Love Lessons (25 page)

It was a terrible struggle getting Dad upstairs. The physiotherapist had taught him how to do it. He had to put his good foot up on the first stair, steady it, then somehow swing the bad one up beside it, balance, get his breath back, start again with his good foot up . . . Taking things one step at a time had a whole new meaning. We laboured over each step with Dad, Grace calling encouragement from the banisters, me walking backwards leading Dad up, Mum behind, her arms outstretched, ready to catch him whenever he faltered.

Dad was drenched in sweat by the time he got to the top. He insisted that he wasn't ready for bed though – he'd had enough of lying in a bed in that extremely-rude-word hospital. He was out of breath and his words were going again, but we certainly caught the gist of his meaning.

We helped him into his armchair. He sat propped up on all the cushions we could find, his feet sticking out on the leather pouffe. He looked horribly stiff and uncomfortable in his suit but he wouldn't let Mum loosen his collar and tie or even put his slippers on. He clutched my mini version of his Magnum Opus like a Bible. Every now and then he fumbled the pages open and read out a further line or two. Sometimes he simply repeated the first paragraph. Each time Mum reacted with awe and astonishment, and Grace and I clapped and commented too.

Mum made Dad a scratch supper of egg and bacon and sausage and beans and chips.

‘If only I'd known you were coming home today I'd have made a special steak and kidney pud for you,' Mum said, though she had no money left in her purse. The fridge was nearly empty. The three of us went without the fry-up, making do with beans on toast.

Dad only picked at his meal, negotiating his way shakily round the plate with a fork. When he put it down he smiled at Mum. ‘Lovely grub!' he said.

Mum looked so happy she made me want to cry. Dad was now so tired he could barely hold his head up. He conceded that he might be ready for a lie-down now.

It took almost an hour for Mum to help him to the bathroom, get him undressed and into his pyjamas and lying down with a hot-water bottle. Grace and I weren't allowed to help during most of this performance, but we were summoned into the bedroom to say goodnight to Dad.

He looked much smaller in bed. Even his pyjamas seemed too big for him now, the sleeves flapping round his bony wrists. He nodded at Grace and me, and then held his cheek sideways in an oddly stiff way. We stood still for a moment, puzzled. Then Grace realized. She rushed forward and gave Dad a big kiss on the proffered cheek.

‘Welcome home, Dad,' she said.

‘Good girl, good girl,' he said.

I pecked at his cheek too.

‘Good girl, good girl,' he repeated. ‘Good – to – be – home,' he added, and then he closed his eyes.

We tiptoed back into the living room. The three of us slumped in silence, wondering what on earth was going to happen now.

Dad's docile good humour didn't last. He woke early on Sunday and had the three of us running round all day long. He insisted that we help him all the way downstairs to the shop and then got in a state because a few books had been moved around. He imagined some were missing, remembering books from years ago, insisting that someone had stolen them out of the cabinet. He bashed at the broken lock as if it had happened yesterday and swore at Mum as if she was personally responsible.

‘Useless! Useless!' he screeched at her.

She cooked him another fry-up for his lunch but this time he frowned at his plate, his good hand tipping it.

‘What's this?' he said.

‘It's one of my special mixed grills, Bernard,' said Mum.

Dad sighed. ‘Sunday! Where's . . . where's . . . ?' It took him two minutes of struggling and thumping, the egg and bacon congealing on his plate. ‘My – roast – beef – and – Yorkshire!' he said in a rush.

Mum sighed too. ‘Bernard, we haven't been able to afford roast beef for years, you know that. I'm sorry, I wish I could have made you a pie or a casserole, but I'm a bit short of housekeeping money just now.'

‘Useless! Useless!' said Dad, as if poor Mum had been frittering it away on champagne and caviar.

‘Mum
isn't
useless, Dad,' I said. ‘She's done her very best since you've been ill, but we've got hardly any money left. There are all these scary letters saying they're going to send the bailiffs in. We're going to have to do something, work out a plan.'

‘Rubbish!' said Dad.

‘I'll show you the letters, Dad.'

‘Let your dad eat his dinner first, Prudence,' said Mum.

