Love Lessons (4 page)

‘Are you all right, Dad?' I asked.

‘Of course I am!' He glared at me indignantly. ‘I'm in the pink.'

There was nothing remotely pink about his grey skin.

‘What about these funny turns?' I said, chancing it.

It was a mistake.

‘What's your mother been saying? There's nothing whatsoever wrong with me. Just because I had one little dizzy spell. She makes such a fuss.' Dad's eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘I suppose she's recruited you in her get-me-to-the-doctor campaign?'

‘What?' I said, feigning ignorance. I tried hard to change the subject. ‘What do you want for breakfast, Dad? Toast? A poached egg?'

‘Not if
you're
poaching it, Prudence. It'll either be raw and runny or hard as a bullet,' said Dad, putting the poaching saucepan on the stove himself. ‘You want to take some lessons from your mother.'

Dad had been a confirmed bachelor until Mum won him over with her Yorkshire puddings and treacle tarts. I knew she was an excellent cook but I didn't like that kind of old-fashioned British food, all the pies and pastries and sauces and custards constructed from scratch. I hankered after convenience food and takeaways.

Grace and I knew every meal choice on the menu of the Kam Tong Chinese restaurant and the Ruby Curry House on our parade of shops but we'd never been allowed to eat there. We'd never even been able to order from Pete's Pizza takeaway round the corner, although Grace and I had spent ages choosing the perfect combination of toppings from the leaflet that came through the door. The only takeaway food we ever had was fish and chips once a month, and we'd even missed out on that recently because Dad had a bilious attack and blamed it on ‘that greasy muck'.

I watched Dad fussing around with the poacher. He held an egg in either hand. ‘You'll have one too, Prue?'

‘No thanks, Dad.'

He tutted. ‘You could do with the protein. You don't eat enough – unlike your tubby little sister.'

‘Don't tell Grace she's tubby, Dad, she hates it,' I said.

‘Don't
you
tell me how to talk to my own daughter, Miss Saucebox,' said Dad, poking me in the back. Then he patted my shoulder to show he was only joking. He leaned over, peering at my picture. ‘That's not bad, girl,' he said.

‘Not bad' is high praise from Dad. I couldn't help glowing.

‘Our little trip to the National Gallery obviously inspired you,' Dad said proudly.

‘It was wonderful. So, do you really think I'm good at art, Dad?'

‘You know you are,' he said. ‘In fact we
might
just collaborate when you're a wee bit older. You could design the dust wrapper for my Magnum Opus.'

Dad has been writing this so-called book ever since I was born. There are odd pages and half chapters all round the flat, typed on Dad's ancient Remington portable and scribbled over again and again with his cramped copperplate corrections. I've read pieces here and there and can't make sense of any of it. It's supposed to be a history of the world, but Dad seems mostly concerned with Kingtown, where we live, and how it's changed for the worse over the last thirty years.

Mum always arranges the discarded pages reverently, as if they're Ten Commandment tablets straight from God. She calls it Dad's Magnum Opus too, without a hint of irony. When Grace was a bit younger she thought Dad was writing about ice creams and showed a passing interest until I explained that Magnum Opus is Latin for ‘great work'. Now we have a private running joke that Dad is writing an encyclopaedia of ice creams and we invent new extracts covering exotic flavours.

I decided I'd tell her Dad's idea and design a private dust wrapper for her amusement. Dad would be sitting in our bookshop with a Magnum in one hand, a Cornetto in the other, with Grace and me on either side of him carrying trays of ice-cream tubs for him to sample.

Dad saw me smiling and misunderstood. ‘I'm not joking, Prudence. I really think you'd be good enough one day.'

I took a deep breath. Golden opportunity time!

‘Maybe I'd need a little training, Dad,' I said casually, as if I didn't really care.

Dad raised his eyebrows and sighed. ‘I'm not sending you to blooming art school,' he said. ‘How many times do I have to get it into your thick head? Now don't go all droopy-drawers on me. You can paint as much as you like in your spare time. Anyway, they don't
paint
at art school now, they just faff around with blocks of concrete and dead animals and pretend all that crap is
creative
.'

