The art room was tucked away at the back of the school buildings. When I walked in, the lights were off. I moved past dimly-lit easels set up around a now-dismantled still life of driftwood and leaves. I could just make out paintings and drawings lining the walls, and there was a sink in the corner, completely filthy from endless dirty paintbrushes. At the back was a glass partition and, behind it, almost in darkness, the giant grey dome of the kiln hummed.
As I got closer I could feel the heat rolling across the room. I jumped when the door of the kiln opened, and a bright square of orange lit up the art room. Mr Wednesday stood there, stripped down to his waist, and bathed in the glow. Sweat shone on his quite remarkable torso. How does he get so muscly doing fine pencil drawings? I thought. He noticed me and closed the kiln, bathing us in darkness.
“Hello, Mrs Pinchard,” he said, coming round the glass partition and wiping sweat off his face with a muscly forearm. “Sorry,” he added, indicating his lack of shirt. “It gets so bloody boiling when the kiln is on.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” I said.
I was glad it was quite dark, so he couldn’t see that I was blushing. He went over to his desk and started to rifle through piles of paperwork. He flicked on a lamp. I went and joined him. His battered leather satchel was on the side, and next to it was a picture of him grinning beside a large sailing boat. He was wearing shorts and a white woolly jumper, his thick, dark hair being blown to one side by the wind.
“Is this your boat?” I asked.
“Yes. Odessa. She’s my saviour from work. I’m hoping I can take her out over Christmas, if it’s not too choppy.”
“She’s beautiful. I’d love to go down on her…” I froze when I realised what I’d said. “I mean, of course, to go down into her bows, you know, inside her, it, the boat—”
“It’s okay, I know what you meant,” he laughed, still searching around on his desk, “Ah. Here we go.”
He picked up the photocopy of the plans for Tracy Island.
“How many pages is it?” I said, dismayed.
“Eleven. But if you go through slowly you’ll be fine. There’s a list of all the materials you need at the back.”
He flicked through the plans, but they slipped from his hand and fell to the floor, sliding in all directions across the waxed parquet floor. We both went off in different directions to retrieve the pages.
“Here, I’ll staple them,” he said, moving back to his desk and putting them in order. I spied a sheet we’d missed under the desk, and ducked down to retrieve it.
The fluorescent lights suddenly came on, flicking separately until they lit the room in unison.
“Mr Wednesday,” said a female voice, “why did you have the lights off?”
I crawled out from under the desk, emerging at the flies of Mr Wednesday’s trousers. He was still naked from the waist up. Miss Bruce took one look at us, cried “Disgusting!” and left. Her clumpy court shoes thudding rapidly away to silence.
“I’m so sorry,” said Mr Wednesday, “that must have looked really suspect.”
“Yes, don’t you worry, you’ll be the hero. I’ll be the one who’s known for doing goodness knows what to the Art teacher under his desk.”
“And you were just talking about going down,” he joked.
I stood up and our eyes met. I suddenly wished I could step out of my life. Spend a week with this handsome, thrilling man on his boat. Very slowly he leaned in to kiss me.
“I’m married, I’m sorry,” I said, pulling back and shaking the thought away.
“I know. It’s a shame, because you’re really beautiful,” he said softly.
I looked up into his eyes, which were a remarkable shade of blue. His bare chest was still damp with sweat.
“Thank you,” I said.
“What for?”
“For making me feel like a person. Not a crap teacher or a crap mother or a crap daughter-in-law and wife.”
“No one needs to know,” he said softly, leaning in to kiss me again.
“Sorry. No,” I said.
I took a deep breath, turned and walked quickly away, closing the door to the art room behind me.
* * *
I went straight to the ladies loos and splashed cold water on my face. My heart was pounding. Did that just happen? I thought. As I pulled out one of those horrible rough paper towels to dry my face, a toilet flushed and Marika emerged from a cubicle.
“Hello. You all right?” I said.
