Oranges From Spain

by David Park

  In the subsequent weeks and months he watched her popularity spread through the class. There was something in her personality that the other children found attractive, an open, unassuming friendship that was offered to anyone prepared to accept it, and while she had many reasons to feel superior, there was no visible evidence of condescension. There was, too, a tomboyish quality about her that allowed her to participate in games that the boys had previously considered exclusively theirs, and while everything had originally suggested that the girl would be an outsider, her very differences admitted her to the heart of the class. He himself found his attention increasingly returning to her, and at first dismissed it as mere curiosity. Often, from the classroom window, he watched her in the centre of a cluster of children, and wondered about the discussion that was taking place. Once, in an empty classroom at lunchtime, he found himself surreptitiously examining her possessions, handling her pencil case, touching the pens and pencils, and looking at the contents of her schoolbag, until the sound of feet in the corridor made him start guiltily away. At other times, resentment against her led him to a deliberate neglect of her work and almost of her very presence.

  Nevertheless, there were many occasions when her talents became the focal point of the class, and he felt himself relegated to the role of a spectator in his own class. One wet Tuesday afternoon, the class had gone to the central hall for their weekly recorder lesson, a chore that he disliked intensely. Usually, he managed to palm it off to some of the younger women who had a musical bent, but the tightness of Elliot’s curriculum had prevented that escape route. He had only a perfunctory knowledge of the mechanics of music, and no particular love for it, but he got by as best he could. On that day, he had been bored and restless, glad of any diversion, when he remembered reading somewhere that his new pupil had an aptitude for music and, with illdisguised condescension, asked her if she would like to play for them. She hesitated, but he coaxed her with gentle sarcasm.

  ‘I’m sure we’d all like to hear you play.’

  She wasn’t sure. The rest of the class fidgeted nervously, torn between a desire to hear her play, and a fear that their friend might be about to walk into some kind of trap. Then, her decision made, she handed her recorder to the safe-keeping of Susan Walker and opened the lid of the piano. He fetched a chair for her and instructed the class to sit on the floor. She stood at the yellowing keys for a second, then turned to face him.

  ‘What would you like me to play, Mr Andrews?’

  The class turned and looked at him with one face. Somehow, he felt his control of the situation slipping a little, and he responded defensively with more sarcasm.

  ‘I’m sure, Lysandra, you have an extensive repertoire. Why don’t you select any piece you consider appropriate?’

  Turning back to the keys, she gently felt them with her fingers, as if practising the movements her hands would make, shuffled the chair closer to the piano and made herself comfortable. He went and stood at the back of the class where he could see everyone without them seeing him, and when she looked down at him, silently asking if she should start, he nodded his head. He had never heard the school piano played in such a way – it seemed different under her touch. Gone was the old, creaking heaviness that orchestrated each morning’s assembly, and in its place danced a light-fingered richness of texture and tone that seemed to fill the hall and touch each of the listening children. It washed over them like sunlight and lit up the wooden floor, the faded curtains on the stage, the bamboo hoops and wooden benches, the wooden skittles standing listening in a silent corner. It slipped out an open window and circled the empty playground until the notes fragmented and dissolved in the rain. He stood and listened as the music washed over him, and for a second he closed his eyes against it. In the darkness of his memory, he saw a boy alone on a beach, skimming stones against the white-curled waves, watching the flat stone wing its way through the serried blackness. He felt again the cold smoothness of the stone in his hand and heard the mocking calls of the watching gulls winging above his head. Then there was silence and in his ears he could hear nothing but rain beating against the windows of the hall. She had finished, and then, spontaneously, the class applauded, quietly at first, but increasingly louder, and he did nothing to stop it. Elliot’s curious face appeared at a window, and then was gone. The applause ended and she slipped off the chair, embarrassment on her face, and went back into the relative anonymity of her place. He walked to the front of the class, and although he felt a strong obligation to say something, he was unsure of what it should be. He satisfied the needs of the situation with a brief and neutral statement of thanks, then reminded the class of the need to return to the classroom in absolute silence, but as he led the obedient procession, he could hear the music echoing inside his head with each step he took.

  At times during the year their wills crossed, but only once did it have a serious aspect. He had been experiencing problems with his father and while he had anticipated a mental deterioration, the speed with which it came shocked him. His father slipped into disturbing periods when his mind wandered in some dark maze, lost in confusions and convoluted memories, and he frequently attempted to leave the house to visit people long dead, or streets the redeveloper’s bulldozer had demolished. Restraining him proved difficult and energy-consuming, and the stress and frustrations involved in constant supervision began to wear him out. Then, despite efforts to prevent it, his father began to sleep during the day and at night awoke and attempted to dress himself. There was a growing danger of him stumbling about in the dark and falling down the stairs. His father also imagined strange and malevolent plots were being hatched by nameless conspirators, asserting that the house was about to be taken over and all their possessions sold; that Mrs Mitchell was in league with them and the police should be informed before it was too late.

