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After sitting dumbstruck for a moment, Natalia’s mouth finally opened.
‘You want me to pick the school trip? I, I don’t know…’
‘Come on, come on girl. What do you like?’
She put down her tea. ‘How far can we go?’
‘How far do you want to go?’
‘As far as possible.’
He laughed. ‘Have you ever been out of Leeds?’
‘Only on a coach trip to Sheffield.’
‘Jesus, don’t bother with a postcard.’ He glanced 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 at it. ‘Bloody hell, what a crack!’
‘I take it you mean the screen.’
‘Mainly,’ as he swiped it. ‘But hers is alright—’
‘Well, isn’t everyone’s?’
His eyes went 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 tapped on his computer and mused. ’What about an art gallery where some of these paintings might hang?’
‘Leeds Art Gallery?’
‘Natalia darling you could go there on the bloody bus. It’s got to be something further out, more adventurous. Museum, landmark… wait! You like Brontë…’
‘Mm-hm?’ She took a nervous gulp of tea as she watched him.
‘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. ‘Same as it looked in the 1900s. It’s an hour away, perfect.’
‘Oh wow. Let’s go there!’
‘Right! Well, 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 stretched her arms into her coat. ‘How’s the video? Been deleted yet?’
‘Ah yes, let’s see how Dr Ploppy’s directorial debut is faring.’
She walked round behind his chair to have a look.
‘Nadgers. Still zero views.’
‘Refresh the page, silly.’
‘Oh…’
As the page reappeared, a view count of 624 came up, and 14 comments.
‘…My god!’
‘All that in fifteen minutes?’ Natalia exclaimed.
‘She’s dead. Right, fag time well overdue. Have a good weekend, ok?’
‘Thanks. You too. Bye Neill.’
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Natalia hurried back down to the empty classroom where just Mrs Clayton was still clearing up.
‘You’ve been some time!’
‘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.
89Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdjiB2KiaXG
*
‘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, but she enjoyed the bus ride with the peaceful absence of stomping school kids. Huddled up the window, her belly whirling with disbelief and Neill’s hot tea and the eggy aftertaste of her own cupcake, she had her heavily pencil-annotated Jane Eyre in her lap, something she’d never normally do on the bus where she could be seen as a swot, and saw the underscored line of Jane ruminating n Rochester.
She laughed to herself at the idea of Mr Neill - probably at least double her age, of a different generation and social class entirely - as a brooding lover figure. 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!
Whilst her mum cackled over beers with an old friend downstairs, Natalia, hand on her own wrist, spent the weekend Google-ogling Haworth and the Brontë museum, till Monday morning brought the dull drag of her period, and the return of fears of Marcia. 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.
The register was taken at form, and the first lesson was French in the same room, with Marcia amongst those staying for the class. Whilst Mrs Williams left the room to fetch something, Marcia’s eyes hooked onto Natalia.
Natalia took a nervous breath and stared ahead.
‘Your bag’s like a tramp’s bag,’ rasped Marcia.
A sensation like jelly grew in Natalia’s thighs.
‘Do you know how fuckin’ ugly you are?’ she continued like an uninvited wasp at a picnic. Ryan had wandered over to collect his book from the front desk.
‘Aw, leave her alone, Marcia,’ he began, as Natalia watched his face turning brighter red than her sanitary towel.
Marcia threw him a face of scorn. ‘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. As the door slowly creaked closed, there was a merry laugh infiltrating down the staircase. Oh Neill,how she wished he could fire Marcia as easily as Luxton or Cohen. About as likely as getting to remove the blackhead on the end of Williams’ nose.
89Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmDdlOmG4LI
*
In Chemistry before lunch the next day, sitting in a trance watching the flame of a Bunsen burner, a call came to Mr Harrison’s desk.
‘Natalia? The Head wants to see you.’
She threw off her goggles, grabbed her things and arose so quickly that warm blood shunted into her knickers like a rocket. She feigned a casual gait to the door then hot-footed 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 than a boring old science experiment!
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?’
‘Oh, nothing? I’m fine.’
‘I can tell you’re not,’ he stared back at her.
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 Mr Neill? Her face reddened 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.
‘Ah, well, it wasn’t quite a focus group in the end, well sort of,’ he looked up, suddenly rather abashed. ’I did gather some opinions, but anyway - I think 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.’
She managed a weak smile. She burned to tell Neill about Marcia, but she feared looking pathetic over one girl; upturning their intellectual dynamic and freaking him out by cracking into tears as soon as the first word escaped her lips.
He ran through another sheet of active-wear sets for PE tailored for outdoor and indoor, including black leggings and gym tops for Yoga.
She watched and nodded.
‘Oh come on Natalia,’ as he flopped down the papers. ‘You’re looking at me as skittishly as Miss Doris when I sang Madonna at her in the staff room the other day. Can’t you put aside whatever is obviously preying on your mind and tell me these jumpers look better than what you called potato sacks?’
She gave a smileless laugh. ‘Sorry. I honestly think it’s all really good. It’s my body that feels like a sack of potatoes right now.’
He cast a dubious glance down her body. ‘Daintiest sack on the market. I’m not buying it.’
‘Like a Virgin?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Which Madonna song did you sing at Miss Doris?’ she began to smirk.
He paused and studied her. ‘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.’
They both laughed.
‘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?’ His nose scrunched up. ‘What does Dinkey Donkey thinky wonky?’
She burst out laughing.
Lowering his voice and aligning his eye 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!’ he imitated, then with a dramatic purr: ‘Oh, how lucky I am to have such a good Little Donkey Deputy to be saddled with whatever Headmaster says, hmm?!’
Natalia squealed with laughter and shook her head in disbelief.
‘Oh, my god!’
‘But it’s true isn’t it?’ he smiled.
‘Yes!’
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 things: 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 in self-believing seriousness.
‘Thanks.’
‘Oh, stop saying bloody thanks. Just say yes Neill, I know.’
‘Ha.’
‘Say it.’
‘Get lost,’ she smiled.
‘You’re not going out of my office till you say it,’ he said sternly.
‘Yes Neill, I know. Now fuck off and let me out of here.’ She went pink in the face at swearing, which she wasn’t completely used to doing in front of any teacher, yet was strangely compelled into the geniality of doing it with him.
‘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 up nose in the air, crooning to the tune of the Little Donkey carol:
‘Don’t give up, my little Dohh-nkey! New unifor-rrm’s in siiight!’ as the door closed onto his trailing sing-song, and she giggled to herself all the way down the corridor.
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