by Janey Fraser
Joe laughed. Lynette was an English teacher and a stickler for grammar, but somehow the boys always took her on-the-spot lessons in good heart, and also managed to lead healthy lives on Facebook. He liked to think he might have been that sort of parent.
‘Now come on in.’ Lynette draped an arm round him briefly and took him into the kitchen. ‘Mike will be back soon after his staff meeting. You look as though you could do with a drink. OK, boys. Uncle Joe will be outside in a few minutes and then we can all go down to the beach.’
The seaside was definitely the place to bring up kids, thought Joe, as he walked along the shingle with his godsons and their hyperactive red setter. It wasn’t just that they learned so much about rock formations and tides and moons; they were healthy and enthusiastic and not world-weary or phone-crazy, like so many of ‘his’ London kids had been.
He and Mike had played football with them in the surf and then Lynette had hung back with him and, in her usual quiet way, asked him about what was going on in his life. Somehow he’d found himself telling her that perhaps he’d been a bit sharp with Gemma, the acting head of the playgroup, and that some of the kids in his class were really pretty dim. Then he told her about the bright South American boy who had revolutionised his lesson the other day.
‘Sounds like you taught on your feet,’ commented Lynette, tossing her hair back in the wind. ‘Mike always said you’d be a good teacher.’
Joe felt a lump in his throat. ‘Actually, I’m not sure that I am. My predecessor seems to have been such a hero in everyone’s eyes that I don’t think I stand a chance of matching up to him.’
Lynette’s eyes softened. ‘I can see that. But unless I’m mistaken, there’s something else wrong as well, isn’t there?’
His friends knew him so well: at times it comforted him, and at others, it made him feel vulnerable. ‘You’re right.’ He kicked a pebble in front of him. ‘Much as I hate to admit it, I feel knackered all the time. It’s not just the teaching, which, as you two have always pointed out, is much more exhausting than many people realise. It’s the commuting too. My journey’s a real killer.’
So then Lynette made two suggestions. The first – renting a flat nearer school during the week – seemed to make quite good sense. As for the second, he’d just have to think about it.
Later that night, after a delicious supper of spaghetti bolognese around the kitchen table, Joe flopped down on the ancient, oh-so-cosy duck-blue Laura Ashley sofa with its slightly worn arms which somehow seemed comforting rather than shabby, while Mike and Lynette put the boys to bed. His eyes fell on one of the last pictures of him and Ed, still sitting on the pine dresser next to the photos of them all at different stages of their lives, from uni onwards.
‘Are you two still in touch?’ Mike’s voice cut in suddenly as he came down the stairs.
Quickly Joe looked away from the photo. ‘Only about practicalities. What about you?’
Mike shrugged. ‘We’ve had a couple of phone calls.’
Joe wanted to ask what about, but pride prevented him.
‘Does this new life of yours,’ asked Mike, leaning forward confidentially, ‘help to ease the pain now? Does it make you feel stronger about whatever lies ahead?’
The last thing he wished to talk about was the dreaded F word. F for Future. But Mike’s question, which brought a lump to his throat, forced him to recall everything he had lost; so precious that it could never be recovered.
Then, for no reason at all, he suddenly recalled the girl with the designer pencil case who had finally ‘got it’, and the South American boy who had experienced so many difficulties in his short life. ‘Sometimes,’ he said quietly. ‘Sometimes.’
There was a shout from upstairs. ‘Uncle Joe, Uncle Joe. Are you going to come up now and read a bedtime story?’
Both men grinned at each other. ‘See you later,’ said Joe.
Mike nodded, and Joe was glad that he and Lynette were the only ones who knew his secret. The last thing he wanted was pity from people who didn’t know him properly.
‘I’ll have a large glass of red waiting.’
Joe shot his friend a grateful look. ‘That would be great.’ Goodness. He’d nearly forgotten. Leaping up, he headed for his overnight backpack, which contained Fraser’s birthday present. ‘Think he’ll like this?’
Anxiously, he watched Mike examine the computer game and the pencil case with its Kool Calculator.
