Ask laura, p.13
Ask Laura, page 13
Sam and Jake played football in the garden, despite the snow. For me, settling to anything productive was out of the question. Saturday was generally the day to catch up with household chores, but my mind was restless. Playing music didn’t help, nor did the endless cups of tea and biscuits. So it was a relief when the boys went to bed, and I decided to have an early night too. Unsurprisingly sleep once again was elusive. An hour after going to bed, I was back in the kitchen, firing up my laptop to distract my thoughts by going over some old files.
* * *
Dear Laura,
I am fifteen years old and in my GCSE year at school, and I’m in love with my form tutor. He’s only in his twenties and very good-looking. All the girls fancy him, but my feelings are so much more than a crush. I think about him all the time and dream about him every night. He’s always very kind to me, with endless patience if I don’t understand something. (He’s also my maths teacher.) I’m pretty sure he has feelings for me too. Should I make the first move and tell him how I feel? I’m so confused and have no one to talk to who will understand.
Coleen
* * *
Dear Coleen,
I do sympathise with how you feel, but you need to do a reality check here, and the answer to your last question is ‘no’, certainly not! At fifteen, your body is changing and your emotions are mixed up and difficult to understand, and so they shouldn’t be trusted!
Firstly, anything between you and this teacher would be totally inappropriate and also illegal. Yes, he may be kind to you and patient in helping with your work, but this description fits many teachers. He went into a teaching career because he likes helping children and has patience with them. Secondly, he may be in a relationship or even married, with responsibilities to his family. Thirdly, at fifteen, you are still a child, and he is a man, so there can never be any kind of relationship between you other than one of teacher/student. Trying to force the issue will only end in disaster for all concerned, and if you tell this teacher about your feelings, you will put him in a very difficult position.
You may think he has feelings for you, but you don’t tell me anything which suggests this. If he does, it would be inappropriate for him to act on them and, as I said before, illegal. It’s almost impossible to trust our feelings alone, especially at your age, when you’re under pressure with school work.
Concentrate on your exams and try to put this teacher out of your mind. I’m not saying it will be easy, but one day you will realise this was the right thing to do. I know my reply is probably not what you want to hear, but if you act on your feelings, I can guarantee you will regret it one day.
Laura
* * *
I often wonder what Coleen did. When letters arrive for the ‘Ask Laura’ page, I try to put myself in the shoes of the person writing to me. I, too, can remember having a crush on a teacher at school. Many girls do, and probably so do boys. However, looking at Coleen’s letter now, prompts me to think of my feelings for Steve Radcliffe. Is it just as inappropriate as this schoolgirl crush? Perhaps not, but Steve’s relationship with me is a professional one. He is kind and understanding, as was Coleen’s teacher, so am I as deluded as she? Haven’t I enough complications in my life without falling for a guy who is so much out of my orbit? My wild hopes and dreams, in which Steve features as the main event, are impossibly unrealistic. It is almost on a level with a teenage crush, an impossible dream which could never happen. Perhaps I also need a good strong reality check to banish such ridiculous thoughts from my head.
Chapter Twenty-Six
By Sunday morning Lucy still hadn’t rung, and I really did need to know if we would have a guest for lunch. I intended to cook a traditional roast dinner, one of the few meals I don’t mess up. After all, anyone can chuck a few vegetables into a pan to boil and a joint in the oven, can’t they? At 10.30am, I decided to send her a text, partly because I was afraid to ring in case she didn’t answer and also because I didn’t want to hear the unfriendly tone in my daughter’s voice. I kept the wording brief, ‘are you coming’ sort of thing, then waited for a reply, steadfastly refusing to allow my thoughts to stray on to what Lucy and Brad might be doing at that particular time on a Sunday morning. Procrastinating, I went into the kitchen to put the kettle on for a cup of tea which I didn’t want.
The phone rang, making me jump, and I hurriedly picked it up. It wasn’t Lucy but the boys’ football coach to let me know they’d arranged an extra practice match that afternoon to make up for the cancellation yesterday. The boys would be delighted; the snow had almost completely melted, making the pitch soft but inevitably muddy. It would have been better for them to play on snow. I called upstairs to let them know the good news.
My phone pinged with a text. I didn’t care what it said; it was simply incredible Lucy had responded. The dialogue was still open, as Steve said.
Sorry, not today, busy getting flat ready for painting tomorrow.
Well, at least she’d replied, we were on speaking terms again. I texted back, saying briefly, perhaps another time, and left it there. So, there was no dinner to prepare. The boys preferred pasta to a roast dinner, and I’d read somewhere how it’s good for energy levels when playing sport, so pasta it would be.
The beauty of the snow yesterday had turned into grey slush. As I drove to the practice field after lunch, my mood was heavy and as gloomy as the spindly bare branches of the trees lining the road. I hoped Richard wouldn’t be there, but he was.