She looked like death. Pale with huge bags under her eyes.
“Electricity still isn’t back on,” she said. “I haven’t slept.”
“Or eaten, by the look of it.”
She turned on the warm water and put her hands under. Steam rose up and misted the base of the mirror; she kept her hands there, seemingly to thaw out.
“I’ve been meaning to say thanks, for all the help with covering my absences,” I said. She smiled, still warming her hands under the water. “And, what are you doing for Christmas?” I asked.
“My Christmas or your Christmas?”
“How do you mean?”
“We celebrate it on the twenty-fourth in Slovakia,” she said.
“Oh, I didn’t know. So what are you doing?”
“I’ll be at home,” she said, without a trace of wanting pity.
“Do you want to come to mine after work? You can have a shower. I was going to get fish and chips… ”
“No, you’ve got so much to do and you’ve got a family,” she said.
“You could sleep on the sofa. Oh, actually Daniel’s downstairs on the Z-bed…”
“I can get the last tube home from yours,” she smiled. “Thank you,”
“So that means you’ll come, after school?”
“Yes,” she grinned.
* * *
The rest of the day went by like a flash. Miss Bruce was nowhere to be seen in the staffroom at lunchtime. The school nurse had sent her home after having ‘a funny turn’. When I’d done afternoon registration, each of my kids presented me with chocolate. I had thirty boxes. I was incredibly touched. Damian Grange had managed to get a very good pirate copy of Terminator 2, so I put it on the video player in my form room and I opened some of my chocolates to share with the kids.
“You know, you’re actually quite cool, Miss,” said Kelly Roffey. Coming from Kelly Roffey, it was quite a compliment.
When the bell rang at three-thirty I waved goodbye to the kids, and went through to the staffroom, where plastic cups of lukewarm wine were being passed out by Mrs Carter.
“Cheers, and thank God it’s the end of term,” she said downing hers in one, adding, “Right, I’m off, I’ve got Five Tracy Islands to make!”
“And here’s to Miss Bruce!” added Mr Gutteridge raising his cup.
“Why are you toasting her?” asked Marika, joining our group and taking a cup of wine.
“She’s gone and taken early retirement after all,” explained Mr Gutteridge. “I saw her on the way to the Art department earlier, and she seemed fine… Then, all of a sudden, she’s been in to see the Headmaster and tells him she’s going. She took a train to Whitstable.”
“What’s in Whitstable?” I asked.
“Not Tom Wednesday; I think she rather held a candle for him. God knows what happened in the Art room,” said Mrs Carter winding up her scarf and pulling on a pair of warm gloves.
“But she’s old,” said Marika.
“You’ll be old one day too,” mused Mr Gutteridge, swilling the dregs of his wine round then knocking them back. “Creeps up on all of us.”
“So no one’s being made redundant?” I asked.
“No. Merry Christmas,” said Mr Gutteridge, mournfully slopping more wine into his cup.
We finished our wine, wished everyone a happy Christmas, and then I drove Marika back to the house.
“You live here?” said Marika as we pulled into Steeplejack Mews. She craned her neck at the size of the houses.
“I
t was Mum and Dad’s house,” I said. “I got it when they passed away. Did I tell you that Daniel has been in hospital?”
We pulled up near the front door, and parked outside was a hearse.
“Oh my God,” I gasped.
“What? He’s dead?” cried Marika, going all wide-eyed.
“What? No! It’s my in-laws…”
“They’re dead?” said Marika.
“No. They’re here.”
“I still don’t understand,” shrugged Marika.
I explained that Meryl and Tony run a funeral parlour in Milton Keynes and that they are too tight to buy another car so they go everywhere in the hearse.
“They always get into rows with the management at Sainsbury’s when they take up two parking spaces,” I said.
“Maybe I should go home,” said Marika, nervously.
“No. You are my friend. They’re the ones who’ve arrived a day early,” I said.