‘Wow. These are all the rage at school.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘But I thought you said that children needed to add up for themselves instead of relying on gadgets.’
Joe shrugged. ‘Let’s just say that I’m having to be a bit more flexible than I used to be.’ Ed flashed into his head and he attempted unsuccessfully to blank the image. ‘I’m trying, Mike. I really am. But it’s hard to get rid of old habits. Really hard.’
Chapter 14
THE WEEKEND, JOE told himself on the following Monday morning, had been just what he needed. He wasn’t so sure it had been that great for Lynette, though. Even though he’d offered to help, she had insisted on giving him ‘boy time’, as she’d put it, with Mike, while she ran around after the boys and arranged the birthday beachcombing party for five of Fraser’s schoolfriends.
She was, thought Joe, exactly the kind of wife he would have liked if things had been different.
Meanwhile, today was a big one. The older class at Puddleducks was coming up to visit Reception and sit in on the school assembly. Under Brian’s regime, these visits hadn’t happened until the end of term, but in Joe’s opinion, this was too late. The pre-school needed regular visits in order to feel familiar with the school if their parents were going to be persuaded to send them there.
And here they came right now, headed – not by Gemma, he was relieved to see – but by some girl in black leggings and a rather low-cut T-shirt, who introduced herself as Bella in a decidedly plush accent. Joe noticed an engagement ring on her finger, next to the one it would normally be worn on. Maybe that accounted for her rather fed-up expression.
There were a couple of mothers too, from the looks of things. Let me do anything, one of them was saying. Anything at all to help.
‘We needed some volunteers to make up the required staff ratio,’ Bella whispered. ‘Watch out for . . .’
Too late. A tallish, very thin woman, with a spiky elfin haircut and great cheekbones, was already heading his way. ‘Mr Balls?’ She spoke in one of those twangy American accents he was familiar with from his New York meetings. ‘I’m Nancy Carter Wright. My son is coming up to your class next year. I just wondered if you had any illness in the school.’
Had he heard her correctly?
‘I’m concerned that Danny might fall sick with all these children in a rather confined space.’
One of the other Puddleducks mothers whom he already knew, as her elder daughter was in his class, began to giggle. Instantly, Joe felt sorry for and strangely protective of this owl-like woman, who was clearly distressed. Indicating that they should move away from the group, he spoke quietly. ‘Mrs Wright, may I ask if Daniel is your first child?’
‘It’s not Wright. It’s Carter Wright without a hyphen.’
‘I do apologise.’
She nodded as if in acknowledgement. ‘Yes, Danny is my first child but the reason for my question is not because I am a neurotic mother.’
Of course not.
‘It’s because I am a scientist . . . or rather I used to be. So I know about the dangers of germs spreading when you have large masses of people.’
A flash of recognition shot through Joe. An intelligent mother. Not an arty-farty one. ‘I thought of becoming a scientist myself,’ he said quietly, ‘but chose to read pure maths instead.’
Immediately he spotted a similar light of recognition in her eyes. ‘Really?’
‘Really. So, as a mathemetician, let me tell you that statistically speaking, your son is far more likely to be protected against illness by being w
ith other children than if he was wrapped in a bubble.’
The woman nodded nervously. ‘That’s what my parenting magazine says, but I still can’t help worrying.’
Joe smiled. ‘I’d feel the same if I didn’t remind myself of the numbers. You’re a scientist. You know the value of numbers. Every time you feel worried, remind yourself of the statistics.’
‘Thank you.’ The woman looked less tense. ‘That really helps.’
Joe felt a warm glow inside. ‘Not at all. Now, are we going to be seeing you at the Parents’ Social at the end of the month?’ He glanced down at her left hand, which bore a shiny wedding ring. ‘Fathers are invited too.’
The woman flushed. ‘My husband is working away at the moment but yes, I will be there.’
Working away? In the inner-city school that had frequently been a euphemism for being in prison, but out here it was more likely to mean that a father was earning megabucks in Dubai. Poor woman. Money was nothing compared with the important things in life, as he’d tried, on numerous occasions in the past, to explain to Ed.
