Glasshopper

by Isabel Ashdown

  “Mary, sweetheart, it’s me.” I can hear Sandy exhaling her cigarette smoke as she speaks.

  “Sandy!” My heart’s thumping in my shirt.

  “Hello, love. So? How’s your first day of freedom? Feels good, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s weird, to be honest. Quiet. What are you up to?” The telephone needs a good clean, there’s dirt and dust caught up in each of the number holes.

  “Not much. I take it Billy’s at work? I was thinking, how about you and me go out for lunch and a drink. Just a little celebration, now all the boys are at school. What d’you think? I could call for you at twelve, and we’ll go down the Oak for scampi ’n’ chips. And a G and T? How about it, love?”

  I pause, running my hands through my hair, trying to see my reflection in the glass of the living room window. “I’m not sure, Sandy. I mean, I’ll have to pick them up just after three o’clock. And the house is a state.”

  “Live a little!” she shouts, coughing up her cigarette. “Come on, love, an hour can’t kill you, can it?”

  I pause, still uncertain. It doesn’t seem right.

  “Mary? I’m not taking no for an answer. I’ll call for you at twelve. See you then, sweetheart.”

  I hang up, and straighten the curtains beside the telephone, pushing the notepad and pen pot to the edges of the window sill so that they’re at straight angles.

  Lovely Sandy. The first time we met she said, “God, you’re posh, aren’t you? Well, I don’t mind that. You’re alright, you are.” And that was that.

  The clock says ten, and I get to work with the Hoover. I press it into every corner, even moving furniture to get underneath. When I enter the kitchen, the sight of the rolled-back lino startles me, and I scrabble around on my hands and knees, trying to ease it back into the corners. But of course it won’t go back. There are blisters and dips where I tugged and twisted it. I run the bubbles high in the sink, and speed through the breakfast dishes, and wash down the surfaces. I think about a cup of tea, but I don’t really have time. The twin tub ran a wash last night. I spin it and put it into the laundry basket, opening the back door to check the sky. It’s still clear and bright, with a gentle breeze. The washing line runs diagonally across the small courtyard, to make the most drying space. I select the items of laundry carefully, hanging them from small to large; smallest close to the house, largest at the furthest end of the line. That usually means it goes Andy’s, Jake’s, Matthew’s, mine, then Billy’s things. Today, the clothes fit exactly from one end to the other, with not a space remaining, not an item left over. I stand back, admiring my handiwork. With luck, they’ll be dry by teatime.

  By the time I’ve bleached the loo and straightened the beds, I’ve got half an hour before Sandy arrives. I open my wardrobe, and search through the contents. I pull out an old minidress, hold it up, put it back. It’s just lunch. My white slacks should do, with my favourite silk ruffle shirt, sunset orange. I stand in front of the wardrobe mirror and brush my long dark hair. “Hair of a goddess”, Billy once described it when we first met. “My goddess,” he’d said proudly. If I brush it one hundred times, it still shines heavy and sleek, all the way down my back. “It needs a bloody good cut,” he said last week when I asked if I should wear it up or down. He laughed, like it was a good joke.

  I pick out some chunky bangles and poppet beads and study my reflection from different angles, trying to catch how others might see me. The doorbell rings. “You’ll do,” I say to the woman in the mirror, and I run down the stairs to let Sandy in.

  Jake, June 1985

  For the summer term parents’ evening, the teachers encourage both parents to come along with their child, so it can be a ‘two-way dialogue’. We’ve never managed both parents yet, but still, it’s usually an embarrassing few hours, listening to the teachers talk about you like you’re not there.

  “Do I look alright?” asks Mum, as we’re all getting ready to leave. She’s wearing a skirt and a white blouse.

  “You look like a secretary,” I say.

  “He’s right,” says Dad, barely looking up, his foot up on the armchair as he ties his laces.

  “Well, I don’t know what I’m meant to wear! I want us to make a good impression. It’s important, Jake, now that we’re all back together. We’ve got to take this seriously.” She runs up the stairs in her bare feet, and we hear her rummaging about in her bedroom.

  Dad looks over at me. “She missed the last one, didn’t she? She’s just a bit nervous.”

