Bad Little Girl(8)

‘I’m feeling my age, Claire. And I’m finding it difficult to sleep at the moment. Fine until about three, and then, bang, I’m awake. Just me and the World Service. Johnny hates it, don’t you? I’m interfering with your routine.’

‘Have you been to the doctor’s?’ Claire felt her heart speed up.

‘I have an appointment on Wednesday morning. Carla will take over for the day.’ Carla was Norma’s assistant head.

‘Carla’s doing the whole day?’

‘Well, yes. I thought if I’m tired or if the appointment runs over, you know, I might as well take the whole day.’ This wasn’t like Norma either. She must have sensed Claire’s surprise: she looked up, smiled sardonically. ‘I’m not on my last lap, Claire, don’t worry. I just thought it’d be a good idea to get a check-up. You’re the first one to tell me I should take it easy when I can. And this means I’ll have a whole afternoon to get under Johnny’s feet. Won’t I?’ She prodded the dog with one foot. He farted and rolled over.

‘But you’re not ill, in any pain or anything?’

‘No, no. I just thought I should waste a doctor’s time. I’ve got those sweeteners if you’re still on them? Or sugar?’

‘Sweeteners.’ Claire shifted uncomfortably. It was obvious that Norma wanted the conversation to end, but Claire wanted one last try. ‘Are you particularly worried about anything? Health-wise?’

‘Claire . . .’ Norma’s voice was amused but held a warning, ‘it’s only a doctor’s visit.’

‘Yes, and it’s good that you’re going’– Norma mouthed a sardonic ‘Thank you’ – ‘I only want to be able to help . . .’

‘The best way to help me is to let me do what I need to do without making a fuss. I’m sorry I told you now. Biscuit?’

And so Claire gave up.

They watched some terrible talk show, and Claire left at eleven.





5





Claire found it hard to sleep that night. Eventually she got up, poured herself a small, unaccustomed brandy, and curled in the armchair in her bright little sitting room. It was disquieting that Norma didn’t see it her way. She’d half expected James to dismiss her worries, but Mother . . . it was disappointing, and being disappointed in Norma was, well, unprecedented. Perhaps if either of them had seen what had happened, they’d be as shocked as Claire. But perhaps not. She often seemed to feel things too deeply, notice too much. You care too much, people had always told her. As if it was possible to care too much; surely the problem was that there wasn’t enough care in the world. And she should care. Who should care more than a teacher, or a mother? Teachers and mothers populate all our fables, protect us from the darkness. There must always be that person, that one woman, who makes all the difference.

When Claire was small, she discovered a book called Grown-up Jobs for Little Ladies hidden on a dusty shelf in her school library. Delicate illustrations graced each page, accompanied by a paragraph in cursive. Here was a nurse, here was a ballerina, here was a teacher. That lunchtime, she bolted her food and rushed back to the quiet to pore over the book, her fingers tracing the words, her gaze lovingly fixed on the Little Ladies’ faces, and that afternoon she begged the teacher to be able to take it for the weekend. She still remembered – how many years later? forty? – the heaviness of it as she hugged it to her chest on the walk home, the faded gilt on the page edges, and the way the dust cover rubbed and rippled against the spine. Showing it to Mother had been a mistake though; she’d laughed at first, but, as she turned the pages, she’d become angry. Claire had cowered in the sitting room, watching Jim’ll Fix It while Mother wrote to the school, demanding that the book be banned as a sexist anachronism. And so, on Monday, Claire had taken her Little Ladies back, and handed it, shamefaced, to her teacher, who had accepted it like the corpse of a cherished pet. Claire never saw the book again.

The teacher in the book was a doe-eyed beauty with brown hair, parted, madonna-like, in the centre and secured in a no-nonsense bun. Her long, tapering fingers held a story book, her rosebud mouth was parted, and she was the object of adoration for the smiling children that huddled around her like kittens. Claire spent her break times in the school toilets, adopting the same pose in the mirrors, but it was never quite the same. She would rub her hair with soapy fingers and arrange it so it fell sleekly behind her ears, but the stubborn curls at the ends would rebel, and the soap dried to a grey crust. Her fingers weren’t long enough. Her mouth was buttoned up and mute looking, and her eyes were wide all right, but fearful. It never worked. But away from the mirror, on the odd days when she felt free from self-consciousness, in her mind, she was that beautiful model of the educator. It seemed to her the closest one could get to being a saint.

As she grew older, she became a favourite of younger children; they followed her like ducklings. During the summer holidays, strays from the poorer ends of the town would arrive at the door, not to play, but to show her their wounds; their recently acquired, protesting pets; to share their squabbles and stories. She helped them repair friendships, she bandaged cuts and offered advice. She had a way with little ones, everybody said so. Mother said wryly, ‘Just don’t be a teacher.’

But of course she became a teacher, and stayed close to Mother, close to what she knew.