Phoenix (2 page)

Jesus, he
probably thinks I’m a peeping tom now. I hope I didn’t freak him out
, I
mutter to myself on opening the front door. Well, at least he might not tell
anyone of my odd spying activities since Margaret did mention he wasn’t
particularly sociable. His dark eyes are etched into my mind, so deep and wise,
like they have experienced the world ten times over.  

For the rest of the day, the way he moved his body before he saw I was
watching drifts through my mind on repeat. It dawns on me that I have never
felt such a level of intrigue for another person simply from a single moment of
eye contact.

The sudden urge to leave some anonymous poetry in his letterbox comes
upon me. Taking out my notepad again, I begin to scribble down one of my
favourite poems by William Carlos Williams. It’s called “Between Walls.”

the back wings

of the

hospital where

nothing

will grow lie

cinders

in which shine

the broken

pieces of a green

bottle

I pause, admiring the simplicity of the words, how the poet describes the
pieces of green glass shining as if they were a flower. He portrays beauty in
the mundane. I rip out the page, fold it up and place it on the table. I’ll put
it in Phoenix’s post box tomorrow morning on my way to my first day at the
school.

As I’m making an omelette for dinner, I think about Harriet and her big
old house on the hill. It was a few miles outside of Cardiff, so I used to
cycle there most evenings and weekends. My mother always wondered at our
friendship.

“It’s a bit strange if you ask me, Eve, you having no friends other than
that crazy old bat,” she’d say.

“She’s not an old bat and she’s not crazy,” I would retort, “and she’s
far more interesting than any of the idiots I go to school with.”

When I was young I wished I could just go and live with Harriet and be
done with it, like Matilda and Miss Honey. Unfortunately, books always have
better endings than real life. I often feel a certain disconnect with my own family.
They aren’t nice people. They don’t understand me and I don’t understand them.

When my omelette is done I toss it onto a plate and sit on my air mattress
in the living room to eat. I look about the room, visualising where I’ll put
everything once the furniture arrives; Harriet’s grand piano, her plush red
velvet antique sofa, her oak chest of drawers. These were the only three items
I allowed myself to keep from her house. The rest I left where it was.

I didn’t want to haul everything to this new place and live in the past
by recreating the house I spent my days with Harriet in. That wouldn’t be very
healthy at all, and I want to try my hardest to be a real living person now, one
who socialises with her own age group, drinks wine with her dinner, and smiles
from time to time.

I drift into these thoughts of creating a new self when suddenly I get
that tingly feeling when you are certain there is somebody staring at you. When
I glance up I see something dash quickly between the bushes that crowd the
garden. I presume it to have been somebody’s cat or maybe a squirrel.

The next morning I wake very early, nervous. I take a long shower and get
dressed. I wear a loose white blouse and a lavender floral skirt. I struggle
about whether to wear my hair up or down, wanting to make the best possible
impression. My hair is a wavy golden brown and very long. I suppose my one
redeeming quality is my eyes, eyes that I’m sure were not meant for me. They
are far too bright a green, a green that was meant for some exotic,
dark-skinned Persian woman.

In the end I decide to leave my hair down.
How in God’s name am I
going to speak to several classes of twenty pupils for forty minutes at a time?
I ask myself. I have drawn up lesson plans, so I hope that if I can just stick
to those things will turn out quite alright.

I eat a breakfast of tea and toast outside, sitting on the steps at my
front door. The sun is shining mildly and I admire the sprawling countryside
before me. I cycle my bike to the school at eight-thirty, planning to get there
early enough to chat with the principal. Chat. Jesus. It isn’t something I do
well. I don’t forget to grab the poem I copied down for Phoenix. I shove it in
his letterbox quickly and continue on to the school.

Thankfully, the principal turns out to be a chatty old man and he does
most of the talking. His name is Mr Helstone and as he tells me about the
school he puffs on a pipe, which I am almost certain you aren’t allowed to do
in a school. I put it down to eccentricity, rather than a blatant breaking of
the rules.

He informs me that I will be teaching in classroom fifteen and shows me
the staff room, introducing me to a variety of different teachers. I’m so
nervous that I can’t remember a single one of their names.

Some smile genuinely, others smile not so genuinely. My classroom is
large with windows all along the left hand side. I sit down at the empty desk
and begin unloading the many books and folders I’ve brought with me.

A couple of minutes later the students begin to file in. They wear navy
and grey informs, the posh type with blazers and crests. I suck air in through
my teeth and let it seep back out again past my lips. Their ages range between
thirteen and fourteen. They eye me curiously as they enter and take their seats,
all the while continuing with their casual banter.

