The Other Child Read Free

Daddy’s youth, which would have been in the fifties or early sixties. She wanted to please him, and probably he was not keen on mini-skirts, conspicuous make-up or short hair. The signals she gave out were completely asexual.
    Well, she hardly wants her old man in her bed, he thought.
    He was very attuned to people’s moods and could sense that she was wracking her brains for a way to change the topic, so he helped her out.
    â€˜By the way, I teach at Friarage School,’ he said. ‘But not the kids. The school lets its rooms be used in the evenings and some afternoons for adult education. I teach French and Spanish, and that just about keeps the wolf from the door.’
    â€˜Do you speak those languages well?’
    â€˜As a child I lived in Spain and France for a long time. My father was a diplomat.’ He knew that his voice did not show any warmth when he mentioned his father. Instead he had to take care not to show too much hate. ‘But let me tell you, it’s no fun to have to teach a group of totally untalented housewives a language whose sound and expressiveness you love, and whose complete mangling you have to bear three or four evenings a week.’
    He laughed in embarrassment as he realised he might have committed a faux pas . ‘I’m sorry. You might be taking one of the language courses. Have I just offended you? There are three other language teachers giving classes.’
    She shook her head. Although the wall of rain outside meant that it was rather dark in the car, he could see that she was blushing.
    â€˜No,’ she said, ‘I’m not taking part in a language course. I …’
    She was not looking at him, but was staring out of the window. They had reached the road that led north out of Scarborough. Supermarkets and rows of terraced houses flew past outside, garages and dismal pubs, a mobile-home park, which looked like it was sinking in the floods.
    â€˜I’d read in the paper,’ she said quietly, ‘that in Friarage School … Well, on Wednesday afternoons there’s a course, which … for the next three months …’ She hesitated.
    In a flash he understood what she was talking about. He did not understand why it had not been clear to him at once. After all, he taught there. He knew about the new course. Wednesdays. From half-three to half-five. Starting today. And Gwendolyn Beckett was just the kind of person who would attend.
    â€˜Oh, I know,’ he said, and made an effort to sound casual about it. As if it were the most normal thing in the world to attend a course for … yes, for whom? Failures? Dead losses? Losers? ‘Isn’t it a kind of … assertiveness training?’
    Now he could not see her face at all. She had turned to the window. He guessed that she had gone bright red.
    â€˜Yes,’ she answered quietly. ‘That’s it. You’re supposed to learn to conquer your shyness. To approach other people. To control your … fears.’ Now she turned towards him. ‘That must sound like a load of rubbish to you.’
    â€˜Not at all,’ he assured her. ‘When you think you have a weakness, you have to face it. That makes a lot more sense than just sitting around and not doing anything but complaining. Don’t worry. Just try to make the most of the course.’
    â€˜Yes,’ she said, sounding despondent. ‘I will. You know … it’s not as if I was particularly happy with my life.’
    She turned to the window again, and he did not dare enquire further.
    Neither said anything.
    The rain eased up a little.
    As they turned off in the middle of Cloughton towards Staintondale, a gap appeared in the clouds and the evening sun burst through.
    He suddenly had a tingling of excitement; a certain alertness. It was a feeling that something new was about to happen to him. It might have to do with this woman sitting next to him.
    It could also be something else