In Loco Parentis (11 page)

I just manage to get to the waste-paper-basket before I re-introduce my egg, beans and tomatoes to the world.

black and blue

Back from puking up my guts, I open the door to a tidal wave of enthusiasm.

I notice Don straight away.

He doesn't smile at me the way he normally does and limps over to his peg with his head down fumbling with his buttons.

His dad stands out under the trees by himself, dragging the sleeve of his denim jacket under his nose then adjusting the collar to stop the drips getting in. Hard to tell whether he's coming up or coming down.

Zlatan's parents are under the trees, too, handsome as film stars. They look over at me and offer a half-smile. There's something sad about their faces, like they have generations of hardship pressing down on their heads.

I want to go over. Put my arms round them and brush their world away. Ask them about their son being hit and what they want to do about it. If they could speak English maybe I would, in spite of Alistair's warning to keep things quiet.

But they don't.

A pair of arms hug my left leg and another pair hug my right.

Feeling the children's care, I almost forget my woes.

And then I see Alistair coming through from next door, Carol Carpenter in tow, the creases on their brows like war paint.

––––––––

office

I
've been in his office too many times this week.

Carol's covering the class so he can ‘have a word'.

Five minutes I've been waiting. It's the psychology he applies to the kids when they're sent along. “Make them sweat,” he's told me many times. “The first rule.”

I hear the door close behind me. Know it's him by the nicotine smell from his clothes. Like Patchouli oil on a hippy.

He passes me and walks behind his desk, dropping his narrow frame into his chair.

He starts the ‘second rule' routine. “Don't say a word,” he once said. “Give them enough rope.”

I suppose the hooded lids are the ‘third rule', but I've never heard him get that far.

Seeing all of this unfold makes me want to laugh, which is better than wanting to puke.

Here he is, this guy that's half my size treating me like a five-year-old. It's a joke.

“Well?” I ask, unwilling to play along. If he's going to fire me, he might as well just get it done. I feel myself willing him to do it, to see the discomfort in his eyes.

He leans forwards, the hoods over his eyes get bigger and I see I've got it all wrong.

“Donald McGregor's mother,” he says, “died last night.”

Feels like I've been pushed by an invisible force and I slump back into my chair.

“Fuck,” I say, not even caring whether Alistair will excuse the me or not.

“Donald was the one who found her,” he says, “In the bath with a syringe sticking out of her arm.”

“Jesus.”

“We thought it was better for him to come in. Keep things normal as possible, you know?”

“Who's looking after him?” I ask. It's like my professional button's been pressed.

He hoods his eyes even further. His fingers pick open a desk drawer and he takes out his cigarettes. “Mr McGregor.”

“Out of the frying pan.”

Alistair stands. “Let's talk about it over a smoke,” he says.

I follow him out of the room and down the stairs and punch the wall. I can't decide whether it might not have been easier if I'd just been given the boot.

the undertakers

After the day I've had, taking the kids down to Chalk Farm for their football match is the last thing I need.

It's a joke me being the coach of a team. Like choosing a blind man to be lookout. The kids haven't worked that out, though. They still listen to me as if I know what I'm talking about.

The boys are off playing Holy Trinity.

Hard as nails the Trinity kids, and pretty damned good at the game. I glance over every so often to watch one of our boys picking the ball out of the net.

My job's to referee the girls.

Sheena comes over to the centre for the toss of the coin. Shakes hands with a girl who's almost as tall as I am.

“Heads,” the big girl calls and heads it is. “We'll kick off.”

Sheena goes back and gets the girls into a huddle. I wonder whether I chose her as captain because she's the best for the job or because I'm sleeping with her mum.

Watching her pass on my instructions, I reckon I did the right thing.

My instructions were pretty simple. Everyone behind the ball. Defend, defend, defend. No way we can beat them, so we might as well keep the score down.

