No Sister of Mine

by Vivien Brown

  But I did. For some of these kids, a poem was just too packed, too full-on. There was just too much to concentrate on. They couldn’t take it all in at once. Image after image clambering for attention, fancy words taking the place of the vocabulary they were familiar with. And Dad was right. Grey wasn’t just grey, was it? Not if you were looking at a poem, where every word mattered and every picture formed just a little differently in the mind of every person who imagined it.

  I pulled the paint charts out of my bag now, piles of them, sneakily pocketed in the DIY store at the weekend, and set off for my first class of the day. The line-by-line examination of First World War poetry, with all its pain and hopelessness, could wait for now. It was time to get back to basics.

  The noise coming from the classroom hit me before I opened the door. Loud, bored, restless teenagers on their first day back after a long break. I was pleased to see their reaction as I came into the room though – the sudden muting of their chattering, the settling back into chairs. They may not be great English lovers but they were willing to sit still and listen. They respected me, which mattered more than I could say.

  ‘What colour is the sky?’ I threw the question out at them while still arranging my pile of papers on my desk, before I had even sat down.

  Of course I was met with puzzled faces. What was this? A lesson for four-year-olds? There were a few mumbles before the answers started.

  ‘Blue. Sky is blue.’

  ‘No. Look out there. It’s more like white, with all that cloud.’

  ‘I don’t think the sky really has any colour, does it? It’s just air, and the colour’s a reflection. Or something like that. Like water.’

  ‘That’s why it’s black at night.’

  ‘Is it? What about red sky at night, shepherds’ delight?’

  ‘Sky is not red! It’s blue.’

  I laughed. Such a lively debate in progress, so quickly, and about something so simple.

  ‘Okay.’ I started walking down the aisles between the desks, handing out my paint charts. ‘If the sky really is blue – not today, obviously, but on a clear, sunny day – what sort of blue is it?’

  ‘Sky blue!’ one boy called out from the back of the room, and everybody laughed.

  ‘Bit of a cliché, Jake. Now, why don’t you all take a look at these? See some of the different names the paint manufacturers have used for their blues, each one a slightly different shade.’

  Their heads went down, their interest captured.

  ‘How about this one? Crushed cornflower.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine a sky being just that colour,’ I said, peering over Jake’s shoulder.

  ‘But cornflour’s white, Miss. My mum uses it making gravy.’

  Now it was my turn to laugh. ‘Not that sort of cornflour, Jess. In this case, it’s an actual flower. Does anyone know what a cornflower looks like?’

  ‘No, but it must be blue.’

  ‘So, what do you all think about using flowers to help us name colours? Bluebell, rose, lily, poppy … What kind of images do they bring to your mind?’

  ‘Soft, pretty, delicate. Pale, maybe.’

  ‘And is that the sort of sky the soldiers in our poetry would have seen, looking up from the trenches?’

  ‘No, Miss. That would have been a much darker, scary sky. More like navy blue.’

  ‘They were in the army, not the navy!’ one of the boys chipped in.

  ‘So you wouldn’t use navy to describe your sky, if you were writing a war poem?’

  ‘No, Miss. It gives the wrong image. Makes you think of the wrong kind of navy. Ships and sea, not trenches. Or it does me anyway. It mixes up words that don’t belong together.’

  ‘It does, doesn’t it?’

  ‘And the sky would only be dark at night. In the day it could easily be pale blue or pretty, like a cornflower, couldn’t it? It’s not like the sky knows there’s a war on.’

  Some of them giggled, but I was impressed. This last comment had come from Robert, a boy who had never shown the slightest interest in poetry, and rarely spoke up in class.

  ‘But if we were choosing a way to describe the sky that adds to the atmosphere of the poem? Does cornflower send out the right message? Help to form the right image?’

  ‘No, Miss,’ Robert replied. ‘But crushed cornflower does, doesn’t it?’

  They were getting it! Robert was getting it!

  ‘Can you explain what you mean?’