Sam and Jake happily ran off to get changed while I strolled over to join two of the other mothers at the edge of the pitch. Richard moved to within about twenty feet of where we were standing, probably knowing it would unsettle me. I tried not to look in his direction, but it’s rather like when you’re a child and your mother tells you not to pick the scab on your knee, you just have to pick it anyway. Each time I looked in his direction, Richard was staring directly at me, probably in a deliberate attempt to unnerve me. So it continued as the game got underway, making me feel decidedly edgy. Half of me wanted to run away, while the other half wanted to march over to him and give him a piece of my mind. In the end, I did neither. The threat of a court order might prevent Richard from approaching me, but nothing could be done about him looking in my direction. Why should he have the satisfaction of knowing I cared one way or the other? So I simply ignored him, not looking at him for the remainder of the game and joining in the banter with the other mums, laughing somewhat too enthusiastically at their comments even though they were not funny.
It was only a friendly game, more for the practice than anything else, but our team won. It was a much-needed win, as the season had been poor, and confidence was low. The boys piled into the car, covered from head to toe in mud but buzzing at such a good result. When we arrived home, I was tempted to make them take their clothes off at the door but settled for their boots, which I threw into the utility sink. They could wash them themselves later. Hurriedly I made tea as they showered; they were always so hungry after football. We filled our plates and took them to the lounge to watch a bit of mindless television and relax.
Fortunately, Sam and Jake showed the minimum of interest as to where their sister was and accepted my vague explanation of her staying over at a friend’s house for a few days. It was a sad reflection on the current dynamics of our family that they displayed little or no sign of missing Lucy. They went up to bed at around nine, and I intended to follow shortly afterwards, yet whether or not I would sleep remained to be seen. However, the telephone rang – three times – but stopped before I reached it. I thought nothing of it until it happened again – and then again. The caller ID display showed the number to be withheld. With the events of the weekend consuming my thoughts, the hate letters and their author were relegated to the back of my mind, although not entirely forgotten. Now I wondered if this caller was the letter writer. Or could it be Richard who would have been reminded of his humiliation by my presence at the game earlier? Exhaustion overruled my fear so I hardly cared.
‘Aw, sod it! Let them do their bloody worst!’ I almost shouted and unplugged the phone.
It occurred to me what a relief it would have been if Richard’s prints had been on those vicious letters. If it had been him, things would have fallen into place, and the fear surrounding the situation would be lessened. Knowing Richard to be the letter writer would have been in some way understandable, and as the justice process rolled out, there would have been closure. But Richard was proved innocent of this crime, at least. So, the uncertainty remained to wrestle in my mind and pose the questions of who and why. Not knowing is probably a worse state of affairs. Fear of the unknown is always more frightening than the knowledge of who your opponent is. Had it been Richard, I could have dealt with it, but how could I deal with someone who hated me so much, who threatened my family and me but was only a shadow? How could I know where to turn and what to do, when who or what I was up against was unknown? At that moment, life seemed pretty unfair. I wearily climbed the stairs, hoping for sleep to blot out my increasing fears and bring much-needed revitalisation to continue the fight.
Sleep did come, but only after sobbing into my pillow, indulging in a lengthy self-pity party. Images of Brad Johnson’s filthy flat swam before my eyes, even though they were closed, prompting me to wonder again how my daughter could abide living in such a pit. Would they clean it up and freshen it with new paint? It was doubtful. If Brad had lived for any length of time in those conditions, he was probably not inclined to expend much effort in decorating. I would have to be patient and hope Lucy would come to her senses and return home, but patience has never been my strong point.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Monday morning arrived and the boys left for school as usual. Lucy’s birthday was in two days, and I hadn’t a clue what to do about it. Generally, the choice would be hers, a meal out, or her choice of takeaway with the boys and me, and maybe a friend. My dilemma now was what to do. Would she think it was nagging if I sent another text? But perhaps this could be the occasion to meet Brad socially, yet dare I suggest it? Deciding what to do was a fine line between showing love and concern or driving her away. Finally, I decided on another text asking if I could take her to town and treat her to something nice for her birthday. If she agreed – and Lucy loved shopping, the opportunity might present itself to eat out with the boys and Brad and get to know him better. Sliding my phone into my jeans pocket and hoping for a quick reply, I knew even as I hit the send button, I was setting myself up for another disappointment. The phone remained annoyingly silent until early afternoon when it pinged with a text.
Would prefer money if you don’t mind, to help with the flat. Not able to go out for a meal, too busy.
I should have expected as much. Lucy was answering my texts but refusing the olive branches they carried. Could this be a calculated response, and was it Lucy or Brad who was calling the shots?
As I continued to ponder my daughter’s living arrangements, it dawned on me – perhaps I’d been negligent in not considering financial matters. Lucy had a bank account into which her father paid ten pounds each week. I gave her a similar amount in cash, and she usually deposited any monetary birthday or Christmas gifts into the bank until she decided how to spend it. However, I’d been remiss in not asking what financial arrangements Lucy had with Brad. He didn’t appear to have much unless the state of the flat was purely a life choice, and we couldn’t expect him to keep Lucy.
But on the other hand, was giving her money condoning their living arrangements? As I pondered what to do, the problem seemed to grow bigger. I should talk to Paul but was pretty sure he’d be against giving her any money and might even stop her regular pocket money if it was brought to his attention. So, not wishing to ring Paul at work, I left it until later, concentrating on other matters which needed attention.
