Teach Me Dirty

by Jade West

  “Mark, please,” I said. I joined him on the floor, shuffled over until my hands were on his. “Don’t shut me out. I’m right here. I want to be right here.”

  I looked around, picked up an old snow globe. It had hearts in it, hearts and snow and scrawly font on the bottom. My Darling Wife.

  He took it from me and shook it, holding it up to the light as the hearts swirled. “I gave her this at the beach, one rainy Christmas when we were first together. She liked silly novelty toys, and desk ornaments, silly random things that I never saw the pleasure in. But I did see the glint in her eye when she spotted this amongst the tat in one of those cruddy souvenir stores.” His eyes were wistful, and he laughed and the sadness in it hurt my heart. “ She wasn’t even my wife then. You’d think I’d bought her the earth the way she reacted.”

  “That’s really nice,” I said.

  “And gone, Helen. It’s over.” He put the globe in the box with everything else. “Nine years and it’s still like she never left. She’s everywhere. Her stuff and mine, still mixed up together so I wouldn’t have to face she was never coming back. I couldn’t bear the thought of her not coming back, Helen. It was easier to be weaker, easier to let her stay.”

  “That’s not true…” I said. “You’re just… you miss her.”

  “I’ve been living in a tomb.”

  “No…”

  “At best it’s a museum. The Anna and Mark museum.” He sighed again and picked up a handful of old postcards. “Her friend, Dawn, used to send her one of these every holiday. Anna would do the same in return. Always stupid ones, nothing to do with the location.”

  He flicked through them and his hands were shaking. “I didn’t think this would be so hard.”

  “It’s ok,” I said. I reached out a hand for them, hoping, just hoping he’d let me in. “I can help. I want to help.”

  “I wasn’t going to pack up everything, but everywhere I looked there was more. Always more.”

  “It’s ok,” I said again. “Really. I can help.” He looked at me and I risked a smile, just a little one. And he let go of the postcards, gave them up to me. I put them in the box, neatly and safely, tucking them in beside some other letters.

  “She was my whole life,” he whispered, and it was a horrible hollow sound. “Everything. When she died, I died, too. I just didn’t realise it.”

  “But not now,” I said, and my voice sounded strange and hollow, too. “Not anymore.”

  He choked back his grief and blew out a breath. “I want to make a new life. With you. I want to live again. I want to fill this house with new trinkets, new stupid memories, new clutter and tat and life.”

  “I’d like that, too.”

  “Help me.” He pressed his forehead to mine. “I want this done, but every memory hurts. It feels like she’s dying all over again. In my memories, in this house, in the things she loved.”

  “She loved you,” I said. “She really loved you, and she’d want you to be happy. I know she would.” I brushed a stupid tear from my eye. “I know she would, because I love you, too. And it’s what I’d want.”

  “There’s so much here. So many memories… It’ll take all night…”

  I wrapped my arms around his neck and I cried. Cried for his grief and his pain, and the beauty in the new life he wanted, for us. For me.

  It took all night. We moved from room to room, slowly and steadily until the sun came up and the crows outside greeted us to a brand new Boxing Day.

  I asked him about every single item, every single memory, and I listened as he lived them one last time before they were packed away.

  I heard about first dates, and holidays, and little quirks, and Anna’s dreams and her ambitions and her pet hates.

  And her loves. I heard all about those.

  I heard about their arguments and their reconciliations. How Anna would fly off the handle, erupt like a little firework, only to still again at the touch of his hand. I heard how he learned how to love her, how to hold her, how to make it all better again.

  And it all choked me up. His pain choked me up.

  It choked him up, too.

  And some memories broke him. It wasn’t the big ones, that he’d relived over and over again. It wasn’t his wedding day, or their first kiss, or the time he got down on one knee. The pain was in the small memories, the lost memories, the memories that sprung from the back of cupboards to bludgeon him and cut him and make it all real.

