‘I really enjoyed that essay.’
He handed her the exercise book and then, without any doubt whatsoever, he smiled meaningfully into her eyes. She felt herself going hot. Her hands became clammy. She just stood there while his glance passed over her eye-shadow, over her nose and cheeks, over her mouth.
‘You’re very pretty,’ he said.
‘Thank you, sir.’
Her voice reminded her of the croak in Chinny Martin’s when he’d been telling her he loved her. She tried to smile, but could not. She wanted his hand to reach out and push her gently away from him so that he could see her properly. But it didn’t. He stared into her eyes again, as if endeavouring to ascertain their precise shade of blue.
‘You look like a girl we had here once,’ he said. ‘Called Sarah Spence.’
‘I remember Sarah Spence.’
‘She was good at English too.’
She wanted something to happen, thunder to begin, or a torrent of rain, anything that would keep them in the classroom. She couldn’t even bear the thought of walking to her desk and putting her essay book in her briefcase.
‘Sarah went to Warwick University,’ he said.
She nodded. She tried to smile again and this time the smile came. She said to herself that it was a brazen smile and she didn’t care. She hoped it made her seem more than ever like Sarah Spence, sophisticated and able for anything. She wondered if he said to all the girls who were stop-gaps that they looked like Sarah Spence. She didn’t care. His carry-on with Sarah Spence was over and done with, he didn’t even see her any more. By all accounts Sarah Spence had let him down, but never in a million years would she. She would wait for him for ever, or until the divorce came through. When he was old she would look after him.
‘You’d better be getting home, Jenny.’
‘I don’t want to, sir.’
She continued to stand there, the exercise book in her left hand. She watched while some kind of shadow passed over his face. For a moment his eyes closed.
‘Why don’t you want to go?’ he said.
‘Because I’m in love with you, sir.’
‘You mustn’t be, Jenny.’
‘Why not?’
‘You know why not.’
‘What about Sarah Spence?’
‘Sarah was different.’
‘I don’t care how many stop-gaps you’ve had. I don’t care. I don’t love you any less.’
‘Stop-gaps, Jenny?’
‘The ones you made do with.’
‘Made do?’ He was suddenly frowning at her, his face screwed up a little. ‘Made do?’ he said again.
‘The other girls. The ones who reminded you of her.’
‘There weren’t any other girls.’
‘You were seen, sir –’
‘Only Sarah and I were seen.’
‘Your car –’
‘Give a dog a bad name, Jenny. There weren’t any others.’
She felt iciness inside her, somewhere in her stomach. Other girls had formed an attachment for him, as she had. Other girls had probably stood on this very spot, telling him. It was that, and the reality of Sarah Spence, that had turned him into a schoolgirls’ legend. Only Sarah Spence had gone with him in his old Ford Escort to quiet lay-bys, only Sarah Spence had felt his arms around her. Why shouldn’t he be seen in the buffet car of a train, alone? The weekends he’d spent away from home were probably with a sick mother.
‘I’m no Casanova, Jenny.’
‘I had to tell you I’m in love with you, sir. I couldn’t not.’
‘It’s no good loving me, I’m afraid.’
‘You’re the nicest person I’ll ever know.’
‘No, I’m not, Jenny. I’m just an English teacher who took advantage of a young girl’s infatuation. Shabby, people would say.’
‘You’re not shabby. Oh God, you’re not shabby!’ She heard her own voice crying out shrilly, close to tears. It astonished her. It was unbelievable that she should be so violently protesting. It was unbelievable that he should have called himself shabby.
‘She had an abortion in Warwick,’ he said, ‘after a weekend we spent in an hotel. I let that happen, Jenny.’