‘Then I’ll look forward to chatting to you then.’ There was an irritating snort of laughter from the silly woman with the daughter in Year Two, who was saying something loud about ‘the new year head chatting up Danny’s mother’. He only hoped the American woman hadn’t heard. ‘Meanwhile, it looks as though assembly is about to start. Shall we take our seats?’
The assembly went well. Most of the Puddleducks children behaved themselves, apart from one excited puddle on the floor. A couple of mothers came up with ideas for the Top Ten Playgroup competition but, as he pointed out, a sponsored bowling evening didn’t really have that X Factor ring.
Later that evening, remembering Lynette’s advice, he rang up a woman who had advertised a bedsit in the local newsagent. He went to see it briefly and agreed to take it from Sunday. ‘I’ll only be there during the week,’ he’d said to the landlady, who didn’t even ask for references. Similarly he hadn’t volunteered any information on his job; if he’d said he taught at the school, she’d be bound to have a grandchild there or know someone who did, and frankly, he could do with some peace during the week. That was part of the point. As Lynette and Mike had said, it would mean that he could work a bit later and then have a bed close to hand without risking life and limb on the motorway back to London at the end of the day.
Then at the weekends, he could go back to Notting Hill and ‘our’ old haunts, as Ed used to call them. Ours. It had, he thought, to be one of the most difficult words in the English language to erase when you were no longer a couple. He could spend Saturday mornings mooching through the charity bookshops and browsing round the Portobello market. Saturday lunchtimes, he could pore over the papers in ‘their’ favourite deli; the one where you could get broccoli and Stilton soup or wraps and find a spot, hopefully in the corner, safe in the knowledge that you had your own privacy without being lonely, given the noisy chatter all around.
In the afternoons, maybe an art gallery – the Royal Academy had a new Pre-Raphaelite exhibition he wanted to see – and then perhaps a DVD or a film in Leicester Square.
In other words, all the things he used to do with Ed, except that now, he was slowly getting accustomed to doing them on his own. Meanwhile, he still had the rest of the evening to kill. Maybe this was the time to take up Lynette’s second suggestion.
Two hours later, Joe found himself parking his bike against the railings of a pretty semi-detached Victorian villa on one of the side roads on the way out of Hazelwood.
When he’d made the phone call on the spur of the moment, an hour ago, he’d been surprised when the cheery-sounding voice at the other end had invited him round.
‘Tonight?’ he had questioned.
‘No time like the present,’ the voice had replied. ‘I’ve learned to live in the moment, lad. Got the directions now? Good. You can’t miss us. There’s a large Beware of the Missus sign on the front gate. Watch out for the dodgy hinge that needs fixing.’
Joe didn’t know if he was joking or not about the sign, but now as he opened the creaky gate, clutching a gift-wrapped packet of Bourbon biscuits and bottle of whisky, he could see that it did indeed exist, although a stray piece of ivy was covering the ‘Beware’ part. The front door was at the top of a small flight of steps and he could see, through the front window, the flicker of a television screen and a maroon outline sitting on the sofa. Maroon was not a colour that Joe cared for; it reminded him of his uniform at his old school years ago, where he had shone at maths but been unable to master what was known as ‘composition’.
Did the front doorbell work? If so, it wasn’t audible. He tried the knocker instead but it made an ineffectual hollow noise. Perhaps a tap on the window? He tried that. This time, the maroon shape jumped up as though it had been shot. Oh God, thought Joe, I’ve startled him. Wishing now that he’d just waited patiently, he heard the shuffling of feet along the hall and the door opened.
Joe’s first impression was of a man who wasn’t as old as his shuffle had indicated. Although he was almost bald, he had a surprisingly youthful laugh and twinkly eyes to match, rather like a small boy who had been caught out doing something naughty. He also looked as though he had been somewhere warm from the slight tan on his cheeks, although Joe knew that was more likely to be a residue from the jaundice infection that had set in after the heart attack which could, apparently, have killed him but somehow hadn’t.
‘Joe Balls,’ the man in the maroon cardigan said, pumping his hand. ‘Nice to meet you at last. I’ve heard a lot about you.’