A blonde haired boy with a sheepish smile and a badge that reads “Class
Prefect” hands me a sheet of paper with a list of names on it in a plastic
covering.

“Here’s the roll call, Miss Pound,” he says.

“Right, thank you,” I manage.

Nerves make my mouth go dry and I swallow down a hard lump of saliva. I
wait a few minutes and then clear my throat. Thankfully, the students realise
this is an indication to shut up.

“My name is Miss Pound and I’m going to be your new history teacher,” I
begin.

A boy sitting in the centre of the room raises his hand. Oh great,
questions. I was hoping they’d just stay quiet and let me get through the
lesson without interruption.

“Yes?” I ask, voice scratchy.

“So what happened to that old prick, Thornton? Did he decide to retire
already?”

The rest of the boys laugh, as if to hint, it was because he couldn’t
handle
us
, that’s why he left. I very much doubt that. This doesn’t seem
like the kind of place where the students abuse their teachers. I’ve
experienced those kinds of institutions first-hand during my own education, and
this school is so far removed from them it might as well be on another planet.

“Yes, he’s retired now,” I reply finally and begin with the roll call
before any more hands are raised.

I do not allow myself to stutter, not once. I manage to hold my own
through the first two classes and then I have a short mid-morning break. I go
to the staff room and make a cup of tea with lots of milk and sugar. Its warmth
soothes my nerves.

I think back over the last hour and a half of teaching and it all seems a
blur, like once I got going I just seemed to fall into a flow and it was easy
to speak. I forgot about how many adolescent heads were watching me, and I even
managed a bit of eye contact here and there.

While I sit sipping from the large mug, a male teacher in his late
twenties approaches and offers his hand. He has completely over-styled blonde
highlighted hair. Due to this I take a slight disliking to him, but not a
strong one – not yet anyway.

“Tim Gale, physics, and you are?” he asks as we shake hands.

“Eve Pound. I’m the new history teacher.”

“Yes, I thought as much. How are you finding things here at St. Paul’s?”

“Good so far,” I answer, taking another sip of tea.

“Cool, cool. Oh, here’s Anik. She teaches German. I’ll introduce you.
Hey, Anik, over here.”

Anik is tall and slim with a pleasant face and a fading German accent. She
smiles at me politely and asks how I am.

“Oh Eve, you should join us in Montgomery’s this Friday for drinks,” Tim
interrupts. “Most of us younger members of staff normally go there on
weekends,” he continues with a smirk, gesturing condescendingly over to a man
with grey hair and thick glasses on the other side of the staffroom.
I’d probably
prefer to be chatting with him than with you
, I think to myself.

“Montgomery’s?” I question him.

“It’s a pub in town. You should seriously come. I plan on getting
absolutely shitfaced this weekend. It’s going to be crazy fun.”

I bite back a grimace and smile.
I must appear agreeable
, I remind
myself.
I want people to think I’m normal.
The only thing I know about
getting shitfaced was witnessing my mother drink herself into a stupor most
days growing up. She was an intrinsically unhappy woman and alcohol allowed her
to forget the misery.

“Well, I just might join you,” I say forcing an amiable expression.

Tim is sizing me up now.

“You look very young to be teaching already. How old did you say you
were?” He arches a quizzical brow.

“I didn’t,” I respond. “I’m twenty-four. This is my first proper teaching
job. I just finished my training a few months ago.”

“Your first job. That’s lucky. I was working for a good few years before
I got in here.”

“I guess it is lucky,” I reply, not going into the fact that I got this
job because Harriett wrote me a glowing reference before she died. “If you don’t
mind, I better get back to my classroom. My next lesson starts in a minute.”

“Sure, okay. I’ll see you at lunch maybe?”

“Maybe.”

In my third class I get a little nervy. For a brief moment I mistakenly
look directly at the pupils before me and I seize up for about thirty seconds.
It doesn’t last long enough for anyone to notice, but it unsettles me and the
rest of the day doesn’t go as well as the morning, but I get through it all the
same.

As I nibble on my tuna and sweetcorn sandwich at lunch I’m remembering the
time when Harriet and I built a scarecrow for the land she owned at the back of
her house. It was bizarre. She had no crops to protect. She just became adamant
that we would make a scarecrow because she’d never had one before and she liked
the kind of menacing effect they brought. She regretted how you never really
see scarecrows anymore.

“But if you did,” she said to me with mischief, “wouldn’t you be scared,
even just for a moment?”

