There's a magic in the way that women concentrate, closing out the noise around them, delicate and determined at the same time. Alex was no different, tapping the end of her red biro against her teeth then crossing through a mistake with a swift slash. She was able to shut out the sound of Mike and Dennis discussing football across the common room. They were displaying their ignorance, typical PE teachers, but they were harmless, good family men. I could forgive them, even though they were distracting me and begging to be set straight.
I looked back at Alex, shyly drinking her in. She was a supply teacher, here for a term to fill in for John Harding whilst he recuperated from shoulder surgery. And wasn't she a picture? Long legs, long auburn hair, delicate fingers, another woman who I had failed to seduce, not able to get beyond a polite hello in passing. And today was the last day, summer holidays were upon us; six weeks for the kids, more like two weeks for us teachers given the paperwork and departmental course conferences we had to attend in preparation for the next academic year. Alex would be gone, though, and I felt a little wistful. I could go and talk to her now but I knew that I wouldn't.
I bent my head down over the essays I was marking, marveling at how little my pupils had absorbed, all except for Mark Hemming. He was a sponge, and I'd already written a university reference for him. I could see him as one of the next generation of history teachers, though I wasn't certain that we needed any more. Disillusion is a killer in my job and claims more victims than anything else. I knew I was feeling it too.
I glanced up as Alex left the common room, a swish of skirt and she was gone, out of my life forever; a fantasy for the lonely nights and nothing more. I think I may have sighed out loud before I forced myself back to my marking. Two more hours and I would have a little space to do the serious thinking I knew I needed.
I drove over to my dad's once the school day was over, stopping at a Jamaican bakery in Electric Avenue to pick up a couple of patties. I couldn't stand them myself but dad loved them, a testament to my mum's influence. Then I drove through Camberwell and past Loughborough Junction, down into Dulwich and my dad's small house. He wheeled himself to the door and opened it, looking at me with his usual hint of pride and roguery.
I cooked up some rice and heated up the curried mutton I'd prepared the night before and left in the fridge to marinate. Dad loved Caribbean food, a legacy of thirty-five years with mum. They'd met when he was seconded from London to the Jamaican police and it had been love at first sight. Of course, back then it had been difficult for a white Englishman to marry a black woman, but he hadn't cared and as soon as his attachment was finished he'd brought her back to rainy London. They'd weathered the racism, held together by a deep passion until she died three years ago, a real lady until the end. And she'd made him more Jamaican than English in many ways; except for football, of course.
We settled down and watched a World Cup group game. It was a dead rubber, both teams had failed to qualify for the next stage and they were merely playing for pride. Casting off the shackles they played with abandoned attacking verve. My dad watched, eyes dancing at the audacity of the play, dissecting every move, analyzing formations and off the ball runs like a pro. Such a contrast to Dennis and Mike. I enjoyed it too, loving the purity of the game; 22 men in a defined area with a defined purpose, and a myriad of ways to achieve it.
I left in the early evening, dad accompanying me to the door as he always did, the lord of his house regardless of the wheelchair. I was halfway through the door when he stopped me.
"You're really not going to go anywhere?" he said, disbelieving.
"Nope, you need me so you've got me. All summer. We'll watch the football and you can tell me what they're doing wrong."
I could see dad was torn; he wanted me to do something or go somewhere, but equally he loved having me around.
"Well, then," he said, "you can take me to the pensioners club on Monday. After hanging around with us pensioners for a day you'll be on a budget flight to Crete. I would be."
He loved that club. It gave him the opportunity to be cock-of-the-walk again. They all knew that he'd been awarded the Queens Police Medal even though he never made a deal about it, and the old ladies were always fussing around him. I did mention that he is a bit of a rogue, didn't I?
I didn't mind. I wasn't going to be doing anything else, and the old folks were always interesting. I always heard a new tale or two, and a lot of them helped me in my teaching. I heard stories of rationing and bombing, jazz clubs and the cinema, and it was clear to me just how much more social they used to be back then. There was no TV or internet, so if they wanted human contact they actually went out and met people. How different we are now, wrapping ourselves in cotton wool to keep out the world.
***
I dealt with as much paperwork as I could over the weekend and picked up dad on Monday morning, driving him to the club whilst he moaned incessantly about the terrible England performance; they lacked style, ideas and solidity. The last things I would have said about dad.
I settled him in the day room, carrying his bag as he wheeled himself up to his spot at one of the tables where his cronies were waiting. I held his bag out for him as he reached in and pulled out his box of dominos then froze. Walking in through the double doors to the day room was Alex, helping an elderly lady who was walking slowly with a stick. I wasn't breathing as I looked at her smiling and caring for the elderly lady.
The day room was full to bursting and I realized that the only free seat was at dad's table. Alex looked around and spotted the free space but not me, then guided the lady to the seat. I suddenly felt dad's elbow in my thigh.
"Who's this lovely girl, then?" he chuckled, and it took me a second to realize that he meant the lady Alex was escorting rather than Alex herself. Alex looked across at dad when she heard him and it was only then that she noticed me.
"Wow, hi Roland," she managed once she'd got over the shock. I didn't get over the shock, afraid that I'd stutter, and noticing that all four of the old folks around the table, my own father included, were giving me the biggest leer imaginable.
After what felt like an age I cleared my throat and remembered my manners (painfully learnt from my mother; Jamaican women of a certain era are absolute sticklers for manners).
"Hi Alex," I managed, "you quite surprised me."
"And who's your friend?" I should have known dad would butt in.
"My name's Florence, though you haven't introduced yourself so I see no reason why I should volunteer any more information about myself until I have the name of the gentleman with whom I am conversing. Now, are we playing dominos or should I ask my grand-daughter to escort me to a more suitable location?"
I fell in love with Florence one hundred percent at that moment. It was all said with a smile, and as she finished she reached across and started to spread out the dominos. My dad's jaw was down somewhere near his knees and it had been beautifully done. Florence may have been eighty, but she was going on eighteen.
I tried not to laugh and held it in for about two seconds before I cracked. After that I had to sit on the floor and even dad was chuckling, looking at Florence with respect for a new, formidable opponent. The rest of the room fell silent, staring at the lunatics in the corner. I looked up through my tears and saw Alex biting her hand to suppress her hoots of laughter, and then Florence set the seal on it.
"One is most gratified to be amongst you," she said to the room in general, imitating the Queen all the way to the regal wave. Alex collapsed, silently guffawing with her back to the wall, and I was on my back, tears streaming down my face. Dad nearly fell out of his chair, slumping on the arm and gasping for breath. I finally hauled myself to my feet and for a horrible moment I thought dad's regular playing partner Reg had had an apoplexy. But it was laughter, still, so I turned and offered Alex my hand. Instead of taking my hand she put her hand around my forearm and helped herself up, smoothing her hair as she stood for a moment. Florence looked up at her and winked and Alex was gone again, wheeling away and walking over to the bay window with her hand in her mouth.
I had so many questions to ask that I had to follow. Alex swallowed her laughter down and we looked back at Florence.
"She's... irrepressible," was all I could say.
"Isn't she? And is that your grandfather?"
"No, my dad, Martin."
"Well he's a bit of charmer, isn't he? I'd tell Flo to beware but I'm afraid she'd just eat him alive."
Florence was already holding court, my dad the lead courtier, weaving a youthful charm around the room. I smiled and looked over at them all, a wish in my heart that at their age I would have as much fun.
"Seriously, though," said Alex, "men like Florence and she likes men. Just don't let them play poker with her."