  I’m still in my school uniform, so all I need to do is wash my hands and face, and check there’s nothing spilt down the front of my shirt. All fine.

  Andy’s school has theirs on a different day, so after tea he goes off to Ronny’s and we set off for the school. Mum settled for trousers with the white shirt, which is more her, and Dad has gone the whole hog and put his grey suit on. He’s only got one suit, and it does him for funerals, weddings, christenings, and now, parents’ evenings.

  “You look nice, love,” says Dad, as he pulls the door shut behind us. Mum doesn’t seem to hear.

  “So, Jakey, anything we need to know about before we get there?” she asks.

  “Like what?” I say, thinking it’s some kind of trick question.

  “You know, things that are going well, things that are not so good. Any trouble you’ve had. I just want to be prepared.”

  I think hard. School’s just a place I go to each day, in between home and holidays. I’ve never really given it much thought.

  “No, it’s all fine,” I reply. “I can’t think of anything special.”

  “That’s good,” she says, looking into the distance.

  The walk to school takes about ten minutes, and when we get to the gates, Mum pulls out her appointment slip to double check the time. We’re twenty minutes early, and we follow the arrows that point to the gym, where the teachers are set up behind single tables, piled with report cards and pencils and pads. Each table has a sign along the front showing the teacher’s name and subject. You can still hear the squeak of plimsolls on the gym floor, and smell the sweat of decades of school kids. The ropes are secured against the monkey bars along the wall, and all the benches and equipment have been cleared away. The gym is a hive of noise, as parents and kids wander about, looking for their next teacher and checking their watches. They all carry different expressions: worried, amused, annoyed, beaming with pride, bored. One girl I see is crying into her hanky. I don’t know why; it’s Sally Jones and she usually gets A’s for everything. Maybe she just found out she got a B.

  You have to start off with your form tutor, then carry on round the gym, through all your subject teachers in the order given on the appointment slip.

  “We’ve got time to kill,” says Dad. “Let’s go round and work out where all your teachers are now. Save time later.”

  “There’s no rush, Bill,” says Mum. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Still, won’t hurt,” he says. He marches ahead of us, scribbling on the card as he finds the teachers on the list. Mr Thomas: row 3, 2 down. Miss Terry: row 5, top.

  Mum’s starting to look distracted, and she keeps checking her watch to make sure we’re not late for the first appointment.

  “I think we should make our way over to Mr Thomas, now,” she says. “It’s five minutes to five.”

  Dad nods, consults his list, and leads the way. Looks like his system works.

  When we get to Mr Thomas, there are three families ahead of us in the line. The woman in front must be Edward Hampton’s mum, because he’s standing next to her looking really grumpy. He nods at me, and I nod back.

  “What’s the delay?” Dad asks her.

  “Oh, they always keep you waiting at these things,” Mrs Hampton replies. “We’ll be lucky to get out of here before midnight!” She smiles at Dad in a twinkling way, then sees Mum nodding, and turns away, flustered.

  Edward’s got his hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders slumped forwards. He�
�s usually in trouble, so I guess he’s not looking forward to this.

  “I need the loo,” says Mum, suddenly. Her face is a bit shiny, and she looks really agitated. “Where do I go, Jake?”

  I look around the gym, and see that they’ve put up handwritten “Ladies” and “Gents” signs, pointing into the changing rooms.

  “Over there, Mum. It’s the girls’ changing rooms. Want me to come over and wait for you?”

  She shakes her head, and disappears through the crowd, clutching her handbag.

  By the time we get to Mr Thomas, we’ve been in the queue for fifteen minutes. Dad’s frowning and Mum is daydreaming when he calls us up.

  “So,” he says, gesturing for us to take a seat. “So, Jake.” He sifts through his papers, then looks up over his half moon glasses, eyeing first me, then Mum, then Dad. “Nice lad. Quiet. Never gives us a moment’s trouble. Seems to get on with all the other pupils, doesn’t appear to be in with any particular group. Which isn’t a bad thing. But his work, in general, is unremarkable.”

  Mum and Dad look at each other, slightly confused. “Go on,” says Dad.