* * *
When we opened the front door I nearly bashed Daniel’s leg. He was sitting at the bottom of the stairs with his cast sticking out in front. Tony was sitting two stairs up playing snap with Rosencrantz. All the other doors leading off the hallway were closed.
“Snap, Uncle Tony!” cried Rosencrantz.
“Bloody hell,” said Tony. “Ah Coco.” He squeezed down the stairs, past Daniel to give me a lingering hug. His red face leered over Marika. “And who is this lovely young lady?”
“Marika Rolincova,” said Marika, offering her hand.
Tony bent down and kissed it. He stood back up but kept hold of her hand.
“Do I detect an accent?” he said.
“Yes, Slovak.”
“Ah, Czechoslovakia,” said Tony, getting all bug-eyed and excited. “Our knives and forks all have ‘Made in Czechoslovakia’ written on them. Is it written somewhere on you?”
“What?” said Marika.
The living room door flew open and Meryl stood there in her housecoat winding up the hoover cord.
“Tony! What are you doing?”
Tony leapt away from Marika, and I introduced her to Meryl.
“Oh, you’re a foreigner, how interesting. Nice to meet you… Don’t flush the downstairs loo, I’ve only just put Harpic down. Don’t go in the kitchen, the floor’s wet, and you’d better steer clear of the lounge too, I’ve just shampooed the carpet. It was a bit of a fright, Coco.”
Marika looked confused as Meryl leant in and kissed us both.
“You were bloody quick, Auntie Meryl,” said Rosencrantz.
“No toilet language, please Rosencrantz,” she said.
“That’s nothing, Auntie Meryl, apparently I said loads of rude words in the school Nativity play!”
“He’s joking,” I said, putting my hand over his little mouth.
Meryl pushed past Daniel with the hoover.
“Right, I’ll get cracking on your pelmets, Coco. Tony, you can make yourself useful and find the crevice tool!”
He leapt to attention and followed Meryl up the stairs.
I looked at Daniel.
“What are they doing here?” I hissed. He shifted, trying to get comfortable with his leg poking out. “Couldn’t you have pretended to be out?”
“She heard me watching Countdown,” he said.
“Who fancies a swift one on the corner?” I suggested. “If she’s going to clean, we might as well let her get on with it.”
“Yeah, I’m spitting feathers,” said Daniel, rising awkwardly.
“What? What’s a swift one on the corner? And why would it have feathers? asked Marika anxiously.
“Mummy means do you want to have a booze drink at the pub on the corner, and Daddy said he’s thirsty. I’m coming too, but I’m only going to have a children’s drink,” said Rosencrantz, taking Marika’s hand. “Come on, I’ll look after you,” he added. Marika grinned.
Even though the pub was close, it took a while to help Daniel hobble the short way there. I ordered wine for Marika and me, a pint for Daniel, and Vimto and crisps for Rosencrantz. We sat at a cosy table in the corner.
“I know that bloody is toilet language,” announced Rosencrantz, fiddling with his straw. “I only say it to make Auntie Meryl mad. She’s funny when she’s mad. So who the bloody hell are you?” he added to Marika.
“Now that’s enough, Rosencrantz!” I said. “This is Marika, my new friend from school, and she is very nice.”
“Yes, you do look very nice, in fact you are very pretty,” said Rosencrantz, looking at Marika through his straw as if it were a telescope.
Marika smiled and blew down the straw.
“Got you,” she grinned.
“You did!” smiled Rosencrantz, offering her a crisp.
“You’re in there, Marika,” said Daniel. “He never offers anyone a crisp.”
* * *
I had started to relax and we were on our second round when Marika came with me to the cigarette machine. As I fed in two-pound coins and selected Marlboro Lights, I suddenly heard the Thunderbirds theme tune. We looked up at the TV in the corner of the bar. The Channel Four news headlines had just begun, and they were still running with the Tracy Island shortage.
“Bugger, bugger, bollocks!” I exclaimed, grabbing my fags out of the machine. “I’ve left the bloody Tracy Island plans at school! I never got them from Mr Wednesday!”
