Chapter 16 #2
“If you wanted, and only if you wanted, you could teach an art lesson once a week, just to the older pupils to start. We could add some lessons for younger children if it seemed to be working.”
“And who will be on reception when I’m teaching?” Lucy asked. It seemed easier to focus on the practical; she had no idea how she felt about what Alex was suggesting. Terror was the word that came to mind first.
“We’ll manage. It would only be forty minutes, after all. I’m afraid we don’t have much in the way of supplies, but we could most likely rustle up some paint and pots, or felt-tips, or whatever you think you need. And I couldn’t pay you any more than you’re already being paid—the budget is tight.”
“I don’t want more money,” Lucy protested. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to teach.
“I know you don’t. And if you don’t want to teach, that’s fine. I just thought it might be a way for you to get back into art a little, without your mother breathing down your neck.”
“That’s . . .” She blinked, so touched by his thoughtfulness that for a moment it was difficult to speak.
In the month since she’d been in Hartley-by-the-Sea, she’d thought about painting, when she’d seen the light looking syrupy and golden, or when the blackberry bushes along the beach road had begun to drip jewellike berries.
But she’d never been tempted to put pencil to paper, or even to go into the little art and crafts store she’d seen in Whitehaven and browse there.
“That’s very kind. But I’m really not sure, Alex.
I’ve never taught before, and children, frankly, scare me a little. ”
He raised his eyebrows. “Bella didn’t scare you.”
“No, she terrified me. Seriously. I’m not sure I’d be good at it. And you don’t even know if I’m any good at art. Have you even seen one of my paintings?” She’d meant it rhetorically, but Alex took it at face value.
“Yes, I looked one up online.”
“Oh.” She flushed, because if he’d seen it online, he’d also seen some of the awful blogs and gossip sites, the thousands of comments trashing her and her art. “Well.”
“I liked it,” Alex said. “It might not get everyone worked up, talking about how cutting-edge it is, but it was pretty.”
Pretty. She smiled, a shaky thing. “Well. Thank you.”
“So you’ll think about it?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” The thought of trying something new, something that could actually matter to her, and failing was terrifying. As terrifying as the children she’d be forced to face. “Maybe.”
“That’s enough for me,” Alex answered.
Apparently, though, it wasn’t enough for Liz Benson, the Year Six teacher, who marched up to Lucy as she was getting ready to go home.
“So I hear you’re dragging your feet over this art business,” she announced with a beady stare, hands planted on her ample hips.
“And I’m here to tell you that’s nonsense. ”
Lucy stared at her, taken aback even as she fought the urge to laugh. Liz, a kindly, grandmotherly type who had always had a smile for her, looked amazingly fierce.
“It’s not nonsense,” she protested as she wrapped her rainbow-colored scarf around her neck. “I’m not a trained teacher.”
“It’s one lesson in a specialist subject,” Liz replied. “It’s not rocket science.”
Which was what Juliet had said about answering phones. Lucy had been so stung then, but now she felt only bemused. “No, thank goodness. But I’ve leapt into enough situations in my life, Liz, trust me. I’m trying to learn my lesson and be more cautious.”
Not that it was really working. For as nervous as she was, there was a part of her—a big part—that wanted to leap in headfirst, as she did with everything. A bigger part, however, did not want to make a fool of herself, or feel like a failure. Again.
“What do you really have to lose?” Liz persisted. “So it doesn’t go well. You stop.” She shrugged. “And we look for another specialist art teacher who’s willing to work for free.”
“Ah, now I see why you’re keen for me to start teaching.”
“Seriously, Lucy.” Liz gave her a stern teacher’s glare. “Hartley-by-the-Sea is the type of place where everyone pitches in and gets the job done. You’re part of that, aren’t you?”
Was she? She knew she wanted to be. She’d come here wanting people to love and accept her, but maybe she needed to fulfill her half of that bargain. “Okay,” she said, and held up a hand to keep Liz from offering any more arguments—or making her feel any guiltier. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good,” Liz said, “Because I’m the one teaching art to the Year Sixes right now and I can barely manage stick figures.”
Lucy’s heart was both light and full as she headed back to Tarn House.
She stopped in at the post office shop, as she’d occasionally taken to doing; after Dan Trenton’s terse explanation of how he’d ended up in Hartley-by-the-Sea, he had graduated to gruff hellos whenever Lucy came in. Lucy counted each one as a triumph.
“Hey, Dan,” she greeted him cheerfully as she stepped into the single room, its shelves crowded with tins of baked beans and loaves of bread.
