Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
Lucy
Lucy straightened the chairs in front of the two rather rickety tables that Alex had brought into the school’s old resource room and tried to pretend she hadn’t noticed her hands were shaking.
It had been a week since Alex had asked her to teach an art class, a week since she’d agreed, and in precisely three minutes twenty-four Year Six children would be coming in for their first art lesson.
She was terrified.
She’d spent endless evenings on her laptop, garnering ideas from the Internet, going over lesson plans.
She’d spent an enjoyable afternoon with Diana Rigby, sorting through the school’s craft supplies, joking and laughing as they discarded ancient bottles of poster paint with dried-up drips down the sides, and tried every felt-tip marker in a box of five hundred to make sure they worked.
Diana had seemed more cheerful; she’d told Lucy she was taking her two boys down to Manchester for the half-term break at the end of October, to see Andrew and look at properties.
“I thought I should at least have a say in what flat he buys,” she’d said. “And you know, ‘if the mountain won’t come to Mohammed . . .’”
“That seems like a good solution,” Lucy had said. She was all for optimism.
After she and Diana had sorted through the old art supplies, Lucy had spent a happy hour in the art shop in Whitehaven, filling in the gaps in the school’s cupboard.
It had felt surprisingly familiar, almost like coming home, to touch the crisp, thick pages of a sketchbook and run her thumb along the waxy edge of a pastel.
She hadn’t thought she’d missed art, but standing in the middle of the shop, she knew she had.
She just hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself.
And now she was here, with a neatly typed lesson plan, sheets of pristine white paper on the table in front of every chair, and plastic tubs of oil pastel crayons placed every few seats.
She picked up a red pastel and tossed it from hand to hand. She felt so unprepared for today, and yet also so desperate to prove herself—not just to her pupils or Alex or even the whole village, but to herself.
And to her mother.
Too bad her mother didn’t even know she was teaching an art class, hadn’t spoken to her in nearly two months now.
And even if she did know? Lucy could imagine Fiona’s response.
Well, of course such mediocre talent would find its home in teaching art to primary school pupils.
What do they do but scribble? A small, teasing smile.
You know what they say. Those who can, do. Those who can’t . . .
Never mind that her mother lectured at a university. She’d already proven her artistic talent many times over, from the time she’d won an emerging artist award before Lucy was born, to the phallic sculptures that could be seen in several prominent museums around the world.
It was stupid to be arguing as if her mother were here, or even cared. Pathetic to let her mother influence her decisions and plague her with self-doubt from thousand of miles away. In the five weeks since Lucy had come to England, Fiona hadn’t called or e-mailed even once.
And yet Lucy could still hear her mother’s voice in her head.
Now she heard the sound of boisterous voices coming down the hall, and she tossed the pastel back in the tub as her stomach plunged with nerves. They were coming. And they sounded like a hoard of wild animals.
A few seconds later twenty-four rowdy Year Sixes trooped in, hot and disheveled from recess.
Lucy could tell the troublesome ones straight off: a gaggle of girls who hung by the door, giggling behind their hands and shooting her scornfully speculative looks.
Two boys, clearly the coolest in the class, sprawled, legs open wide, in the chairs.
One of them grabbed a pastel and sent it flying across the room, a bright-colored missile that bounced harmlessly off the wall.
The other kids noticed, and they watched Lucy, waiting for her reaction.
“Everyone, sit down, please,” she called out, her voice coming out in a croak. She retrieved the pastel from the floor and returned it to its tub with a pointed look for the boy who had thrown it. Not the most effective discipline, but it was all she was capable of at the moment.
The children took their seats more or less obediently, and Lucy stood there, a tense smile on her face, every inspiring word she’d practiced vanishing from her head.
She heard someone whisper; then a titter came from the far side of the room. Children, she decided, were devils.
She looked up, and her panicked gaze rested on the figure standing behind the door to the room. Through the single narrow pane of glass she could see Alex smile at her, and then give her a thumbs-up.
Relief flooded through her, a cold, sweet rush. Someone, at least, thought she could do this. Or maybe Alex just didn’t want a riot on his hands.
“All right, everyone pick up a pastel,” she said loudly, clapping her hands.
“Only one, thank you,” she added as the boy who had thrown the crayon earlier reached for a handful.
She plucked them from his hands and deposited them back in the tub.
“This is not archery class,” she told him, and someone giggled.
Lucy felt a surge of confidence and even elation.
“Now I want you to draw a line on your paper. It can be any line, in any color: wavy, curvy, straight, diagonal. You choose. But only one.”
The children looked at her, nonplussed for a moment, and Lucy raised her eyebrows in expectation. “Well?” she asked. “What are you waiting for?” And she only just kept from sagging in relief as they all started to draw.
Forty minutes later twenty-four children trooped out of the resource room, and Lucy let out a shuddery sigh as she sank into a chair.
“How did it go?” She looked up to see Liz smiling at her from the doorway.
“Okay, I think. I wasn’t too much of a disaster, I hope.”
“I think you most likely weren’t a disaster at all,” Liz answered. “Did Simon and Rupert give you any trouble?”
The two too-cool-for-school boys who had lounged in their chairs. She’d kept a beady eye trained on them all lesson, overlooking the minor misdemeanors and, at one point, confiscating a spitball.
“A little,” she admitted, and Liz nodded knowingly.
“They’re a handful, those two.”
