by Judy Jarvie
Fiona and Janey bound up at jet speed. They look as if they expect my exuberant joy because they’re clearly over the moon at the prospect of a premier leaguer party and a TV reality show circus come to town. Sadly I miss their emotional marker entirely.
“Come on, Izzy. It’ll be great! We can bring Mo.” Fiona says, “Janey was right, he’s so nice. I’ll have to buy a new outfit for that invitation.”
Janey squeaks because she likes nothing better than an opportunity for retail therapy, especially clothes. “Shall we go to Watford, Saturday?”
I opt for, “Me, at a Spurs player’s party? I might be washing my hair. Or embarking on a new project in crochet. And it won’t be a dress. It’ll be a barricade.”
Chapter Four
I’d promised to go and tell Jack Carson all after the meeting—a debriefing over tea and biscuits in his lair.
But as I get nearer, there’s barking coughing coming from the basement. Correction—coughing is too mild a word. It’s hacking, gut-wrenching noises, like somebody can’t grasp enough oxygen to breathe.
I run. Then I stop, take off my heels and run again.
Jack’s standing against a wall. When he looks at me, his eyes bulge like some awful cartoon character. And he’s still not caught his breath.
“Hell Almighty, mate!” I take his arms and step him back to take a seat. I begin to thump on his back because I quite simply don’t know what else to do. At times like this you wish you’d paid more attention in first-aid sessions.
Jack doesn’t speak because he can’t, but he manages to finally gasp for air like a dying trout. And this dying trout is noisy.
“This isn’t good. Would you like a drink of water?”
Jack nods. His expression, eyes not meeting mine demeanor and expression tell me he’s embarrassed, and worried as he gasps in air. He hates fuss as much as I hate going to night matches in winter and forgetting my gloves.
“Water,” I say, taking refuge in doing something. That was no minor cold slash coughing session—that was an almost turning blue and unable to breathe situation. Perhaps ending up on the floor or worse if nobody had come in. I fill up a glass from the bottle in his fridge. He sips.
“Take your time, Jack.” I itch to smooth his hair but I don’t. His staunch pride would be mortally wounded.
Jack laps like a baby with a beaker. And some three minutes later, he’s breathing okay and is somewhat calmed. His eyes are rheumy but that’s only to be expected.
“That chest must get attention from a doctor. Tell me you’re not still smoking.” I see the familiar bulge of a packet of Rothmans in his upper pocket. I can tell from the smell of him and the color of his fingers that I’m right. “Didn’t we have this discussion two months ago? Didn’t you promise me you’d cut down and try to quit? You told me you’d stopped.”
Jack says nothing. He’s sixty-two years old and sits like a belligerent kid in one of my classes, eyes on the floor.
“Shit, Jack.”
His voice is a whisper when he answers me. “Wi’ my Lilly not being ’ere anymore. And Bobbie gone too. I channeled all my loss into that little pup and made him my world. Walking him got me through losing Lilly. I even talked to him.”
Lilly was Jack’s dear wife who passed a year ago. They were devoted to each other. She was a dinner lady—her loss left the whole school bereft. Six months ago Jack lost Bobbie, his West Highland terrier, to some mystery illness. I know Jack’s grappling to cope.
“Smoking fags won’t bring them back, Jacko.” My voice has gone other-worldly—emotion is strangling my voice box. The thought of Jack alone and lonely makes me wish I had done more to help.
“You’re right. I need to stop.”
“So you didn’t go to the doctor? Can I make an appointment and go with you? You can’t hide your head in the sand on this one.”
“Do what you have to.”
“First, you’re going home. I’ll take you in the car…”
“I live three streets away. I can damn well walk. The air will do me good.”
I struggle to believe him. He looks weak and those noises I heard on arrival haunt me. “I hate to say it, Jack, but it bloody stinks down here. And that can’t be good for your chest. We need to clean this place a bit.”
He stares at me with a face so forlorn I wonder if he’s going to cry. He rallies and goes to fetch his coat and hat and hang away his overall. I put my shoes on and grab my bag.
