To Be Honest (11 page)

And ‘cos I have nothing to offer, I look as wise as I can but don’t talk; I let her.

“’Cos I like them, yeah, but Felix’s dumped Frankee and what’s Frankee not got and if she can’t get boys, then who can ...” The light strips her face of all colour, like a bleached whale.

“... and Kai’s gone all weird, like he’s lost something.” She hangs on the door, “and he only likes year 10s, well one really ...”

And she doesn’t say my name, my real name but I know it’s me she’s thinking of at that precise minute and it’s all just too strange, so I turn the light off, which means leave. I lock the door and that’s it, it’s over; she’s Alicia again. And she cracks gum and pulls her gloves on, with earmuffs too and my ears hurt and my teeth ache and she saunters away, leaving me shatter’d and sunder’d.

Next day at break, I’m making a mess in the staff room when Mr Underwood snares me.

“Phoebe. Many congratulations.”

“Sir?”

I’m sorry, I might be getting better at wearing Miss Mint’s clothes and teaching and living in her life but it’s not a natural thing to say, oh, hi there Archibald.

“On your news,” he says, his Movember bristles bristling. “You and Taff must be so excited.” He leans in and I heave, ‘cos his breath’s rank, his hair’s slicky and he might be headmaster but his own needs some taming.

“Two become three, like that old Spice Girls song.” He looks pleased; keeping up to date’s hard and so mostly he slots in the world ‘old’ and gets away with it, even when he’s completely wrong.

“What? Sorry, I ...”

“We took the plunge in 1975,” he mists. “Our first was so tiny. Hard work. But so much fun,” he enthuses. “So much character when they’re small. People said we were young ... too young ... but of course with the economy now, people have to wait, don’t they ..?”

He looks at me squarely. “Well, anyway Phoebe. Won’t keep you. Just let me know what you need when it comes to time off.”

The adverbs I’m guillotining slide to the floor.

Oh my god, I’m pregnant.

* * *

“You’re not pregnant,” Miss Mint says. “I’m not pregnant, I mean. We’re buying a house. Taff and I.”

We’re in French 2 at lunch and there’s postcards all over the walls saying
bonnes vacances
and
salutations
with pictures of la mer and la plage, glossy gateaux and chateaus and I think of Mum.

Miss Mint’s brought my French book along ‘cos she had it this morning and guess what? She’s scared.

Turns out Miss Mint’s not great at French. Turns out I’m better than her. Turns out the thought of us
maybe
not swapping back and her taking mocks next term freaks her out entirely, which I find hilarious to be honest, when she’s buying a house in real life.

“But your house is gorgeous.”

She rests from declensions and clenches her fists. I’ve lent her the diamond; I stare as she twists.

“It’s got some bad memories.”

She leaves it at that.

Outside, it’s like the world’s pausing. The field’s a damp, trampled carpet. Remembrance assembly’s tomorrow and our pounds are for Help the Heroes, Alicia reminded me yesterday. I asked her who hers was. She said her brother. I don’t know whose mine is. Maybe Dad. Maybe not. Miss Mint used to be. But I’m not sure now.

“Are you going round tonight, then?”

We’re back to Josh. Miss Mint says after French he legged it at break and she looked everywhere but then Erin was moaning about her mum not letting her see Joe Brannigan, so she couldn’t look long.

“Yeah,” I say, and leave it at that.

I’m a bit cross ‘cos Josh’s not got my letter yet. I thought she’d have slipped it into his bag in tutor but it all went wrong, she says. Debono went mental ‘cos she’d lost her staff planner, so sent Miss Mint off to find it in science. Then Miss Mint saw Mr Morlis taking pictures of the rain with his tutor group and stayed ‘til the bell went, quizzing him.

“What did he say?”

“We’re doing well, apparently. Three days in, three nights down ... if we’d lied so far, he thinks we’d know.”

“How?”

“He says we just would. Says if we don’t tell the truth, we’ll feel great pain, or something. I haven’t; have you?” She looks at me suspiciously.