‘Don't want it,' Dad said petulantly, pushing his plate away.

‘Then let
us
eat it. We're all starving hungry,' I said.

Dad glared at my impudence. I showed him the sheaf of threatening letters. He held them at arm's length, barely glancing at them.

‘Rubbish,' he repeated, and then he tried to tear them up. Luckily he was too fumbly to do more than rip the edge and crumple them. Mum gathered them all up anxiously.

‘We can't just tear them up, Bernard,' she said. ‘Prue's right, we can't just ignore things. We need a plan.'

‘Rubbish!' said Dad. He said it again and again, embellishing it with his favourite swearword. Mum tried to soothe him but he told her she was useless.

When we'd finally got him to bed that evening we were all exhausted. We hadn't dared bring up the most important thing of all – school.

‘You should have let me tell him, Mum,' I said.

‘But he was in such a dreadful state. He simply couldn't have borne it. I wonder if he's in a lot of pain with his bad arm and leg. Maybe that's why he's been so bad-tempered,' said Mum.

‘You don't get pain if you have a stroke. His affected limbs just feel heavy, I'm sure.'

‘Still, it must be awful for him,' Mum said.

‘It's awful for
us
,' I said.

‘What do you think he's going to say about school?' Grace said anxiously.

The phone had gone twice today, one call from Figgy, one call from Iggy, but Mum had run to the phone and said Grace was too busy to talk.

‘He's not going to like it, not at all, especially when he realizes it's Wentworth. He'll be so angry with me,' Mum said. ‘But what was I to do? I couldn't risk getting prosecuted. What if they'd taken you girls into care? I never wanted you to end up at Wentworth, I tried going to Kingtown High, but they've got two hundred already on their waiting lists. Oh Prue, help me make your dad understand. Maybe you could say it was all your idea? Then he might accept it more willingly.'

‘OK. But I don't think he's going to accept it at all,' I said.

‘But we will keep going, won't we?' said Grace. She pushed her hair back behind her ears, her chin jutting in the air. ‘We
have
to keep going to Wentworth, Mum.'

‘Do you really like it there, chickie?' said Mum.

‘Well . . . it's OK. The lessons aren't quite as hard as I thought, and some of the teachers are kind. But it's Iggy and Figgy. They're my
friends
.' Grace's blue eyes filled with tears. ‘I've never had
proper
friends before. They're just like the bestest friends in all the world. I couldn't bear it if I couldn't see them any more.'

Mum patted her hand comfortingly. ‘What about you, Prudence? I expect you feel the same way about Toby.'

‘Well . . .' I couldn't stop Mum thinking Toby was my boyfriend. ‘I
have
to stay at Wentworth too, Mum. I know you think it's had a bad effect on me but I know I'd argue back anyway, whether I went to Wentworth or not.'

‘I know you're very good at arguing,' said Mum. ‘I worry about you, Prue. I've no idea what goes on in that head of yours. I just want you to be happy, dear. If staying at Wentworth makes you happy then let's hope your dad sees reason.'

We all hoped Dad would sleep late so that Grace and I could be off and out before he started shouting for attention. We'd heard poor Mum getting up with him to help him shuffle to the bathroom at least three times in the night. But at half past seven he demanded another trip to the bathroom – and then asked to be bathed.

‘Can't it wait till later, dear? The girls will need to use the bathroom soon.'

‘Girls – can – wait!'

Grace and I had to go and use the dank outside loo in the back yard and then wash ourselves as best we could at the kitchen sink.

‘Let's make a dash for school now,' I said. ‘We'll get ourselves a sandwich and just clear off.'

We weren't quick enough. There was a commotion from upstairs. Dad had slipped getting out of the bath, and Mum couldn't get him up by herself.

‘Girls! Girls, come here quickly!' she called.

‘Pretend we haven't heard. We can still make a run for it,' I said.

‘But what if Mum can't budge Dad? He can't stay on the bathroom floor all day,' said Grace.

‘OK, OK.'

We trudged upstairs. Mum was grappling with Dad. He'd wound a towel round himself like a nappy. He was trying to preserve his dignity but it made him look like a giant baby.

