by Sara Alexi
Chapter 9
Ellie has no idea where she is going. Mentally, she has not been released from his grasp, his hands still on her shoulders, her eyes locked on his. Her legs move automatically, one foot in front of the other. Bearing neither left nor right, she walks straight across the square and then up a narrow lane flanked either side with stone walls. Those lips!
And how magical it feels. Thousands of miles from home, the sun’s heat that permeates her bones, the dry earth, the sparkling sea, all of which turn common events, like bumping into someone, into a dream. A wonderful dream.
But she should pull herself out of this fantasy. Marcus is, after all, at home waiting for her. Marcus! A shiver runs down her spine, which causes her eyebrows to raise. She has never had that reaction to the thought of him before. A touch of sadness maybe for what they once had, and, if she can bear to be honest with herself, it really was only the once, and so quickly lost, but never a shiver. The tremor seems to have something to do with his age. It’s ironic, as his age was part of the attraction originally. It certainly attracted Penny Craig and Rebecca Slater before her. The thrill of him being their teacher.
Loukas’ skin was so smooth, tanned. His sleeveless t-shirt and wrap-around apron crisping his outline. When he held her, his shoulder muscles showed strata and there was a dip between his shoulder bone and that muscle that goes from his neck into his back. So deep, she could have drunk wine from it. Marcus’ skin is slack; he is not one to exercise. In fact, he no longer even kneads his clay like he did back at school. She can almost smell the art room. The gum and glues, the damp clay, traces of school dinners.
Penny and Becky giggled as Marcus’ dexterous hands worked and pushed the lump of clay into a rhythm. He generally had a routine in their lessons. The majority of the kids working at their own project were left to get on. But Marcus would start the kneading on their table, get their attention before cutting and slapping it into round balls and then slipping onto the seat of the wheel. He would kick it into gear like it was a motorbike and throw the clay so adroitly into the centre of the spinning disc. Then Penny and Becky would huddle closer together, excluding her, whispering behind cupped hands as Marcus sprinkled water onto the clay and drew it up into a tower, wet and smooth, before pushing it down flat again. The liquid and the earth turning to a slurry over his fingers.
‘Smooth strokes,’ Marcus explained. ‘Even pressure and smooth strokes.’ Penny and Becky giggled. ‘The idea is to release any trapped air pockets. It’s all about release.’ The girls’ giggling increased.
Ellie didn’t really get it back then, not totally. She would feel more sure what she was thinking was right if someone would confirm it for her.
‘Penny, you know when Mr Cousins throws his pots?’ Penny started to giggle even before her question was out that break time. Becky joined in.
‘Listen El, if you don’t get it, you don’t get it. It’s not something that can be explained. ‘I think Ellie’s a bit of a "late bloomer", as my mum would say.’ And the pair huddled together, excluding her again.
‘Slow, more like.’ Ellie looked up to see a boy who was always hanging around with Becky and Penny. As he passed, he made prolonged eye contact with Becky, who grinned in return, her head turning to watch him swagger down the corridor, jumping to touch the light bulb halfway along, looking back to check if Becky was still watching.
She didn’t really know what ‘late bloomer’ meant either back then, not fully. She does now. Now she can see she was a bit young for her age maybe, certainly not as advanced as those two, but then with her father being a vicar and no television or Internet allowed in their house, let alone mobile phones, it wasn’t really surprising. How much she has learnt in this last year!
The biggest mystery back then was when Penny and Becky went into the store cupboard with Mr Cousins, as she knew Marcus to be then. She only had a half-formed idea as to what, in the store cupboard, could cause so much laughter. There was one obvious thought, but surely they weren’t doing that! But then, why had she not been allowed in too?
She felt she had purposefully been left out that time, but she always felt a bit left out, really. That was why, when it was her turn to be invited, she went into the store cupboard with him, too. Only she was on her own that time.