I think of my teeth, how they throb in the night; how it could be ‘cos I didn’t tell Miss Anderson what I really think of her hair in staff briefing this morning. But I don’t mention this, ‘cos I’m going to see Mum on Saturday. I don’t think my teeth hurt ‘cos of that, anyway.

She says she’s had lunch and I say oh, what? ‘Cos my pasty was yum. She says a boiled egg.

I get her to write it in French and we leave it at that.

* * *

I hitch a ride home with Mr Morlis again; it’s just easier, as long as Olly’s not around.

“What should we do with your car?”

He’s right: it’s been parked in the car park for three days now. I’ve not lied outright about why, but someone’s bound to ask soon what’s the matter with it.

“We’ll get it on Sunday.”

Strange saying ‘we’. Taff’s rung twice. Well, more than that but I’ve missed most of them. Taking a call in the school day’s like juggling jelly, as Mum would say. We don’t talk for long. He asks how the day’s gone and I say fine but I like listening to him more, so I ask lots of questions. It takes my mind off me.

He tells me how he’s staying with his friend and it’s basically a holiday type thing, though it sounds like bloody hard work, ‘cos at five, he gets up and meets three other men at a boat. They do some warm-ups and then when they’re warmed, they pile into the boat and they row. For, like, ages. When he talks, I can see him, gliding through scum and the ducks and the dead reeds. Then out, to the clear, calm water.

I let him explain and he must think I’m dumb for not listening before when he and Miss Mint first started going out or something. He takes little sips in between talking, and it might be that nasty Mint tea that she drinks, but somehow I think that it’s beer. But who really cares about that. I just like hearing his voice.

* * *

Mr Morlis drops me off. I thank him and I’m almost through the door of 45 when I hear bawling.

Mrs Meadows is wrestling with a baby seat and shopping. She’s got one of those slippy, slidey side door cars that children fall out of. Dominic launches off the step and lands in the mud, followed by Edward who steps daintily over him, turns round; picks him up. Mrs Meadows clutches the baby, whose name is Francesca, close to her chest.

“Dom, Ed, get up and help,” she gasps as the bags pull and swing like pendulums; like Tao’s balls.

They don’t, so I do.

“Oh. Thank you. Miss ..?”

There’s recognition but she can’t find my name and I’m not surprised, ‘cos Miss Mint doesn’t know hers. She’s got on some kind of red, felty poncho and isn’t it weird how money can’t buy you style? Josh’s so like her: attracted to up-to-date, unflattering clothes like a magnet. She peers through her fringe and I just say,

“Mint. I’m Miss Mint. I teach your son, Josh.” Well, that’s strictly true, I think, and we walk in.

I do teach Josh.

I teach him what to say in French when he’s stuck, like
pamplemousse
and
malheureusement
and crack up when the question’s in fact what’s the time?

I teach him to match shoes to socks; shorts to tops. I teach him how to tie cravats. I teach him to ignore looks and whispers and just be himself.

“Where is he?” is the first thing she asks, but she’s not being wonky. She just wants to know.

The line of her mouth is the only thing straight in this whole house. ‘Cos the table’s a mess and the curtains are skewed and the kids run like chickens across Designer’s Guild rugs, pecking at Lego and legs. Francesca hiccups. A phone burrs off the sink. And I think, is Josh’s place always like this?

“I’m not all that sure.” I take two bags off her and make her sit, ‘cos she won’t let go of that baby.

On the fridge, next to the picture of Spain, is a calendar with seven columns. Josh’s family’s:

• a father, Greg
  
• a mother, Julia
  
• a brother, Alex
  
• a sister, Beatrice
  
• Josh
  
• a brother, Dominic
  
• a brother, Edward
  
• a sister (baby), Francesca
  

Francesca doesn’t have a column yet.

“He’s not often late,” she says mildly and picks at some bread. I start to unpack and strangely, ‘cos he’s really a brat, Dominic helps.

“Has he been, lately?” I’m Jane Eyre again. She ponders and then says, “not really. Just dreamy, you know?” And I do.

