In a Class of His Own (5 page)

I’m sure Jack Thorpe
had an interesting view of that particular manoeuvre.

To
make matters worse Ann, Jack and even Mona
Thompson seemed to be doing it all with ease. It was far more
strenuous than I expected – or had I allowed myself to get very
unfit? I began to concentrate hard on the increasingly elaborate
positions we were expected to achieve and almost forgot Jack’s
presence next to me.

At long last it was time
for the cool down. We lay on our backs as Meryl Homer’s voice
silkily encouraged us to imagine blackness, to stretch our arms out
wide and relax. By this time I had really got into the class and I
stretched out my arms as instructed, eyes closed, letting the
soothing music wash over me. Relaxed. My hand encountered someone
else’s warm firm fingers. For a delicious second I allowed myself
to sensuously explore the hand under mine. I felt along the length of
a finger, it was smooth and finely tapered and undeniably masculine.
Then my brain clicked in. I opened my eyes and looked to the left.
Jack and I had accidentally made contact. But instead of snatching
our hands away we left them lightly clasped together as we smiled
into each other’s eyes. It was a densely intimate moment; almost as
if there was no one else in the entire room. Electricity charged
between us.

Perhaps there was
something in this yoga thing, after all?

After the class finished
and everyone was blinking sleepily and trying to return to real life,
Joyce came over to talk to me. Somehow I missed Jack and Ann’s
departure, together no doubt.

“Nicola,
nice to see you again, did you enjoy the class? Ooh I did,” she
said cheerily, her round face aglow. Since moving in she had been a
regular visitor to my parents’ house. She leaned in
conspiratorially. “Do you think I could have a word?” She paused.
“Do you mind?” She hesitated again. “It’s about your mum.”

I looked at her in alarm
as she edged me away from the rest of the group.

“I
don’t want to worry you, lovie but is your mum all right?”

I didn’t know what to
say. She was voicing my deepest fears. I hadn’t even discussed this
with Dad. “I don’t know what you mean,” I managed in response.

“Your
mum. She’s been acting a teeny bit strange lately, hasn’t she?”

I nodded reluctantly. It
was true and we’d all been avoiding the issue.

Joyce
looked at me, her kindly eyes suddenly serious. “Do you think,”
she hesitated. “Do you think she,
I mean Betty, might be suffering from something like depression?”

Now
Joyce had my full attention. Depression? Other possibilities had
occurred to me over the last few weeks – and before that if I was
honest with myself. Ever since what
happened with Andy.

I concentrated again on
Joyce’s words.

“I
used to be a nurse – in a GP’s practice. I’ve seen ever such a
lot of this sort of thing. I just thought it might help, that’s if
you didn’t mind me mentioning it.” As she spoke she laid her hand
on my arm. “It’s sometimes hard for the family to see what’s
going on. It takes a stranger sometimes.”

I
nodded, my eyes filling suddenly. “But Joyce,
depression?” I began to say. Then I added idiotically, “But she
doesn’t seem all that sad. She just keeps doing odd things.”

Joyce smiled
understandingly. “I know Nicola but the symptoms aren’t always as
obvious as someone going around crying all the time.”

I sighed, “She’s been
doing that too,” I admitted. “I’ve heard her when she doesn’t
think anyone’s in the house.” A few people went past, calling
goodnight. I responded absently and then turned to Joyce again. “What
should I do? How can I help her?”

“She
needs to see someone professional. She needs to get herself down to
her doctor’s,” Joyce said in a matter of fact voice.

I hesitated.

“Do
you want me to have a word, lovie? You know, from a professional
point of view?”

I looked at Joyce in
relief. Had she understood so completely how difficult it would be to
persuade Mum to leave the house? “I don’t know how to thank you,
Joyce. After all, we hardly know you.”

Joyce waved her hand
airily. “No matter, no matter. Tell you what, give me a lift home
and we’ll call it even-stevens.” She put her arm through mine and
added companionably as we left the hall, “Do your muscles feel as
wobbly as mine? And tell me,” she hissed in a provocative tone,
“Are all headmasters nowadays as young and good-looking as your Mr.
Thorpe? What a dreamboat! Hasn’t done much for my blood pressure, I
can tell you. And I thought yoga was supposed to be relaxing!”