‘Come on then, Dad,' I said, seizing him under the arms.

Mum hauled at his bottom half and Grace pushed and pulled at his midriff. Between us we got him to his feet, and then Mum wrapped his old plaid dressing gown round him.

‘Phew! What a . . . what a . . .
performance
,' said Dad as if it was all our fault. He breathed heavily, trying to compose himself.

‘Sit down a minute, Bernard,' said Mum, steering him to the loo. She closed the seat and pushed him onto it.

‘I'm fine, I'm fine,' he said, but he slumped sideways, his chin on his chest.

I caught Grace by the wrist and started tugging her out of the bathroom as unobtrusively as possible. Dad looked up.

‘You girls – early birds!' he said.

Then he focused on our clothes. He blinked. ‘Green?' he said. He looked at me, he looked at Grace. ‘Peas in pod!'

Grace giggled nervously. Mum sat down heavily on the edge of the bath. I stood still. We didn't say anything – but he suddenly got it.

‘School!' he said. He said it softly first. Then he drew breath. ‘School?
School
?
SCHOOL
!' He was bellowing now, sweat standing out on his forehead.

‘Oh Bernard, calm down! You know it's not good for you to get so worked up,' said Mum. She tried to mop his brow with a flannel but he batted her away. He was trembling with fury.

‘School?'

‘I had to send them, dear. They were threatening us with prosecution, you know that. I didn't have any alternative.'

‘Rubbish!' said Dad. He was squinting at the motif on my blazer. ‘Wentworth,' he read, rolling his eyes. ‘
Wentworth!
'

‘I couldn't get them in anywhere else, Bernard. I tried, I really did. I went to see the head at Kingtown but there's a very long waiting list. Wentworth was the only school with vacancies. It's not as bad as you'd think. There's a new headmistress, she's making all sorts of improvements.'

‘Wentworth!' said Dad in disgust. He struggled to get up from the toilet.

‘Careful, dear,' said Mum, trying to help.

‘No! No,
traitor
!' Dad said. ‘Girls!
No
school! No no no school.'

I looked at Grace. She started sobbing.

‘
Please
, Dad,' she said. ‘I
love
school. I have these two friends Iggy and Figgy.'

‘Stupid,' said Dad.

‘No, they're not stupid, they're very special,' Grace said bravely.

‘
You're
stupid! Useless, useless, useless,' said Dad.

Then he turned to me. ‘Your fault! Liar! Thief! Tart! Useless. Rubbish daughters!'

‘They're not rubbish daughters! Don't say such terrible things! They're dear good girls. I won't have you hurt them like this!' Mum cried. She turned to us. ‘Take no notice of your father. Go to school, girls. Quick, off you go!'

We stared at Mum. We couldn't have been more shocked if the taps or the toilet had spoken. But there wasn't time to wonder. I grabbed Grace and we ran for it. We went on running right out of the house, down the road, all the way to Wentworth.

Grace saw Iggy and Figgy in the playground and shot across to them. I saw her talking to them, waving her arms wildly. Then they hugged her, first Figgy, then Iggy. I felt ashamed. They were sweet girls in spite of their silly nicknames. They obviously really liked my sister. I wished some of the girls in my class liked me.

I had to see Rax urgently. We didn't have art on Mondays. I couldn't possibly wait till Tuesday. I didn't even know if we'd be able to get away from Dad again. And what was going to happen about Friday nights?

I hurtled across the playground, making for the art block. I knew Rax generally didn't arrive at school until later, but I was so desperate to tell him that I went looking for him just in case.

I heard Toby call out to me as I ran but I took no notice.

‘Toby wants you,' said Sarah, who was bouncing a red ball on a string. She had no idea what she was doing. The ball bounced wildly backwards and forwards. Sarah cackled with laughter, making no attempt to catch it or jump it or control it in any way. It was enough for her just to watch it.

‘Yes, but I don't want Toby,' I said.

Sarah blinked at me, trying to work out my meaning. I hurried past her.

‘Toby
wants
you,' she called after me.