In Loco Parentis

by Nigel Bird

  weather girl

  It’s all about recovery today. That and learning lessons.

  Every time I close my eyes I see the image of the two blended faces, clashing like a meeting of Yin and Yang.

  I pick up the phone, press in Jenny’s dialling code and lose my bottle. What will I say if she answers? That I need her? That I’m going crazy? That I’m in danger of screwing up my life again?

  I put the phone down.

  Dragging myself and my duvet off the bed, I wander through to the living room, home of the video-machine.

  Once I’m set up with my heavily sugared tea, I press play on the remote.

  “Now, here’s Jenny with today’s weather.”

  Christ she looks good standing in front of that map. Her smile is huge as she tells everyone their day will be full of sunshine.

  It was the day after our first time. I recorded it so I’d never forget and I’ve never forgotten.

  After that it became habit.

  The TV guys always focus on her earrings. That’s the way every one thinks of her, a pair of earrings with a body and voice.

  For the second report she’s wearing a pair of cherries, one on each side. A black dress clings to her figure so as you can see her nipple-rings if you look closely.

  The map in the background is covered in black clouds and spots.

  She can even make the rain seem like something to celebrate.

  I can’t bear it any longer. Go back to the phone. Get to punch in more of the numbers this time before putting the receiver down.

  blowing in the wind

  I open the door and Emma’s framed in the door like a painting. Comes in like a breeze.

  Soon as we’re in the my flat, she leaps on me. Her arms round my neck, her mouth on mine, it’s all I can do to keep my balance and kiss her back.

  “Got to go,” she says. “Just wanted to say hi.”

  She’s out again before I have time to speak.

  “I’ll call,” she shouts, and all is as it was before. All except the drum that’s beating inside my chest.

  the girl in the pinstriped suit

  The King Dick.

  The world’s gayest pub.

  Swinging Dick to some.

  The barman eyes me up as I sip my juice. He’s tanned, healthy and young. Hair neatly out of place in short, gelled tufts.

  I go over my lines as he watches, just to be safe. “Emma, what happened last week was nice. Lovely. But it was a mistake, you have to know it.” So far so good. “There’s your kids to think about. Your husband. Your reputation. My job...”

  All I’ll need is a shot of courage and a deep breath.

  Soon as Emma appears he turns his attention to the Guardian reader in the shadows.

  Emma’s body’s way too small for the suit she’s wearing. Doesn’t bother me, the way she bounces in.

  Kissing me quickly, and making sure the coast is clear she gets her act together.

  She sits and makes herself comfortable then fumbles around in her bag and puts things on the table – cigarettes, lighter, pager, purse, keys.

  All the while I watch her fingers, the way the rings play with the light.

  By the time she stops, she has a cigarette in her hand and has blown a cloud over to me.

  I blow one back in an act of communication and think of weather fronts.

  She leans back in her chair and seems to wait for me to break the ice. She’d make a good therapist, I reckon.

  “Nice to see you,” I say. “What would you like.”

  “Coke. Ice and a slice.”

  I think of asking her for the magic word, but know I’d be wasting my breath.

  At the bar, the drink is poured and the barman gives me a knowing look. “Watch yourself with that one. She’s on fire.” His wink seems to have a hundred meanings. I don’t wink back. Can’t.

  My hands shake as I carry the drink over. I’m relieved to get to the table without dropping it. Try to get a grip of myself as I sit.

  “How’s your day?” It seems an obvious place to start. No point going for the jugular before we’ve even had a chance to catch up.

  And it seems I’ve hit the jackpot. The girl sure likes the sound of her own voice. Goes on about the best way to extract a wisdom tooth, the scrapings she’s witnessed, the girl with the tongue piercing that’s gone horribly wrong and the old dear who’d lost her dentures last Monday and hadn’t eaten anything but soup and ice cream since.

  My juice almost gone, I decide to hit her with it.