  I cried openly for his loss, and for the woman whose life I was coming to know. I cried for the woman who’d loved the man in my arms, and loved him well enough to leave him broken in her wake. I cried for his broken heart, and the years he’d lived alone and lonely.

  And I cried with guilt, for feeling so good about being here instead of her.

  ***

  It was a strange moment when the entirety of Anna’s belongings were packed away.

  The house seemed bigger, and the morning sun made it bright again.

  Mark was ragged and tired and puffy-eyed. His shoulders were heavy, and his hair was wild. And he was perfect, and broken, and mine.

  I hoped I’d never see him like this again, but even in his pain he was beautiful. And I felt close to him, close enough that I could feel his heartbeat in mine.

  He piled up the last of the boxes, ready for storage, and he sat himself down on the sofa and lit up a cigarette.

  I approached slowly, and he pressed his forehead to my tummy and wrapped his arms around me, and just breathed while I held him, and while I stroked his hair and told him how good things were going to be.

  How we were going to love enough to fill a hundred houses with trinkets and silly memories. How we were going to wear novelty socks, and watch the tide come in together, and make love on the sand.

  Mark Roberts cried for me that night, in a way I hope I never see anyone cry again. Purging sobs that racked his soul and broke his heart.

  But then, in the new day, he came back to me.

  His eyes cleared, and his smile widened, and he held me like I was his everything.

  And that’s when I knew beyond all doubt that I’d been right the whole time. Knew beyond all doubt that my heart had known what my mind didn’t yet understand.

  He was meant for me, and I was meant for him.

  And he’d known it, too.

  “I meant we’re cut from similar cloth… it’s not just the artistic eye, it’s the way of viewing the world. You could cut through the differences, the personality traits, the life history, even the age gap, and what you’d have left is the same creative current running through us both. That’s what I meant… That’s how I see it…”

  And that’s how I saw it, too.

  I loved Mark Roberts and he loved me.

  And it would be forever.

  ***

  Helen

  Back to cold, hard reality, only I wasn’t ready.

  My legs felt like jelly and my feet felt like concrete lumps, and my uniform felt stiff as a board and way too small for me. I hated it.

  I hated what it meant.

  Two weeks of bliss had flown by, and I’d been spat out of Heaven, landing straight back in my school shoes like nothing had changed. But everything had changed.

  I’d changed.

  I waited by the alleyway and checked my phone again but there was nothing from Lizzie. I’d been trying to reach her for a week, dropping her instant messages and calls and texts, but she’d reply with nothing more than a at Nan’s, speak soon. The thought made my stomach churn worse than it was already.

  And then, just when things were shit and awkward enough, there was Dad’s casual announcement over breakfast.

  “I’m covering Frank’s leave these next few weeks. Long shifts, Helen. You’ll have to pull your weight around here, look after your sister with your mum working as well.”

  “But, Dad! can’t someone else cover? I mean, I’m busy now…”

  “We’re all bloody busy, Helen. Holiday time�
��s over. Lover boy will have to wait.”

  Frank worked evenings and weekends, covering the city runs to Hereford and back. Which meant, for all intents and purposes, I was grounded.

  No Mark.

  And no Lizzie either, seemingly.

  I trudged my way into school, craving a couple of drags on one of her cigarettes, just like old times, and almost fainted when I spotted her in the distance, walking along with none other than Rachel Panter, the girl who’d been snogging Scottie’s face off at the winter ball.

  Just what the fuck?

  I followed them, trailing behind until they disappeared into the sixth form common room, which we generally avoided at all costs, not least because it was bitch bag central and full of mean girls and nastiness. Seemingly not today, not enough to keep Lizzie out of there.

  I followed them upstairs and into the study area, to a backdrop of cackling as the Jennings’ posse caught sight of me.

  “Hey, Helen. How’s Harry?”

  “Hey, Helen. Are those little boy tits still frostbitten?”