  “Well,” says Mr Thomas, taking his glasses off altogether. His eyes look really old and crêpey. “I can tell he’s a bright lad. And he’s very articulate if you get into one to one conversation. But he’s a dreamer, off in his own world a lot of the time. And I’m afraid it shows in his marks. Mostly C’s, a smattering of D’s.”

  My throat’s gone dry, as I realise how this evening’s going to go.

  “However, he does perform well in two areas: Classics and Art. Miss Terry has written a glowing report on Jake’s performance in her Classics classes, where it would seem he’s her star pupil.” He smiles at me, and I blush hotly. “And Art. Well, yes, very good.”

  “What about music?” asks Dad. “He’s very keen on music.”

  “D,” says Mr Thomas.

  “Woodwork?”

  “C.”

  We finish with Mr Thomas and rise to leave.

  “Nice lad, though,” he says, and he shakes my dad by the hand.

  We walk away, and I’m waiting for someone else to speak first. In the end it’s me who breaks the silence.

  “Can we get a drink? The PTA’s selling drinks down at the front of the gym. And biscuits.”

  Dad nods, and we go over and get coffee for them, squash and a shortbread biscuit for me.

  “So, Maths next,” says Dad, after we’ve finished our drinks in a bubble of quiet, and we head off to the top end of the gym for my next humiliation.

  About an hour in, we arrive at Miss Terry’s table. Classics and English, her label says, although I only have her for Classics. She leaps up and invites us to sit down. She looks pink-cheeked, like she does when she’s talking about something really exciting in class, like the slaying of the Minotaur or the fearsome Gorgons.

  “Mr and Mrs Andrews, lovely to meet you at last. Hello, Jake.” She seems much more grown up than usual, and her fingers fiddle with the pencil on the table in front of her. “What can I tell you about Jake? Well, he’s my top pupil, straight A’s all the way through the year. He seems to love the subject, and his essays have been so mature, so insightful, that at times it’s a wonder he’s only thirteen.”

  “Fourteen,” I correct her. I can barely meet her eyes, and I concentrate on the sign that hangs off the front of the table, flicking at the corner of it with my fingernail.

  “Oh. Of course, fourteen. Anyway, I’ve brought some of his coursework along to show you. Look at these beautiful illustrations. He just always goes the extra mile.” She smiles at me proudly, and her green eyes blink heavily, once, in slow motion.

  “But he’s all C’s and D’s in everything else,” says Dad.

  “Well, I find it hard to believe. Jake’s got a lot of potential as far as I can see. And he’s a lovely boy. You should be very proud.” She doesn’t look at me, but keeps her eyes fixed on Mum and Dad.

  “We are,” says Mum, her eyes welling up.

  I grab her sleeve to leave, before she embarrasses me. Dad gives Miss Terry a broad, white smile and shakes her hand, which seems to get her a bit flustered. I’m sure she’s blushing. She smiles back at Dad, then at Mum.

  “I can see why you do so well in that lesson, Jakey boy,” he says, conspiratorially, nudging me as we go.

  I warn him off with a stare, and fight the redness creeping up my face. “Dirty old git,” I mutter back.

  He pokes me in the ribs and makes me yell, so that Mum has to glare at us both as we head for the exit. When we get outside we laugh like kids who’ve been thrown out of class. I’ve almost forgotten about all of the crap stuff we’ve just heard about my school work.

  “So, how d’you think that went then, Jakey?” asks Dad, as we walk back towards home.

  “Dunno,” I answer, head down, kicking at a stone along the path.

  Mum puts her arm round my shoulder. “You’re doing fine, darling,” she says. “Every one of those teachers said you were a nice boy, and that’s worth more than a hundred straight A’s in my book. And it looks like you take after me, with Art.”

  “Were you good at Art?” I ask. I’ve never seen her draw or paint at home.

  “Used to be,” she smiles, wistfully. “Once upon a time.”

  “But you could do better, in your academic subjects, Jake,” says Dad. “Art’s not going to get you a job, after all.”

  Mum ignores him, and squeezes my shoulder.

