by Daniel Hurst
I look down at my daughter as we cross the playground, but she is happy to keep her own eyes on the concrete. I know that she will be feeling uncomfortable about having her mum walking with her into school, but I need her to show me where to go. I used to know this place like the back of my hand, but that was before it burnt down. Now I have no idea how to navigate my way around this school.
I’ve been inside a couple of times for parents’ evenings, and that showed me how much has changed since I was a pupil here. Gone are the drab narrow corridors and claustrophobic classrooms and in their place are spacious and colourful rooms, all of which are now unfamiliar to me and anybody my age who once attended this very place themselves. I used to know all the shortcuts to get to where I needed to be, but now I’m as lost as any student starting on their first day here. All the rooms that used to hold so many memories for me have gone; replaced by rooms that look nicer but blank me with their unfamiliarity. There’s no doubt that things have improved around here since I was in attendance and I’m glad that Michael and Bella don’t have to freeze like I did through another long winter in a place that had a broken heating system. But it does feel strange to be treading on land that I walked over so many times before yet have absolutely no idea where I’m going.
‘The staff room is just down there,’ Bella says to me after we have gone through one of the entrance doors and found ourselves standing in a busy corridor.
I look down at the blue door at the end of the corridor and see a middle-aged man going through it behind a sea of uniforms who rush around with much more vigour and youth than that older figure possesses.
‘Mrs Samson will be in there?’ I ask my daughter, taking her word for it because I don’t have much choice.
‘I guess. Where else would she be?’ Bella replies, and I take that as my cue to let her go before she feels too embarrassed to be standing beside me anymore.
‘Okay, have a good day and we’ll chat tonight,’ I say to my daughter but she is already walking away and is quickly swallowed up by the bustling crowd of students within seconds.
Heading for the staff room at the end of the corridor, I can’t help but notice all the strange looks I am getting from some of the kids that I am passing. None of them recognise me, and they are probably wondering if I’m going to be the next teacher to try and control them. Thank God I’m not. Judging by the behaviour of some of these kids, they require some serious taming. But that is a job for somebody far more patient than me.
I reach the door and hesitate for a moment before knocking on it. That delay gives the person on the other side of it the chance to open it themselves, and I am now face to face with a handsome but harassed secondary school teacher.
‘Oh, hello,’ he says when he notices me loitering outside the room that I shouldn’t be anywhere near.
‘Hi, erm, is Mrs Samson in there?’ I ask, feeling like a nervous schoolgirl now that I am back in the presence of teachers and classrooms.
‘Yeah. Sorry, you are?’
‘I’m Amy. Bella Lever’s mum. Mrs Samson is her form tutor.’
‘Oh, right. Okay. One second.’
He pokes his head back in the door, and I hear him call out the name Sheila before he turns back to me with a smile.
‘She’ll be right out.’
‘Thank you,’ I say as I watch him rush away into the crowded corridor and off to start what will presumably be another long and tortuous day teaching the local youth.
As I wait for Mrs Samson to come out, or Sheila Samson as I have now learnt her full name to be, I think about how I can’t wait to get back home this morning. Aside from this unexpected situation with Bella, last night ended up being pretty good. Nick and I were intimate for the first time in forever, and it was great. Even better than great, actually. It was fantastic. I’m not sure what had gotten into him, but all I know is that he certainly took my mind off my silly thoughts about Petra. Of course, with my brain being the way that it is, I did have one moment of paranoia in thinking that Nick might have been imagining her when he was on top of me, but I dismissed that for the nonsense that it is. My anxiety is always trying to find drama where there isn’t any. Instead, it is time to focus on what is real. Bella needs my help now, and I am going to sort this out with her teacher. Then I am going to go home and get the house tidy. Then I’ll be back here to pick the kids up at half three. And then finally it will be the weekend, and I’ll spend most of my time cooking, cleaning and trying to find ways to entertain my family.
That’s just what mums do. There’s no need to complicate things with silly thoughts and worries.
No need at all.
24
NICK
I know I shouldn’t feel bad. It’s just what men do. I don’t need to overcomplicate it.
So why do I keep thinking about it?
I recline in my chair, putting a little more distance between myself and the work that I haven’t been able to concentrate on all morning. The reason for my lack of focus today is because of what happened last night. Amy and I were physical for the first time in a long time. But that’s not the problem.
The problem is that I was thinking of Petra the whole time.
That in itself is probably no big deal. I’m sure Amy has imagined me as some hunky Hollywood actor over the years when we have been in bed, and that doesn’t bother me one bit. I guess the difference is that the person I imagined myself being with is somebody who is actually a part of our lives. There’s not much chance of Amy having a flirty chat with an A-list celebrity at our house, but how would I feel if she imagined herself with somebody who I know? I’m sure that I would feel pretty bad. That’s how I know Amy would hate the fact that I was thinking of my son’s tutor when I was in bed with her last night.