One of the day’s tasks on my list was to ring Mr Bennett and put him in the picture about Lucy. He’d been helpful and concerned, and I only wished I could tell him Lucy had decided to resume her studies, but sadly this wasn’t the case, for the present anyway. The school secretary put me through to the headmaster, and I began to explain and apologise for wasting his time. Mr Bennett, however, was very polite and genuinely seemed concerned for Lucy. He asked if there was anything he could do to help, which sadly there wasn’t, and also said if the situation changed, they would make every effort to enable Lucy to catch up with her studies. Thanking him, I promised to get in touch if my daughter had a change of heart.
For the rest of the day, I tried to concentrate on a feature for the magazine, but by early afternoon I’d deleted more than half of the original word count and was going to have to start afresh. My mind simply wasn’t on it; my head was too full of family problems. I would try another day. There was still time to Skype Holly before the boys came home. Perhaps she had a few words of wisdom to offer me or could at least cheer me up a little. My friend answered almost immediately, her smiling face flecked with pale-blue paint and her hair coiled back and tied with what looked like a dishcloth. She waved a paintbrush at me enthusiastically.
‘Hi, I’ve been thinking about you. I was going to call you tonight. How did the funeral go?’ Her voice softened with concern.
As I described the virtual non-event, she sympathised with me before asking if there had been any more letters.
‘Actually, the letters seem to be the least of my problems lately.’ The saga of Lucy and Brad living in a hovel all poured out. I mentioned Steve’s involvement, and Holly stopped me before I could skip swiftly past this part of the story.
‘Hold on here, Laura. Is this Steve the same policeman who’s looking into those letters?’
‘Yes,’ I admitted.
‘And the same Steve who arranged for the security cameras? And the same Steve who drove you to the care home the night your mother died?’ I had to admit to it all, knowing precisely what Holly would make of it.
‘Quick description please; age, marital status, you know the ropes!’ she demanded.
‘Honestly, Holly, he’s simply a very kind man who would help anyone in the same situation.’
‘Now I know you’re lying. Come on, spill the beans.’
I knew she wouldn’t be satisfied until every last piece of information was in her possession, so I gave in and told her, but not the bit about my daydreams, although she seemed to hear those words in amongst the ones I spoke.
‘Well, has he asked you out yet?’
‘No, of course not! It’s a professional relationship, nothing more.’
‘Liar! You might as well admit it. If you don’t fill in all the blanks, I’ll simply have to make the answers up for myself.’
And she would, too, so I began to tell her what she wanted to hear. Strangely enough, actually verbalising the words instead of simply allowing them to float around in my brain made it all seem real. I admitted to liking Steve, and it felt good to share it with someone.
‘Do you think I’m just imagining that he’s interested in me?’ I asked Holly.
‘It doesn’t sound like imagination to me. There’s one way to find out, though, isn’t there?’
I dreaded what my friend might suggest.
‘Invite him for a meal. You could use the pretence of it being simply to thank him for his support and then come right out and ask him if he fancies you!’
‘Holly, it sounds.... so schoolgirlish! I can’t do that.’
‘Well, okay then, but you might not get another chance. What if they get the guy who’s writing those letters? Or even if they don’t, they won’t keep on seeing you if the letters dry up.’
She had a point.
‘Okay, I’ll think about it,’ I conceded. ‘But what about Lucy and the money issue?’
‘Hell yes, what an awful predicament. You’ll have to talk to her and even to Paul about it. I can see how it goes against the grain to give her money to live with someone so totally gross, but then she’s got to eat! I wish I had an answer for you, Laura – it’s quite some dilemma you’re in.’
Holly was right – Lucy had to eat. We eventually said goodbye, and after thanking her for loaning me a shoulder to cry on, I went to make a cup of tea.
Although not yet 3pm, it was growing dark outside. Rain was beating against the window, and the house felt strangely silent, almost eerie. A sudden crack of thunder made me jump, then a flash of lightning split the sky, and the rain poured even heavier, falling in sheets which drummed so hard on the window I thought the glass might crack. The phone rang three times again and stopped before I could pick it up. I groaned inwardly. It rang again after a minute, and I didn’t even get out of the chair to answer. My whole world seemed to have shrunk around me, and at that moment in time, it consisted only of me, surrounded on all sides by the storm outside and, even worse, the storm within my life.
Paul rang later in the evening to ask what we should do about Lucy’s birthday. It was comforting to know he was still actively thinking about the situation, and we held a reasonably adult conversation about our options until I told him I’d sent a text and what our daughter’s reply had been.
‘We can’t just hand over money! He could be buying drugs or anything!’ Paul was horrified.
‘Yes, and naturally, I feel the same, but this is our daughter – she needs to eat and pay her way.’
‘Well, I’m going to stop the weekly payments into the bank. Unless Lucy comes home and behaves herself, I won’t be a party to her living with that yob!’ My ex’s reaction was about what I expected.
‘If you do that, Paul, then I’ll have to give her even more money and to be quite candid, with my job being in question at the moment, I really can’t afford it.’
