

  'Then can't I phone you? Or write to you?

  Please, Rax.'

  'No. This is it, Prue. We have to say goodbye.'

  He drove me home. He did park a few metres away from the shop, but there were people wandering up and down the pavement and it was still daylight. Even I could see we couldn't kiss properly. Rax reached for my h a n d instead, squeezed it gently and then whispered, 'Goodbye.'

  I whispered it too, and then I got out of the car and watched as he drove off. I stayed staring down the road long after he'd gone round the corner. Then I turned and stared at the shop. I looked at the uninviting window display of yellowing books in bad bindings. I stared at the peeling olive paint on the shop door and the OPEN notice hanging lopsidedly in the window panel. I couldn't stand the thought of going through t h a t door, back into my own life.

  Maybe I could r u n away by myself? I could make for the seaside, lie about my age, get some sort of job in a shop or a cafe or a hotel. I could walk along the sands every day. It would be desperately lonely but I could think about Rax, 253

  pretend he was with me, imagine our life together . . .

  I started to walk down the street. Then I stopped. I couldn't really r u n away. I couldn't do it to Grace or Mum. They would be frantic if I disappeared. I didn't know about Dad. He didn't seem to want me as his daughter any more.

  I took a deep deep breath as if I was about to dive into a murky swimming pool, and then opened the shop door. Grace was sitting at the desk, building copper and silver and gold towers out of the money in the till. They were very small towers. She saw me, and the towers tumbled down, small change spilling off the desk and rolling all over the floor.

  'Oh Prue, you're back! Thank goodness! I was scared you might r u n away with Rax,' said Grace, rushing over and hugging me.

  'I wish,' I said sadly.

  'I couldn't believe it when you just hopped in his car and drove off. So are you and Rax – you know – like, really in love?'

  'Ssh, Grace,' I said, looking upwards.

  I could hear Mum's heavy footsteps upstairs in the kitchen.

  'It's OK. I told Mum you had to stay behind and see one of the teachers. I'd never tell on you. Prue, Mum and Dad are acting kind of weird.'

  'So what's new?' I said.

  I expected Mum to be tearful and repentant 254

  after standing up to Dad this morning. I thought he would still be apoplectic, ranting and raving in his new staccato voice. But t h e kitchen seemed strangely silent, though a wonderful sweet syrupy smell started wafting downstairs.

  'Oh yum! Mum's baking!' said Grace. 'What do you think she's making? J a m tarts? No, I think it's treacle tart! Oh, I've got to go and see.'

  She went rushing upstairs. I stayed in the shop by myself. I found the big art book and looked at my portrait of Rax on the back page.

  I bent over it, my finger stroking every pencilled line.

  'Prue!' Grace came galloping down again. 'It is treacle tart, yippee. Mum says we can shut the shop early and come and have some tea.'

  The kitchen was warm from the oven and thick with the smell of the golden t a r t shining like a sun in the middle of the kitchen table.

  Dad was pushed up to t h e table in his wheelchair. He was sitting painfully upright, head held high, as if he was attempting to show he wasn't permanently disabled, t h a t he could leap out of the wheelchair in one bound if he put his mind to it. He saw me, he saw Grace, but his eyes slid straight past us, as if we were invisible. He had obviously decided we were no longer anything to do with him. He took no notice of his wife either. He sat in stony isolation, his amended Magnum Opus balanced on his bony knee.

  Mum was making a pot of tea. She was very 255

  pink in the face, wearing her red-and-white checked apron, a cousin of my dreaded dress.

  Her hair stood out in wisps, there was a smear of flour on her nose, and the sash of her apron emphasized her thick waist – but she looked better than usual. She didn't look defeated any more.

  'Hello, girls.' She looked at me. 'Are you all right, Prudence?'

  I shrugged.

  'Come and have a nice cup of tea.'

  'Can we have the treacle t a r t now, Mum?'

  Grace begged.

  'Of course, dear.'

  Mum cut her a generous slice. She cut one for me too.