Thing is, when the game's on, the Trinity girls can't put the ball in between the posts. They hit them twice and scrape the bar. We've cleared three off the line and had a controversial penalty saved by Jasmine in nets. She's useless, Jasmine, at kicking a ball, but she's got enthusiasm by the lorry-load. Better still, she almost fills the space. Practically the perfect keeper.

Half time comes and it's still nil-nil.

I'm not supposed to, but I walk past my team and whisper to them, “More of the same.”

Sheena winks. “More of the same, girls,” I hear her say, then they give a collective cheer.

I look around. See if Emma's there.

If she is, she's blending into the background.

Over in the corner Liz and Finn from our school hold their banner, ‘Go Undertakers,' and do the odd bit of cheer-leading to raise morale.

We're called the Undertakers because our team wears black. That's on account of me finding a whole set of New Zealand Rugby kit for sale in a charity shop.

I blow the whistle and it carries on like before.

The Trinity girls are impatient. Throw their weight around more than they should. I let them off when I can – no point seeming biased to my own team – but even I have to draw the line when tiny Charlotte's pushed over and skins her knees good and proper.

“Fuckin' ‘ell ref,” one of the dads shouts. “Who's payin' your bribe.”

I'd go over, push the words down his throat until he choked on them if I wasn't in charge. Instead, I pretend I didn't hear and let Sheena take the free-kick.

The ball goes straight towards the keeper and my heart sinks, only the keeper's not looking because the man who needs his mouth washing out with soap is bawling at her. “Keep your eye on the ball, girl,” he shouts and this time he's right.

By the time she looks back, it's way too late. She throws up a hand, but has no chance and the ball rolls into the back of the net. The whole of my team scream and huddle up. Even Jasmine's found a sprint to get over.

One-nil Undertakers. I look at my watch and wonder if anyone will notice if I shave minute or two from the game.

When I blow the final whistle, a minute extra to make sure there are no accusations of bias, we've won.

We've actually won a match. First time this year.

They jump on Sheena like they're trying to kill her, a twist of arms and legs and high-pitched shrieks.

Liz and Finn shake their pom-poms in the air and jump up and down singing. “2-4-6-8 who did we obliterate? Holy Trinity.”

I look over at Bill from their school, give my most apologetic smile and put my thumb up.

Shame that Bill's not one for taking things in his stride. If he wasn't working, I know it would be a two-fingered salute he'd give me in return.

The boys come over, their shoulders rounded by another defeat.

“Come on lads,” I tell them, “The girls just turned over HT. Give a clap at least.”

Maybe they heard it as give them the clap, because soon as they hear me they leap over onto the pile and roll on top of the girls like they can't wait for their hormones to kick in.

At the top of the hill I spot Roger. Hands in the pocket of his leather jacket and a scowl on his face that would sour milk. He walks down to the tangle of pupils and stops when he gets there.

“Sheena, we're on double-yellow lines, get a move on.”

I take my cue. Turn round and look for an excuse to get away. There's a ball needs fetching from the other side of the netting.

“I'll go,” I shout over.

By the time I throw it back in and look over, Sheena's following her dad, turning round every so often to wave to the crowd of new fans who bubble and pop like champagne.

home-cooking

Last thing I expect when I get home is the smell of home cooking.

Wolf's in my face soon as I open the door, taking my bag with his good hand and putting it by the stand.

“Sit down, man,” he says. “Fancy a brew?”

“Yeah.” It's like he's read my mind. He takes a can from the fridge, pulls the ring back and brings it over.

“Cheers,” he says, and we bang our tins together.

It's like a blood transfusion, the booze, except for the bitterness and the icy cold chill.

Settles whatever it is in my stomach that's made me want to puke since the end of the game.

Wolf and I breathe out our satisfied gasps at the same time. I need to get in first to say I'm making a call, but he beats me to it.

“Guess what's for dinner.”

I sniff at the air again to check the flavours. There's a kind of burned garlic smell with an overtone of baking bread.