“I thought you went to his classroom?”
“I did, long story.”
Marika checked her watch. “Will anyone still be there?”
We looked at each other and realised not.
We went back over to the table and I gave Rosencrantz a pound, and told him to knock himself out on the Pac-Man machine in the corner. When he was out of earshot, I told Daniel what had happened, leaving out all the bits about Mr Wednesday not having his shirt on.
“Do you have the number for the caretaker?” asked Daniel.
“No, he’s gone to Devon to see his sister,” said Marika. “What about The Ripper?”
“Call him away from home on the first night he’s had with his family in months? No way,” I said.
“I could phone him,” offered Marika.
“No, you don’t want him getting funny with you. I think I could get in and out. I know a way into the school grounds and the back door to my classroom has a broken lock. It’s usually open.”
“Break in?” said Daniel.
“It’s not breaking in when the lock is broken already,” I pointed out
“You’re mad, Coco,” he said.
“Am I?” I rounded on him. “What I think I am is a desperate mother whose husband is laid up with a broken leg. We have nothing for Christmas, and I am not seeing our son’s little face on Christmas Day anything other than happy.”
We looked over at Rosencrantz on the Pac-Man machine. He was standing on the small stool the landlord put there for the tiny kids, and his excited face was lit up by the yellow light of the game.
“Ok. What should I do?” he said.
“Just look after Rosencrantz.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Marika, downing the rest of her wine.
“No, it’s risky,” I told her.
“You are the first person in England who has treated me like a friend and I always think you should help your friends, so let’s go.”
Tony appeared in the doorway, looking in need of a drink.
“So this is where you’re all hiding!” he grinned. “Thought I’d leave Meryl to it, she’s cleaning your skirting boards with a toothbrush.”
“Tony can help you hobble back across the road if we’re gone for ages,” I said.
“Yes, will do!” said Tony.
I kissed Daniel on top of his head, slipped Tony a tenner for more drinks, and me and Marika went out into the darkness.
“How should we do this?” she asked as we picked our way along the pavement. It was now coated in a thin film of ice.
“We should go on foot,” I said. “There’s a gap in the side
of the playing field fence.”
“How do you know?” asked Marika, moving faster to keep up with me.
“I overheard Kelly Roffey tell Damian Grange they could meet there.”
“Romantic…” said Marika.
* * *
Arriving at St Duke’s, the front gates were locked, and the orange street lights reflected off the bike sheds by the gate. The long squat building at the end of the drive was in darkness. We hurried past a row of terraced houses next to the school, and at the last house we turned down an alleyway leading along the perimeter of the school fields. It was dark and quiet.
“Coco!” hissed Marika. I turned and couldn’t see her. “Coco, I’m stuck,” she hissed again.
I tracked back to where Marika’s coat was caught on a giant bramble, now dead but still with fearsome spikes.
“You should be able to pull free,” I whispered.
“This is my only coat,” she said.
I couldn’t see her face properly but she sounded embarrassed. I gingerly grasped the long twisting bramble and unhooked Marika without doing her coat any damage. We carried on, down the side of the terraced houses, past dark gardens, and found the hole in the fence leading to the school playing fields. I held it open for Marika and she squeezed through. I followed and we ran, hunched over, across the wide, dark expanse of the school playing fields, towards the main school building.
We passed the long, tall windows of the assembly hall reflecting the wisps of cloud above, and then moved round to the art room. The huge chimney from the kiln cast its long shadow on the mini courtyard outside the door. I stopped and peered into the dark windows.
“Where could he have put it?” I said. Marika joined me at the window.
“Did he want to put it in your pigeon hole?” she asked.
“Yeah, but I told him I was married.”
“What?” she hissed.
“Oh. The pigeon holes by the main entrance, you mean. For internal mail. Yes, he might have.”
Coco Pinchard's Must-Have Toy Story Page 8