  ‘Well, it must have felt like the sky was crushing them, pushing them down, especially when they were lying there, being shot at, or there were bombs falling, Miss, all trapped lying down in the mud in that trench. Their spirits crushed, even while they were looking up at a clear blue sky. And their hopes, and their confidence, maybe even their actual bones, all crushed, Miss.’

  Was it ridiculous to feel a lump in my throat, a tear trying to ease its way out and down my cheek? I turned away and walked slowly back to my desk, giving myself time to recover.

  ‘And that,’ I said, waving my paint chart in the air, ‘is what imagery is! Using words to make pictures in readers’ minds. To make associations. Think how we’ve come from crushed cornflowers to crushed spirits, crushed men. The magic of words. And choosing the right words.’

  ‘And blue means sad too, doesn’t it, Miss? Like those men would have been.’

  ‘It certainly does.’

  ‘And it means rude, like in blue movies!’

  I couldn’t help laughing. The conversation was veering away from poetry, but these kids were interested, engaged, thinking about words and how to use them. Thinking for themselves. There were times when I wouldn’t swap being a teacher for any other job in the world, and this was one of them.

  ***

  When Simon Barratt asked me out for dinner, I was dumbstruck. Not just surprised, but actually speechless, his invitation coming so completely out of the blue. I must have looked like some kind of confused goldfish, standing there opening my mouth with no words coming out.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, slipping into his anorak and picking up his kit bag. ‘I didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that. If you’re already spoken for …’

  ‘Spoken for?’ I hadn’t heard that expression in years.

  ‘I just meant that I’d understand, you know, if you already have a boyfriend. Oh, not that I’m asking you out on a date,’ he spluttered, his usually pale face going almost as red as his hair. ‘Look, let’s start again, shall we?’ He grinned and busied himself fiddling with the zip on his bag which, as far as I could see, needed no fiddling at all. ‘Ms Peters, I wondered if you might like to accompany me – as friends, colleagues, whatever you like to call it – to a restaurant. It would save me having to eat alone, I am perfectly prepared to pay, and you might actually enjoy it!’

  His grin was infectious and I found myself grinning right back, my face probably turning just as red as his. ‘Well, now that you’ve explained it so clearly, I would be happy to accept. Except for the paying bit. I must warn you that I am absolutely starving and might very well eat more than you can reasonably afford, so we will split the bill. Deal?’

  He stuck out a hand and I took it. ‘Deal!’

  ‘Shall we go now, or would you like time to go home and do whatever it is you girls do before going out? Change out of your work clothes? Put on a bit of lippy? I am quite prepared to wait, and to pick you up at your door later. Not too much later though, ’cos I’m pretty starving myself. After all that running around the sports field this afternoon, I am in serious need of replacement calories.’

  ‘Now would be fine, actually. There’s nothing I need to go home for. Maybe a drink first though, as it’s only half past four. Not quite dinner time!’

  ‘Sounds like a good plan. The Red Lion’s not far. Then what do you fancy after? Italian? Indian? Steak and chips?’

  We left the staff room together, and I was sure I saw at least two or three pairs of eyebrows raised in interest. The gossip would be all ro
und the school by the morning.

  ‘Let’s skip the Red Lion and try somewhere a bit further out, shall we?’ Simon said, looking back over his shoulder. ‘I have a feeling, with it being so close by, we might end up not being entirely alone in there.’

  ‘You read my mind!’

  As it turned out, Simon, despite his earlier protestations that he could talk about nothing but sport, was surprisingly good company. The absence of a Welsh accent had made it clear he was not a local, but I had never tried to work out where he might come from.

  ‘Buckinghamshire,’ he told me, taking a long swig of his pint, then wiping the back of his hand across his mouth in search of misplaced froth. ‘I’m one of the Bucks young bucks! Or that’s what my dad always called my brother and me. Still, we were off like a couple of stags the moment the door was left open, so he wasn’t far wrong. Running wild, having a lark, getting into trouble! Oh, not the breaking the law type of trouble. Just high spirits, you know. And the occasional drink-sodden party. How about you? Miss prim-and-proper convent girl?’

  ‘No!’ I said, indignantly, before realising he was pulling my leg.