  “The other night. It was amazing.” She tilts her head to one side and fingers the ice in her glass. “I mean, truly amazing.”

  She picks up the cube, licks it and puts it into her mouth. “I know, I was there.” The ice means it doesn’t come out clearly, but I’ve got it.

  “And I’ve thought about it a lot.”

  “Me too.” As she speaks she looks at me like she’s seen something no one’s ever spotted before. Like she can see inside my head or something. “Which is why I’m here.”

  I look over to the barman. There’s a smirk on his face I’d like to rub off with sandpaper.

  “So I was thinking...” Her fingers touch my knee under the table, give it the softest of strokes.

  “Go on.”

  “I was thinking...” her fingers move up the inside of my thigh and get as far as they can go. My train of thought goes altogether and my resolve seems to have walked out when I wasn’t looking. “...about us. You see it was so beautiful that it seems a shame to have to end it.”

  “I agree, Honey,” she says. It’s a relief that she doesn’t seem hurt. “There’s no way we can end something as wonderful as that.”

  Crap.

  I wonder if I can re-group when her pager goes off on the table, rattling away like a clockwork toy gone mad.

  She picks it up and holds it away from herself to read it. Too vain for glasses, no doubt.

  “We’ve got a bleeder, Hon. Gotta go.” She fills her bag and her pockets and lights another cigarette.

  I down my orange and we leave together.

  “I’m headed for Maxine’s next Friday. Make sure you’re there.”

  Just as she bends forward to kiss me goodbye I see Des, the school caretaker, on the other side of the road. He looks in our direction then goes in to the bookies.

  I knew it was crazy to meet so near to work.

  “A week Friday. 8:30.”

  Before I can get a word in she’s on the road and bouncing her way to the other side. I watch the autumn red of her hair as it bobs on her shoulders, the way she slips on sunglasses without breaking stride, the men’s heads turning as she passes.

  Putting my fingers to my lips, it’s as if I can feel her heat. I taste the balm again and wish I’d asked to take her home.

  India

  Most of the time therapy’s finely balanced. There are the things I want to talk about and the things I don’t. I suppose the trick is to get as many of the difficult things in as I can. Otherwise it’s just not worth the money.

  Funny that he should ask about it just as it comes to mind.

  “Angry in what way?”

  I shrug my shoulders.

  “Could it have anything to do with the cheque you’ve just handed over?”

  Now he mentions it, he could be onto something. “Don’t think so.” He might be right, but there’s no way I’m going to admit it.

  “It’s a lot of money to pay out when I’ve been away on holiday. Perhaps it upsets you that I charge for sessions you don’t even get to attend.”

  Too right. He’s on the button. “No,” I tell him.

  And we’re back to square one. The conversation over, we’re playing the waiting game again.

  When I crack, I tell him about going to my old house.

  “Why do you think you went?”

  Soon as the question’s asked, my mind goes blank. “My mind’s gone blank,” I say, which is a mistake. Now he knows he’s in the righ
t ball park. He takes off his glasses and gives them a thorough clean with a yellow cloth.

  “I guess I wanted to make sure it was still there.” It seems like the truth. “Like looking to check that the world’s still secure.”

  “Go on.”

  “But they didn’t let me in.”

  “Because?”

  “How should I know? Maybe it was because I had purple hair and was asking them about God.” Now I’ve said it I know I can’t blame them for keeping me out.

  “Did you need to go inside to feel secure?”

  “Yes.” Really? “No? I don’t know.”

  “Was there anything else you needed from the visit?”

  He’s thrown me a line. I’m determined to take it.

  “I suppose I wanted her to be there. For her to be there to give me a hug and to tell me everything’s OK. To tell me she loves me.” I’ll say anything to avoid talking about Jenny and Emma.

  “And when she wasn’t there, how did you feel?”

  the girl in the denim shirt

  All week I’d tried to talk myself into not going, but by Friday night the pull’s too strong.