  'I'm not really hungry, Mum.'

  'You're mad! I'll have Prue's slice too, Mum.

  Oh, you make such superb treacle tarts,' Grace said indistinctly, spraying crumbs everywhere.

  'I'll have to show you how to make t a r t s yourself sometime.'

  'I'd sooner just eat yours! Are you going to serve cakes in the shop, Mum, like Toby suggested?' said Grace. Then she looked anxiously at Dad.

  Mum glanced at him too. 'I don't see why not,'

  she said. 'I think it's a very good idea.'

  Dad m u t t e r e d his favourite worst word, staring straight ahead.

  'Please don't swear in front of t h e girls, Bernard. Or me, for t h a t matter.'

  256

  Dad swore more forcefully.

  'Your dad and I have had a little tiff, girls,'

  said Mum. 'Come on, Bernard, there's no point sulking. You'll have a piece of my treacle tart, won't you?'

  Dad clamped his mouth together as if she was about to force-feed him.

  'Don't be like that,' said Mum. She paused, standing behind him. She raised her eyebrows at us, her hands resting on the handles of his wheelchair. She looked at the corner, as if she was going to wheel Dad into it and leave him there.

  Grace giggled nervously.

  'Useless!' Dad muttered.

  'Stop it!' said Mum. 'I told you, Bernard, I'm not standing for it. You're not going to say these dreadful things to the girls. I know you're their father – but I'm their mother. You're upset because they're going to school but there's simply no alternative. You can't teach them now, you know you can't. And they've settled down so happily at Wentworth. Well, Grace certainly has. It's not been so easy for Prue, though she's doing really well in art.'

  That was it. That was my chance. I cleared my throat.

  'Mum. Dad. I've got to tell you something.'

  Grace stared at me, almost dropping her slice of treacle t a r t . 'Don't t a l k about Rax!' she mouthed at me.

  I shook my head at her. 'I don't really want 257

  to stay at Wentworth,' I said. 'I'm not going any more.'

  'Oh Prudence! Make your mind up!' said Mum.

  'I just don't fit in there,' I said. 'Grace has got her friends.'

  'You've got Toby,' said Mum.

  'He's about the only one t h a t likes me. Maybe it's my fault, I don't know. But can't I just stay home now? I can help out in the shop. I can help look after Dad.'

  'Don't need – blooming looking after!' Dad said, but he reached out with his good hand and took hold of mine, squeezing it awkwardly. He thought I was being loyal to him, doing what he wanted after all. 'We can work – on Magnum Opus,' he sai
d.

  Each word was like a hammer blow but I was past caring. I just nodded weakly. I hated Dad's dry clasp. I wanted to keep the feel of Rax's h a n d on mine. But Dad hung onto my hand, tugging a little.

  'Who's – Toby?' he asked suspiciously.

  'He's a lovely lad,' said Mum – and at t h a t moment the shop bell rang downstairs. 'We're closed!' she said. 'Wouldn't you know it! No customers all day long, and then they come calling the minute you close. Run down and see who it is, Grace.'

  Grace ran. She came back two minutes later with Toby. Mum looked a little anxiously at Dad, but smiled at Toby all the same.

  'Why, Toby, what a lovely surprise! We were 258

  just talking about you, dear. Bernard, this is Toby, Prue's friend.'

  Dad glared at him, still hanging onto my hand. 'How – do – you – do?' he barked.

  His h a n d grew hot a n d I could feel him shaking. I suddenly realized how much effort it took for him to say the simplest thing now.

  'How do you do, Mr King,' said Toby politely.

  'Would you like some treacle tart, dear?' said Mum.

  'Yes please!' said Toby.

  'What are you doing here?' I asked, frowning at him.

  'I had to see you. You wouldn't listen to me at school! It's about the book.' Toby s t a r t e d delving into a carrier bag and unpeeling bubble wrap.

  'Which book?' I said.

  'This one!' said Toby, suddenly exposing The Intimate Adventures of the Very Reverend Knightly.

