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After sitting dumbstruck, Natalia’s mouth finally opened. ‘You want me to pick the school trip? I, I don’t know…’
‘What do you think your Year will like?’
‘I don’t know what any of these numbskulls like.’
‘Fair enough,’ he chuckled. ‘Where do you want to go?’
She gasped. ‘I can’t pick what I like…’
‘Come on, come on girl. This is your chance to choose else I’ll write off a trip altogether and use the funds on upgrading Dinkey’s modem—’
‘No way.’ She put down her tea as he chortled. ‘How far can we go?’
‘How far do you want to go?’
‘As far as possible.’
‘Have you ever been out of Leeds?’
‘A coach trip to Sheffield.’
‘Jesus, don’t bother with a postcard.’ He gazed at his computer screen. ‘Well, we can only go within an hour really.’
‘Not to the coast?’
‘Why the coast?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s what I’m doing in Art. Looking at paintings of sirens and mermaids and sailors on the sea.’ She brought out her phone, swiped the screen a few times and held it out to face him. ‘John William Waterhouse. Evelyn de Morgan. Herbert James Draper.’
He squinted. ‘Bloody hell, what a crack…’
‘I take it you mean the screen.’
‘Mainly,’ as he leant and swiped a finger. ‘But hers is alright—’
‘Well, isn’t everyone’s?’
His eyes shot cynically to hers.
‘I mean the screen!’ she groaned. ‘I would get it fixed but I can’t afford it and it would be more than this thing is even worth.’
‘Hmm. But are you hoping to spot naked, oil-painted temptresses emerging from the sea in… Bridlington?’
‘Blackpool maybe.’
They laughed as he swiped a few more times. ‘Not sure about that one.’
She turned her phone around. ‘Oh. That’s my trainers for eBay.’
‘You’ll need to sell more than those stink bombs for a new phone. Anyway, it’s not really a good time of year for a trip to the beach. Save that for summer.’
‘When my art GCSE is over?’
‘And you can have actual fun on the beach and flap about in the sea like a seaman-scaring siren yourself than worrying about taking photos of water for a tiresome sketchbook.’ He clicked his mouse and mused. ’What about an art gallery where some of these paintings might hang?’
‘Leeds Art Gallery?’
‘Natalia you could go there on the bloody bus tomorrow. It’s got to be something further out, more adventurous. Museum, landmark… wait! You like Brontë…’
‘Mm-hm?’ She took a gulp of tepid tea as he rattled his keyboard again like a doctor at his desk prescribing school trips as some new experimental drug on nervous loners.
‘Swap Art for English Lit. Have you ever been to Brontë country?’
‘A whole country?’
‘The South Pennine Moors, containing the pint-sized village of Haworth, and the Parsonage Museum where the Brontë sisters lived and wrote their books.’
‘Really?’
‘You didn’t know about it?’
‘I don’t know much beyond my street.’
‘Haworth is quite beautiful. Very quaint and historic,’ as he swivelled his computer screen around to show cobbled streets that looked to her like the opening of Corrie but far better. ‘Same as it looked in the 1900s. It’s an hour away, perfect.’
‘Oh wow. Let’s go there!’
‘Let me contact them and see if they’ll have us.’
‘Are you gonna… be coming too, sir?’
He looked at her, then back at the screen.
‘This I might, yes. Well, you’d better get off for your bus.’
She arose. ‘How’s the video? Been deleted yet?’
‘Ah yes, let’s see how Dr Ploppy’s directorial debut is faring.’
She darted round behind him to look at his screen. He made a curious sideways look before switching his computer tab.
‘Nadgers. Still zero views,’ grunted his broad slumped shoulders.
‘Refresh the page, Neill…’
‘Oh.’
The page reappeared with a view count of 624 and 14 comments.
‘…My god!’ His stumped broad shoulders shot upright.
‘All that in fifteen minutes?’ Natalia exclaimed.
‘She’s dead. Right, fag well overdue,’ he stood up and loomed over her. ‘Cigarette?’
She just laughed.
‘Well have a good weekend, ok.’
‘Thanks. Bye Neill.’
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She hurried back down to the empty classroom where only Mrs Clayton was clearing up, eyeing Natalia’s coat and bag.
‘You’re back at last! I was wondering what on earth happened!’
‘Sorry miss. Neill’s fault, he talks so much.’ She packed away and sprinted up the school driveway just in time for the next bus.
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*
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‘When he met me unexpectedly… the encounter seemed welcome. I was honoured by a cordiality of reception that made me feel I really possessed the power to amuse him.’
It was dark by now, which would normally scare her as the bus roared through hairy Killingbeck, but she enjoyed the absence of stomping school kids. Huddled up by the window, her belly whirling in disbelief with the aftertaste of Neill’s tea milk and the eggy tang of her own cupcake, she had her heavily pencil-annotated Jane Eyre in her lap - something she’d never do on the bus where she could be seen as a swot - and underlined that quote of Jane ruminating on Rochester.