  “Do what you like, Jake. Follow your heart. And don’t let anyone sway you off course. You’re a fine boy. A fine, fine boy.”

  Dad looks away, and we walk the rest of the way home in silence.

  I’ve got this Saturday off work, and I’m going into town with Mum and Dad to buy my midi system. Andy’s got another Scout day, so it’s just me and them. He’s trying to earn his ‘Citizenship’ badge, whatever that is. As they finish up their breakfast downstairs, I’m getting dressed, pulling on George’s black top, as it’s the only piece of cool clothing I own. I kneel at the bed and open up my Secret Literature money box, carefully counting out the notes and coins inside, before transferring them into my wallet. I’ve easily got enough for a decent system, plus a couple of albums. Might even have enough for a new T-shirt if I’m lucky. I push the empty money box back into its new hiding place behind the chest of drawers.

  “Come on, Jake, darling. Let’s get going!” Mum calls me from the bottom of the stairs, and I hurry down to join them as they go out the front door into the bright June sunshine.

  On the walk into town Dad tells me about some of the bands he used to listen to when he was my age.

  “Of course, music didn’t really come to life until the late fifties – but that was my time. Can you imagine it, a young man on the brink of independence – and rock ’n’ roll explodes out of nowhere! Kids used to listen to what their parents listened to before then. And it was all up from there – Buddy Holly and the Crickets, the Stones. Used to head up to London as much as we could, me and a couple of mates, trying to get into the music clubs around town. The buzz! It was another world back then. Of course, that’s where I met your mum, London.”

  He puts his hand on the small of her back, and she smiles at me.

  “Who was it you used to listen to all the time, love?”

  “Joni Mitchell?”

  “Joni Mitchell, that’s it. Real hippy stuff. But still, not bad.” Dad stuffs his hands into his pockets, with a distant look on his face.

  “George reckons Dixons might be a good place to find a midi system,” I say.

  “Yep, well let’s shop around a bit before we decide? You want to get the best value.”

  Town’s only a twenty-minute walk from home, and when we get there Mum says she could do with a cup of tea before we start shopping. I’m itching to get going, but she says I can choose a cake if I’m patient.

  We go into the Baker’s Dozen, and find a seat near the window. Dad gives Mum a fiver, and she queu
es up for our drinks. I look out of the window to Currys across the road, hoping we’ll have enough time to find my midi system. At that moment, Malcolm and Stu come round the corner, straight through the door of the Baker’s Dozen.

  “Malc!” I call out, to catch their attention before they walk past our table without noticing us.

  “Alright, Bill, mate,” says Stu, looking really pleased to see us. “What’re you up to?”

  Dad stands up and he and Stu shake hands.

  “Shopping for this young man,” says Dad, giving me a nudge.

  Malcom sits down in a plastic seat next to me.

  “I’m buying a midi system,” I tell him.

  “What sort?” says Malc. “I’ve got one and it’s crap. Don’t get a Matsui whatever you do.”

  “How much was yours, then?” I ask.

  “Dunno. Mum and Phil bought it for me. They should’ve let me choose my own.”

  “That’s what I thought, so I’ve been saving for ages. But I reckon I’ve got enough for a good one now.”

  Dad and Stu are talking about the football game on TV last night, and I notice how craggy Stu looks. Too many late nights with her, no doubt.

  “So, you meeting up with Gypsy, then?” I ask Malc.

  He pulls a face, and talks in a whisper. “No fuckin’ chance. Not that cow.”

  “Why?”

  “Tried to turn him against me.” He nods his head towards Stu. “Wanted him to herself all the time, so come Saturdays, he couldn’t always have me over. My mum went ballistic. Anyway, she buggered off – no goodbye, just packed her stuff and went. Good riddance, I say.” Malcolm’s looking shiftily at his dad to make sure he hasn’t heard any of this. He lowers his voice again. “She hated me. Mind you, the feeling’s mutual.”

  “So, just the two of you is it?” says Stu, looking like he’s about to sit down.

  “No, Mum’s here too,” I say, nodding towards Mum who’s paid for the drinks at the far end, and has paused to pick up spoons and sugar on her way back over.