  'Toby! Put it away!' I said sharply.

  'What's this book?' said Mum.

  Dad dropped my hand. He waved his good arm wildly. The sweat stood out on his forehead.

  'Not! Not!' he said, his speech deserting him again.

  'Let's have a look,' said Grace, opening it.

  'Oooh! It's ever so rude!'

  'Not!' Dad insisted.

  'Toby, that's not a very nice book to bring into the house,' said Mum.

  259

  'It was in your shop, Mrs King,' said Toby.

  'Prue showed it to me.'

  Mum gasped. So did Dad.

  'The t h i n g is, did you know it's ever so valuable?' Toby persisted, taking a big bite of treacle tart. 'I looked it up on my computer.

  They've got lots of these special antiquarian dirty books on this website, you wouldn't believe it.'

  'You shouldn't be looking, a young lad like you,' said Mum.

  'Yes, but guess how much the exact same set of books is selling for! I had to check with my sister, just in case I'd got the wrong end of the stick. Go on, guess.'

  'A hundred pounds?' said Mum.

  'Fourteen thousand pounds!' said Toby. 'Yes, truly.'

  'My Lord! Imagine! And I've never even set eyes on the book before!' said Mum. 'Well, bless you for finding it for us, Toby. By rights you deserve some of the money if we sell it.'

  'Oh no, Mrs King, it's all yours. I haven't done anything,' said Toby.

  'Right!' said Dad. ' I knew. I knew – worth –

  thousands.'

  I was pretty sure Dad had had no idea it was worth a fortune, but he couldn't help crowing.

  There were feverish pink patches on his cheeks.

  His hands were shaking so badly he spilled his cup of tea down his waistcoat, but we all pretended not to notice. He ate a slice of treacle 260

  t a r t too, and h a d the grace to nod at Mum. 'Not bad,' he said.

  'You're a brilliant baker, Mrs King,' said Toby.

  'Maybe you ought to close down the bookshop altogether and start up a cake shop?'

  'Rubbish!' said Dad. 'Books. Books best.'

  I went down to the shop and found the other volumes of the Reverend Knightly. I looked through them carefully, turning the pages at the very edge, checking they were all first editions.

  I counted every colour plate. All five volumes seemed in near-fine condition.

  Dad very laboriously composed a detailed description of the books, dictating it at snail speed. I wrote it out for him and sent letters to several specialist book dealers. Dad asked fifteen thousand for the five volumes but they weren't interested. So I got Toby to help me type it all out on a special antiquarian book site on the Internet. We still didn't get fifteen thousand, but managed to sell the lot for £12,500, which still seemed a huge sum.

  'It's enough to pay off all the debts,' said Mum.

  'It's really all because of you, Prue. You were the one who let Toby borrow the book, though it was a very odd thing for you to do. Did you look inside it?'

  'Not properly,' I said.

  'Hmm!' said Mum. 'Still, I suppose it's a case of all's well t h a t ends well.' She chucked me gently under the chin. 'Cheer up, chickie. I'm so glad t h a t you and Toby are friends. He's such a 261

  lovely boy – and he h a s such good ideas! He's made such a difference, it's like he's already part of our family' Mum looked anxious. 'You will stay friends with him, Prue, when you start at Kingtown High?'

  I sighed. 'I'll stay friends with him, Mum. Just friends, though.'

  'Well, whatever you say, dear.' Mum beamed at me. 'It's good t h a t your dad doesn't mind too much about you going to Kingtown, as he went there himself.'

  I was starting there at the beginning of the spring term. Miss Wilmott had pulled strings to get me a place there. My dad's old grammar school. I wasn't at all sure how I was going to get on there. If I was so hopeless at so many subjects at a school like Wentworth then surely I'd be floundering helplessly at a school with high academic standards.

  When I went to see the headteacher I found her surprisingly reassuring.

