Angel Avenue Read online

  I take out a smoke and start puffing.

  A thought hits me. If I am seeing Warrick on Saturday, that means I can’t go hunting for men. And I really don’t want to hunt him. He’s too nice and too bedraggled, I sensed that the other day. Yet, he intrigues me. My Internet skills did me no good because I couldn’t find anything about him anywhere. He obviously doesn’t use social networks so it makes me think he’s got something to hide or someone or some people to be hiding from.

  I figure I could ask him to lie down with me and give me a hug but I sense I might give him false hope and that wouldn’t be fair at all. It really wouldn’t. I also judge that in asking me to have a drink with him on Saturday, he is in some way expressing a desire to prevent me doing whatever it is I usually do on a Saturday. He’s crafty. I’ll give him that.

  I get into the English office and my juniors are all there waiting for me, for some reason. I dump my coat and bag on my desk, which is cluttered as usual with book order forms, memos from the new headmaster and batched exercise books ready to distribute. I can hardly see the wood for the trees when my oldest member of staff, Betsy, moves toward my desk.

  “Jules, love, we all want to have a chat with you. There is something we need to talk about.”

  Betsy is a specialist in babysitting the difficult classes. She’s sixty-odd and past her best. She’s, you know… Her fashion choices are interesting to say the least and seem to have walked straight out of the Seventies.

  Hugh ‒ he’s young, yet older than his years. He’s a bit like me in that he keeps himself to himself, hiding behind his tank tops and multicoloured shirts. His ties are stuffier than Prince Charles’s. He’s unsure of himself as a teacher and gets trampled to buggery by the more demanding boys and girls. He clams up and lets them rule the class. He shouldn’t do but that’s what he does and well, who am I to tell him he should stand up for himself? He looks like he might shatter into a million pieces if I told him off.

  Ruby is my little firecracker and she teaches a variety of classes. I know I can always rely on her to take any class I need to give her and she takes them without fuss. She’s raven-haired and wears the most garish outfits. She doesn’t mind the kids taking the piss out of her. She has them performing skits and they love her. However, today she’s standing behind Hugh and he is standing behind Betsy. They are all staring with fear in their little eyes. I wonder what the hell they are waiting for? Spit it out, I mentally entreat them.

  “We heard… on the grapevine… and we thought we should warn you.”

  I take off my scarf and fling it over the back of my office chair. Betsy sways her seventeen stone body around the front of my desk while I sit down and clear some piles so I can see them all.

  “Get it over with,” I demand, gesticulating with superiority. I am impatient, they know that.

  “You’ll get lower sets soon,” she spits out.

  “Why the fuck would that happen?”

  Betsy smiles as if she anticipated my response and it calms her. We have an accord. They are my team but they rely on me and they do so because I take no rubbish from anyone. I keep the stiff upper lip and I maintain my image. I surround myself with ice and it helps me control the lot of them. Pupils, teachers and all…

  “New headmaster walked through the door today. There are a lot of changes he is proposing. My friend Bernie is on the governor’s board and you know she gives me the odd bit of insider goss… Well, she says there won’t be any favouritism next year. All mixed up. None of this elitist stuff going on anymore, so he says. All the teachers will have an even spread, so we hear. The teachers who show themselves up will be shipped out.”

  I grumble and huff. Whatever. I will deal with it when the time comes. They all sense I am unhappy about it. I am used to teaching the gifted ones and having my way. I run a tight ship and I know how to do it. Perhaps I could take some of the strain off Hugh but he can take it. He is grinning at me now, however.

  “Say it Hugh,” I demand coldly.

  I busy myself with piling stuff up to take to my classroom and he farts around, dancing to and fro before plucking up the courage to admit, “I will be relieved to have some of the better classes.”

