From a Safe Distance by Julia Bishop Page B

outside school. I pressed the button on his entryphone and announced, ‘C’est moi!’ as usual. The door buzzed and I went in. Sitting on the steps in front of Patrick’s door was Leo McPherson, head in hands.
    â€˜Did you want Father Collins?’ I asked.
    The young boy nodded. When Patrick came to his door, combing his hair in apparent anticipation of our Indian meal in town, I drew my hand silently across my throat and grimaced, pointing to McPherson.
    â€˜Hello, Mac. Do you want to come in?’ McPherson stood up without a word. He looked pale and tired.
    â€˜Come in and tell me what’s happened.’ Patrick’s voice was warm and he showed the boy into the small living room with its old-fashioned furniture. I sat next to Leo on the sofa.
    â€˜Sir … Miss,’ came a tiny voice. ‘It’s my dad. He had an accident and … ’ At this point Leo burst into tears and screamed: ‘He’s dead!’
    I put my arm round the boy. Then Patrick indicated, with his eyebrows and a jerk of his head, that he wanted a word outside. ‘I’m really sorry about this, Gatters,’ he murmured. ‘But just before all this I had a phone call from a friend who’s in trouble and I said I’d call in. So we’ll have to forego supper this time and … will you be alright to stay with Mac for about an hour?’
    â€˜Yes, OK.’
    He smiled and squeezed my hand. ‘If you get hungry there’s stuff in the fridge.’
    I made us a sandwich at some point and I sat with Leo until ten o’clock, when his housemaster rang, anxious. I put him in the picture and sent the boy downstairs. His mother was going to collect him in the morning. Shortly afterwards, Patrick returned. He poured us a glass of wine each and flopped into the sofa next to me with a sigh of exhaustion. A few moments passed. He ran his fingers through his hair.
    â€˜Makes you think, Vee, doesn’t it, about taking your parents for granted. What I need is a wife. You could be Mrs Collins, then … ’
    I cut him short with a passionate kiss that had been waiting for months. But he sat up and gently pulled away from me. I ran out of the flat. Patrick and I did not speak for several months. When we eventually rescued our friendship, it was subtly changed, like a fine plate with a chip which we couldn’t help noticing.

11
Falling
    Spring: the earth was waking up, delicately green. But I was spending more and more time in my own private weird season. Spring was too industrious for me and sent a kind of muted panic through my bones. I could hear the exam bird, the chaffinch, growing ever more insistent. I was angry with myself because I kept getting things wrong; this feeling would then fade into a grey apathy, because nothing could be done about it.
    I know I must have interrupted other teachers talking about me when I went into the staffroom. The slight turn of their backs and the repeated parcels of silence gave it away. Some of my classes were misbehaving and I couldn’t keep up with the marking. I never knew which teacher had been in the next room at any given time; this undermined my confidence. The senior staff were beginning to ask questions. The black wave was threatening. I remembered my first job, but no amount of determination could change the way I felt.
    I spent days in bed. I didn’t clean the flat at the weekend as I normally did. It was the monochrome, the black threat, the weakness of university. I think Aunt Mary was awake. When I did manage to go into work, sometimes it felt as if I was just a mask walking along and trying to teach. If the mask were to fall off, there would be nobody behind it. And it was a poor, brittle mask. Then suddenly my lessons would go brilliantly, the world would be wonderful, full of light and energy. I’d hardly need any sleep and my thoughts and ideas would come so, so easily. It was a shame my classes did not