Love Lessons by Nick Sharratt Page A

Godfrey.
    â€˜Where’s your English comprehension homework, Prudence King?’
    â€˜I haven’t done it yet, Mrs Godfrey. I forgot to take my books home last night.’
    I remembered to say her stupid name. I spoke politely. I still infuriated her.
    â€˜You don’t “forget” to take your books home, Prudence King. Homework isn’t a choice, it’s compulsory at this school. You will do two comprehensions tonight, the one on page thirty-one and the one on page thirty-three, do you understand? Come and find me first thing tomorrow morning and hand in both completed exercises or you will find yourself in very serious trouble.’
    I wondered what her very serious trouble could be. I thought of Jane Eyre, forced to stand on a table with a placard round her neck in front of all the other pupils at Lowood. I’d rather enjoy standing there like a martyr, gazing over their heads. I tried out an eyeballs-rolled martyr’s gaze.
    â€˜Are you being deliberately insolent again, Prudence?’ Mrs Godfrey said, flushing.
    â€˜No, Mrs Godfrey,’ I said, lowering my eyes, though of course I was . She knew it, I knew it, the whole class knew it. Some of the tougher kids looked at me with a little more respect.
    Mrs Godfrey noticed this, and went into serious rant mode. She asked me who on earth I thought I was, said she was sick of my attitude, stated that this was certainly not the way to start at a new school, etc. etc. It wasn’t a full Dad-style rant, just an irritating bleat. I wondered why I annoyed her so much. I decided I was glad. How awful to be liked by someone so petty and arrogant and unfair.
    I tried the trick I used whenever Dad flew into a terrible temper. I pretended I was in a suit of armour, with a helmet locked protectively over my face. I felt invincible inside my rigid silver suit. No one could get at me or hurt me or harm me.
    I kept my armour on all through English and clanked along behind the other pupils when the bell went. It was time for the art lesson at last.
    The art block was detached from the main building, in a special shack at the very end of the playing field. It took me a long while to get there. I trudged more and more slowly, as if I was truly clad in armour.
    I looked longingly at the school gate. No one would notice if I slipped out now. It was so strange. The only reason I’d suffered this second day of schooling was to attend Mr Raxberry’s art class, and yet now I didn’t want to go. I felt shy and stupid.
    I didn’t understand. I was good at art. Mr Raxberry wouldn’t ridicule me like the repellent Mrs Godfrey. Mr Raxberry was kind. He was so different from all the other teachers. He didn’t act like a teacher. He wasn’t sarcastic or pompous or patronizing. He was gentle and funny and truthful and self-deprecating and sensitive. I could add any number of adjectives, even though I’d spoken to him so briefly. I could write an entire essay on him. I could write pages on a physical description of Mr Raxberry. I could paint his portrait, showing the way he tilted his head slightly, the wrinkles at the edge of his eyes, the softness of his white cheeks contrasted with the dark springiness of his small beard, the diamond earring in the centre of his neat earlobe . . .
    I could conjure his exact image in front of my eyes, but I was scared of confronting the real Mr Raxberry. I ran my fingers through my long tangled hair, trying to comb it into submission. I plucked at my hideous dress. I put my hand against my cheeks and felt them burning. I hoped my nose wasn’t shiny. I wished I could wear make-up like the other girls.
    I wondered whether to trek back into school to find the girls’ cloakrooms and check on myself in the mirror there. I was five minutes late for the lesson already.
    I stood dithering, wondering why I was in such a ridiculous state. I took several deep breaths, trying to calm down.