She really was Tremble in bed that night. Natalia was struck hot and cold, with a heavy, dense, almost guilty feeling that something dream-like had happened and her body didn’t quite know how to contain it.
Blimey. Smoking with the Headmaster off school grounds, the contraband from two pupils he’d suspended; one he’d expelled, struck out, by perfectly sound subterfuge, especially for her. How’s that for a Coronation Street storyline, mum?…as she heard the whine of the soap theme tune downstairs. She flicked up her phone’s WhatsApp to see his message from yesterday that she’d missed at 13.25.
‘Hello can you come?’ She can right now. Because tonight she’d had him all to herself, inside his private voyaging vessel that she’d watched for weeks from wistful distances, and she could still smell upon her skin in a trinity of Neillian scents: his car, his cologne, and the smoke, like bad sage that cleansed them in controversy that evening. Locating this aroma, at once alien and abating, to the strongest patch on one finger, and holding it like a smelling salt to her nostril as she lay on her pillow with her eyes closed, it would help her recall every detail that had flown too fast - like Neill’s wheels across speed bumps - over her head in his car.
The way he joked ‘no thanks’ to schoolgirls, whilst she laughed at him rummaging to find the joint, all at home with him like some silly uncle. Then he talked about calling the shots as a Head, that made her fill with awe, then the moment he talked of his wives her head had spun completely. Wives! Although Neill wasn’t married, he had been married, twice! Popular enough for two, and fussy enough to ditch both. Suspend them like two errant schoolgirls.
Sex with them five times a day. Sex. A real detail of his life, not a vague cock or bottom joke. Pieces of his life story chucked up like shreds of a torn, precious book she clutched at in the wind. Sex with his wives, five times a day, she kept hearing on replay. Insatiable Neill too much for a woman? God I bet he is.
Oh, she’d put her hand down now and imagine being one of those wives - the five-year one not the two-year one, she must have done better - then bring the hand back up to her nose to keep inhaling, keep remembering, before the last waft of smoky-Neill-car-celebration was drowned out by bready scent of vaginal discharge. Discharge, stupid word. Oh but it makes scents. His, now a communion with hers. The body of Neill, Amen, received now by her downstairs mouth. Like a key into a lock, designed to pair! Make angels appear, a demure young lady like yourself!
How I was going to do the bullies for you, he’d said. Thrash them, for you. Sweetheart, when have I ever not helped you? And now honey, can I call you honey? I’ve got you now! Well are you a virgin? I’ll kidnap you on Google maps and stick a spliff through your lips… say yes Neill, I know! You’re not going out of B&Q till you say it! Stick this in your mouth and thank me, before I bend your unwashed knickers over the bonnet!
Honey, god, he’d called her honey, and oh, that’s a better word for it. Warm, running, pricking deep inside her at the thought of his hand squeezing hers to say, this is real! As real as the rollie he put through her lips, he pushed it through them… just as she pushed her finger now, persistent like Neill’s blaring lights driving up Cheng’s hatchback arse; to chase that honey-running stab, and barely a moment of circling her finger had her shuddering, hot and goose-pimpled all over, and then another and another, kicking off the covers, till she turned on her side satisfied, and fell asleep seeing taillights in fumes, fumes from roll-ups, fumes from his car holding back traffic for her.
She was a fume; contaminated, rising, free. Expelling honey, all the next day, as the tyres of the bus went round and round - as so did Neill’s, as so did her fingers - as now did her mind, with a gleeful adrenalin rush watching Mrs Williams’ chins wobble to announce Marcia is not returning to the class.
‘Why?’ A few mutters were heard.
‘Private matters, I’m afraid.’
‘Smoking weed probably!’ Luke blurted out.
Natalia held a steady gaze back as Williams’ eyes fell on hers, that gave away nothing, but beneath she thought, fuck you, you did nothing to help, but someone else did. Someone who boosts her confidence every meeting, and with whom her latest jaunt had been a triple-booster. If I can look the Headmaster in the eye, I can look right at you, mere sub.