I agreed that I would be. There’s something about those kind of
antiquated objects that most people find spooky. Harriet said that whenever she
peered out her window and saw the scarecrow, for a split second she always got
a fright, thinking there was a man standing in the middle of the field watching
her. But then she’d remember it was only the scarecrow. She liked that
momentary feeling of fright, she used to say. It made her remember she could
still feel such exhilarating emotions.

On my way home later on, I wheel my bicycle along and walk since the
weather is nice. Daffodils blossom by the roadside and I pick one to bring home
with me. I haven’t got a vase; it’ll be another day or so before the furniture
arrives, but I’ll put it in a jar with some water, and it will be my one friend
in the empty cottage.

I stop and visit the small grocery shop along the way and buy some food
for dinner. When I continue my walk, swinging the daffodil loosely in one hand
and with my plastic bag of groceries hanging on the handle bar of the bike, I
forget that I am almost home and passing by the house that belongs to Phoenix.

I hear the faint sound of a door opening and loud steps walking down the
path, but I’m in too much of a daydream to pay any notice. Before I know it I’m
stopped suddenly in my tracks and a man is standing in front of me. When I look
up, I recognise the shaggy yet neatly cut brown hair. His eyes are brown, too, almost
black, and they burn into mine.

His brow is furrowed and his expression is hostile. In his hand I see a
crumpled up piece of paper. Aggressively, he throws it to the ground at my feet
and then storms away. I pick it up. It’s the poem.

I don’t say anything, but my cheeks quickly colour themselves bright red.
Stumblingly, I hurry on to the cottage and shut the door behind me. I lean against
the wooden frame, breathing heavily and telling myself never to try something
like that again. The look in his eyes was chilling.

The problem is that there is something about Phoenix that really makes me
want to try again, no matter the fear I felt from his gaze nor the prospect of
a repeat rejection.

It is Friday and
I feel relieved by the approaching weekend ahead. So much newness. The students
at school haven’t exactly embraced me with open arms, yet they also haven’t submitted
me to the kind of torture I had witnessed new teachers endure in my own school
days, and I’m grateful of that.

As I exit the building after a long day of teaching, I’m accosted by Tim
and made promise to come for drinks at Montgomery’s that evening. Socialising,
I remind myself, is what normal people do. It’s supposed to be easy and fun. It’s
not supposed to coat my body in clammy sweat and bring on severe anxiety, and
so I’m determined not to feel what the ridiculous chemicals in my body want me
to feel.

My evening sinks further downhill from there. When I arrive home I find
my front garden populated with the furniture I had been waiting on being
delivered. Jesus. Christ. The idiots have just dumped it here and left. How the
hell am I going to get everything into the cottage? I will never be able to
lift the piano, even if I can just barely manage everything else.

A moment of insanity causes me to let out an almighty scream of
frustration. I kick over a potted plant and then sit on the ground to figure
out what I’m going to do. A second later I spot a piece of paper stuck to the
front door. Standing up, I walk over and snatch it off the wood.

It reads:

Dear Miss Pound,

You were not at home to allow us into the house to properly deliver
the furniture, so with permission from your neighbour, a Mr Phoenix Smith, we
have left it outside for you to collect.

Yours Sincerely,

Hodgkin’s Furniture Removal.

Then there are two signatures and the date.

Damn it! It’s too late to call the moving company and have them send
somebody out to help me, so I might as well get started. Opening the front door,
I begin with the smaller objects. If I can’t manage everything by nightfall I’ll
cycle into the town and buy some plastic coverings to put over whatever I have
to leave outside for the night.

Thankfully, most of the furniture is new and in flat packs, so it isn’t
too much trouble. But as I said before, there is the small matter of the grand piano
to deal with. How on earth could someone bring themselves to leave a Steinway
outside on a gravelly, unkempt pathway?

It takes me over an hour and a whole lot of elbow grease to carry everything
into the cottage. Everything apart from the piano. I dash as quickly as my
tired legs will cycle into town to buy a covering for it from the local hardware
store.

It’s eight o’clock by the time I get back, and after I cover it as best I
can I flick through the Yellow Pages to find some sort of heavy furniture
movers. I won’t be giving Hodgkin’s my return business after what they did
today.

I call up a different company and book them to come by the next morning.
With all this finally taken care of, I fill the bath with as much hot water and
bubbles as is humanly possible and get in for a well-deserved long and relaxing
soak. There is simply nothing more heavenly after a period of stress.