Fortunately, there is no way she is going to find out. My wife is capable of many things, but mind reading is not one of them. That’s lucky or I’d probably be out on the street right now and begging to be let back inside. But the fact that Amy doesn’t know that my mind wandered onto Petra doesn’t mean I am absolved of all guilt. I feel troubled that I am thinking of Michael’s tutor in this way. It’s undoubtedly going to make me feel even more awkward when she comes for the next lesson, and I have to make small talk as if I didn’t just imagine her like that.
The best way to avoid any more thoughts about her is for me to stay hidden away when she is here. I’ll keep the study door closed and my mind on my work. Trying to decode a bug in a client’s software is a sure-fire way to stop me thinking naughty thoughts.
But I don’t want to hide away in here like some awkward teenager. This is my house; I should feel comfortable to be here no matter what. But that’s not the real reason I would rather not lock myself away when Petra is around.
The real reason is that I know I will enjoy seeing her again.
Giving up on work for the moment, I leave my study and head for the fridge, deciding that food might offer a better distraction for me at this moment. I pull open the door and find the leftovers from last night’s dinner. Lasagne. I don’t bother reheating it.
As I tuck into the tasty dish, I decide that I will make sure that I am out of the house when Petra comes round to teach Michael. I’ll go for a jog. It doesn’t matter that I haven’t been for a run in years. It’s time to get back into the habit. I’ll have to have a few practise runs first if I’m going to be able to last the time while Petra is around, but it will be worth it.
If I am out of the house, then I won’t see her. If I don’t see her, then I won’t be attracted to her. And if I’m not attracted to her, then the image of her beauty will fade in my mind, and I won’t find myself thinking about her when I am with Amy again.
See, I’m not such a bad husband after all. I am removing myself from a situation that could potentially be hazardous to my marriage. Not that anything would ever happen between the tutor and me. There’s no chance of that.
No way.
But this will ensure it. Now we w
on’t have any more little chats on the driveway. Now she won’t smile at my jokes or touch my arm. And now I won’t end up thinking about her instead of the woman that I am married to.
I’ve soon finished the lasagne, but I regret not heating it up. Maybe it would have been nicer that way. Oh well, it’s no big deal. There are worse things to have regrets about.
Much worse.
25
AMY
I’m glad I was able to speak to Bella’s form tutor. Mrs Samson is a pleasant woman, and she has assured me that she will have a word with the pupil in question and make sure that the teasing of my daughter stops before it gets any worse.
With my motherly duties taken care of for now at least, I am back home and having a little me time before they start all over again. I’m lying on the bed with a slice of cucumber over my eyes in an attempt to reduce the puffiness around them. This is something that I have unfortunately been forced to start doing now that I’m finding that my skin isn’t as forgiving as it used to be. I used to laugh at the idea of women putting pieces of fruit on their face to make themselves look more youthful, but that was when I was young and enjoyed my skin’s elasticity. Now I’ve hit forty, I’m falling into line like the rest of the middle-aged women out there.
I take a deep breath and tell myself that I will give it another five minutes before removing the green circles and rushing to the mirror to see if they have performed miracles on my tired face. But then I hear the sound of my husband in the downstairs hallway.
‘I’m just going for a run!’
I remove one of the cucumbers and open a watery eye. Did I just hear him right? Did my husband say that he is going to go for a run? That would be the first time he’s been for one all year. Maybe I’m not the only one grappling with my ageing body.
I remove the second cucumber and get up off the bed, calling it quits on my beauty regime to go and investigate my husband’s attempts at his own. He doesn’t miss a chance to tease me about my futile endeavours to stay young, so I’m not about to miss my chance to do the same to him.
‘Did you say a run?’ I ask as I look down the stairs and see my husband stretching by the front door. I recognise the clothes he is wearing from the last time he went for a jog, which was a long time ago because those same clothes have been lying at the bottom of the wardrobe in the spare bedroom for as long as I can remember. But he is wearing them now, and he has his trainers on too.
It really does look like he is going for a run.
‘I just fancied it,’ he says as he leans on the wall and lunges forward, activating muscles in his legs that have been dormant for as long as some volcanoes.
‘I’m impressed,’ I reply as I head down the stairs towards him. ‘I thought your running days were over.’
‘I figured I better get back into it,’ Nick says as he switches legs and lunges again. ‘If I spend any more time in that study, I think I’ll morph into the desk.’
‘How long are you going to be?’ I ask, not because I need him back home anytime soon but rather because I’m worried about him overdoing it and being unable to walk for the upcoming weekend.
‘Not long, just half an hour or so,’ he replies, and he turns to the doorway, seemingly warmed up and ready to hit the tarmac.
‘Okay, be careful,’ I say as he opens the door. ‘And don’t pull anything.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ he replies, flashing me a smile before stepping outside and closing the door behind him.
The silence in the house is welcome, and I have learnt to appreciate it when I get it. It will be over before I know it. Between Bella’s music, Michael’s video games and Nick’s penchant for slamming doors, there aren’t many times in my day when this house is quiet. But it is right now, and it is bliss.