  Nothing about my heart or my mind says it makes sense, yet it’s a compulsion I can’t defeat.

  I go in through the open back door and give it a token knock.

  Emma’s fiddling with the stereo turning the music up way too loud. Robert Smith sings ‘Just Like Heaven’. I find myself agreeing with him.

  Last time I was here she was in the black velvet dress. This time it’s a denim shirt that’s at least a size too small.

  I go to kiss her hello just as Maxine appears. She also comes to give me a kiss and a hug and she’s so excited to have me there I wonder if the secret’s out.

  We all find seats and look at each other. We have drinks and smoke and try to talk over the music.

  Maybe I’ve been to too many gigs, but my hearing’s on the blink. I have to concentrate hard on the lips of the speaker to have any idea about what they’re saying.

  Any time either of them addresses me directly I mainly nod or laugh depending on the way they say it. So far so good.

  Emma bounces up and changes the music.

  She turns up the volume to be on the safe side.

  Pulling Maxine up, I get to witness their dancing in the middle of the room. Mostly it seems to be about shaking the hips and making sure they don’t overbalance.

  Every so often they come together and shout into each others’ ears.

  Sometimes they kiss each other like they’re long lost buddies reunited.

  Between songs I look at them and smile to remind them that I’m there.

  It just carries on like that.

  They’re hammered.

  When they both reach down to me and take my hand, I feel I have no choice.

  Up I get and I’m dancing, cutting my funky strut.

  We hold hands for a while.

  Next I’m dancing with Emma and after that with Maxine and then we’re in a circle again.

  Each time I dance with Emma is longer than the time before.

  The music ends and we need a new CD.

  It’s a relief to have peace and quiet.

  “Isn’t he lovely,” Maxine says. “Such a lovely bloke.” Her face looks like it’s made out of melting candle wax the way it’s following gravity. The corners of her mouth point down and her eyes look like they’ve been switched off from the inside.

  “Yummy,” Emma says. They both start rubbing my back. The pain is practically physical.

  “Giz a kiss.” Maxine says.

  Not even at the beginning of the evening when she looked entirely human would I have given her the kiss she’s asking for. She’s Wolf’s wife for pity’s sake.

  “Go on,” she says, falling off balance, “Giz a snog.”

  Both of them giggle. They’re either taking the piss or are having the time of their lives.

  Moving in quick, I peck her on the cheek, slide to the right and get her in a grip that’s half cuddle, half wrestling hold. It keeps our faces as far apart as I can manage.

  “Me too,” Emma says and while her friend is blind-sided, gives me a long smooch.

  “I need to pee,” Maxine says and I let her go. She waddles like a duck to the door and soon as she’s gone Emma closes it tight.

  Back against the door, she beckons me over with a come-on finger. I step closer. Just as I get there an enormous grin forms at her mouth. There’s a quick burst of noise as her press-studs are pulled open and, when her shirt is flung apart, she reveals those tiny, naked breasts.

  She’s just performed a fantasy I’ve never articulated to anyone in my life.

  In that moment I’ve changed from someone who can’t wait to get away to someone who really needs to stick around.

  My hands find their home straight away. My lips too. It feels like it’s always been this way.

  Two hours I had to endure before Maxine finally gave up the ghost.

  It was like we were playing a game of chicken.

  There’s only one thing on my mind. Soon as we’re alone we’re peeling off the essentials and she’s mounted me in the dark.

  When I’m inside it’s as if a bubble has burst. A magic spell reversed.

  Pump away as she might, it’s doing nothing for me.

  We’re clumsy. Cold. Trying too hard.

  Just as we find a rhythm of our own, the front door bangs shut.

  Heavy footsteps head in our direction.

  It’s Wolf in from his shift.

  Emma’s off into the kitchen to dress.

  I zip up quick. Lie back and try to look casual.

  “JC,” he says with his usual gusto. We lock thumbs and fingers. “Skin up man.”