Seven
thirty
on the first Saturday morning of the half term holiday. I stretched
luxuriously, still in bed. I turned the pillow over to the cool side
with every intention of sleeping in. With a sigh I snuggled down.
Bliss.

“Rise
and shine Nicola!” Dad banged into the room, put a cup of tea on
the bedside table and threw open the curtains. “It’s a lovely
day.”

I groaned and pulled the
duvet over my head as bright sunshine pierced through my closed eyes.

“Come
on love, can’t stay idling in bed on a day like today!” And with
that he went noisily back out of the room, whistling a jaunty tune. I
was wide-awake by the time he’d slammed the door shut.

With
any chance of catching up on some sleep gone, I gave up, slid myself
into a sitting position and sipped my tea. I thought over the events
of the last few days. Joyce, loyal to her word, had talked to both my
parents about her concerns. Mum had
reluctantly promised to make an appointment with her GP but Dad had
remained silent. I knew he’d found the situation impossible. He
came from the school of “stiff upper lip and pull your socks up”.
I knew he was completely bemused by any suggestion of mental illness
– to him it just didn’t exist. He had compensated by becoming
incredibly busy: cleaning shoes, polishing silver, pruning the garden
to within an inch of its life. What he hadn’t done was talk about
it. He changed the subject every time I brought it up but remained
grey-faced with worry. As for Mum, she hadn’t as yet made the
appointment to see her doctor. It had been on my mind since Joyce had
mentioned it at the yoga class and I was exhausted just thinking
about it. Previously in my life, if a problem occurred, I sorted out
the solution and then acted. I felt powerless to deal with this.

My
thoughts escaped
to those of school and I smiled. I leaned back on the pillows and
watched the curtains move in the light breeze coming through the
window which Dad had opened.

Jack and I had met to
discuss planning on most evenings after school, as he had to teach
Year Six. I’d been reluctantly impressed with how he’d handled
the situation. Tony’s class, not used to any semblance of routine,
had succumbed to the Thorpe charm and implacable discipline. But my
burgeoning admiration for the man was based on more than that. I’d
seen Jack teaching individual children at break times, when he should
have been catching up on his other responsibilities. And I knew from
Joyce that her granddaughter, Katy, was making real progress because
of Jack’s dedication. It had had an impact on staff and children
alike; there was a grudging but discernible respect growing in the
school for Jack’s hard work, even though some of his decisions
remained unpopular.

We had
certainly been busy. On top of the usual workload,
a series of parents’ evenings had made the last days before the
holiday fly by. I knew Jack planned on getting a last minute flight
to Greece. My aim was to sleep the week away, catching up with some
fat novels, with maybe a drive down to see Bev.

To my
regret Jack hadn’t come to yoga again but I’d become quite
addicted, especially to the meditation session at the end. Although
we’d had ample opportunity,
for some reason, Jack and I hadn’t mentioned the meeting of hands.
It was my little secret, too precious to discuss and dissect but
treasured like a nugget of pure gold.

I
yawned and stretched, catching sight of myself in the dressing table
mirror. I pulled at my fringe with a grimace. I’d
been so busy at work that I hadn’t had time to get to the
hairdressers. I sighed. My hair was thick and shiny but had grown out
of its layers. Highlights that had been put in months ago were no
more and it was reverting to what at best could be described as
mouse. I blinked. I’d been told once that my eyes were my best
feature; they were large and brown and, thankfully, fringed with long
dark lashes. The rest of my face I thought ordinary. My skin was good
but my mouth was too big and I knew it revealed every emotion I felt.
I’d make a lousy poker player, and not just because I didn’t know
the rules. I flexed my thigh muscles, the yoga was making a
difference and I definitely felt more toned. Then I reached down and
felt stubble on my shins. My body could definitely do with some
serious TLC. I leaped up, full of sudden energy and hunted for the
sachet of hair dye and razor I still had lurking somewhere ...