The lane Ellie is on is climbing now. The tufts of what once would have been grass up the centre are burnt brown and dried with the sun. Either side, the white stone walls are thick with years and years of paint and have no edges. They are smooth as though they are made of clay. To her right is a gate with a wooden crate or something fixed to it as a letter box, its sloping roof made out of the front of an old drawer, the metal handle that is still attached glinting in the sun. By the stone gateposts, the dried grass is longer and has crumpled to the ground. Something small rustles in its cool shadows. Ellie’s hands come up to cover opposite shoulders. She is burning, but it is hard to care as the warmth of the sun on her skin is so sensuous.
She keeps climbing until the lane peters out and pine needles cover the barren earth under the trees that crown the hill. The tops of the trees hiss quietly as if unfelt breezes stir them. Her footfall is cushioned and there is a hush, only the occasional buzz of a bee passing her. It is the perfect place to sit. The view of the village below her, the distance diminishing the houses to a toy town, the people to insects. Beyond the village, the plain stretches until it becomes misty with distance and shimmers in the heat and, far away, what could be a mirage of purple mountains. The regimentally lined orange and olive groves patchwork the plain’s entirety. Handkerchiefs of order laced together to blanket the earth down to the sea. It is like something out of a book, or one of the National Geographic magazines that Marcus collects. The ones that date back nearly twelve years to when he was twenty, as he has proudly told her.
Loukas won’t read anything like the National Geographic. He will read a music magazine, or something about bikes. He probably doesn’t have time for reading.
But the image of him distorts as she remembers his eyes rimmed with dark lashes, his muscular shoulders. The chances are, someone with his looks will be like one of those boys who laughed along with Penny and Becky when the whole Marcus thing kicked off. School felt so hostile, an emotional minefield, no matter how carefully she trod. If someone had asked her before the event, she would have said it would have made her really popular. Penny and Becky used to joke and brag about their store cupboard ‘ordeals’ in the sixth form common room and everyone would laugh or pretend to be shocked. So why, when she did it, did they just stare at her? The boy that hung around with Penny had the audacity to ask her if she knew what she was doing. She had thrown her head back and laughed. How stupid did they think she was?
Stupid enough to not really know what she was doing at all until it was too late and stupid enough to get caught, was the answer. If it had been Penny or Becky they would have turned it around and it would have been put across as daring or brave or grown up or something. But it was Penny and Becky who delighted in asking her what possessed her to go so far. They, after all, had only teased, played like they were going to but then left the silly old man hanging. Pervert that he was. What was she thinking?
Here, with the pine trees wrapped around her, blanketing her from the world, the sun kissing her forehead and the whole world at her feet, she allows the thought that has been coming and going recently to rise to the surface. Did she do the wrong thing in marrying Marcus? Did she ever have a choice?
Ellie recognised the boy who opened the storeroom door. He was not in her year, but his mother arranged the flowers at church. It was not long before the news spread all over the school.
She returned home that night terrified of the ordeal that awaited her. They wouldn’t give her the chance to explain her side of the story. Certainly Father would be quick to condemn. But there was an eerie silence as she walked through the door. She waited for Father to start as they sat down for dinner, but no words came. Her initial thou
ght was that they were too angry to speak but after the first course, it occurred to her that they didn’t know.
They finished dinner and she was washing up, Mum drying when Father went to take a phone call in the hall. He never spoke loudly on the phone, always as if he was talking to a bereaved parishioner—hushed, soft—and this time was no different.
The click of the receiver as it was returned to its cradle sounded louder than normal, his step across the hall more deliberate. He stood in the kitchen doorway waxy faced, stiff limbed. Then he exploded.
‘For the love of God, Ellie, have we not brought you up better than this?’ Ellie rinsed the plate slowly, her wet fingers creaking across its surface, making her teeth jar. ‘He is your teacher, for God’s sake.’ His words lost their enunciation as his wrath grew and Ellie picked out fragments. ‘This behaviour … inappropriate … Immoral …’
When she could bring herself to look at him, all she could focus on was the spittle on his lips and the white flecks in the corner of his mouth. His face was bright red and she felt hers drain white. She was going to faint and he was going to explode. The whites of his eyes glowed, bloodshot, she picked out the word ‘congregation’. She always seemed to come second to his congregation. Mum stood quickly to take his arm, stroking, soothing, imploring him to calm down.