“I’m walking you back. And telling Vi your neighbor to keep an eye and an ear out. No complaints. It’s that or I camp on your doorstep for the rest of your life.” I’m acting big, bad Izzy. But it’s only because he’s genuinely freaked us both.
“You’re a ruddy pain in the backside. You’re going to curse some man when he’s fool enough to marry you.”
“You taught me from the manual, Jacko. Now it’s time for my dastardly revenge.”
* * * *
“Jack, how are you today?” I’ve come in early to make sure he’s okay before work—I’ve worried since yesterday.
“I’m fine, girl. Fit as a fiddle. Just needed a good kip.” His color’s back at least. The smell of tea and fresh, hot toast covers the basement’s usual dubious odors and my belly growls an entreaty for pity. I still haven’t managed to procure a new toaster—I must correct that soon.
“You okay if I make that appointment at the doctor’s later or tomorrow?”
“Said so, didn’t I?” he answers behind his mug. “Want a slice, girl?” Jack waves a glistening golden triangle of toasted heaven and brandishes his butter knife.
“Thanks, Jack. I could murder a cuppa as well, if you don’t mind.”
He’s poured in a trice. “I can spare a crust and some super brew, girl.”
Jack’s tea is so welcome it could have its own doormat and slippers by the hearth. “Cheers, Jack. Coming to next Wednesday’s game? You can have Uncle Cyril’s seat if you fancy, I have a car space reserved? Recompense for the toast.”
Jack nods then smiles and my heart soars. His usual self has returned. And his toast and tea are back to top standard so life is good. But I do have to keep a bit more of an eye on him.
* * * *
It’s disconcerting to find Alan Collier waiting beside my classroom door before the bell rings. I don’t really know him—he’s a religious studies teacher with bad taste in footwear—sometimes sandals—and he wears half-mast trousers on a regular basis. Add warts and a leer and the guy would have the full maxi package.
Despite the fact that we’re strangers, I’ve already decided I don’t want to become acquainted. He also has a laugh like a perplexed goose—I’ve heard it in the staffroom. And his Fiat has a sticker about being 'cock-a-hoop for cocker spaniels’. In the world of football where men mince flesh before words, his dog sticker would merit a good kick in the knackers.
“Hi. Alan.”
“Yep. C’est moi.”
Close up his lips would suggest a Botox booth on a bad day. I slide my key into the lock. “How can I help?”
“I don’t know if you’re aware but I’m something of a squash Meister.”
I still can’t decipher his meaning. “Squash?” Has he earned some teaching module I need to get?
“Twenty medals and corresponding trophies—many say I should’ve been pro but the sports world’s loss is teaching’s great gain. My question is, do you play? If so, what level and how about testing compatibility sometime?”
I’ve never played squash. I never wish to. “Hit a rubber ball in a sweaty glass box? I’d rather wash in bleach and stinging nettles. To put it in first year language, FYI not happening in this lifetime.”
Alan stares at me then whips out a leather-bound notepad, unclips a pen and writes a flourish inside it. “A simple no would have sufficed. But I like the feisty fillies best.” He grins and it’s pure Cheshire cat face.
“What are you writing?”
“All will be revealed. When time holds fullest promis
e. I’m in need of a new squash partner and a life partner too.”
I can’t be bothered to ask more. My prejudices are on the money. I pity the spaniels. And their hooped cocks.
“Au revoir.”
“Same to you.” I shut the door to escape him.
* * * *
I should be marking while my second years answer comprehension under silent conditions, but I find my gaze repeatedly roving to Lydia Salter.
She’s got dark copper, straight hair and a smattering of storybook freckles. In character she’s pure teacher’s dream in an introverted package and Lydia stirs something within me. Her wide-eyed stare and nervous glances. The way her eyes meet mine then dart away like startled neon tetra fish in an aquarium.
“Lydia. You have a problem?”
“No, Miss Tennant.” Her head nears the desk as she speed writes.
There’s tittering laughter from the back corner. Lydia’s pen hares across the desk. She knows she’s the focus of the jokes. As do I.