I offer her wine from her fridge and she looks a bit freaked ‘cos she’s breastfeeding, but takes it. Then I call Ed over. He’s a funny one, Ed. His fluffy hair’s pale, like sand dunes in winter. His favourite food’s broccoli. He stands stock still for a second or two when I ask him to find some eggs and some beans, then he trots to the larder and does.

And before he kicks off, I zap Dom with a look that says
X Factor
judge all over it. I pour oil in a pan and five minutes later, things start to heat up.

“I’ve never been sure about Josh’s friends,” Julia says, and my foot starts to twitch.

The eggs sizzle softly. “What do you mean?”

“He’s never with boys and he ...”

“What?”

“Really misses his father.”

Well, that’s news to me. ‘Cos Josh’s not mentioned him much, recently. He’s gone on a bit about Alex and Bea and his mum, and being ferociously gay does not have to mean loving his dad I s’pose, though now I come to think of it, it is a bit odd he’s not brought him up for a while. Not like I talk about mine. But Greg Meadows is in Hong Kong and busy, I think.

“He’s left us, you know.”

And the eggs spit and Dom yells and Ed puts his fingers in his. Right in. I turn off the heat and point Ed at the pan ‘cos it’s my turn to sit.

“I shouldn’t be whinging,” Julia says, slugging wine, “but he is such a pig. And the kids aren’t to blame.”

I’m really confused, now. “What do you mean?”

“Alex and Josh. They’re gay,” she says, like it’s a TV soap and she already knows what happens. “And Greg hates it. Will not accept. We went to Spain. Stayed on a farm. The boys there bullied Josh all summer long and that was the straw that broke Greg’s back. As well as this fat little angel.” She laughs out white wine and the red felt goes wrinkly, like Francesca’s face, and they both start to cry.

Then Dom bashes the oven door and Edward looks lost but keeps stirring, and Alex and Bea are far, far away, and maybe Josh is, too.

And I hope Julia Meadows finds peace in the fact that her family’s alphabeticised.

I don’t know what to wear.

Ridiculous I know, but the clean, made-up-on-hangers outfits are mainly all dressy and sheer and the rest are all mixed up from rummaging. I’ve got a bad throat, my teeth ache like hell and it’s started to rain. Being a teacher doesn’t make you want to come home and Hoover, to be honest. The bedroom’s a mess ‘cos I’ve not cleaned at all, or washed up either, so all in all, Miss Mint’s beautiful house is quite rank. And it’s non-uniform day and I always stress out.

But never mind that, ‘cos it’s 7.15 and some of us have jobs to go to.

* * *

The taxi man knows me by now and I’m not being big-headed but he definitely likes giving me a ride.

“Nice outfit,” he nods, ‘cos I’m wearing a Sugar Berry trench that’s mega-expensive. But he can’t see what’s underneath.

As we pull up to school, Mr Morlis does too.

“Nice outfit,” he nods, and I think why do girls bother wearing clothes at all if all it takes to impress is a posh looking coat? And I’m glad that I had this idea.

I’m striding purposefully, on my way to the staff room, when Courtney races up the canteen, slopping soup with a roll at ten past eight in the morning. She’s wearing a playsuit. It’s not having fun.

“Miss, have you seen Kai Swanning?” Her words tangle; trip me

up.

I haven’t seen Kai much in the last couple of days ‘cos my timetable’s weird and I have year 11 twice for doubles, but this morning’s one of those times.

“Not yet, Courtney, no. I’m sorry.”

And I look at her properly. I mean it. We’re standing in the atrium and her bare, dimply arms prickle with cold and I can hardly resist saying, “give up; it’s over.” I nearly tell her to put some more clothes on too but then I look down at her black peephole shoes and remember how much I wanted to wear them six days ago. So I just shut my gob. She orbits round Rach, who’s sipping black coffee, looking thin and talking to me. I mean Miss Mint. Who looks up. We lock pupils. There’s something to say.

But ‘course there’s no time before briefing and bells and big sulks in tutor and gum fights and book hunts and all through it I keep my coat on ‘cos of what I’ve got up my sleeve for year 11. In they come, like Noah’s Ark bears, ‘cept in cloddy clumps and not in neat pairs.