“No worries,” he says. He couldn't give a monkey's who teaches the kids as long as they don't leave a mess on the floor at the end or the day or send for the milk at the wrong time. “What should I say you've got.”
“Sickness and diarrhoea.” Always reckon that nobody would use the word diarrhoea if they didn't really need to.
“Eat anything dodgy?”
“Had a take away from Archie's on the way home.”
“What have I told you about that place?”
Plenty. “Won't happen again.” Fact that I've proved him right about something makes him feel good. He'll be so pleased with himself he won't give my excuse a second thought.
“I'll quote you on that. Got to go. Delivery.”
“Thanks Des.”
“See you.”
I get up on the bed, bounce a couple of times. Clench my fists like I've just scored the winning goal in the cup final.
Waiting
9:45. If she doesn't show soon I'm going to go crazy.
Half an hour ago I was freshly bathed and in clean underwear. A dab of aftershave and a light breakfast and I was ready for anything.
Now my skin feels tight. My blood pressure's up, my face all blotchy. I might not have been ill when I phoned, but I couldn't do any work the way I'm feeling.
Flicking through my albums, I find what I need. Bad Manners and something uplifting.
First track I play is Lorraine.
Buster sings, âAnd when I find her, I'm gonna' kill her, and when I find her, I'm gonna' kill her.' It's the first time I've really understood what he means.
the girl in the knitted top
10:45.
I want to be cross with her, but I'm not. Truth is I'm so delighted she's here, I'd forgive her anything.
She bounces in and lights up my life like the summer sun.
âLet's go into the garden,' she says, dropping her jacket and bag to the ground.
We open up the back door and go to sit on the lawn.
As usual she's draped in silver and I'm dazzled.
Her bare arms are lightly tanned.
I trace my finger from her wrist to the top of her shoulder where I reach the sleeve of her white, knitted top. I take a moment to admire the way her clothes compliment her pale lipstick and quickly shift my hand underneath the wool to find her naked breasts.
“Horny?” she asks. It's not a bad opening line.
“A little,” I confess.
She looks around at the windows that surround us then smiles. “Want to screw?”
It's the easiest question I've ever had to answer.
the girl and the pile of clothes
Something was different about the sex. It wasn't the hungry, animal bonk I had in mind. Instead it was slow, gentle and affectionate. I wonder if we've just made love and ask her.
Her answer is a purr into the pillow and a little choked laugh.
“Do you know,” I tell her, “that I think I'm falling in love.”
It's a crazy thing to say. It wasn't something I'd been thinking. She's married and I've only really known her for a month. But my cards are on the table now and they don't seem very high.
I wait for her to respond. To let me know how she feels. “I'd kill for a cup of tea,” she says.
I try not to look hurt. Wander into the kitchen not caring who might see me naked through the window and put the kettle on. It gives me time to think. When I've finished I bang my head on the kitchen counter and set to making the drinks.
She's smoking. The light that's worked its way in lines through the blinds catches the clouds as they fill the room. It's a beautiful sight, the smoke and my lover and my bed.
“I was thinking about the Jolly Postman.” What the? “You should do it with your class. Vince loves it.”
“Ahlberg knows his onions.” He does. I mean, he's written some of the best books for kids I've ever come across.
“It's a shame about his wife.”
Before I know it I'm wrapped up in her words, the life of the author, her tales of the stories she knows. It's hypnotising.
Something about the way she talks tells me she's revelling in her captive audience of one. Scared to disrupt the flow, I let her go on until the urge to kiss her becomes unbearable.
Soon as we kiss, the urge to get inside her builds until getting inside her is the only possible solution.
She lies back and helps me in. I feel my body fill with the chemicals of pleasure.
2 o'clock and she has to go. Over to playgroup for Vince, then to school for Sheena.
Watching her dress is bitter sweet - seductive to watch yet signalling the end.
She's dressed and has her hair brushed within minutes.
I see her to the door.
As she opens the outside door she turns around.
“I think I love you too.”
It's the best sick day of my life.
refugee
When I get home from therapy, last thing I need is Wolf sitting at my door.
“Hey man,” I say to him, then realise he's sitting on two bags that are stuffed to the point of bursting.
He doesn't get up, just puts out a fist for me to touch.
“Bad fucking news, man,” he says looking at the floor. He sobs into his hands. I've never seen him cry before. Don't know what to do. I just stand there and wait for him to stop, hoping none of the neighbours appear. “Real bad news.”
I wonder if someone's dead until I remember he has bags.
“Come on Wolf, let's go and get the kettle on.”
Pulling him up by the hand he offers, I pick up one of half his luggage and fish around in my pocket for my key.
black
“It's all black,” Wolf says. “Everything. Fuck.”
He's trembling. His eyes look like they've sunk into his head and he keeps rubbing them with his thumbs like he's trying to push them in further.
I've been piecing it together from the bits that made sense. Maxine's away over with her father in Ireland. Turns out there's nothing wrong with her father after all. Just running away and taking Wolf's son at the same time.
There are lots of things I could say. I run them around my head like marbles to see if any of them seem to fit in the holes. Plenty more fish in the sea. She'll be back, you'll see. You're better off without her â she's always treated you like shit.
None of them seem right and silence isn't an option.
“Take some deep breaths,” I say. “In and out.” Like there's any other kind.
He seems to be doing it. His shoulders and chest rise and fall then do it again.
I feel his darkness seeping into me and surrounding me like a cloud. This isn't going to be good. There's no way I can cope.
“Maybe I should give Mike a call,” I say.
Wolf nods.
I go into the bedroom and enjoy the momentarily relief.
Falling onto the bed, I pick up the phone and dial.
It's cool over by the window.
I hear Mike's answer machine kick in. Same old message. “If I'm not in I must be far out.”