“Pizza?” I try.

“Right country, wrong dish.”

“Spaghetti?”

“Right food, wrong type.”

“Pasta,” I tell him. “Cannelloni?”

“Bang on.”

There's a bandage on Wolf's hand about an inch thick. His hair's falling over his eyes weighed down by grease. I can just about make the huge pupils of his that practically take over his iris.

“They give you any pills?”

He reaches into his pocket, pulls a couple of bottle out and shakes them like he's the rhythm section. “One for the pain and one to help me sleep.”

I watch him unscrew the lid and finger out a couple. He passes one over and takes one for himself. We wash them down with the Special Brew and he starts up again.

It's not that I don't care, I do, but I need to know what's happening with Emma.

“Any calls,” I ask him.

“Nah.”

“Then hang on a sec,” I tell him, and go to make one.

Soon as the first three numbers are dialled I remember that I can't. Not allowed. There's nothing to be done. Except maybe get Wolf to make the call for me.

He's in the kitchen stirring the sauce.

“Spinach and pine-nuts it is. All I need to do now is put this on and we're away.”

The place is a tip. The sink's full of pans and plates with stuff coming from them that looks alien to the planet.

On the work-surface all manner of vegetable bits are swimming in a greenish liquid and I can't see the table for the recipe book, the weighing scales, empty bags and a couple of cans of brew. Gives me a headache just to see it.

“Could you do me a favour?” I ask.

He turns round and puts his arms around me. He squeezes like a python, lifting my feet from the floor. My spine clicks. Feels good. “For you, anything.”

“Sure?”

“Anything.”

“Can you phone Emma? Check she's OK.”

A big grin spreads across his face as he puts me down.

“You nobbing her?” he asks.

I wonder how to answer. Think about denying the whole thing then decide better of it and nod.

“Lucky bastard,” he says with a dirty grin and a quick rub of his crotch. “You'll be needing your dinner then. Keep up your strength.” He dips the wooden spoon into the pan. Scoops out some tomato sauce. Pulls it out and lifts it over to me, drops of the stuff falling onto the floor.

Practically shoves it into my mouth, he does. First taste I get is of the wood, then I get the sweetness of the tomatoes quickly followed by the acidity of the burned garlic.

“Mmm,” is the noise I make. Seems better than words to describe it with diplomacy.

“Knew you'd like it.” I wonder where this new bright, energetic bloke came from. Maybe the hospital's changed my mate into someone else. “So you finally got your turn with Emma, huh?”

“Turn?” What the hell's he talking about. “She's married, remember.”

“Course,” he says.

“There have been others?”

“Chill mate,” he tells me. I guess I must look agitated. Realise that I'm invading his personal space, that distance between face and elbow I'm always telling the kids about. “What does it matter where she's been? Live in the now, take what you can get.”

Something sinks inside me. Feels like a stone's been dropped down my throat and it's gone straight to my groin. If I had a pond to jump into, I'd do it, let the weight take me to the bottom and keep me there. I think about that first time, how easily she succumbed. But he's right. None of it stops me needing to hear from her.

“Go and phone then.”

And he does.

He sits on the bed and I take the floor by his feet. They smell of my cheese-box when there's something French in there.

“Hi Roger, it's Wolf.” So far so good. “Is Emma there?” I'm surprised there's no small talk, even though I know the two of them don't get on. I hear Roger on the other end raising his voice. Rants on for a while. “Course not mate. Just need to ask her advice on toothache is all.” More ranting. “Tell her to give me a ring. Yeah, see you.”

He puts the phone down then starts massaging the top of my shoulders. He's got hands that could crush a rock and I feel this good one doing me some good once I get over the initial pain.

“He knows what you're up to,” Wolf tells me. “He's been there enough times now to smell an admirer.”

I let him keep on rubbing. Then the phone rings.

I'm up and have the phone in my hand before the second ring's over.

Surprise

It's Jenny.