  He’d never say it to me but he thinks it’s unfair that a mediocre teacher like him gets the tougher groups when a brilliant teacher like me gets the pick of the crop. I scowl and shake my head. I have had it too easy, too long. I know that, but I have my reasons. I’ll take a couple of difficult classes it if keeps me out of the new boss’s bad books. But Hugh has no idea that I am protecting him. He will be shown for the person he is once he gets the cleverer classes and they dip in their results. Hugh’s a sweet young man but well, he buckles under pressure. Perhaps he’d fair better in a private school, where the children file around the corridors in lines and smile sweetly, hug you in fact, for giving them a good education. Here at St. Clare’s, you have the good kids from good families who want to do well. Then you have the so-called challenging kids. They are the ones you don’t bother with and leave to their own devices. I’ve accepted this. It’s what I was taught. It’s how you survive in these inner-city schools where you get mauled if you haul a parent in and try to tell them that they should have read to their kids from a younger age. Oh yes, we get them turning up in Year Seven ‒ some of them ‒ and they cannot read. At eleven years old. We push ourselves through years of education, and postgraduate study, to end up teaching some children whose parents care less than we do. It’s testing. To tell you the truth, it’s devastating, and the truth has made me tougher year upon year.

  I march off to my classroom and bump into the new headmaster on the way there. He got the gig after the former headmaster threw a wobbler over some mix-up in the office; he was quickly dispensed with. Cue the new, quickie headmaster who was drafted in from some failing school made good. They shift them about quicker than bad pennies. He stops me in the corridor and shakes my hand.

  “Julianne Simonovich, I believe?”

  He’s middle-aged and worn. He’s earned his eighty grand a year with every ounce of energy he’s given. I can see he has ideas, perhaps some of which are above his station. He thinks in a new position, a new environment, he can change the world.

  Good for him, I say. I would like to tell him that I think sometimes the best we can do is turn up and get through the day.

  “That’s me. You must be Jack. I’ve been hearing about you.”

  “I’ve heard about you too. I hear you are one of our best. We’ll have to discuss movements forward. After all, the English language forms the basis of all our learning?”

  “It does. I will gladly get you up to speed, once we know what’s what.”

  “What’s what?” he asks with a puzzled frown.

  I take a step to the side to let a pupil pass by and it gives me a moment to rethink what I was going to say. However, he is waiting for clarity and I just decide to come out with it.

  “Well, when you’ve had chance to look at the figures, you will see we get the best A to C results in the area. We do so because I know how to do what I do best… We’re living in an imperfect world here and imperfection is what we must learn to accept, is it not?”

  He breathes heavily and I can tell he is probably a whisky drinker, maybe a beer hound. His nose is veined purple and he has a bit of a stale stench about him. He smiles as if I couldn’t possibly have offended him.

  “I heard you were a live one… do you prefer Jules?” I nod. “Look, I am an unconventional sort. I don’t go by figures. I go by how many kids we’ve taken from the bottom and lifted to the top. That’s how I work.”

  I hold my tongue and raise my eyebrows. He begins walking off, sure he has said his piece. As I walk off too, I hear behind me, “This could be a very interesting partnership.”

  I shudder. I hate to think of him leering at my arse as he turns back and watches me walk away. Yuck. Then again, the thought of him tearing me from my comfort zone is a much worse thought.

&
nbsp; I walk home later that day and curse this horrible weather. It’s truly atrocious. Rain, again. I get a text as I huddle beneath my raincoat.

  HIM: Good day? W x

  ME: Awful. New headmaster is a shit.

  HIM: Still looking forward to Saturday?

  ME: Course. Yeah. Catch u later x

  I brush him off and hope that the little kiss will sate his desire for chat.

  HIM: Text you later x

  I get home and don’t dwell on the day’s events, nor my impending ‘date’ with my fictional older brother Warrick. I mean, what kind of name is that anyway? Blah. He’s too messed up, I can tell. Any other bloke would have pushed me up against that wall, right there in the rain, and have done with me. That would be it. No more issues or uncomfortable meetings. It was nice whilst we had it and now let’s not expect anything else. Finito. Done. End of. Nice but over. We gave each other all we could expect from life and that was good enough at the time. Sod the happy ending.