Her phone beeped at lunch. It was a WhatsApp message from Neill, just a pasted link to the YouTube link to Luxton as he’d promised. Still, it was another WhatsApp message from the Headmaster, she stared smiling, sheltering her screen with a nervous blink, clicking through to see the video had 900k views. Whew. She sent back a thumbs up.
She gazed at the last message above it. She wanted to reply to that one right now, wondering if he was in his office. She wanted to run to him and give him something, anything... the Twix bar from her bag, broken for you! Take it and eat it, Neill, do it in love for me! But his car wasn’t in. Must be out for lunch. She resorted to daydream... of running in the corridors till she runs right into him; I go faster than you on a speed hump, she would joke! And he would stare with that trying-to-be-polite, but really I-love-sex-five-times-a-day face, and say, pardon?
Friday morning worship came. In Assembly her eyes fixed on Neill in an adoring gaze and she had no qualms about him seeing it. In a blue suit, clearing his throat to silence the hall, his eyes caught on hers, and what, winked? Oh goodness, what felt like a shelf shoved inside her stomach, eyes faltering and back up again as he called out:
‘Quiet! Assembly is starting!’ with a rap on the podium.
Most people needed the mic. But Neill always went without.
After going through all Years’ pressing matters, he got to theirs.
‘Year 11! As you know from your teachers’ frequent and anxious reminders, Mocks start next Wednesday and we’re on rapid turnaround to get them marked by the break of term.’
There was a wash of murmurs as Natalia noticed Williams’ concerned face turning to Coleman.
‘As this is the last Christmas for you lot, there will be a big surprise on Thursday December 14th, the day before the end of term, which is non-uniform day for your Year only. Then, the last Friday is a non-uniform day and Christmas buffet for all.’
Cue a steep rise of excited whispers.
‘Quiet, please! Year 11, your school trip to Haworth is on Monday. Meet at form as normal please and then we head to the coaches which will leave at 9.30. Don’t be late! Bring a packed lunch. Full uniform, and I don’t want to see any ties, lest we look like a ghastly school from Brontë’s own era. Neither do I want to see any mad Berthas setting fire to them!’
Chuckles fell across the rows, as Natalia caught Mrs Williams’ rolling eyes to Mr Harrison.
‘Right, that’s it! Off you go and get some bloody work done.’
What Head ends their Assembly like that? Cheers and whoops ensued from pupils and teachers alike - bar Williams and a couple other crusties of course - from whom grumbles were heard by a hovering Natalia:
‘Arranging a school trip right before Mock Exams - madness! They need to be in school revising!
‘It’s on topic for English though, Anne. Maybe it’s what they need,’ Coleman smiled back.
‘He wants us marking the Mocks in time for his silly Christmas idea. Madness, utter madness!’
‘Always busy at this time of year. Let’s talk with a cuppa at break love.’
Now the weekend hours counted down to the madness of King Neill. She hadn’t been on a school trip since Year 8. What would one be like with Neill in charge?
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Natalia gazed at herself in the mirror on Monday morning struck with a sudden fearful thought. Do people notice the way she smirks around the New Age Head? Did Mrs Cheng see her in his car, was that why she smiled and nodded at her in the canteen on Friday? She frowned. Then she saw that frown, and smiled, watching it disappear. It’s good to see you smile again, she stroked her finger down her own cheek. She’ll put her hair into pigtails for the school trip. Special occasion, let’s see what stirs in his face when he sees her. Her blood was pumping so hard by breakfast she eschewed tea and ate but a bite of toast. 17Please respect copyright.PENANAJqIILIfU0f
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Her mum eyed her cautiously. ‘What are you so excited about?’
‘We have a Brontë day today,’ avoiding mentioning the coach trip for which she had not shown the slip nor asked for the money; seditious proxy-papa had done it.
‘A what?’
‘For the book Jane Eyre.’
‘Oh, the period stuff, like Mr Darcy?’
‘Something like that. Bye,’ as she sprang out for the bus.
Form class was a hubbub of restless rummaging of plastic lunch lids and rustling bags of Revels whilst Mrs Williams looked on forlorn - as if she had not been selected to come, Natalia mused - as she shut up the register with a sigh. ‘Ok, you may go up to the coach, where Mr Dinkey, Mrs Coleman, Miss Doris and Mr Neill will be meeting with you for the trip today. Have a lovely time everyone.’
Soon the two Year 11 classes, amounting to approximately 60 pupils, were heading up in spurts and drifts toward the coach waiting like a docked ship to admit its puerile passengers, and soon, trapped in at the window halfway up the coach with Laura next to her, offering morning Jaffa Cakes to which Natalia grimaced, suddenly remembering that her one and only time on a coach had resulted in sickness, which she hoped wouldn’t make a reappearance.
And where was Neill? Natalia could now spot - or first, hear him - thumping up the coach steps with ‘ah, the driver! Mark is it? How many have you had this morning? You’ll need a few to drive this lot for an hour,’ and, ‘there’s no toilet on here? Miss Doris will lend us her hat.’ His combed hair now loomed over the tops of the seats as he advanced up the aisle wishing a good morning to everyone; ‘Adam, close your mouth!’ - ‘Aisha, good day, lady,’ and now coming fully into view in a long dark winter trenchcoat and red scarf, his blue roaming eyes landing upon Natalia as his genial ‘good morning, good morning’ morphed into an ‘oh! Good morning!’ and a glance that, as she held her breath, fell right onto her pigtails - ah, gotcha! - before a neutral glance fell on Laura beside her. ‘All bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the trip?’… ‘Ryan, watch out for Jennifer’s head’… ‘Natalia, all set?’ with a slow knowing blink on her now, as she nodded a smile back, and his toothy pleasantries continued to the back of the coach, helping to stow stray bags and enliven morning malaise with gay mirth till he returned to plonk himself somewhere on a lucky seat at the unseen front with the other adults.
As the coach hauled itself with a roar out of Killingbeck and shuttled along grey dual carriageways, to the murmuration of pupil chatter peppered with teacherly laughs from the front from Dinkey and Coleman, Natalia would spend most of the journey listening out for the tenor note of Neill; his words only in snatches of ‘pub,’ ‘never been to Keighley,’ ‘from River Aire to Jane Eyre,’ ‘I’m rereading it, it’s bloody long,’ and ‘good gracious you live in Alwoodley Claire? Your hubby must be in banking,’ followed by a ‘whoops, oops! Divorce… didn’t know. Fleece him! Fleece him for all he’s got,’ till avid chatter between Laura and Sam regretfully consumed Natalia’s right ear canal; Sam having launched into one of those schoolgirl tirades that would fire in one rapid, long lament, with no full stops or commas, about her parents’ fight last night and how her dad nearly walked out.
Between Sam and Coleman, Natalia inwardly mused that perhaps hers wasn’t the most broken family after all, and as they jolted along on their pilgrimage to the town of the Brontë sisters, felt that in spirit she was really sitting next to Neill, and fell smiling into a fantasy where she would alight right now with just him, and wave off the coach as it rumbled off a cliff, causing oodles of broken families, whilst she and her permission-slip-signing, cheek-stroking Headmaster would hike, bike - or crawl, for all she cared - the rest of the way to the promised land together.
Soon the colourful Asian shops of Bradford morphed into vast, postcard-scenic moors, and the coach was slowing trepidatiously into tricky bends, as the driver at one point had to perform a reverse manoeuvre to fit around a steep curve, as the whole coach breathed in anticipation and squeals and even Neill exclaimed: ‘Do we have a priest on board for last rites?’ - ‘Ah, he’s done it, my good man.’ The coach heaved finally into a car park where the rollercoaster of the past ten minutes finally ceased, and released sixty teenagers impatient to move their legs and arms and see what this anticipated thing called ‘Haw-uff’ actually was.
Natalia, thankful to be back in the fresh air, wandered off alone, as though it was instinctive to her body after being in too close proximity to the armpits of her whole Year for so long, and came toward a sign that pointed the museum entrance 200 yards up a geranium-bordered path.
Behind her was a piercing whisper.
‘Pippy Longstockings, where you off?’
She turned, prepared with a demure smile:
‘Mind if I go ahead? I might get a bit of peace and quiet,’ as she cast a cynical glance to the noisy huddle by the coach.
‘That’s what teachers say, not pupils,’ Neill frowned, removing his leather gloves and pulling out his fag packet. ‘Guess we could always tie you to the lamp-post by your pigtails to keep you from wandering off.’
She suppressed a smirk, raising an eyebrow.
‘What is your problem with pigtails?’
‘Makes you look like a five-year-old,’ he frowned again, as he threw a fag into his mouth. ‘If you shared this with me right now you’d look like that controversial Sally Mann photo of the candy cigarette girl.’
‘Oh really,’ she blinked, not sure how to react. ‘Well, you practically have kids smoking, always standing so close to people breathing it in…’
‘Not at all, feel free,’ as he stepped closer to her. ‘Now listen—’
‘Curious, do the other teachers say anything about it? Williams?’
‘They would if I stuck it straight in your mouth - right in front of them, to stop you interrupting girl - and answer me this question,’ as she gazed in bewilderment, and he continued:
‘You know when you get those badly behaving pupils who have to be escorted everywhere by the hand of a responsible teacher, or rather, dragged by the wrist - especially if they’re acting somewhat remedial - to keep their behaviour proper, maintain their activity at a sound level, and stop them running off?’
‘Er, yeah, I remember one of those kids in primary. Max Abel. Or more like unable—’
‘Do you think it would be acceptable for a Headmaster to do that to the most sentient, intelligent but intolerably recalcitrant ones to achieve the same end?’ He puffed his smoke, looking quite serious.
Her blush grew, struggling to muster a clever reply as he held his gaze on her.
‘I, I… well… didn’t you already do that, once?’ she said slyly, her eyes now going to the staff and pupils advancing behind him.
‘Merely a trial and I’m not sure it worked, which is why I ask you.’
‘I think that course of action is better off applied to those acting like remedials.’
‘And how good are you at acting?’
She chortled.
‘Good, you’re smiling now. Sitting next to Lestat on the coach you looked more miserable than Cohen and O’Callaghan put together,’ as he puffed the last of his fag, glancing behind him to the teachers fast approaching.
‘Don’t forget we’re in Haworth, honey,’ he turned to her. ‘With the Headmaster of your dreams.’ He winked.
She stared and smiled faintly, as he squashed his fag end on the ground with the sole of his shoe, and with a nonchalant clear of his throat to Coleman, Doris and a sprinkling of pupils now upon him, exhaled:
‘So what’s the plan, Claire?
‘We’re scheduled to go in at 11, that’s in ten minutes.’
‘Then we all pile in at once?’
‘Twenty of us at a time, every fifteen minutes. I reckon we split into two main groups and stagger one half. I’ll take Williams’ class—’
‘No, you’re taking Clayton’s lightweights. Williams’ class need a firm hand.’ Neill now waved and clapped loudly at the pupils now blocking up the car park everywhere:
‘Everybody! Out of the way of the cars please!’ he bellowed in a stentorian voice. ‘Williams’ class, and Steve, all with me. Clayton’s class with Doris and Coleman. Keep to the sides, please, let this lady through - you’re welcome darling, I meant, love! Luhv? Am I speaking Emmerdale?’ as he flashed a heart-melting grin at a shrivelled little lady passing on a zimmer frame. ‘All in twos please, like good little Handmaids! Why are you laughing, Luke? Yes Adam, you’ll get to use the lavvies in a minute, please don’t do it in the hedge. Here we go to the Haworth Parsonage, home of the Brontës!’
Natalia, gazing the other way at the distant lines of cottage roofs, and feeling herself warmly lifting like their chimney smoke after what Neill had just said to her, suddenly heard a ‘psssst’ over her shoulder:
‘You. Miss Unable’ - as she turned, biting her lip - ‘don’t dare pair off with Lestat,’ with a soft push between her shoulder blades: ‘You’ll go to the front and stay right by me, you hear?’17Please respect copyright.PENANAnLufGBrWek
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What happens at the Brontë Museum? Read the next chapter to find out!
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