  ‘Londoner though, right?’

  ‘I didn’t know it was that obvious. I don’t have an accent, do I?’

  ‘Eve, everyone has an accent. Just some are a bit easier to recognise. No, I grew up on the outskirts, remember? Even the Underground comes out as far as Amersham. You’re no Eastender, but you have that London sound to you. Somewhere west, right?’

  ‘Ealing.’

  ‘I knew it! Used to play there with my brother sometimes. On the common. A picnic, a cheap ball, a pile of jumpers for a goal, while Mum and Dad went into the pub for a sneaky half!’

  ‘Do you have any memories that don’t revolve around a ball or a beer?’

  ‘I did warn you I’m a simple man. Best things in life, sport and booze. Oh, and a touch of romance of course, but I’ve had slightly less luck in that department.’

  ‘No Mrs Barratt then?’

  ‘Only my mum! How about you? Any boyfriends, fiancés, husbands, ex-husbands lurking in the background?’

  ‘No. Always been single. Work takes up so much of my life, I haven’t really had the time.’

  ‘Now, there’s an excuse I’ve heard plenty of times before. Probably coming out of my own mouth! But in your case, it’s a shame. Pretty girl like you …’

  ‘Simon,’ I was blushing again, and I wasn’t sure where all this was leading.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You know, you remind me of someone. He used to say sorry a lot too.’

  ‘Ah, but did he mean it?’

  ‘I thought he did. At the time. But no, I don’t think he did, not in the end.’

  ‘Meant a lot to you, did he? Sorry, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

  ‘He did, yes. Too much, probably.’

  ‘Yeah, I had one of those. Anthony, his name was.’

  ‘Oh! You’re gay?’

  ‘Don’t sound so shocked. Yes, I know I’m not the stereotypical gay man, what with my beer habit and my rugby-playing and all. But we come in all shapes and sizes, you know.’ He didn’t say any more, just sat and gazed into his beer, and for some inexplicable reason I leant across and put my hand over his. He looked up and smiled. ‘So, now you know why this isn’t exactly a date that we’re on! Still, Anthony’s history. And history’s not our specialist subject, is it? Let’s stick to what we’re good at, eh? And what we care about. And right now that’s food! Come on, Eve Peters, put your woolly hat back on. Let’s go and eat.’

  Chapter 14

  SARAH

  Josh was in one of his moods. Janey had been awake half the night and, although it was me who’d got up and seen to her, his sleep had been disturbed, and now the toaster had set the smoke alarm off, he couldn’t find an ironed shirt and he was in danger of missing his train.

  ‘I’ve got a meeting. I might be late back.’ Still buttoning the same shirt he’d worn yesterday, he grabbed his briefcase and offered a half-hearted peck that missed my cheek by a good couple of inches. ‘Don’t do me any dinner. And, for God’s sake, get the bloody iron out today. I can’t keep turning up looking all creased and crumpled. This job is important. It’s what keeps food on the table and the rent paid, remember?’

  I stared after him as the front door banged so loudly I expected it to shake the walls. Silence fell. I went over to the window and lifted the edge of the nets, if only to check he really had gone. And there he was, rushing off in the direction of the Underground, his case bashing against his thigh, tie flapping loosely at his neck. I waited until he’d rounded the corner and had disappeared from sight before I turned back to the mess that had once, pre-Janey, been an ordered and tidy flat.

  It was one of those lucky mornings when, having guzzled an early bottle – I had long since given up on breastfeeding – Janey had fallen back to sleep and, still in my pyjamas and with my hair in desperate need of a wash, I had a little time to myself. I knew I had to use it to make a start on the chores. And that’s what they felt like these days. What had once been the exciting grown-up experience of looking after our home, keeping it clean, arranging flowers in a vase, buying little ornaments to make things look nice, had become nothing but a series of never-ending chores. And, sad though it was, I had to admit that even our sex life had dropped into that category too. A chore.

