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He nods. ‘Just ignore it and they’ll give up eventually when they see you’re not reacting.’
‘Thank you.’ She leans in for a kiss, recoils a little. ‘Have you actually been smoking?’
‘Young people,’ he quips, draining his glass. ‘Such a corrupting influence. Why don’t we head upstairs? I’ll clean my teeth twice, I promise.’
Samantha follows him up. Despite his advice, she knows she will not be able to stop herself from asking next week who wrote that poem. She can dismiss it, laugh it off, as long as someone claims it. As Peter said, it’s probably a wind-up. Someone has got the tone wrong, so that could mean Lana. Perhaps her grasp of nuance in a language that isn’t her mother tongue isn’t quite on point. And that’s the thing about writing, it can be hard to get the tone right. Hasn’t she found this in her own poetry? Getting the exact thought, emotion, feeling, crystallising that with words – that’s difficult, that’s what she’s trying to teach them, after all.
But as she waits for Peter to shower and clean his teeth, the poem turns over in her mind, memorised now to perfection.
Little Miss Frayn
Will be driven insane.
She thinks she’s the only one
But her happiness will soon be done.
She tries to remember Lana’s clerihew, can recall only the first two lines:
Stan
Was very bad man.
Lana misses the definite article even when she speaks. She wouldn’t, probably couldn’t, have written the offending clerihew. She would have writtenShe thinks she’s only one, notShe thinks she the only one. So no, probably not Lana, gruff as she is. The others drift into her mind’s eye: Sean, Aisha, Jenny … Reggie, Suzanne … Tommy, Daphne … Who is a bit odd? All of them. None of them. We are all a bit odd. All of us prey to all sorts of issues and neuroses, jealousies and rage.
It’s just that some of us hide it better than others.
She of all people knows that.
Twelve
Samantha gets to the college fifteen minutes early to prepare the classroom. The week, with its routines, daily walks and baby groups, has helped her to settle, to reassure herself that Peter will do better in her absence this time and to process the nasty clerihew, which she now thinks is nothing more than some ill-conceived mischief. She has been busy preparing her classes too, which has helped. Peter sent her three books on writing prose fiction from his Amazon Prime account. She has spent hours poring over them, taking notes and devising the most interesting classes she can. She has even started to write a little herself, while Emily sleeps, and has started work on a short story.
‘Hello there.’ It’s Daphne, first again. ‘My bus gets here early; I hope you don’t mind my coming in.’
‘Not at all,’ Samantha replies. ‘No point waiting in the cold, is there?’
Daphne sits heavily and sighs. Her colour, now that Samantha looks more closely, is a little grey.
‘Daphne, are you all right?’
She nods, but her smile is watery. ‘It’s really rather chilly out.’
Samantha crosses the room and without thinking reaches for the older woman’s hands. They are like ice, a bluish purple. ‘Daphne, you’re freezing.’
‘I got to the stop too early. I’m too early for everything. I do so hate to be late.’
Samantha leans forward and brings Daphne’s hands to her lips. Softly she blows hot air on them before chafing them together in her own hands. ‘Wait there and I’ll run and get you a cup of tea.’
‘Don’t be silly, dear, I’m fine.’ Daphne’s pale grey eyes are filmed with tears.
‘Tea or coffee? If you don’t tell me which, it’ll be tea whether you like it or not.’
Daphne’s smile widens. ‘Tea would be lovely. That’s kind of you, thank you.’
Samantha runs across the courtyard to the cafeteria. With an apology, she joins the front of the queue. A minute later, she’s back in the classroom, armed with takeaway tea, two cartons of milk and two sugar sachets. ‘Here,’ she says. ‘Put your hands around the cup for now. I think I should add some sugar – shall I do that?’
Daphne stuffs her tissue into her sleeve and does as she’s told. Her elegant fingers are bedecked with rings. ‘Thank you, dear. How much do I owe you?’