  While he tried hard not to let his problems at home affect his work, there were days when he found himself on edge and irritated by trivial and irrelevant issues that normally he would have handled with ease. With his concentration divided between home and school, he put less into his teaching and got less out of it. One morning, when Elliot was attending a course, he found himself burdened with additional administrative responsibilities that necessitated visits to the school office. It was when he was returning from one of these that he was met at the end of the corridor by a storm of noise, and he could feel his anger and frustration rising closer and closer to the surface. Could he not leave them for five minutes without chaos ensuing? It was naive to think that children would work as silently or as diligently in his absence, whatever instructions or threats might be left looming over their heads, but the riot that he could hear was more than he had previously considered possible. It goaded him momentarily with the thought that his control was shallow and transient, and as he walked quickly but quietly, he was determined to give no indication of his imminent arrival. As he approached the rear of the classroom he could detect singing, and, stopping at the window, he peered over the frosted glass. The Lawrenson girl was conducting the class, a wooden ruler substituting as a baton, and Thomas Montgomery, a gullible dunderhead of a boy, was standing out at the front being serenaded – it was his birthday and they were celebrating it in song. Suddenly, someone detected his presence, and, like a creature scenting danger, Montgomery bolted to the safety of his desk, while immediate and total silence snapped shut over the class. Heads dropped to books and not a shoe scuffed the frozen air or a page of paper rustled the stillness as he entered the room. He entered slowly, almost as if nothing was wrong, but his deliberate and weighted steps carried the menace of impending eruption.

  ‘How dare you make such a racket! Put your pens down – there’s no point in pretending to work now! I could hear that noise at the end of the corridor and every other class in the school could, too. Can I not leave you for five minutes? Can I not leave you for five single minutes without coming back to this?’

  His voice vibrated with genuine anger a
nd he felt his self-control ebbing away. He smashed his fist down on the front desk, making books and pens bounce and its occupier jerk back into the seat with fear.

  ‘You know I won’t have this! You know I won’t tolerate this sort of behaviour in any class of mine.’

  His eyes raked the room, almost wishing to see a challenging look of defiance, or indifference, but there was none to vent his risen fury on.

  ‘You’ll all stay in at break time and you’ll not speak for the rest of this day – not a word will I hear in this room!’

  But it was not enough, and his unappeased anger sought a victim.

  ‘Thomas Montgomery – come out to the front.’

  The boy scrambled to the front like a summoned dog, and as he stood in the vast solitude, his body trembled with expectancy. Without taking his eyes off the boy, he went to the cupboard and found the cane it had not been necessary to use for a long time. Wordlessly, he signalled the boy towards him.

  ‘Put out your hand and don’t let me ever catch you out of your seat again without permission so long as you’re a pupil of this school.’

  The boy held out his hand in a quivering silence while his upper teeth bit hard on his lower lip and his other hand clenched the side of his ill-fitting shorts. Adjusting the level of the boy’s hand, he raised the bamboo cane in the air, as the boy flinched and screwed his eyes tightly shut in anticipation.

  ‘Please, Mr Andrews, we were all making noise … it was because it was his birthday and we wanted to …’

  The cane froze. He knew where the voice came from without turning to look, and he struggled to resist a pounding desire to smash her into submission. He longed to hurt her.

  ‘Don’t dare speak unless you’re asked to! When I want your comments, Lysandra Lawrenson, I’ll ask you for them.’

  The cane fell with a whistle of wind and the boy’s hand jerked convulsively. Then the other hand. Then, deliberately looking in her direction, he raised the cane again and cut him a third time. The boy stifled a squeal, then wrung his lacerated hands as if trying to wash away the pain. Blinking back the tears, he lumbered back to his desk and grasped the cold comfort of the desk’s metal stanchions.

  It was over now, and as his anger subsided, he felt ashamed that he had let his self-control slip in such a public way, but he showed no sign of regret or remorse to the class, nor was there any going back on his declared punishment. The day dragged on, irredeemably miserable, and as if afraid of what he might see, he avoided meeting her gaze or making any kind of contact. But despite this physical avoidance he still thought about her – something he was increasingly aware of doing – and he knew now that she would hate him like all the others. He told himself it made no difference; he told himself it was for the best, but he had a vague feeling of loss, of some undefined door being slowly closed.