I move through my peaceful home and reach the kitchen, where I head for the fridge with my heart set on having some of that leftover lasagne that I know is in there on the second shelf. But I’m disappointed when I see that there is no sign of it inside. Nick must have had it. Maybe that’s why he’s gone for a run.
The little pig scoffed the whole thing.
I close the fridge door, smirking at my husband’s appetite. I don’t mind really. It’s probably for the best. I’d only have ended up eating most of it myself, and then I would have felt guilty all day. There isn’t much point putting fruit on my eyes if I’m putting everything else in my belly.
I’m just about to start unloading the dishwasher when I remember that I wanted to look at something that one of my friends had been talking about in our WhatsApp group the other day. She had told me about this new holiday website that has some fantastic offers on, and she and her husband had just booked a twelve-night stay in Tenerife for a crazily low price. I’d been meaning to go online and have a look but haven’t got around to it yet. Maybe now is my chance.
My own laptop is upstairs by my bed, but I decide that I can’t be bothered to walk that far, so I go into Nick’s study instead. I don’t use his laptop much, but I know that it is a lot quicker than the ancient relic that I have as a personal device and I can’t be bothered to sit and wait for ten minutes while it loads up. I’ll just pop online on his while he is out running and see if I can spot any bargains for our summer holiday this year. He won’t mind me using it, and he certainly won’t mind if I tell him that I have found us a cheap deal to get some much-needed sun.
I sit down in his comfy office chair and enter the password on his laptop. It’s the same one he uses for everything else. AMB1996. The first letter of my name, his two children’s names and the year that we got together. He’s such a sweetheart.
Or at least I thought he was.
I’ve just clicked on the tab to open up Google and start hunting for holidays, but it has brought up a page that he must have already had open instead. I recognise it instantly because I was on the same page myself not so long ago.
I see the blonde hair. I see the blue eyes. And I see that annoyingly perfect smile.
This is Petra’s Facebook page.
Why is my husband looking at this?
THE SIXTH LESSON
Nobody believed her when she said she didn’t do it. And why would they? The evidence was damning. She had been seen at the school that night. An empty jerry can had been found near the burnt school with her parent’s address on. And her parents admitted their daughter was out that night, which meant she had no alibi.
She had to have done it.
Who else could it have been?
The police were convinced, which is why they refused to let her go until they got a confession. She never offered one of course, but under pressure to solve the serious crime, the evidence they did have was used against her.
It wasn’t just the police who were confident that they had the guilty person. The public were too. The local newspaper was assured enough about the future conviction to put the perpetrator’s face all over its front pages. The fire was big news. It wasn’t every day that a whole school got burnt to the ground and it wasn’t every day that an upstanding member of society burned along with it.
The interview room at that police station was an uncomfortable and trying place, but it wasn’t much better than what would have been waiting for that poor girl if she had been on the outside. She was already the most hated person in town, and the punishment from the police was the least of her worries. Death threats had been posted through the letterbox of her parents’ house, the same house that had been bombarded with insults and accusations, not to mention eggs, waterbombs and even bricks. It was clear that the family would have to leave the area when all of this was over, whenever that might be. But there were those for whom it would never be over. They had lost so much in the fire that nothing could ever make things right again.
It really was a terrible time for everyone in the town. But it was worst for the teenage girl sitting opposite the police offers in that interview room. She was hated, she was vilified, and she was condemned.
She was
also completely innocent.
The sixth lesson is don’t believe everything you read in the papers.
26
MICHAEL
This lesson has been a little different from the first couple. That’s because we’re over half an hour in and Petra hasn’t even asked me a question yet. The textbooks are still closed, and I haven’t learnt a thing. Not that I’m complaining. How could I? I’m being quizzed about my personal life by a stunning Swede. This is much better than discussing probabilities.
So far, Petra has asked me about myself, which makes a change from how she had been during our first lesson when she had been all about studying. I guess she has relaxed a little now that she feels like she has impressed my parents enough to prove that she is the right person for the job. She probably thinks that I have been reporting back to them after our sessions together with feedback on how things are going and how much I’m learning. But I’m not. Not really. Mum and Dad ask me how it is going, and I say it’s good, but I’m not talking about the work. I’m talking about the fact that I get to sit with a woman like this for two hours.
Petra could never ask me another Maths question again, and I would still tell my parents that she was the best teacher I have ever had. But today it is me that is doing the teaching and her doing the learning. Petra wants to know as much about me as possible, and I’m only too happy to tell her.
‘So you play a lot of video games?’ she asks me with one of her elbows leaning on the cover of the GCSE Maths textbook.
‘Yeah, loads,’ I reply, perhaps a little too quickly. ‘I mean not loads, just now and again.’
I don’t want to come off as some hermit who sits in his bedroom all day and only interacts with a games console. It’s hardly going to be attractive to her, even if that is all I do.