‘Remember your heart condition,’ she implored of her husband. ‘Tell me dear, tell me calmly. What has she done now?’ Ellie slumped, hearing Mum talking as if she were not in the room.
Father whispered into Mum’s ear the things that had been told to him on the telephone, which were too sinful to speak out loud. As he hissed his words, Mum’s face drained ashen, her eyes widened, her mouth dropping open. With quick movements, she patted Father’s hand, her eyes darting across the carpet and back. Finally she cleared her throat.
‘Right.’ Mum’s mouth was a thin, tight line, the skin under her left eye twitching as she commanded attention. ‘I have no doubt, no doubt…’ Her voice was quiet but her words clearly emphasised. ‘That there will be no fuss.’ She looked from Ellie to Father. ‘No fuss,’ she repeated so quietly, both of them leaned towards her slightly, straining to hear her. ‘Mr Cousins, Marcus,’ she corrected herself, ‘will have good intentions. Marriage will be…’ The two words drawn out, accompanied by hard eye contact with them both, ‘the next step. He will come round to tea and, if necessary, I will have a word.’
Father’s shoulders dropped and the colour slowly returned to his cheeks.
With that, normal life at home resumed, almost. Conversation was reduced to close-lipped minimalism, evening prayers were extended, and a bible was left open by Ellie’s bed with passages highlighted. Decency would be restored by the force of Mother’s will, with Ellie as the sacrifice.
Then there was the scare.
‘Oh…’ Under the pine trees, Ellie searches for a swear word, one that’s not too bad but will still express her feelings. ‘Bugger!’ she finally ejects.
The scare was the final blow. In her year, everyone seemed to be relishing the whole incident and she even started to get funny looks and whispers behind her back from the younger kids. There was gossip about Marcus being pulled up in front of the head and, after a few of days of his absence, it was on everyone’s lips that he was suspended from teaching ‘until further notice.’ There was talk of the police being brought in. Some of her classmates looked at her with pity, and others just sniggered. Penny and Becky created the biggest distance they could from her, playing down their history of exchanges with Marcus and focusing on her. She felt very alone.
The scare came only days later, when she found she was late. For three days which felt like a lifetime, she waited, told no one, and, then, she used a public phone to call Marcus. He was not pleased to hear from her and almost sounded like he was blaming her for his suspension. But she managed to persuade him to meet her in the public library in Bradford.
‘You’d better have a really good reason for this,’ he greeted her. ‘If I’m seen with you, I will never be able to sort this all out.’
For some reason, she thought it would be easier to tell him face to face, but the laughter that always showed in his eyes was not there and his sideways smile was nowhere to be seen. He was unshaven and the square of his jawline was hidden in a greying, prickly-looking fuzz.
‘I have. We have,’ was all she managed.
‘Well?’ He began to run a finger along the spines of the art books as if that was more interesting.
‘I think maybe three of us have.’ Clumsy, but none of the right words would come out of her mouth.
‘Three?’ His forehead lowered over his eyes, which darkened.
Her lips sealed shut. If she said anything else, she would cry. Her left hand lifted to rest and rub circles on her flat stomach. His brow lifted and his eyes grew wide at this, and the horror that contorted his face before he took control said it all. With rigid arms rustling against his jacket, he disappeared down the Art History aisle. After a slight delay, she followed, but he wasn’t there. Nor was he in the Fine Art section or in Modern Sculpture. After a couple of minutes of weaving between book cases, she slumped at one of the central study tables, where she wept silently. She had been crying for what felt like an age when a man with steel-framed glasses, a whole table away, looked up from his thick leather-bound book and glared disapprovingly. She had no one to turn to in the world.