  One day, some time later, when he was doing lunch duty, he paused at the window overlooking the playground. Down below, the clusters of children concentrated instinctively on their play, temporarily released from the restrictions of the classroom and oblivious to his scrutiny. As always, his eyes picked her out, even in the middle of a large group. They were getting ready to play some game, and she was selecting teams as all the children stood in a circle with one foot pointing inwards. She was tapping each foot lightly and although he could not hear, he knew they were chanting some rhyme. He watched the blackness of her hair bobbing in rhythm and when she had finished, half the circle broke away and fled in all directions. It was a game of chain tig. He watched her join hands with Mary Blair, and as they took off in pursuit, he was struck by how mis-matched they were. Compared with the heavy, clumsy Mary Blair, the child looked like a sprite. As he watched the pattern of the game evolving, his eyes always returned to the same pair. Then, while running at speed in a desperate effort to catch their quarry, the heavier girl pulled too strongly and, suddenly, caused her partner to stumble and sprawl on the ground. She looked hurt, and with real concern, he hurried to the playground. As he did so, he resolved to ban such dangerous games and reprimanded himself for his laxity in not having foreseen such an outcome.

  When he arrived, helping hands were already picking the girl up and guiding her towards the door of the school. He took immediate control of the situation and made a careful assessment of the injury, realising with some relief that although she had two badly cut knees and a skinned palm where she had tried to break her fall, nothing was broken. She was trying to be brave, but the tears were beginning to well up in her eyes, and without knowing why, he didn’t want the rest of the class to see her crying, so he ushered her quickly into an empty room. He allowed Ann Brown to accompany them, in the hope that her presence might be a comfort. There was grit in the cuts, and from one a steady trickle of blood was reddening the top of her white sock. Taking out a handkerchief, he gently pressed it to her knee. He dispatched Ann Brown to the office for first-aid materials, and as he knelt down on the floor dabbing her red and skinned knees, he felt awkward and nervous. She was crying a little, but battling to hold it back, and running out of things to say, he silently urged the messenger to hurry up. He got her to roll her socks down, and as she did so, he noticed that one of her red shoes was scuffed and scratched. Ann Brown returned, and with a swab of cotton wool and antiseptic, he cleaned the cuts. She winced with pain as it stung and smarted, and he felt her hand gripping his shoulder, the smallness of the hand belying the tightness of the grip. With the experience gained from many similar ministrations, he finished the first-aid and then phoned for her mother to come and collect her. By that time, however, she had made a good recovery, and if her mother had permitted it, would have stayed in school. In the coming months she wore the scabs on her knees like badges of honour.

  Three days later, a messenger came to his room and told him there was a phone call for him. As he walked quickly to the school office, he knew that it was a call from home, and his mind raced through the possibilities. It was worse than he had feared. Mrs Mitchell told him that his father had collapsed and the family doctor had called an ambulance to take him to hospital. He could tell from her voice as she was giving him details that she was badly shaken, and he tried as best he could to calm her and get as many facts as possible. Elliot covered his class and he went straight to the hospital, where a doctor who seemed disconcertingly young told him his father had suffered a stroke and offered him a patronising sympathy. The condescension masked a marked reluctance to commit himself to any specific prediction about his father’s chances or future disability. There was nothing to do but wait. He was not allowed to see his father, and after several hours was advised to go home.

  He did not go home directly, but drove aimlessly round the city, the mechanical control of the car soothing and steadying his nerves. He felt curiously calm, almost as if the worst had happened and the moment had passed. Eventually, he headed for home, stopping on the way to thank Mrs Mitchell for her assistance and because she had asked him to let her know how his father was. By the time he arrived home, it was quite late. The house was in darkness and as he put the key in the lock, the familiar act seemed strange and somehow different. He pushed the door open and stood for a moment on the doorstep, staring into the silent shadows of the hall, as greyness filtered through the banisters and ebbed through the open doorways. The house hovered above him, holding itself deadly and still, and he hesitated to enter. His hand instinctively found the light switch, but he did not turn it on. He paused again to let his eyes adjust to the gloom, then closed the door behind him. Voices whispered to him from the darkness of corners and long-forgotten memories murmured from the breathing, rustling stillness as each step echoed in the empty shell that cupped itself over his soul. The tick of a clock drummed to the beat of his heart and the hall mirror broke its uneasy sleep to reflect his passing in a blink of grey. He walked through the downstairs rooms, touching familiar furniture for reassurance, until he reached the open door of the sitting room. Something led him forward despite his fear. A
yellow street lamp tinged the room. Sitting on a chair, he looked about with the curiosity of a man remembering the past; at his mother’s china teasets entombed in the glass-fronted cabinet; framed photographs frozen under the weight of glass; brass ornaments grown dull and cold. His eyes rested on what he knew was a photograph of himself as a young man, lingering only long enough to taste the bitterness of wasted years. He sank back into the chair and wondered where the years had gone, then pulled his coat tighter about him as a passing car’s headlights shone into the greyness. For the second time, he saw a young boy on a beach, and in his ears he heard the incessant thunder of the angry waves as they broke upon the shore of his loneliness. Then, his thoughts turned back to his father and he resolved to ring the hospital and enquire about his condition. His eyes rested momentarily on the piano that stood dark and heavy, trapped eternally in its own silence, and he heard again the music of the school piano. He thought, too, of her, and he found comfort in his thoughts, and then, as always, he remembered the way she looked at him and the undefined emotion he saw in her eyes.