  Back in the bedroom, with Janey snuffling in her cot against the wall, and the window open to let in some air, I lay down on our dishevelled double bed and stretched my arms and legs out wide, relishing the space, the freedom. Eve and I had called it ‘making stars’ when we were small, our single beds just about wide enough to accommodate our little arms and legs when they were thrust outwards as far as they would go, shaping ourselves into big pointy stars, as we reached out and found each other’s fingertips across the divide. We even did it lying outside in the snow once or twice, a few feet apart, flat on our backs and giggling, looking up into a black, pre-bedtime sky, imitating the beautiful, twinkly stars that we could wonder at but never touch, never count. Mysterious, magical stars, each one separate but all linked together into little clusters, like families. The Plough. The Bear. Gemini, the twins. It’s how we had imagined our future. All shiny and perfect, with the two of us spreading our wings, following our own dreams (even if I had never fully worked out what mine were), yet still staying close enough for our lives to touch when we needed them to. Where had that dream gone?

  And now I had a bigger bed, longer limbs … but that wasn’t all that had changed. I still loved the feeling of space, of taking up all of the bed, knowing it was all mine, even if only for a very short while. Nobody to bump into, nobody tugging at the covers in the middle of the night, a pillow I could thump and mould to my head’s shape and my heart’s content. I still dreamed of some vague, magical, glittering future, but Eve wasn’t in it. And Josh? I wasn’t sure about Josh anymore either.

  Josh had been distracted lately. I could tell there were things on his mind, but he didn’t share them. He’d been promoted at the bank and there was talk of moving him to a bigger branch or even Head Office, of a higher salary, more responsibility, us moving to a house, with the help of a mortgage at special staff rates. I don’t know how he felt about any of it, if he found it as scary as I did, because he didn’t talk to me about things like that. About things he obviously thought I wouldn’t understand. Career, money, home ownership, long-term debt. I wondered sometimes how different it would have been if he had married Eve instead of me. Clever, competent Eve, who would have been a credit to him as he moved up the career ladder, when the client meetings and managerial dinner parties began. But now all that was up to me. I would have to learn to be the corporate wife.

  Who was I trying to kid? He didn’t need me to help his career. He didn’t love me either. Oh, he said he did, when it was required. Just the basic three words. Written in birthday cards, said in front of his parents, murmured in the mid
dle of our infrequent sexual encounters. But it never felt real. Not that intense, passionate kind of love that was supposed to pour itself out in a thousand different laughing, touching, spontaneous ways. Never that.

  I could still hear Eve in my head during the argument we’d had the previous Christmas, telling me that Josh had made a mistake tying himself to me, that we shouldn’t have rushed into being together just because I was pregnant, that we hardly knew each other. And she was right. Six years on, and she was the one with a bed all to herself, a life of her own making, a bright future ahead. Eve was still busy making stars, while Josh and I … well, sometimes we still didn’t know each other at all. Or even like each other all that much. But at least we had Janey …

  Our daughter was ten months old now. Crawling around, clinging to our ankles, or the furniture, pulling herself up, not far off the walking stage. Dropping food all over the floor, tipping toys out of boxes, making mess everywhere she went. But she had those eyes, that smile, that giggle that melted hearts. Janey was the glue that held us together. Josh may not love me in quite the way I’d hoped for, but he loved her. Unconditionally. No doubt about it.

  I stood up and smoothed the covers straight. The room needed hoovering but the noise would wake Janey and I couldn’t risk it, so I headed back to the kitchen and made a start on the dishes. If Eve really believed this was my dream life, a life I had cheated her out of, she was wrong. Sometimes it felt much more like being trapped in a nightmare.

  ***

  It took a while to happen, but we did move to a house. It was small, a lot smaller than Mum and Dad’s, and a few miles – and tube stops – further out of town, but the advantages were obvious. No more hunting for a parking space in the street, no more putting coins in the electricity meter, no more chemical smells wafting up from the dry cleaner’s downstairs or the owner phoning to see if I could pop down and do a few hours whenever he was short staffed. We had three bedrooms, one of them admittedly more like a cupboard with a cot in it, and a small gravelled driveway at the front, and a long thin back garden made of nothing but weed-filled grass and wonky fence panels, but it was ours.