They’re the pretty, trendy, crass mob, not that I believe in stereotypes or labels. But maybe it’s their trendcentric styling and gadget addiction. Plus the vacuous conversations overheard—not that I’m judging, much.
Lydia acts like she doesn’t care but she tucks her fear of being singled out deep as a black cobweb tattoo. I know she’s concentrating as a cover. Her ears are almost turning like transmitters.
“Did you see her shoes?”
“Do you think her dad knits her sweaters?”
“Enough.” My bark is pure Rottweiler and I stride between the desks to the cluster of conspiring girls. I’m keeping my assumptions battened down lest the smoke curls from my nostrils. “Sophie. Ellen. Heads down and more attention to your work. Final warning.”
“We weren’t doin’ nuffin’, miss.”
“My point exactly. This isn’t an oral task. It’s a written one.”
“I needed a pencil.”
“She did, miss, it’s true.”
That’s how it starts. Pinpointing an object of derision, then a slow assault of words and mind games. It’s how I got my armor. Head down, achieve and eventually develop a well-honed wit as a weapon slash diversionary tactic. Even today I disperse the negative attention with a choice barb. Use intellect to intercept. But it’s a tactic to deactivate threats. My sarcastic reactions to life are to deflect unwelcome attention. I don’t want the scrutiny on my flaws.
“Ten minutes left. Make them count,” I warn the class.
Lydia makes my heart beat fast and that old sense of panic rises—it’s not a feeling I bear easily. Like a slowly filling pool of angst, the tide of self-doubt rises. But even slow, steady drips can damage a fragile ego.
In my case, my experience of school bullying was drowning by soft but steady character destruction. It made me go into teaching. To stop it happening to others because the negativity hampered my self-belief for years.
At the end of class, I call Lydia back. “If you need someone to talk to—I promise you I can help. If you’re finding things hard to deal with.”
“It’s fine, miss. Honest,” Lydia replies with the rushed brevity of an express train flying through a station.
“If you need help, you only have to ask.”
“I’m gonna be late for art. Gotta run.”
* * * *
By break I’ve a ladder the length of the M25 running a circular route around my tights. I’d leave it but I have a particularly sinister third year boy front row this afternoon. He might notice the leg hair through the hosiery holes. It worries me that the hair could turn him on.
Fortunately Jack lets me keep a large bag of my rubbish in his lair for emergencies. I rummage in the bag while Jack takes a brief trip out to the recycling bins. There’s lady stuff, cough sweets, an inhaler or two, a lippy and eventually my wad of emergency tights. I’m pulling at my tangled hosiery when I’m shocked by a stark face staring into mine. It’s Will.
“Izzy. What the hell’s that?”
“Um… Hi.”
He is staring at the brain model of tights in my hand.
After our recent wars of words, the last thing I want to have to say to him is, 'I’m unknotting a tangle of tights. I need them for my witchcraft.’ In his book, I’m already nutter suspect numero uno.
“Nothing. What you down here for?”
Will stares more. “Could ask you the same. I’m looking for Jack Carson.”
Will is standing in the gantry of Jack’s basement that houses the cleaning equipment. He’s holding a long fluorescent tube light bulb. I seize the upper hand.
“So how many PE teachers does it take? I’d imagine at least fifty.”
He narrows his eyes. “Only one. Me hopefully. If I can get a replacement tube first.” He stares at the end bit as if looking for something.
“With that, I can assist you, sir,” Jack says, returning from his errand and appearing between us with the leap and flourish of a genie in a pantomime. “Need a hand, Mr. Darby, sir? Would that be a five-foot tube or a six? Would you like me to refresh others while I’m at it and light you up like Blackpool?”
“Five feet—this one will be great.”
“I’ll fetch it in a jiffy. May I accompany you and undertake the tube change personally?”
For a man who had a near coronary yesterday, frankly I’m irked that he’s so into Will. When we first learned of his arrival, Jack was as suspicious as me. He’s defected to Team Darby a tad too quickly for my liking.