  Chapter Six

  Jules

  It’s been an eventful week and then again, another week like any other really. Warrick texted me here and there throughout and now I am winding my way down the Avenue to meet him for that drink. It’s a week since we met; since the day I stood on the corner in the pouring rain. Today it’s grey and misty but not so much miserable as just dull.

  I feel awkward about the hug thing but maybe I will find someone else after we have our little chat or whatever he wants from me. I stop in the herbal shop and get myself a few candles to take home later and I leave the rest of my shopping list for the way home. I don’t want him peering into my bags when I am not looking and trying to seek something I don’t want him to find.

  I pass all manner of other nationalities as I saunter; the variety of tongues escapes me. The area has exploded into a hive of activity over the past few years. I remember when the Avenue was not much more than a few fruit and veg stalls, a scruffy pub or two, a dodgy liquor store here and there and a Blockbuster video shop. The green and red awnings that used to hang over shop windows have now been replaced by outside heaters, smoking areas and patio tables and chairs. In summer, this place is like Playa de las Americas. Now it is teeming with chic restaurants offering world cuisine, packed coffee shops, highbrow bars serving a variety of European beers and too many posh student hangouts to mention.

  I remember it was once a place I could pretend was mine. Now it belongs to so many, I have to fight the other bargain hunters in the thrift stores.

  There was a second-hand book shop I spent hours in as a student, trying to locate cheap course books that would save me some money. Bookworms sat in corridors on the floor reading and moving out of the way of people pawing through the non-catalogued shelves. The owners went online and left and it became a hair salon. There are plenty of those now too. There are also stuffy coffee shops with one or two puny book shelves and I don’t like them. They’re not real enough for me. Give me a crappy, bland old bookstore with no carpet any day. Cheap and cheerful enough for me to walk away with a sack full of books for a few pence. That’s my heaven.

  I don’t know what I expect from our meeting or what will happen. I suspect Warrick likes me to have asked me out for a drink but I really can’t be sure. It seems too platonic between us. I didn’t sense any chemistry when we met and he makes me feel comfortable. Nevertheless he is the first man to show an interest beyond the physical. I know I have had the invisible Do Not Approach sign flashing above my head for far too long. Gents like Kev at work ask me out despite knowing full well I will probably turn them down. The ones I stalk and hunt don’t even get a chance to think things through before we are hugging on my bed and they’re probably laid there regretting even bothering. Makes me smile thinking about all the pillocks I have given false hope! Or maybe not…

  With Warrick, I decide, we’re friends. We shall be friends. If my female inquisition demands a label then I’ll term us as friends if nothing else. Maybe even just hug buddies, if I don’t feel like picking a guy up after we have our drink.

  I take a deep breath outside the pub and stare at the brass handle. The diamond-shaped, dirty stained glass windows suggest I will be sitting among old gits around a peat fire within seconds. Most patrons will be puffing craftily out the back, there will be a scruffy old pub dog begging for scraps and there will be too many leering eyes. It might not be that bad…

  When I push the door, I see the place is teeming with arty types enjoying half tankards of various real ales. There are several hand pumps crowding a tiny bar and I see a large barman behind it. He smiles with a wink and I notice I am among the small percentage of females in the place.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see a man stand up. I am looking around but nobody looks like Warrick.

  “Jules.”

  I turn to the man who is standing and see him. Warrick. I hastily walk forward and he’s smiling so broadly.

  “Hi, Warrick,” I say casually.

  We sit down and I glance sideways. He has a huge shock of wild, dark hair. Is it curly? No. Is it straight? No. It’s not in any style. It’s long and touches his shoulders. Two curls are in front of his eyes but don’t seem to bother him. His locks are just roving in all directions. It’s a bit distracting. His matching stubble has no pattern either.

  “Hi yourself,” he tells me.