Joe wondered why he felt nervous. ‘All good, I hope.’
The man put his head on one side as though considering the question. ‘That depends,’ he replied.
That depends? Joe suddenly felt uneasy. Was this really, he wondered, as he followed Brian Hughes into his small front room with rather grubby lace curtains, such a good idea?
‘Thanks for the gift,’ said Brian, indicating the bottle and biscuits that Joe was still clutching. He’d forgotten about those for a minute, but clearly the older man hadn’t. ‘Very good, very good,’ he was nodding now approvingly. ‘Might not be what the doctor ordered but like the wife always used to say, a bit of what you fancy and all that!’ He twinkled again and Joe could begin to see why Brian had been so popular at school. He exuded warmth but, so Joe suspected, he could be firm when it was necessary.
‘They’d given me up for dead, you know,’ said Brian cheerily, settling himself into the larger pale blue wing chair with the cream antimacassar.
Joe had once had an uncle who had survived three strokes and was continually reminding everyone of how lucky he had been. He detected the same sort of triumph in Brian’s voice, but now he was older than he was when his uncle had been boasting, he could understand Brian’s pride. Cheating death was no mean feat, and Brian had certainly done that.
‘I could have gone back to school.’ Brian was eyeing him challengingly. ‘I told them that, even though my right side is still a bit awkward. But there was only another six months before retirement and what with Mavis having passed away two Christmases ago, I felt it was time to let a new pair of hands take over.’
He nodded in the direction of Joe’s hands, which he’d thrust into his pockets, partly because that was what he tended to do when faced with a strange situation, and partly because his chair didn’t seem very clean.
‘Mavis?’ asked Joe tentatively, wondering if this referred to a cat.
‘The wife.’
‘But the sign on the gate . . .’ He felt his voice tailing away.
‘Been there for years, it has. Mavis bought it me for our twenty-fifth. Didn’t see much point in taking it down after she passed on.’
Joe searched for something to say but fortunately Brian was talking again. ‘Now, let’s get this right. You’ve not come here to pay a courtesy visit, have you, lad? No, don’t protest.’ His eye fell on the bottle of whisky that now sat between the
m on the old-fashioned oak table with its barley-twist legs. ‘I mean, I appreciate the booze and all that, but something tells me that a man with your background – banking, wasn’t it? – doesn’t just visit an old teacher put out to grass without some kind of ulterior motive.’
This man, maroon cardigan or not, was more insightful than he’d thought. Joe looked around the room, at its 1930s dark oak mirror over the fireplace, and the row of photographs of Brian and presumably Mavis holding a small child who was probably a granddaughter. He looked at the television which stood on a rocky-looking stand, and at the sideboard which reminded him of one owned by his grandparents. And he thought that you could have so many gadgets and so many ideas to push the world forward, yet there were some things like experience that could only be bought with time, not money or bright ideas.
‘A friend of mine,’ he began, thinking back to his long talk with Lynette as they’d walked along the beach, ‘a friend of mine suggested that you might be able to help me.’
The greeny-brown eyes twinkled. ‘And how exactly might I be able to do that?’
Joe took a deep breath. ‘I think I might have got off to a wrong start with certain people at school and . . . and at the playgroup. There are also some things that I think I’m good at and some things that I’m not. So I wondered if you would be my mentor.’
There was a silence, punctuated only by the faint drone of Coronation Street from the television, which was turned down low. Brian was unwrapping the packet of Bourbons and after offering one to him, took one himself, devouring it rapidly regardless of the stray crumbs it left on his chin.
‘You have the experience, sir.’ To his surprise, Joe found his palms were sweating. ‘I’m just the new boy. So would you help me? Please?’
The following weekend Joe packed his motorbike carrier with essential clothes for his new weekly life. He’d get the other stuff – cushions and maybe a new duvet cover – in the town. It seemed odd turning up at Hazelwood on a Sunday night. As he let himself into his room with the key that his landlady had given him, he felt slightly homesick for Notting Hill until he reminded himself that when he woke up the next morning, he wouldn’t have to worry about commuting into work.