Mum
had a long list of items she wanted from town and, as it was on the
way, I popped into school to sort out one or two things. At least at
school I could have a few hours to myself. No one was likely to be in
today. Rupert
Lawrence, the new Year Six teacher, was due to start after the half
term holiday and I wanted to check everything was all right in Tony’s
old classroom. As I let myself in, the thought that I ought to give
Tony a ring to see how he was nagged uncomfortably.

I walked down the silent
corridor. Empty schools have a peculiar feel. It’s as if the very
air has gone to sleep, waiting for life to return. Dust-motes swirled
slowly in the sunshine and closed doors offered blank faces. I’d
spent so much time here over the last few weeks that it had become
like a second home but, even so, I wasn’t totally happy about being
here on my own. Without the usual hordes of children there was
something about the place which made you jump at your own shadow.
Today was breezy and the wind made the building shift and creak
eerily. After I’d checked on the room opposite to mine I put my
head around the door of my classroom. I could just sort out a few
things while I was here.

An
hour and two cupboards later I felt as if I was making progress. A CD
was playing, covering any inexplicable noises that might disturb me
and I was happily singing along to Maroon 5.

“Nicky
– what are you doing here?”

The sound of his voice
had me whirling around in panic. The pile of paper I was holding
slithered from my hands and I stood there gaping open-mouthed, my
heart racing.

“Jack
– you made me jump! You’re supposed to be in Greece!” I
accused.

“And
it’s good to see you too, Nicky.” Jack smiled and began to kneel
to help me pick up the mess I had dropped on the floor.

I studied him as I
recovered from the shock of being disturbed. He was wearing black
Levis and a cashmere sweater, the colour of a robin’s egg. He
looked younger and more relaxed but as sharply dressed as ever. I
wondered if he ever looked as dishevelled as I often felt when in his
company. He was such a contained man, I wondered what it would take
to rouse him out of the iron control he had over himself. If he ever
truly let himself go, I thought, it would be an interesting
spectacle.

“I
had trouble getting a flight so decided to stay at home this week.”
He grinned ruefully and shrugged, “And I’ve certainly got plenty
to catch up upon.”

Both on our knees we
began to gather together the papers in front of us.

“You’ve
changed your hair. It looks nice.” He said it so softly I hardly
heard the words. The neutral expression was still there but his eyes
were alive with meaning. As compliments go, it was hardly effusive
but it made me catch my breath slightly. He had such an attractive
voice, one I’d heard him use in so many different ways: to
reprimand children – and staff, to encourage, to control.
Fancifully it occurred to me that his northern accent sounded almost
exotic amongst the long, soft vowels of this part of the country.

“Thank
you.” I said inadequately.

We
smiled at one another. The words of the Maroon 5 song, as the music
played softly in the background, dropped
into the stillness between us. Something about wanting but not
knowing ... something about wanting that person really badly ...

It was a moment encased
in magic; we were both breathing slightly heavily and were aware only
of each other and one another’s eyes.

Then the moment
splintered and Jack sat back on his knees abruptly and frowned. He
shook his head slightly, blinking rapidly, as if coming back to
reality.

“So
why on earth are you here?” He helped me up and we sat on two of
the pupils’ low plastic chairs, he with his long legs comically
bent.

I
explained and then somehow I found myself pouring out all my
frustrations about living with my parents, about how cramped it was
but most importantly and how worried I was about them both.
I stopped suddenly, now embarrassed about how much I’d revealed. I
didn’t want to sound petty or spoiled but there must be somewhere I
could rent, near enough to my parents’ but where I could enjoy some
privacy?

“Trouble
is, it’s so expensive to rent anywhere around here. And if it’s a
holiday let they’re not keen on a long lease – I’d want at
least six months.” I said, thinking aloud. “And it would need to
be furnished. I haven’t got any furniture of my own.” I added.

Jack rubbed the back of
his neck; a gesture I’d got to know to mean he was mulling
something over, usually something difficult. “There might be a
solution to this but …” he paused frowning deeply.

“What?
I’d consider anything!” I said, trying to keep the desperation
out of my voice.