I didn't bother replying. I stared at my painting of Tobias and the Angel. They smiled at me sympathetically with their rose-madder lips.

‘If you've set your heart on further education, then you might as well go to a proper university,' said Dad. ‘We'll show that interfering berk from the education authority. You'll pass all his exams with flying colours. How are you getting on with your maths tuition?'

I blinked. ‘Fine, Dad,' I said quickly.

‘I thought you said you couldn't understand a word she said?' Dad said suspiciously.

‘And
you
said I just needed to apply myself – and I have,' I said. ‘Dad, I'm sure your poached egg's ready. I'll make a pot of tea.'

I clattered around, and felt very relieved when Mum came thudding downstairs in her old pink mohair dressing gown. She's been wearing it ever since I can remember. It was a mistake right from the start. She looks like giant walking candyfloss.

‘You two are early birds,' she said brightly. ‘Oh, are you making breakfast, Prue? You're a good girl. Poached eggs – mm, lovely.'

‘No, she's not making the poxy poached eggs;
I
am. And mine's ready now, but I suppose you want to nab it, so I'll just have to start all over again for mine,' said Dad.

‘Oh no, dear, you have it. I'll make my own,' Mum twittered.

They started a totally pointless argument about eggs, while I packed up my painting and made tea and toast for four, thankful that I'd somehow managed to skirt round the maths tuition inquisition.

I relaxed too soon. We were still sitting at the breakfast table fifteen minutes later, Mum fussing, Dad irritated, Grace in her teddy pyjamas sleepily scoffing half a packet of cornflakes, when we heard the post come through the shop letter box.

‘More blooming bills,' said Dad. ‘Run and fetch them, Prudence.'

I ran. I fetched. I didn't even think to sort through the little wad of envelopes. I saw there was one white handwritten envelope but I didn't wonder who it could be from.

I'd written a very good showy essay for Dad on the significance of letters in Victorian fiction – and yet I was thick enough to hand it straight to him. Dad shuffled the envelopes, opening them with his eggy knife, chucking several bills straight into the bin.

‘We can't just ignore them, Bernard,' Mum said anxiously.

‘Yes we can,' said Dad.

‘But we're going to have to pay
some
time.'

‘I don't know what with,' said Dad, flapping another sheet of paper at her. ‘This is from the bank. “Overdraft . . . not acceptable . . . blah-di-blah.” Jumped up little penpusher. I don't need
him
to point out my financial circumstances, thanks very much.'

That letter went in the bin too. Mum twitched, peering over at it, ready to whisk it out the minute Dad left the room.

He binned the next letter too, barely reading it.

‘What was that about, dear?' Mum asked anxiously.

‘That interfering creep Miles from the education authority. He's still banging on about Prudence's GCSE coaching. Demanding details, tutors' names, timetables! God almighty!'

‘Well, that's OK, dear. We've got Prue started at Miss Roberts's. Then maybe we can manage some science tuition later on. But you'd better write and let him know. Just in case he might turn nasty.'

‘Let him try! Now, what's this?' said Dad. He slit open the white envelope, took out the sheet of paper and read the letter. He sat very still.

‘Prudence?' he said quietly.

My heart started thudding under my red-and-white checks. ‘Yes?'

‘This is a letter from Miss Roberts,' Dad said ominously.

I swallowed. Grace nudged up close to me.

‘Oh dear,' said Mum. ‘Doesn't she think Prue's been making any progress?'

‘Well. You could say that,' said Dad, spinning it out. His whole body was tensed, ready to spring.

‘Now don't go getting cross with her, Bernard. It's not her fault she finds maths a puzzle. I'm sure she's doing her best,' said Mum.

‘Yes, she's doing her best, all right,' said Dad, his voice rising. His pale face flushed purple. ‘Doing her best to make a monkey out of me!'

He shouted it, spit spraying into the air. Then he wavered, wobbling sideways so that he had to clutch the table.

‘Don't get so het up, please,' Mum begged. ‘Are you having another funny turn?'

