When I rang the school I noticed the telephone receiver was shaking in my hand. I tried to stop it.
'Christine, we weren't expecting you back so soon anyway,' Margaret said. 'You have to get better!'
I could see her, sitting behind her desk, “Head Teacher” written on a white sticky label, still stuck to the back of her chair from when we’d had a big change-around of offices and classrooms. She was probably wearing her woollen suit with a skirt, her hair tied up and her glasses crystal clear. Good old Margaret. Good, old, predictable Margaret. I wondered whether Matthew was in the room with her, fawning around her every word and deed. He’d been creeping around all over the place ever since he’d heard Margaret mention the possibility of a “Deputy Head” position. She had asked me if I would be interested in putting myself forward but I’d said no straight away. I loved teaching, not being in charge of teachers. In fact being anyone’s boss didn’t really appeal to me. But I was flattered she’d asked me.
‘I thought I was better,’ I said. ‘But then I was really ill this morning. I’m sorry, Margaret.’
I didn't tell her about the dream.
‘Don’t be so silly,’ she said.
'How are the children?' I said.
'Missing you, of course. But they all want you to get better?'
She paused and I wondered if I had mis-heard her. Wondered if I should be saying something. Then she spoke again.
'Chris,' she’d lowered her voice. 'Have they found him — the person that did this to you?'
I had heard nothing from the police for nearly a week.
'I don't think so, Margaret. You know, it's funny — I couldn't help wondering if it was someone I taught once, when they were younger. Had he come through my class? It's funny what you think isn't it?'
'Well whoever it is, I hope they catch him soon. He's a menace and needs putting away!'
She didn't mean it. Margaret was one of those people who thought that learning was the key to everything. Punishment was always surpassed by coaching. Give someone responsibility and they won't let you down. If they ever did catch him, Margaret would want him going through some sort of reconciliation programme or community service, rather than going to prison.
'Let's hope so,' I said. 'I'll keep you posted on how I am. I want to come back as soon as I can, get back to normality.'
After the call I made straight for the kitchen. I had worked my way through several bottles of wine since the attack, mostly to numb the pain and help me sleep. But the previous night I had only had one glass, knowing that I had my first day back at work the next day. So I still had a bottle to finish.
I poured half a glass and mixed it with lemonade. It smelled so intense to me I had to hold my breath as I drunk it. I wondered how soon my sense of smell would recover, how soon I would be rid of the unknown smells. That sweet, sickly smell. Sweet alcohol.
The phone rang. It was Neil. Much easier for him to talk on the phone than it was face to face. His voice sounded like it used to. It sounded fun and exciting. I’d always thought he had a hint of menace in his voice. I loved that.
'Don't worry,' I said. 'I'm fine. I'm not going in - they said they didn't want to see me again until I'm completely better. The kids got off OK. Both still arguing of course.'
I managed another three glasses of wine and lemonade after Neil called. And I had a couple of paracetamol. I desperately wanted to go to bed, but the thought of dreaming scared me too much.
I considered curling up on the sofa, using daytime telly to purge my mind and help me to slip into an empty space as I dropped off.
I had been watching quite a bit of that sort of TV during the days I had been recovering. At first it had been entertaining, but by day three I found myself getting so wound up I wanted to throw something at the telly.
The wine helped with the anger. Helped to dampen it down a little. I had no idea why I was feeling so enraged with people. I had always been a "people person". Loved socialising. But now I felt as though I could kill people. Actually, really kill them. I had never felt so angry before.
It was during these rages, often silent, that I became aware of a sensation in my thigh. My left thigh, a few inches below the hip. It was very specific in position, but dull in feeling. But it was something. And it only seemed to happen when the anger boiled up inside of me. It must have been from the attack. I must have hit it when I fell down. But there was no mark. I wondered if I’d bruised the bone or jangled some nerves or something and it made it worse if I became angry. But I hadn’t felt the pain in the hospital and I had been pretty angry then.
The wine started to work and I decided I could cope with bed.
After the attack I had asked Neil if we could move. Not too far, I still wanted to teach at the school, just a different house. He told me we couldn't afford it. And, besides, he liked it where we were. I think really I had just wanted an escape. And after three glasses of wine I was viewing bed as my escape. But it was an imperfect one. As of that morning it came with flaws.
I slept fine. That day and the next. And the next. No dreams, no nightmares and no disturbances. In fact, just one week into March, I was back at school, teaching my old class.
I pretty much felt OK. I was a bit self-conscious. I asked Margaret if I could wear a floppy hat in class, just until the scars healed over a little. I knew how cruel kids could be. But within a couple of days I had got over that and just covered the scar on my forehead with a little foundation. The stitches were out, but the train-track look persisted. At first I let my hair fall over the ridges to hide them a little more, but after a while there seemed to be no point.
'Does that hurt, miss?'
'Why did someone hit you with a skateboard, miss?'
'Will it make you die, miss?'
Children have a way of getting right to the heart of things. It seemed pointless trying to cover it up after that.
Being back at school gave me the focus I needed. The pain from the wounds to my head subsided and I was able to control my anger more. I still felt it though. The anger. And the pain in my thigh. And smelled the strange smells.
The doctor said that I was recovering well. He said that people who experienced head trauma, car crashes and the like, often had their sense of smell affected, although normally it was deadened rather than heightened. He said he would arrange to have an x-ray carried out on my thigh, just to make sure there was nothing serious happening in there. But he thought it was more likely just to be internal bruising of the bone. It would heal in a few weeks.
The anger, he suggested, might be a delayed fighting-back phenomena. Or might simply be the fact that I was angry for being attacked in the first place.
I wondered how much doctors earned.
The hair on the back of my head started to grow back where they’d had to remove some of it to stitch me up, and I started to feel better about life.
Neil and I had a tense few weeks at home. Every morning, after the dream, he was afraid to look me in the eye in case I had had it again. I had to reassure him just to make him look at me straight on.
I cleaned the whole house. Tried to get rid of the smells. I got ratty with Michael and Rose. Got ratty with Neil. And got ratty with the police — still nothing. I suppose I should really have got ratty with the smiling skateboarder. But I didn't know him.
Then I had the dream again.
08
Inheritance Page 7