‘I will tell the head we are marrying.’ The whisper in her ear was so unexpected, she jumped. The bespectacled man on the other table demanded hush, but she didn’t care. Marcus had come back! Her heart soared; she was not alone. The thought sent a thrill through her, the happy-ever-after promise of every film she’d had the luck to watch in the church hall could be hers for the taking. He wanted to marry her!
‘That will put the end to the whole thing. It will stop the press, the police, your parents, and the gossip. Besides…’ He leaned in. She thought he was going to kiss her and she parted her lips but instead a hand came up and took hold of a strand of her hair. ‘You know how I feel about you.’ He then tucked the piece of hair behind her ear. They agreed to stay silent about the child before the wedding, and he patted her shoulder before he walked away.
The following Monday, Marcus marched into school. The news swept through the corridors and sixth formers on free time lingered in the hall as near to the headmaster’s office as was allowed. Half an hour later, news of the wedding rippled through the classrooms.
Then the headmaster rang her father and congratulated him, much to the poor man’s surprise. After the initial shock, a hush came over the sixth form common room and they witnessed the events as they unfolded, mostly in silence. It had all got far too adult and civilised to be of any real interest to them.
There was an ‘I hope you know what you are doing?’ from Penny and ‘At least he’s a good kisser’, from Becky but after that, everyone pretty much left her alone. Very alone—she no longer had anything in common with any of them. They moved on and left her behind.
A few meetings with Marcus followed, arranged by Father and in very public places. During one of these, Marcus said that the attitude to him by the school board had changed and that they were thinking of lifting his teaching suspension if the wedding could go ahead soon. Father seemed equally keen to get the whole thing over with. Marcus showed no interest in dresses or flowers and would have had a registry office wedding if he could have. But that could not be, not with her family. So they hastened down the aisle before anyone knew of their fears. Then there was the incident in the toilet where life turned into a charade. The reception became a joke. Afterwards, they were driven to a bed and breakfast for their first night as man and wife. Elle cried. Marcus continued what he started at the reception and got even more drunk until he fell asleep in a chair in the bay window.
The next day, they drove to his mother’s house by the sea.
The following Monday, the school asked Marcus to leave anyway. The problem was that
whilst they had been away, the papers got wind of their misadventure and the fact that they were now married made no difference—if anything, it fuelled the story. In short, they were having a field day, and a throng of reporters greeted them at the entrance to Marcus’ flat when they got home. Marcus drove straight past. Ellie suggested her parents’ house, but they were there too. In the end, they booked into the bed and breakfast again but the owner must have rung someone as half an hour later, there was a knock on their door and they opened it to flashing bulbs and a barrage of questions.
Finally, they retreated to a house belonging to a friend of Father’s who happened to be on holiday in Bermuda. Marcus refused to go out at all and so, alone for a few days, Ellie played dodge the reporters as she was, inadvisably as it turned out, still trying to finish her A levels.
Some really horrible pictures where printed in one of the national papers. One where she had her cheeks full of her lunchtime sandwich and another one where she was blinking so she looked like she was challenged. At the advice of the headmaster and her father, she stopped going to school after that.
In the end, with Marcus having no work and Ellie no longer at school, the sensible thing to do was to move away. Go somewhere they would not be known.
Marcus applied for teaching posts and took the first job he was offered, in a town on the other side of the moors. It took an age to drive there, along narrow, winding lanes, but as the crow flies over the moors, it was just a good stretch of the legs away from where Ellie grew up. It was a one-street village, lost in time and hidden in a dell, which Ellie had always liked the look of. She often used it as a destination to walk to in her solitary moor walking days, before the whole Marcus thing happened. So the move there didn’t seem so bad.
The best thing was she was free of her hometown gossipers, abuse throwers, and church sympathisers, as well as her family. She wore her hair up and her hat down. Marcus was out at his new school every day. His new headmaster was a liberal man, a non-conformist at heart but he suggested to Marcus that Ellie continue to keep a low profile for a while longer whilst Marcus got established at the school, made some friends, and it was not long before she began to feel isolated and lonely.