There's not much point leaving a message. He won't pick it up till he's back.
Wolf's out there moaning.
My stomach rumbles.
I dial again.
Maybe he was in the toilet.
He's still far out.
“You need a place to stay?” I ask Wolf when I get back.
He's in the same position, hunched like an existential statue or one of those buskers covered in silver paint just waiting for a penny in their pot. I think he nods, but I already know the answer.
“So maybe we should think about setting you up a bed.” Doing something has to be better than this. “How's the living room suit?”
A moan comes from somewhere deep in his body. “It's all black,” he says and my body freezes to the spot as if it knows it's missed the chance to escape.
Thunder
Monday morning, in earlier than usual.
Don't think I've ever been so pleased to be at work.
It was the heaviest weekend I can remember.
Wolf's filled my home with a new darkness, like his shadow's spread to every room. There's a smell of sweat and old people that I can't get rid of no matter how long the windows stay open.
The best times were when he was asleep, knocked out on his cocktail of whisky, cough mixtures and spliffs the size of carrots.
I'm not sure it's good for him to be taking all that, but as long as it keeps him quiet I'm saying nothing.
There's plenty of time to prepare for the school day. Start with my usual ritual of loading up on nicotine and caffeine.
Carrying my coffee carefully so as not to spill any, I get to the top of the stairs and hear an almighty crash in the smoking room.
“Don't you ever do that again, hear?” It's Phil Carpenter. He's shouting at the top of his voice, but the way it's all posh means it sounds amusing. “Did you hear?” It's even louder and it's not like him to risk his singing voice.
There's a woman's voice. High pitched like crying, but too quiet to make out.
I think about whether to go down or not.
Probably none of my business, but the woman sounds scared.
I carry on down the stairs, a little more quickly now, not so bothered about the coffee.
Maybe they hear my steps. Everything quietens.
As I go in, they're standing in fixed positions as if nothing's happened.
Mildred's over in the corner pretending to look for something or other on the shelves.
Phil stands against the wall underneath the windows with his hands folded across his chest.
Rumour's always been that the two have a thing going. I've been over to the music cupboards on a Friday after orchestra and could swear it's full of the smells of sex. Could just be the scents of middle-age, mind.
“Morning,” I say, cheerily as I can muster.
They both reply in kind.
“Nice weekend?” I ask. Seems like a perfectly normal question.
“For God's sake, man, stop mumbling,” Phil says. He's got rubber cheeks that are far too big for his face and lips the size of Jagger's. “You need to learn to annunciate.”
He's said it before. Usually shuts me up. Not this time.
“So what have you two been up to?” I wanted to settle things down when I came in, now I want to see him squirm.
Should have known better that to think I was capable of achieving such a thing.
“If you don't mind Mr Campion,” he says. I size him up wondering how I should start to tear him apart. “Some of us have work to do.” He's bigger than me. Taller, broader, heavier. No matter, I'd have him in seconds. Put in the nut, I reckon, or go for the flab. As long as I took out some teeth and broke his nose it'd be worth whatever book they threw at me.
He flounces off, sucking in his face like he'd rather be in drag.
Mildred picks up her handbag and walks out too, leaving her cigarette burning in the ash-tray.
Phil Carpenter heads upstairs, Mildred out through the door towards the playground.
Me, I sit and roll a cigarette and wonder if what's going on in their lives is any worse than what's going on in mine.
the music lesson
My class are sitting in the hall, legs crossed and struggling with the words.
Daphne Duke's kids are in the row behind and standing and singing out. She's sitting on a chair, her back straight as a Roman road. In her white blouse and plain below the knee skirt, she looks like she slept through the Sixties.
Carpenter's face is red. He's hitting the piano keys harder than usual. “For God's sake,” he shouts and slams the piano lid down to get everyone's attention.
I look over at Daphne and she's blushing. Probably wondering about what Jesus might do in this situation.
Zulfi is oblivious to it all. He's grabbing on to the wall-bars we'll use for gym after break. Carpenter stamps across and brushes his hair behind his ears. Can't even give a bollocking without preening himself first.
“You boy. What's your name?”
Zulfi stops what he's doing at last. Looks up and there's a finger pointing into his face. He doesn't say anything, just sits straighter and folds his arms.
“Zulfikar,” I say.
Carpenter's lips twist into the expression of one who's just stepped in shit. “Who?”
“Zulfi.”
“Well Zulfi,” he says, “Can't you read?” Course he can't. He's 5 and the words are written in a spider's handwriting on a laminate sheet. All my work with Zulfikar is undone in that moment.
It's my job to step in. To go over and sort Carpenter out. But I'm a coward. I imagine muttering some defence and having it trashed in front of two classes. Instead of doing anything, I cling on to the radiators and let it pass.
“Well Zulfi, let's see some action here. Open your lips.” He mimes his lesson to the children. I'm surprised nobody pukes.
Carpenter goes back to the piano and counts them in â one, two, three.
Of course Zulfi goes for the wall-bars as soon as they're past the first verse. I step over to go and sort it out.
The piano stops and the floor shakes under the stomps.
I turn my head and see him rage, looking like a bullfrog with a sun-tan.
There's nothing he can do to Zulfi, though. I'm right in his path. I reckon that just raises his temperature by another couple of degrees.
Zlatan's legs stretch out on the floor. Because he's the only one talking it sounds like he's raising his voice.
Carpenter turns to deal with him, the mole on his face moving with the twitch of his cheek.
He stumbles over Zlatan's shoes. There's a burst of laughter from all of the other children.
The laughter should diffuse the tension, but it doesn't.
Zlatan opens his mouth and looks over to me.
I want to move. Get over and make him safe.
Carpenter raises his arm. Brings it down in an arc and sends his hand in Zlatan's direction.