When I get out it’s after nine. I wrap myself in my new white fluffy
towels, lie on the bed and very nearly drift off to sleep. I jolt upright when
I suddenly remember I had promised Tim I would make an appearance at Montgomery’s.
I curse myself for having made an effort to be sociable. I can’t not turn up
because it would ruin my so far perfect run at trying to be this new person.

Disheartened, I drag myself up and plait my hair because it’s still wet
and I’m too tired to blow-dry it. I get dressed, grab my bag and once again
cycle my bike in the direction of town.

Montgomery’s turns out to be a pub in an old-fashioned looking building
in the centre of Main Street. Its exterior is painted a cream colour with red
lining, and there are window boxes with flowers. When I enter and see how
packed the place is my throat tightens with nervous tension. The trusty old
claustrophobia kicking in again.

I can’t see Tim or any of the other teachers around, so I go to the bar
and order an orange juice. I try not to make eye contact with anyone, because that
would surely solicit people to come and talk to me. When I notice an empty
table to my left, my heartbeat slows down at the opportunity to sit. But then the
rate builds up faster again when I see there is actually one man already
sitting there. It gets even more rapid when I realise that man is Phoenix.

I remain standing where I am and continue to sip the juice, still
observing Phoenix from the corner of my eye. No one dares to sit next to him,
or ask if they can borrow one of the empty stools from his table. There is a
pint of beer in front of him and he’s sitting watching the room with a kind of self-presence
and confidence like I have never encountered before.

Normally people occupying whole tables in busy, crowded pubs would have a
look of worry on their faces that somebody will ask them to move since there
are larger groups who need the seats. But Phoenix does not betray any of this.
He looks as comfortable as if he were lounging in his own private living room.
I can’t help but be drawn to watch him. Confidence intrigues me, as it is a
trait I have never had the fortune to possess myself.

I almost flinch when suddenly his gaze flicks to mine and he catches me
watching him. He stares at me with a curious expression, and of course
I’m
the first one to look away. For a moment I can’t breathe due do a mixture of
nerves and anger that builds up in my lungs. Any other person would march over
to him and give him an earful for having allowed the furniture men to leave the
fucking Steinway out in the front garden. I, on the other hand, continue to
look away and contemplate running out of the pub.

A few minutes pass and I’m almost finished with my juice when Tim appears
out of nowhere. He grabs me by the arm and leads me to a table of teachers I
recognise from the school but whose names escape me.

I’m still a little nervy because the table is situated within direct view
of Phoenix who continues to shamelessly watch me. His bottomless gaze draws me
in, but I do my best not to succumb to the pull. There is nothing worse than
being looked at when you want nothing more in the world than to disappear. It
is as though he’s taunting me with his eyes, daring me to look back.

Tim offers to buy me another drink and I tell him to get me an orange
juice. He scrunches up his nose at my non-alcoholic choice and then saunters
over to the bar. Some of the teachers sitting at the table try to make
conversation with me, but I can’t find my voice and after a while they give up
on my one syllable answers. Great. I’m the quiet girl who has nothing
interesting to say again.

I might as well wave goodbye to any effort I had made to be normal. I can
never escape who I really am. I can never change myself. Perhaps I can put up a
façade on the surface, but the core will always be the same.

I can see that Tim is quite drunk when he returns and as I sip on my
orange juice his stool seems to be moving closer and closer to mine. I smell
the alcohol on his breath and it feels like he’s towering over me, taking up
every inch of my personal space. Self-consciousness seeps from my pores at the
fact that Phoenix is still bloody watching me.

I know I’m not imagining things either, because Tim points it out when he
slurs, “That man over there is staring at you, Eve.”

“Oh,” I say, momentarily glancing over. “Is he?”

When my eyes connect with Phoenix’s my heart gives a quick jolt and the
hint of a smile plays on his lips. I look away again.

Then Tim rises to go to the bathroom and knocks into a man who is trying
to get by. The man’s drink is shaken and spills all over my top, drenching me.
Tim begins apologising frantically, as does the man. I ignore them and rush
into the ladies’ room to clean myself up.

My luck doesn’t improve as the place is packed with women fixing their
make-up and there is no space for me to get to a sink. Having endured enough
for one night, I give up and push my way out through the pub to go home. There
are some men standing outside smoking. They look at me puzzled as I push by
them impatiently. Rustling through my bag, I find an old handkerchief and use
it to dry up the wetness of my top. It’s white and there is now a huge beer
coloured stain covering the centre.

A moment later Phoenix emerges from the pub and says hello to the group
of smoking men as he passes them. I look away and continue trying to dry my
top. Then I hear the measured step of a boot stop in front of me.