“Hello.” He was counting bills at the register, the muscles in his tattooed forearms rippling, and Lucy saw the tiniest smile quirk the corner of his mouth. Progress!
She grabbed a copy of the Whitehaven News, which she’d started reading; the local-interest stories fascinated her. Where else could a primary school’s bake sale make the front page?
“So, how are things?” she asked as she put the paper on the counter. This was new territory; she hadn’t attempted more than a hello before.
“Hey!” Dan’s shout made Lucy jump a little, and then he marched from behind the counter and grabbed the arm of a boy who Lucy hadn’t noticed was loitering by the candy rack. “You little bugger. I saw you nick that.”
With her heart seeming to both sink and rise to her mouth, Lucy saw the boy was Oliver Jones.
“Get off,” Oliver yelped, trying to twist away from the huge man. “I didn’t steal anything.”
“What’s this, then?” Dan demanded, and yanked a bag of chocolate buttons from the pocket of Oliver’s school trousers. Oliver glared at him in stony silence, and now Lucy’s heart really did sink.
“I’ll buy it,” she said quickly. “I don’t mind—”
“Maybe I mind,” Dan growled, and gave Oliver’s arm a little shake. “How often have you been nicking things?”
Oliver didn’t answer, and Lucy took a step towards them.
“Look, he won’t do it again,” she told Dan, and then gave Oliver as stern a look as she could.
“Will you? Because it would be really, really stupid if you did.” Neither of them spoke and Lucy continued, a bit desperately now, “Look, Dan. He’s only nine.
And . . . well.” She could hardly mention Oliver’s home situation.
“Give him a break. It’s only seventy-five pence. Please, for my sake.”
“Why do you care?” Dan demanded.
“I was nine once too. We all did stupid things when we were young, didn’t we?”
After a long, tense moment, Dan let Oliver’s arm go.
“Fine. But I’m warning you. . . .” He shook a finger at the boy.
“If I catch you doing something like that again, it’s straight to the police.
You ever heard of Lancaster Farms?” Warily Oliver shook his head.
“It’s a prison for kids who get into trouble.
Not a nice place.” Dan glowered at him meaningfully. “You don’t want to end up there.”
Lucy put a comforting hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “Okay, so seventy-five pence for the chocolate buttons, and a pound for the paper.” She slid a two-pound coin across the counter. “And we’re all good?”
Slowly Dan nodded, and then handed her twenty-five pence change. Lucy turned to the door, her hand still on Oliver’s shoulder.
“Right,” she said once they were outside. “What did you do that for?”
Oliver jerked away from her. “Thanks for the chocolate,” he said, sounding decidedly ungrateful. He started walking up the main street.
“You don’t get off that easily,” Lucy said, and fell into step alongside him.
Oliver looked at her suspiciously. “What are you doing?”
“Walking you home.”
“You going to tell my mum?”
“Should I?” Lucy asked, and he snorted.
“She wouldn’t even care.”
“What about your dad?”
He shrugged. “I haven’t seen him since April.”
“Still,” Lucy said, “I don’t think he’d like to know you’d been nicking things from the shop.”
“You can’t tell him, though,” Oliver pointed out as he opened the bag of chocolate buttons. “He won’t be home till after Christmas.”
“Oliver . . . ,” Lucy began, watching as he took a button from the bag. “I know it might seem like grown-ups don’t care about you or what you do—”
He jerked around to face her, swallowing the chocolate with an audible gulp. “What do you know about it?” he demanded.
“I know what it feels like to be alone—”
“You don’t know naught,” he said, and tossed the bag of buttons into the bin on the sidewalk. “I can see myself home.”
Lucy slowed as Oliver took off up the street, and then disappeared around the corner.
She was still mulling over how she could have better handled the situation when she came into the darkened kitchen of Tarn House and saw Juliet curled up on the window seat, her bleak face resting against her knees.
“Juliet—what’s happened? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s happened,” Juliet said with a sniff. She averted her face from Lucy. “I’m just having a bit of an off day,” she said, her voice muffled against her knees. “I’m allowed, aren’t I?”
Lucy dropped her bag by the table and hung up her coat. Outside the sun was still high in the sky despite it being past five o’clock, gilding the fields with gold.
After a moment’s deliberation Lucy filled the kettle and plonked it on top of the Aga. Then she turned on one of the lamps on the Welsh dresser and, pulling a chair from the table, sat down near Juliet. Maybe she needed to fulfill her half of the bargain in other ways too.