She laughed to herself at the notion of Mr Neill - at least double her age, a different generation and social class entirely - as the figure of a lover. But there was something of a friend at least. Better than a friend. A kindred spirit?
Then, with her own hand upon her wrist, her pulse quickened at the momentary remembrance of his hand there; their ligaments, their skins, in prolonged warm communion. How her blood had shifted up a degree in speed and temperature, how strangely nice it felt when he squeezed in response to her resistance. How clammy her armpits felt when she had left the room. How her mind had pored over it all week!
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Whilst mum cackled over beers with ciggy-scented female company downstairs, Natalia Google-ogled Haworth and the Brontë museum, till two wind-howling nights later, Monday morning brought the dull drag of her period and the sudden stab of fear for Marcia’s face. What a bummer her new joy for school had to be almost immediately dampened by some ghastly cast-off from another school to burden theirs.
Neither Sam nor Laura were to be seen today. Natalia suspected they’d both caught her cold, the one that seemed to be doing the rounds of the entire class - including Bernard, hallelujah. After register was taken, the first lesson was French in the same room with Marcia amongst those staying. Whilst Mrs Williams left the room to fetch something, her frown hooked onto Natalia.
Natalia stared ahead.
‘Your bag’s like a tramp’s bag.’
A jelly sensation grew in Natalia’s thighs, not dissimilar to when Neill exhorted, ‘oh Natalia, you should have been here!’ …Oh, she wished she was up there now, all safe and—
‘Do you know how fuckin’ ugly you are?’
Her pleasant thoughts were razored like a wasp sting at a picnic. Now Ryan had wandered over to collect his book from the front desk.
‘Aw, leave her alone, Marcia—’ he began, as Natalia watched with intrigue, his face turning brighter red than her sanitary towel.
Marcia scoffed. ‘Don’t tell me you fancy the spoff!’
‘Shurrup.’
‘You got any fags?’
‘Some yeah.’
A useful distractor despite abysmal rescue efforts, thought Natalia, as Mrs Williams flapped into the room like an overfed hen with a shrill cry for everyone to sit and open their books. The door slowly creaked closed just as a merry laugh infiltrated down the staircase. Oh,how she wished the new court judge could condemn Marcia to an abyss as easily as Luxton or Cohen. About as likely as getting to remove the blackhead on the end of Williams’ nose, she sighed.
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*
The hours of school went so slowly she began to wish she could catch that cold again herself and sit at home daydreaming till she could catch a coach to the 1900s. Laura, raspily coughing beside her in Chemistry the next day, suddenly said:
‘I heard Mrs Coleman say we’re going on a school trip. Sam reckons it’s Alton Towers. I was saying it’s not educational enough, and—’
‘It won’t be Alton Towers,’ Natalia stared into the flame of the Bunsen burner as though in a trance. ‘Too far. Besides I don’t really like rollercoasters.’
‘Good job it’s not up to you! Besides, Neary used to stop any pupils who’ve been on a report card three times or more from going on the trips. You wouldn’t have been allowed—’
‘Well Neary won’t mind now he’s gone, will he?’
A call came to Mr Harrison’s desk.
‘Natalia? The Head wants to see you.’
She threw off her goggles, grabbed her bag and arose so quickly that warm blood shunted into her knickers like a rocket. Noticing Laura looking taken aback, she feigned a casual gait to the door before hot-footing like a rocket herself down the stairs. Did Neill want to talk about the school trip? Or the uniforms? Or victorious, viral vindication of vile vole Luxton? Whatever, she’d rather watch the flame on the end of his cigarette as the most exciting experiment in the building!
She knocked and entered to a gleeful-looking Neill looking up from a range of catalogue sheets spread over his desk.
‘Ah, there you are!’ he declared, the sight of his lively, fresh-faced vitality already making her glow again, like life was ok after all, at least in this room, where cakes and cookies, tea and tattle, screens and schemes beckoned sheer escapist happiness.
‘Hi, Neill. I see it’s about the school uniform, then?’
She sat down and scooped the chair up to his desk.
His face dropped. ’What’s the matter?’
‘What, nothing? I’m fine.’
‘I can tell you’re not,’ he stared back.
A sudden sadness pricked in her eye ducts, which she quickly shook off.
‘Neill, no. Honestly, I’m fine. Just a bit tired, that’s all.’
‘Tired from what?’
She blinked at his inquisition.
‘W-well, it’s that time you know… I’m on my… my period.’
Did she just mention her period to Neill? Her face began to redden like Ryan’s.