“Looks like somebody made a mess,” says a deep voice with an English
accent that sounds like it had previously been something else. There is a
slight edge of foreignness that I don’t recognise, which gives this voice an
unusual and quite frankly, enchantingly exotic quality.

I look up, surprised to find Phoenix talking to me. There is still a touch
of hostility about him, but not as much as there had been the other day.

“Uh, yeah, just a little beer triggered mishap,” I mumble, still dabbing
at the stain and not knowing what to do now that he is addressing me directly.

His dark eyes peruse my top as he drags his teeth along his bottom lip.
Strangely, seeing him do this causes a rosy blush to rise in my cheeks, a
distant unused part of me waking up.

“Those sorts of mishaps really are a pity,” he says, voice low. By his
tone it doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s a pity at all. He clears his throat
and offers somewhat begrudgingly, “Would you like a ride home?”

I glance up at him slowly. He hasn’t yet mentioned the fact that he threw
my crumpled poem at my feet the other day in a fit of rage. There’s no
aggression in his demeanour, just a hint of interest. I wonder what it is about
me that interests him.

“That’s okay. I rode into town on my bike,” I reply, gesturing to where
it sits locked up by the entrance to the pub.

He cocks an eyebrow at my red bicycle and then looks back at me, doing
the whole lip biting thing again. Something in the pit of my stomach unfurls.

“It might be a little dangerous for you to cycle home at this time of
night. There are no street lights once you get outside of the town, you know.”

“I’ll be fine,” I reply, at long last giving up on trying to salvage my
stained top.

I move to walk by him, but he stands in the way, making an imposing
figure. I come face to face with his lean chest.

“Excuse me,” I whisper, not meeting his gaze. “Please move.”

“Let me drive you,” he insists. “If not for your own safety then for my
peace of mind.”

I can’t imagine that his peace of mind would be disturbed too much if
something were to happen to me. He doesn’t even know me. I glance up and take a
moment to study him. Should I be suspicious of his offer? It’s a small town,
and by the way that old lady Margaret spoke, everybody knows everybody. Surely
it wouldn’t be
too
dangerous to accept a ride from this stranger. After
all, I am very tired after such a long day.

“Well, alright. But what will I do about my bike?”

Silently, he holds his hand out for the key to the padlock. I hand it to
him and he walks smoothly over to where it’s locked up, undoing the chain and
wheeling it to his truck. He opens the trunk and shoves it in, before coming
back around to the front and opening the passenger side door for me, just like
a gentleman would. I’m not used to it and feel a rush of something I can’t
quite put my finger on from the small gesture. I get in, not daring to break
the silence. On the drive he says nothing, so I decide to confront him about
the furniture.

“Can I ask you something?” I say in a quiet voice, wondering how he’ll
react.

“Yes?”

“Was it really necessary for you to let the furniture men leave my stuff
outside?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You signed for my delivery. I had to carry everything indoors by myself
and it was really difficult. If you hadn’t signed for it then they would have
had to come back another day.”

His brow furrows, creating an attractive shape on his masculine face. “I
thought that was what neighbours do; they sign for your deliveries when you’re
not in. I didn’t realise it was furniture.”

“Oh. Well, never mind. It’s all taken care of now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Um, yeah, mostly. My piano is too heavy, so I have to pay professional
movers to come tomorrow and bring it inside for me.”

He sighs. “Well, if you want I’ll do it for you. After all, your
situation is my fault.”

“That’s very kind of you to offer, but it’s a baby grand. I don’t think you’ll
be able to do it by yourself. It’s a two man job at the very least.”

His lips curl at the edges into an almost smile that softens his
features.

“I have a large trolley in my shed. If I can get it onto that it should
be easy enough,” he replies.

“You do? Well, okay, that would be great,” I say and then stay quiet for
a minute.

“Oh, um, one more thing,” I go on. “Would it be possible for you to do it
now? Tell me if I’m asking too much, but I just can’t stand the thought of
leaving it outside all night.”

He raises an eyebrow, stating, “It’s almost midnight.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry for asking. You can do it tomorrow. The fact
that you’re doing it at all is a huge help.”

“Do you make a habit of apologising to people who don’t deserve it?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say, confused.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, darling. Don’t give your apologies so
freely. It shows your weakness and bad people will take advantage of that.”

“Oh.” It’s ridiculous, but now I actually feel like apologising for
apologising. I hold my tongue.

There is silence for a moment and his jaw moves. “I will move your piano
inside tonight.”