  “Hey, Helen. We didn’t know you were such a little slut, Helen. We didn’t know you liked it in public with the whole world watching.”

  “Hey, Helen. You’re such a pathetic little loser.”

  For once it meant nothing, not any of it, not a single bit.

  Lizzie didn’t see me before I’d grabbed her elbow. She spun with wide eyes and a big old pout on her face. Her expression softened as she saw it was me, but only a little.

  “Hey,” I said. “What’s going on? I was trying to call you, like loads.”

  She raised an eyebrow and looked at Rachel, and Rachel stared at me with her fake blonde hair twisted around her fingers. “I wouldn’t exactly call it loads, Hels.”

  I thought back through the holidays. It had been loads. Well, a few times, at least every day. Maybe every other…

  “I was trying to get hold of you, Lizzie.”

  She shrugged. “Yeah, well, you didn’t. I guess you weren’t trying all that hard.”

  “You said you were at your nan’s…”

  “I was. Some of the time.” She folded her arms.

  “I was worried about you…”

  Rachel laughed, and it was a stupid nasty laugh. But Lizzie looked sad, and I felt guilty for things I didn’t even understand. “Worried?” she said, and her voice was cold. “Yeah, well, thanks, but there’s no need. I’m pretty damn cool, thanks.”

  “You are?” I kept my voice hopeful, friendly.

  “Yeah, I am.” She hitched her satchel up onto her shoulder, then pushed on past me. “Got maths, gotta go. See you later.”

  “When?” I said. “We walking home?”

  She rolled her eyes, and Rachel laughed again. “Like you’re going to be around, Hels. Forget it, alright. I’ll see you.”

  And she left me. Lizzie left me.

  I stood in the common room like a stupid idiot, with the mean girls laughing and the cool kids staring, and I felt like such a fool.

  A fool who didn’t belong here anymore, not in this place, not in this stupid kiddy uniform and not with these stupid horrible idiots.

  I took a breath and pulled my big girl knickers up, and clung on to my new place in the world. My new place in the wilderness, with open fires, and frosty grass and a man who loved me.

  A man who was waiting for me in the art block.

  I walked out of the common room without even giving them the satisfaction of a second glance.

  ***

  English dragged like a bitch. Anna of the Five Towns was our next study text, and the whole thing sounded garbled to me, just a whole big load of nonsense. It wasn’t like me. I’m usually good at school, good enough to have gotten hell for it from the rebel kids all the way since primary. But not today.

  Today I sucked.

  I should have felt relief to be heading to the art room for third period, and I did, but it was hidden under a load of crud that swirled around inside and made me a little round jitter ball. Mark was setting up when I arrived, preparing the whiteboard as the younger kids filed in. He looked smart, and focused and a million times more in control than I felt. He looked like Mr Roberts had always looked, my perfect crush with his perfectly calm manner and his perfectly welcoming tone. He was in a dark corded jacket, and his tie was purple and flamboyant. I couldn’t help but wonder what socks he was wearing.

  “Morning, Helen,” he said, and it was the same good morning he’d greeted me with for years.

  Just like nothing had changed.

  And I couldn’t, I just couldn’t.

  I held up a hand and scurried on by, to the safety of my usual perch, and I arranged all my art stuff and grabbed the watercolour I’d been working on before term finished. But even that looked crappy now.

  And my seat was uncomfortable and cold, and my hands were awkward without the easel I’d come to adore.

  And it was noisy, full of kids chatter and humdrum, not like the silence at Mark’s. The beautiful silence in his beautiful house and his beautiful arms.

  I could feel him staring, and I wanted to stare back more than anything in the world, but I was afraid of my own emotions. Afraid they’d bubble over and show their face to the world, and condemn us both as the rumour mill started up.

  So I didn’t stare back. I didn’t even look at him. Not unless I knew he was too distracted to look my way.

  My heart was bursting with love and pride, and my stomach was bursting with nerves, and my hands were tense with frustration, and my damned heel wouldn’t stop tapping.