  “Busy night?”

  He pulls the ring on a Special Brew and sups down a good half of the can. “Bleeding awful,” he says and throws his leather jacket beside me.

  Emma walks in from the kitchen. She’s dressed, at least, but not as carefully as I might have expected.

  “Am I interrupting anything?” Wolf asks with a laugh.

  “Nothing special,” I say.

  Emma goes over and sits on his knee. “What are you suggesting Mr Wolf?”

  “Skin up,” he says and I get to work, knowing already that I’ll still be awake to greet the dawn.

  back to school

  I always go back a couple of days before school starts up again.

  It’s not that I’m keen to do the work. More that I want to be prepared for what lies ahead.

  This time I’ve another agenda, a need to find out what Des saw outside King Dick. Make sure the caretaker gossip he’ll be spreading around when we start back won’ be about me.

  The sun’s burning hot and I’m not in the mood to do much other than sit at the top of the lawn outside my new classroom and sip coffee.

  Des ambles up the lawn with his shirt off. His chest hair looks like a carpet. Shame he isn’t so well covered up top.

  “All right, Joe?” he asks, taking a seat at the other side of the picnic bench.

  “Des.” I nod back as he puts down a huge bunch of keys and a can of Red Stripe on the table.

  I try to read him behind his 1970s cop-show shades, but they’re too dark to penetrate.

  “Lunch time,” he says, in case I might care. I don’t. “Been away?”

  “Preston.” Money’s been tight since I bought the flat. Seemed like the right thing to do with the inheritance when it came through. Doesn’t feel like it any more. “You?”

  “Lanzarote.” He strokes his arm and I try and think of a compliment to go with his tan.

  “You got yourself a nice tan.”

  “Cheap at half the price.”

  He’s a good man. Does his job and more besides. Deserves to get away every now and then like the rest of us.

  “And the horses?” It’s the easy way out. I let him ramble about doubles and trebles, combinations and near missed until even he’s bored.r />
  “Best get on,” I say. “See what the damage is.”

  “It’s a good job you came in early.” He walks off down the lawn, the keys swinging in his hand.

  Business as usual I reckon. Not a whiff of suspicion.

  When I go into the room, I realise what he meant about me getting in early.

  How the previous teacher got away with it, I’ve no idea.

  We all knew she was cracking up. Teachers have a nose for such a thing. It comes with practice.

  The smell’s like that of a petting zoo, straw and piss and rodents.

  The deceptive tidiness of the place is exposed as soon as I look in the trays.

  In the first, no label and no clue, I find letters of assorted size and material. Nothing wrong with that per-se, but the pellets of mouse crap won’t be any use to the kids. At least I know where the smell’s coming from. It’s the same in the dressing-up box, the Lego, construction and the pastels drawers.

  And I hate mice.

  Before I can control my thoughts, I’m picturing rats scuttling about. Long tails and furless. Pink alien bodies under the floorboards.

  I want to get out.

  Only thing that kept me here is the reassurance of my Doctor Martens.

  Time to see Des, pick up a cartload of disinfectant, some rubber gloves and maybe one of those beers he keeps in the fridge.

  Make a mental note - if I get any animals for the class, they’re going to be able to live underwater.

  come on in the water’s fine

  Standing in the cloakroom, I can hear the voices of parents and kids in the entrance.

  It’s a huge beast of a door, built as if it might be to protect us from invaders.

  I feel sick, really sick. Put my hands on the wall and take a breath.

  It’s difficult to tell what’s causing it. Could be the fact that I didn’t get to sleep until half four. Maybe it’s the whisky that was supposed to help me drop off.

  It’s probably just the fear. The fear that I’ve forgotten what to do, that I can’t stand up in front of anyone and put on my performance, that they’ll run rings round me when they come in and everyone will know I’m no good and should be drummed out of the profession as soon as they can find a drummer.