“Happy to change it, but that’s good of you to offer,” Will confirms. I sense kindred spirits here—but Jack’s my friend and I got him first.
“It’s no trouble at all,” Jack deflects. “And may I say how nice it is to meet you at last. I sincerely hope you will enjoy your time at our fine establishment. It’s an honor to have someone of your caliber join us.” Jack sticks out a hand and Will shakes it vigorously. Jack then scurries off in search of Will’s tube.
I decide to have a few ego pokes for fun. “You should’ve let him change the others. You know you want your office floodlit like White Hart Lane. The extra light would help when you apply mascara.”
I’m feeling pretty chuffed at this point. Especially when I see his jaw tense and flex.
“I never bring my cross-dressing stuff to work. Might rip my stockings.” He looks pointedly at my tights.
Man alive, but the bugger’s trounced me with that joke.
Jack comes back looking like a puppy with a Frisbee but thankfully the tube isn’t in his mouth.
I still can’t fix the tights monkey puzzle so I shove it in my jacket pocket and bail on the Darby fan fest. I’ll talk to Jack another time, preferably once my funk’s mellowed to moderate.
“I need to get back to class. I found what I need.”
Will stares at me intently. Dark eyes, somber expression. Six and an almost half feet of unyielding all directed at me. “You make a habit of losing things, don’t you?”
“Fortunately I strap my sanity in with cable ties.”
“Just losing it generally.” His stare is black as a Halloween churchyard.
The barb hits home. In his shiny onyx tracksuit, he’s like a virile, tetchy panther in high-tech breathable fabric. I’d itch to touch but I sense there’d be static sparks. Or fisticuffs.
“There are lost causes everywhere, Will.”
“Meaning?”
“Like trying for a sensible conversation with you.”
“Or listening to replies. You don’t listen. Too busy claiming striker status.”
“Like my team. Natural talent rises.”
“Aiming for kicks in the goal mouth without teamwork will eventually run you out.”
His comment hits home but I’m not about to concede. “Point taken. Speedy goals were never your strong suit.”
“I think we need to get back to work,” Jack interrupts.
While standing here in these tights, my own allure already drank twenty shots and cried a river
of its own mascara. His confidence and distinct lack of empathy jar. He’s tagged me as a harridan. Can’t he see below my bluster? He thinks I’m that hard? Am I that bad?
I’ve had enough. Nice to know I’m public enemy number one and Will’s not even seen out his first week yet.
“Let’s mark this one down as a nil-nil draw,” Will tells me.
“Something you were used to.”
“Do you ever pack it in?” His tone is iced steel.
Jack stares at me, shocked. His glare’s so hard I know he’s disappointed. But Will Darby riles me more. Am I worse than I even realize?
“I need to go.”
“I think that’s best,” Jack answers.
We’re reading Brighton Rock. And right now I feel like I’ve hit rock bottom too.
Chapter Five
It proves to be a day of gentleman callers. As the bell rings for lunch, Tarquin the Terrible of the BBC appears at my door as the second years straggle through in a gaggle of ‘OMG’s, ‘LOL’s and ‘wicked’s.
“Any chance we could chat over a coffee? I don’t mean to intrude on your lunch but I have supplies.” He shakes a brown paper deli bag.
I have my own lunch but agree. I’m semi-impressed at his thoughtfulness. I probably would have found it harder to say yes but his friend, the cravat, has stayed home. I dread to consider that it might be one member of a cravat commune of assorted shades and fabrics. I imagine them staging a closet demonstration with ‘We Want Out’ signs.
“I thought we could perhaps sit at your desk so we’ve privacy, there are a few issues I’d like to discuss.”
I’m uncertain about what he’s keen to flesh out but I relent. “Fine.”
He smiles like he’s found a hundred-pound note in a lucky bag. “I’ve brought a raspberry tart as inducement.”
I resist the urge to clap my hands and say ‘goodie’. It’s one up from playing squash. But when he removes his jacket, I notice his trousers are higher than Blondie’s The Tide Is High today. Come back, cravat, all is forgiven.