“Yes, I think they are.” Lucy remembered her moment of paralysis when they’d come into the classroom, all cocky indifference, and suppressed another shudder. “They also had me almost falling apart before the lesson even began. I don’t think I could ever be a real teacher.”
“But you are a real teacher,” Liz reminded her. “You just taught a lesson.”
“Yes, but—”
“Don’t put yourself down,” Liz admonished, wagging a finger. “There are enough people in life who will do that for you.”
Yes, Lucy thought, there certainly are. And Liz was right; she had been putting herself down.
Always jokey, always with a smile on her face, but she’d been self-deprecating about herself for so long, she’d forgotten how to be anything else.
Silly, scatterbrained Lucy, who leaped before looking, who was a walking disaster, who had a BA and was only a barista.
Talentless Lucy, who painted wildflowers, barely a step above posters of kittens stuck in wineglasses.
“You’re right, Liz,” she said. “And the truth is, I enjoyed teaching that lesson, once I got over my nerves.”
“I think the children enjoyed it too. They were all talking about their lines as they left.” She raised her eyebrows expectantly and so Lucy explained, a bit self-consciously just in case it really was a stupid idea.
“I had them all draw one line on their papers. Then they had to exchange papers and use someone else’s line as the beginning of a drawing.”
“Very clever,” Liz said with a nod of approval. “Next we’ll have the Year Fives begging for lessons.”
“I don’t know about that—”
“Children like you,” Liz said frankly. “Can’t you feel it? Even the stroppy ones. And I’ve seen the little ones in the school yard. If anyone has a scraped knee, they ask for Miss Bagshaw.”
“Well . . .”
“It’s a talent, you know,” Liz said. “Not everyone has it, an ease with children. Not even every teacher, unfortunately.”
“You do,” Lucy answered with a smile. “I’ve seen you with the children, and with some of the younger teachers too.” She thought of Tara, whom she’d seen earnestly talking with Liz after school on more than one occasion, her daughter, Emma, on her lap. “You’re like a mum to them.”
Liz smiled a bit sadly. “I never did have any of my own,” she said. “It just never happened for my husband and I. But I ought to go sort my lot out. They’re ready for maths.”
After Liz had left, Lucy tidied up the classroom, humming under her breath.
Maybe Liz was right, and children did like her.
She’d bought into everyone’s criticism for so long, but for the first time Lucy considered that a man’s two sons disliking his new girlfriend was not proof that she was terrible with children.
Nor did her mother’s opinion of her art mean she was a talentless hack.
She felt a sense of freedom, a burden she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying slipping from her shoulders. She didn’t have to be defined by a few people’s opinions of her.
Even your own mother’s?
“So, Liz tells me it went well.”
Lucy turned to see Alex standing in the doorway, that endearingly crooked smile curving his mouth.
“Yes, I think so. Actually,” she amended, emboldened now, “I know so. It was fun, and I think the kids had fun too. Amazingly.”
“Why amazingly?”
She shrugged, not wanting to go into it. “Anyway, it turned out all right today. Thank you for giving me the opportunity.”
“Thank you for taking it.”
They smiled at each other, awkwardly now because there was nothing left to say and yet Alex was still standing there, hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers, rocking a bit on his heels, and now that Lucy looked, the tips of his ears had gone red.
“So . . . ,” she said, the only opener she could think of. Thankfully Alex took it.
“So I was wondering if you were free this weekend, to go to the Crab Fair with me and Poppy and Bella.”
He’d spoken in such a rush it took Lucy a moment to comprehend that he was asking her out. Sort of. “Oh,” she said, stupidly, because her mind was spinning.
The tips of his ears went redder and he continued tersely, “Poppy wanted me to ask you. She’s taken a shine to you, and frankly I’d do just about anything to make my daughter happy.”
Okay, so he wasn’t asking her out. Not willingly, anyway.
The smile she’d felt dawning across her face slid right off.
“Including suffering through a Saturday with me?” she said, lightly enough, but Alex must have heard the edge of hurt in her voice because he answered, “There would be no suffering involved. I didn’t mean .
. .” He trailed off, and Lucy waited, bemused, wondering if he’d dig himself out of the hole they’d both created.
“I’d like you to come with us,” he finally said. “If you want to.”
Lucy didn’t answer for a moment. She wanted to—of course she did—but she still felt wary. She still couldn’t tell if Alex wanted her to come for his sake or just his daughters’.
“Of course, if you’re busy,” Alex said, “I understand. It’s no problem. . . .”
“What’s a Crab Fair?”
“Oh.” He looked relieved that she hadn’t refused him, and that made Lucy smile a little. Made it also a lot more likely that she’d say yes.
“It’s an autumn festival, I suppose. Crab refers to apples, not crustaceans. It’s one of the oldest fairs in the country—King Henry III granted a charter for it in 1267.”
“You’re obviously a teacher,” Lucy teased, and Alex cracked a smile, eyebrows raised expectantly.
“So . . . ?”
“Yes, thank you, I’d love to come.” Alex nodded, and Lucy couldn’t tell what he felt. She still didn’t know if this counted as a date. “What time do you want me?” she asked, and then winced inwardly at the blatant suggestion of that question.
Judging from the now fire-engine red of Alex’s ears, she was pretty sure he’d gotten the unintended innuendo. “Ten?” he suggested. “We can have lunch there, if that’s okay.”
“Great.”
She nodded, and he nodded back. Their social dynamics, Lucy thought, were on par with seventh grade. Then the phone rang and she heard a teacher’s heels clicking down the hall, and with another nod Alex turned and went back to his office.