‘Yes, I am – and it's no blooming wonder!' Dad said, through clenched teeth. He leaned over the table at me. ‘How
dare
you!' he yelled, thumping the old scratched pine so hard that all the plates and knives and spoons rattled.

Grace reached out and held my hand under the table.

‘What has she
done
, Bernard?' Mum asked. ‘Has this Miss Roberts complained about her? Maybe she's simply too strict for our Prue.'

‘Miss Roberts hasn't complained, as such. She's simply a little perturbed. She hasn't seen hide nor hair of Prudence for the last three weeks.'

‘What?' said Mum. ‘But – but why? Did you get lost, Prue? Why didn't you go?'

‘Well?' Dad shouted, leaning so far over the table his face was nearly touching mine.

‘I went once and I couldn't understand a thing. I just didn't see the point,' I muttered.

‘I can't believe I'm hearing this!' Dad bellowed. ‘Why didn't you come and tell me, after your one obviously disastrous visit?'

‘I didn't want to,' I said, right into his face.

‘You didn't want to. Even though you knew Mr Miles is all set to leap into action and slam your mother and me behind bars for not giving you a proper education?'

‘He won't put us in prison! Will he?' Mum said weakly.

‘Of course you won't go to prison, Mum.'

‘Oh, Miss Know-It-All! Only you know damn all, even though you think you're so smart. You need to get to grips with maths, even if you're just going to waste your time at art college. Remember that, missy. You thought you could swan off and do your own thing, tell bare-faced lies to your own father, waste everyone's time and money—'

He stopped short, his mouth still working silently though he'd run out of words.

‘Bernard? Do calm down – you're getting yourself in such a state. You're making yourself ill!' said Mum, catching hold of his arm.

He brushed her away as if she was some irritating insect. He focused on me. His face was still purple. Even his eyes were bloodshot with his rage. ‘What about my money?' he screamed. ‘What have you done with my eighty pounds?'

‘Sixty. I paid the first time.'

‘Don't you dare quibble with me! Sixty, eighty, whatever. Hand it over immediately, do you hear me?'

‘I can't.'

Dad struggled to draw breath. He looked as if his head was about to explode, shooting eyes, teeth, tongue all over the table. ‘I said
hand it over immediately
!'

‘I can't, Dad. I've spent it,' I said.

Dad reeled. ‘You've spent eighty pounds of my money?' he gasped.

‘Sixty pounds, Dad. Yes. I'm sorry,' I said weakly.

‘Whatever did you spend it on, Prudence?' Mum whispered.

I swallowed, unable to say.

‘She spent it on me. On chocolate. Lots and lots and lots of chocolate,' Grace gabbled desperately.

‘I might have known. You greedy little fool!' said Dad in disgust. ‘So you stuffed your great gut with
my
hard-earned money.'

I was suddenly so angry I wasn't frightened of Dad any more.

‘Don't talk to Grace like that, Dad. It's horrible, and it's so unfair. I
didn't
spend the money on chocolate. Grace is just saying that to protect me. I spent it on other stuff.'

‘
What
stuff?' said Mum, who'd never spent sixty pounds in one go in her life.

‘I went to McDonald's, I bought magazines, I got a special box of watercolours from the art shop—'

‘That wouldn't use up eighty whole pounds! Give me what's left!'

‘Sixty, Dad,
sixty
! I spent all of it. I bought some underwear too.'

‘Underwear?' Dad gasped. ‘What sort of an idiot do you take me for, Prudence? What did you really buy?'

‘Oh my lord, you're not on drugs, are you?' said Mum.

I'd never had the chance to smoke so much as a Silk Cut, never swallowed anything more sinister than an aspirin. The idea that I'd somehow been hobnobbing with drug dealers was so ludicrous I couldn't help smiling.

Dad's hand shot out. I felt such a whack on my cheek that I nearly toppled sideways.

‘Take that smirk off your face! Now tell me what you spent eighty pounds on, you little liar.'

Grace started crying, but I was too angry for tears.

‘It was
sixty
pounds, Dad – don't you ever listen? And I
told
you, I bought my watercolour paints, some food in McDonald's, some magazines . . . and some underwear.'