  And then he was there, at my side, and I lost all the air from my lungs.

  “Remember what I said about wet-in-wet techniques?” He pointed to the corner I was working on. “You could really utilise that here, Helen. It would work really well.”

  I nodded. “I was thinking of using that.”

  He positioned his back to the rest of class, his posture loose and relaxed like this was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it was. He was a born teacher, at ease in his domain. And me? I was just a schoolgirl who didn’t belong anymore.

  “Are you ok?” His voice was low and calm, but his eyes were anything but, and it made my heart thump.

  “Yeah,” I lied. “I’m good.”

  He took the brush from my hand and loaded it with paint, tickling faint lines over my own, and he was close, his mouth to my ear, his breath with just the slightest hitch. “Pinocchio.”

  I focused on the marks his brush was making. “I’m good. It’s just… weird.” My voice was barely a whisper, lost beneath the chatter in the room, but I still felt bad, as though I may be risking us.

  “Nothing’s changed. This is just… a necessary part of us.”

  “I know.”

  “For now, Helen. It’s just for now.”

  “I know.” I took a breath, leaned back to check out the room, and nobody was watching. “Dad’s working evenings. Weekends, too. I have to look after Katie.”

  “Lunchtime,” he said, and I felt bad for even risking the topic. He handed me my brush back, and I forced on a smile.

  “Thanks, Mr Roberts. I’ll use that.”

  “Good,” he said. He straightened up, but he hovered, and I had to close my eyes, just to still myself, just to feel him there.

  His fingers brushed mine, and then they gripped, guiding my brush to the palette. And then his thumb brushed my knuckles, just for a moment. It meant everything. An anchor in the chaos.

  “Lunchtime,” he said again. And he was gone.

  Lunchtime couldn’t come soon enough. I breathed a long, cleansing breath as the door closed behind the last of the kids, and waited for Mark to make the first move. He wiped a load of pastel dust from one of the workbenches, and scoped out the corridor through the window. He must have been satisfied, because he closed the distance between us and gestured me over to the paint storage racks. I slipped between them, out of view of the windows, and he joined me, close enough that I coul
d feel the heat of him.

  “What’s going on?” he said.

  I didn’t know quite where to start, so I started with Dad, blurting out a string of childish it’s not fairs before I even managed to convey the actuality of the situation.

  He tipped his head from side to side. “It’s not ideal, but we’ll manage.”

  “How?” I said. “Mum’s doing loads of shifts to make up for the holiday downtime. I’ll be stuck in every night.”

  “For two weeks, Helen. It’s not the end of the world.” He smiled, and I felt like a petulant kid. “We’ll sort something out.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I know so.”

  “But if we don’t?”

  “If we don’t, then we’ll make up for it over the next two weeks, or the two after that. This isn’t disappearing anywhere, Helen. You can relax.”

  The tension in me uncoiled. “Sorry. I’m being silly. A drama llama.”

  He laughed. “You’re entitled to be a drama llama sometimes. It’s nice you’re bothered.”

  “Of course I’m bothered.” My eyes could have eaten him up. “You look good. I like the tie.”

  “You look young,” he said. “It’s amazing how quickly I’ve come to expect you out of uniform.”

  “I hate it. I feel like a kid.”

  “You’re hardly a child, Helen. I think we’ve established that rather comprehensively, don’t you?”

  I could feel the blush. “I hate not being able to touch you.”

  “The same applies.”

  “I hate not being able to kiss you, or say whatever I want to say.”

  “I fully concur.”

  “I can’t wait for the Easter break.”

  He smiled. “You won’t find any disagreement from my side, Helen.”

  “I don’t want to be at school anymore. I want to be home, with you.”

  He sighed. “Enough of that. School first, always.”

  “I know, I know.” I groaned, and decided to spill. “Lizzie hates me.”

  He looked surprised. “I’m sure Elizabeth doesn’t hate you, Helen.”