  'I understand your blind spot when it comes to maths, Prudence. I'm not too bright at maths myself. We'll see about some extra tutoring in various subjects, but obviously you're a girl who's going to excel at the arts. Miss Wilmott sent us your entrance papers for Wentworth, saying she thought you'd be an excellent student at our school, if we could possibly find a place for you.

  Your Shakespeare essay was outstanding.'

  Mum was giving me the full Kingtown uniform for Christmas, with leftover Reverend Knightly 262

  money. 'You need to get off to the right start this time,' she said. 'I'm sure you're going to be really happy at Kingtown, dear. I wonder what the art teacher will be like? I know you thought very highly of t h a t Mr Raxberry at Wentworth.'

  I said nothing, bending my head, hiding behind my hair.

  'I think you maybe had a little crush on him,'

  said Mum.

  I swallowed.

  'It's all right, dear. It's all part of growing up.

  But you'll get over it soon enough.'

  I knew Mum meant well, but she simply didn't understand. I knew I'd never be really happy again. I missed Rax so so much. I couldn't bear to be without him. Sometimes it was so overwhelming t h a t I had to shut myself away and cry and cry. I thought about him first thing in t h e morning and last t h i n g at night. I dreamed about him. I painted him over and over again. I wrote very long letters to him, though I tore each one into tiny shreds.

  I lived my ordinary life, I coached Dad with his speech, I helped Mum in the shop, I fooled around with Grace, I chatted to Toby – but it was just like a play. I was saying all the right words, going through all the motions, but none of it seemed real. I was pretending all the time.

  I just wanted to see Rax, to talk to him, to throw my arms around his neck, to kiss him, to tell him just how much I loved him, and t h a t I would go on loving him for ever and ever.

  263

  I stayed right away from Wentworth – but several times I couldn't stop myself getting the bus and walking along Laurel Grove. I paused outside number 34, but then I walked on. I walked and walked and walked, slowly, dreamily, as if I was strolling along the seashore . . .

  A B O U T T H E A U T H O R

  JACQUELINE WILSON is one of Britain's most outstanding writers for young readers. She is the most borrowed author from British libraries and has sold
over 20 million books in this country.

  As a child, she always wanted to be a writer and wrote her first 'novel' when she was nine, filling countless exercise books as she grew up.

  She started work at a publishing company and then went on to work as a journalist on Jackie magazine (which was named after her) before turning to writing fiction full-time.

  Jacqueline has been honoured with many of the UK's top awards for children's books, including the Guardian Children's Fiction Award, the Smarties Prize and the Children's Book of the Year. She was awarded an OBE in 2002 and is the Children's Laureate for 2005-2007.

  'A brilliant writer of wit and subtlety whose stories are never patronising and are often complex and many-layered' The Times

  'It's the combination of accessible stories and humorous but penetrating treatment of big emotional themes that makes this writer so good' Financial Times

  THE DIAMOND GIRLS

  Jacqueline Wilson

  'You're all my favourite Diamond girls,' said Mum.

  'Little sparkling gems, the lot of you . . .'

  Dixie, Rochelle, Jude and Martine - the Diamond girls! They might sound like a girl band but these sisters' lives are anything but glamorous.

  They've moved into a terrible house on a run-down estate and after barely five minutes Rochelle's flirting, Jude's fighting and Martine's storming off.

  Even though Dixie's the youngest, she's desperate to get the house fixed up before Mum comes home with her new baby. Will the Diamond girls pull together in time for the first Diamond boy?

  'A compelling mix of gritty realism and warmth where the chaos is largely redeemed by love'

  Independent

  'Jacqueline Wilson is . . . a national treasure . . .

  The Diamond Girls is a modern-day drama . . .

  Moving stuff with lashings of humour'

  Birmingham Post

  'Wilson writes with such humour and affection for her characters that this book is full of unexpected joy' Daily Mail

  ISBN 0 552 55376 X

  Document Outline

  Front Cover

  Frontmatter Praise for Love Lessons

  By the Same Athour

  Title Page

  Epub Copyright Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication