“I thought I should at least have a say in what flat he buys,” she’d said. “And you know, ‘if the mountain won’t come to Mohammed . . .’”
“That seems like a good solution,” Lucy had said. She was all for optimism.
After she and Diana had sorted through the old art supplies, Lucy had spent a happy hour in the art shop in Whitehaven, filling in the gaps in the school’s cupboard. It had felt surprisingly familiar, almost like coming home, to touch the crisp, thick pages of a sketchbook and run her thumb along the waxy edge of a pastel. She hadn’t thought she’d missed art, but standing in the middle of the shop, she knew she had. She just hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself.
And now she was here, with a neatly typed lesson plan, sheets of pristine white paper on the table in front of every chair, and plastic tubs of oil pastel crayons placed every few seats.
She picked up a red pastel and tossed it from hand to hand. She felt so unprepared for today, and yet also so desperate to prove herself—not just to her pupils or Alex or even the whole village, but to herself.
And to her mother.
Too bad her mother didn’t even know she was teaching an art class, hadn’t spoken to her in nearly two months now. And even if she did know? Lucy could imagine Fiona’s response.Well, of course such mediocre talent would find its home in teaching art to primary school pupils. What do they do but scribble?A small, teasing smile.You know what they say. Those who can, do. Those who can’t . . .
Never mind that her mother lectured at a university. She’d already proven her artistic talent many times over, from the time she’d won an emerging artist award before Lucy was born, to the phallic sculptures that could be seen in several prominent museums around the world.
It was stupid to be arguing as if her mother were here, or even cared. Pathetic to let her mother influence her decisions and plague her with self-doubt from thousand of miles away. In the five weeks since Lucy had come to England, Fiona hadn’t called or e-mailed even once.
And yet Lucy could still hear her mother’s voice in her head.
Now she heard the sound of boisterous voices coming down the hall, and she tossed the pastel back in the tub as her stomach plunged with nerves. They were coming. And they sounded like a hoard of wild animals.
A few seconds later twenty-four rowdy Year Sixes trooped in, hot and disheveled from recess. Lucy could tell the troublesome ones straight off: a gaggle of girls who hung by the door, giggling behind their hands and shooting her scornfully speculative looks. Two boys, clearly the coolest in the class, sprawled, legs open wide, in the chairs. One of them grabbed a pastel and sent it flying across the room, a bright-colored missile that bounced harmlessly off the wall. The other kids noticed, and they watched Lucy, waiting for her reaction.
“Everyone, sit down, please,” she called out, her voice coming out in a croak. She retrieved the pastel from the floor and returned it to its tub with a pointed look for the boy who had thrown it. Not the most effective discipline, but it was all she was capable of at the moment.
The children took their seats more or less obediently, and Lucy stood there, a tense smile on her face, every inspiring word she’d practiced vanishing from her head.
She heard someone whisper; then a titter came from the far side of the room. Children, she decided, were devils.
She looked up, and her panicked gaze rested on the figure standing behind the door to the room. Through the single narrow pane of glass she could see Alex smile at her, and then give her a thumbs-up.
Relief flooded through her, a cold, sweet rush. Someone, at least, thought she could do this. Or maybe Alex just didn’t want a riot on his hands.
“All right, everyone pick up a pastel,” she said loudly, clapping her hands. “Only one, thank you,” she added as the boy who had thrown the crayon earlier reached for a handful. She plucked them from his hands and deposited them back in the tub. “This is not archery class,” she told him, and someone giggled. Lucy felt a surge of confidence and even elation.
“Now I want you to draw a line on your paper. It can be any line, in any color: wavy, curvy, straight, diagonal. You choose. But only one.”
The children looked at her, nonplussed for a moment, and Lucy raised her eyebrows in expectation. “Well?” she asked. “What are you waiting for?” And she only just kept from sagging in relief as they all started to draw.
Forty minutes later twenty-four children trooped out of the resource room, and Lucy let out a shuddery sigh as she sank into a chair.
“How did it go?” She looked up to see Liz smiling at her from the doorway.
“Okay, I think. I wasn’t too much of a disaster, I hope.”
“I think you most likely weren’t a disaster at all,” Liz answered. “Did Simon and Rupert give you any trouble?”
The two too-cool-for-school boys who had lounged in their chairs. She’d kept a beady eye trained on them all lesson, overlooking the minor misdemeanors and, at one point, confiscating a spitball.
“A little,” she admitted, and Liz nodded knowingly.
“They’re a handful, those two.”
“Yes, I think they are.” Lucy remembered her moment of paralysis when they’d come into the classroom, all cocky indifference, and suppressed another shudder. “They also hadme almost falling apart before the lesson even began. I don’t think I could ever be a real teacher.”
“But you are a real teacher,” Liz reminded her. “You just taught a lesson.”
“Yes, but—”