  I glance at the clientele and they all nod at me. What are they staring at? The load of ogling drunkards! We sit in silence and I don’t know why Warrick isn’t talking. I couldn’t shut him up a week before.

  He chastises himself, “Oh, I guess… do you want a drink?”

  “What have you got?” I point at whatever it is he has.

  “Oh, a half of some honey beer.”

  “Sounds good. Go on then. A half.”

  He gets up and collects his wallet from the inside of his coat and I ask, “See if they have some of those scampi fries too.”

  Once we are seated with our drinks and my scampi fries, he plucks up the courage to speak.

  “I don’t think I have ever met a girl who likes those and who eats so quickly.”

  “I eat like a horse,” I manage between mouthfuls, “believe me, if you need a partner at one of those mixed grill places, I am your girl.”

  There is silence again and he looks away, hiding his face. I hear my words back and go why why why? Why is he making me speak like a jumped-up little fool? It’s like I just spewed out all the thoughts of one of my pupils (I realise they are the only people I ever really listen to). I don’t participate in much adult conversation, if any. My co-workers and I just talk shop. Hardly scintillating.

  “I guess your job keeps you busy?”

  “More than you know,” I mutter as my glass meets my lips.

  This is still not a date, right?

  “Why did you take up teaching?”

  Why does he care?

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “It’s my business to know,” he taps his nose.

  I cross my legs and muse. I decide if we are going to chat, I may as well get comfy. So I shake my red duffel coat from my shoulders and rest back against it. I keep my black woollen scarf wrapped around my neck because it makes me seem more stylish. I fit right in with the crowd with just a scarf wrapped rakishly. Anyway, back to the point…

  “Ever since I was little, I loved the written word. Buried myself in books from the library in my town. It was housed in this old, converted church. I spent hours and hours in there. It’s shut down now.”

  “That’s a sad reality.”

  “It is.”

  I glance at Warrick and he looks a bit more relaxed now. He is a friend and a former police officer. He has probably seen and heard it all. I feel free to speak.

  “I loved words. I got a First in English. Teacher it was, there we go.”

  “Makes sense,” he replies. “No plans to pen a novel then?”

  I sniff and turn my body towards his. I see he has deep-brown eyes
that dance whenever he speaks.

  “I would ask you that too, Warrick. You’ve had some interesting, encounters? I imagine?”

  I raise my eyebrows and turn the interrogation on him. I do not fail to notice that every time I say his name, he jumps.

  He brings his foot over his knee and holds onto his trainer shoe for support. He taps his leg and he tells me under his breath, “I’ve seen some things.”

  “I thought so. I went looking for you online, but couldn’t find you anywhere…”

  “Why did you look me up?” He gives me a sneaky glance before turning his gaze back to the bar, looking anywhere but at me.

  “Possible stalker. Former copper with a story to tell. I had a hunch.”

  “Sure you shouldn’t have been a hack?”

  “That is an insult I would have any kid in detention for,” I counteract disdainfully. I glance and look him over. He still looks unhinged, if a little amused.

  “Can I admit? I didn’t think you would turn up today. I also wondered whether you might have looked me up to determine my credentials. I might as well tell you now, I have a few skeletons in the closet. That’s where they shall remain. Now, I am just boring old me.”

  He’s agitated, drumming his fingers. I realise I dove in headfirst, into ye olde closet so to speak, so I change tactic.

  “No need to get yourself worked up. I just thought you had a story and I wanted it. That’s me all over. I don’t have a life so I live vicariously through others.”

  I pause and stare at him, seeing he’s definitely troubled. He doesn’t respond. Maybe I offended him? Now, he’s just staring ahead. To diffuse the atmosphere, I make a decision. I have already drained my glass and his is similarly depleted. I stand up and pull a twenty from my jeans pocket.

  “Same again? Or will you join me for a pint?” I see he is about to protest when I demand, “I get paid enough for babysitting geniuses. Let me.”

  He nods and a reluctant smile creeps across his face.