‘Hmm.’ Softly raised eyebrows said he was unconvinced, drinking her in for a few more seconds, before taking a sharp inhale back down at the sheets.
‘So how did your focus group go?’ she asked.
‘It wasn’t quite a focus group in the end, well, sort of.’ Neill coughed. ‘I did gather some opinions, but anyway - I know what changes need to be made, and I’d like to know what you think.’
He pushed forward a page of polo necks. ‘I want to replace the standard shirt with softer cotton fabrics, not just the standard cotton shirt, in white or blue. And then—’ as he presented another page, ‘a smarter redesigned sweater, the options of hoodies, getting rid of ties completely, and shortening all skirts by five inches.’
She looked up cynically.
‘Ah good, just checking you’re listening.’
He ran through another sheet of active-wear sets for PE tailored for outdoor and indoor, including black leggings and gym tops for Yoga, as she watched and nodded, wondering for one wild moment whether she should mention Marcia’s taunting - especially whilst she was absent - perhaps get his advice on how to deal with the twats who are twattier than others…?
‘So, thoughts?’
‘Yeah, I’d wear those.’
‘Those are the boys’ PE kits…’
‘I meant all of it. Looks good.’
He flopped down the papers. ‘Oh come on Natalia. You’re looking at me as skittishly as Miss Doris when I sang Madonna at her in the staff room yesterday. Can’t you put aside whatever is clearly preying on your mind and enthuse, be gladdened, smile and sing for joy that these jumpers look better than what you called potato sacks?’
She gave a smileless laugh. ‘Sorry. I honestly think it’s all really great. It’s my body that feels like a sack of potatoes right now.’
He cast a dubious glance down her. ‘Daintiest sack on the market. I’m not buying it.’
‘Was it Like a Virgin?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Which Madonna song did you sing at Miss Doris?’
He took a sharp inhale. ‘Like a Prayer. She whispers so softly like a child, I’d need to take her onto my knee like one of the washed-up wenches in your Waterhouse paintings to hear what she’s saying.’
‘Now that image makes me skittish,’ she smirked; caught his eye and they laughed together.
‘Right! Well I’ll send all this off and announce it,’ as he collected up the pages. ‘Many people will disapprove of getting rid of ties, but this will be a new benchmark. Shame we can’t just scrap uniforms entirely and have pupils wear their own clothes but I’ve come to realise this place is no Steiner.’
‘What’s Steiner?’
‘Independent schools, holistic and one hundred percent organic. Rudolf Steiner, who founded Anthropopososophy or however the fuck the occultist twat pronounces it.’
‘Um, right. What about the Deputy? What does Mr Dinkey think?’
‘What does Dinkey think?’ He screwed up his face and looked so indignant that she was alarmed for a second. ‘What does Dinkey Donkey thinky wonky?’
She burst out laughing.
Lowering his voice and aligning his gaze with hers, he added: ‘I don’t give one infinitesimal doo-dah what Mr Sleepy Softly, Dinkey Donkey thinks,’ as Natalia’s face fell incredulously. ‘He’s the Deputy which means he does whatever we say. Yep, yep, yep, yep! …Ohh, how lucky I am to have such a good Little Donkey Deputy to be saddled with whatever Headmaster says, hmm?!’
Natalia squealed and her hands flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, my god!’
‘But it’s true isn’t it?’
‘Yes!’ Her face grew alive with enchantment as he leaned forward with the papers bunched in his hands.
‘Really, it’s all about the pupils’ thoughts, and you’re the only pupil in the school with the insight to do not one, but all three of the following: identify, articulate, and know how to remedy the situation. Do you understand?’
He said this with such precise, exacting conviction that forced Natalia to do nothing but nod seriously in self-belief.
‘Thanks.’
‘Oh, stop saying bloody thanks. Just say yes Neill, I know.’
‘Ha.’
‘Say it.’
‘Shut up,’ she smiled.
‘You’re not going out of my office till you say it.’
‘Yes Neill, I know. Now fuck off and let me out of here,’ she wrung her fingers and went pink in the face at swearing, which she wasn’t completely used to doing in front of any teacher.
‘That’s my girl,’ he laughed, stacking the papers up. ‘You’re dismissed, back to whatever’s left of your lesson.’
‘The bell’s already gone, by the way. Thankfully I brought my bag with me because I know how long you witter on for.’
He grinned. ‘Off you go to lunch then.’
As she went to open the door, he added:
‘Oh! By the way!’
She turned.
‘I will find out what it is.’
‘What,’ she said flatly.
‘You can’t fool me.’
Her parting image of him was his screwed nose in the air, crooning to the tune of Little Donkey:
‘Don’t give up, my little Dohh-nkey! New uni-forrrm’s in siiight!’ as the door closed onto his trailing sing-song, and she giggled all the way down the stairs.
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