Life Back Home

Reading notes:

1. This is a work of pure fiction.

2. All characters in this story are aged eighteen or over, and all sexual activity is consensual.

3. Please consider using the scoring system, and leave a comment after reading. All authors appreciate feedback on their work. Thank you.

It was the first period of the afternoon session, traditionally the most difficult period of the school day. Lunch had been eaten and fatigue was just about settling in amongst the pupils, and some of the staff too.

Rhiannon Pritchard was not fatigued. In fact she was feeling particularly pleased with herself. She'd got her class settled down quickly, and now they were having a detailed and constructive discussion about the chapter of Camus' 'La Peste' that they had read in yesterday's A level French class.

The door to the classroom burst open, and Rhiannon shuddered.

"Sit down, class," drawled Rupert StJohn Howe, even though not one of the pupils had attempted to get up.

StJohn Howe looked at Rhiannon with contempt.

"Have you been a naughty girl, Blodwen?" he sniggered. "I think you must have! The Head Master wants to see you in his study. Now, Blodwen! Don't dawdle! I'll look after these little monsters for you. Go on! Off you toddle to face the music!"

Rhiannon didn't bother replying to his barbs. Ever since he'd tried to chat her up during her first week of term at the very exclusive, very expensive Archbishop Mooney's Accademy, some ten months ago, Rhiannon's skin had crawled whenever he was near her or she heard his upper class braying voice. The fact that she'd rebuffed his advances hadn't gone down well either. Now at every opportunity, StJohn Howe tried to embarrass or humiliate Rhiannon. He had taken to calling her Blodwen because, he said, he couldn't even begin to pronounce her ridiculous Welsh name, and anyway, wasn't every woman in Wales called Blodwen?

As she went out, Rhiannon heard her nemesis tell her class that Blodwen had been a naughty girl. "Probably been smoking behind the tennis courts," he sniggered. "Either that or kissing one of the teacher's assistants down behind the bike shed!"

Rhiannon almost turned round and faced him for that last remark. All the teacher's assistants were female, and so that, by implication, made Rhiannon a lesbian. StJohn Howe had implied that on many occasions in public, since Rhiannon had refused to go out with him. She hated him with a passion, and only put up with his vile slanders because she was new to the school, far away from home, and she really needed the job.

She repeated her mantra to herself as she walked down the corridor to the Head Master's study.

"They need you as much as you need them! They need you as much as you need them!"

Rhiannon was a good teacher. She knew that. She'd sold herself at the interview, when she'd applied for the job in the Modern European Language department of the school a year or so ago. She recalled the occasion as she walked down the corridor.

Sitting in front of an interview panel consisting of the Head Master, several school governors and a representative of the local authority, she had wowed them with her fluency in French, Spanish and German. When she mentioned that her first language was Welsh, there had been a smattering of laughter.

"Oh, I don't think we'll be needing that," remarked a horse faced woman of about fifty

five. "This is Surrey, my dear. We don't want any of that 'look you, boyo' talk in this school. And besides, it's a dying language."

"It most certainly is not!" Rhiannon had retorted, getting to her feet. "Thank you for the opportunity. I don't think this school is for me."

"Please, sit back down," said another of the governors, a swarthy man with thick black hair. He smiled apologetically at her.

"You must excuse my colleague," he continued, only this time in fluent Spanish. "She's a typical monoglot! She speaks slowly and loudly to foreigners who should know better and realise that anybody who is anybody simply must speak English! I should know. I'm originally from Barcelona!"

Rhiannon had sat back down.

"I was just explaining to Miss Pritchard that we really do need someone with her talent for language," the man explained to the rest of the panel in English. "She has a remarkable way with language. Having seen her CV, I presume it stems from the fact that her mother is Welsh whilst her late father was German. Am I correct, Miss Pritchard?"

Rhiannon had smiled gratefully at her saviour.

"Perfectly correct. I grew up speaking Welsh to mam, German to Dad, and we spoke English between the three of us."

"Incredible," breathed horse-face. "My apologies, my dear. You spoke three languages as a child?"

"I did," smiled Rhiannon, adding with a mischievous grin, "but English has always been my weakest tongue. There simply wasn't any call for it in our village."

"If your father was German, why are you called Pritchard?" asked one of the other school governors. "That sounds more Welsh than German."

"Mam and Dad had a deal," Rhiannon explained, not for the first time in her life. "They never actually married. If I'd been born a boy, I was going to be called Gunter Schmidt after dad's grandfather. I came out a girl (Rhiannon deliberately used the term 'came out') and was called Rhiannon after mam's mam. ap Risiart is my family name. I Anglicised it to Pritchard when I came to live in England."

"When I left primary school, I loved the fact that I could study other languages as well," she went on. "I took to French and Spanish easily, as they are from the same root as Welsh, and I already spoke German. All I've ever wanted to do was to share my love of language with the pupils that I teach."

That had been the clincher, and Rhiannon had been offered the job on the spot, at a salary that took her breath away. Now perhaps Monica, with whom Rhiannon was lodging and sleeping, would look at her in a different light.

Rhiannon knocked softly on Dr. Warren's door.

"Come!"

The barked instruction always made Rhiannon smile. She went into the opulent Head Master's study.

"You sent for me, Sir?" she said politely. Male members of staff were all addressed as 'Sir' at all times., the only exception being Dr. Warren, who allowed his staff to also address him as 'Head Master.'

Dr. Warren looked up at her and smiled sympathetically.

"Ah, Rhiannon, yes. Please sit down. The rule of how to address staff didn't stretch as far as to include the female members of staff. Not that there were many. Apart from Rhiannon, there was only Jill Smith, who taught Domestic Science and Anita Hodge, the Physical Education teacher for the girls at the school.

"My secretary has just taken a rather hysterical phone call," the Head Master began. "She found the person on the other end of the line rather difficult to understand. She was speaking a mixture of English and some sort of gibberish. Mrs. Harrison seemed to think that the person on the other end of the phone was Welsh. Whoever it was, she was almost unintelligible. Mrs. Harrison has made a note of the number that called. Would you be so kind as to ring them back and see what on earth they want from us?"

"With pleasure, Head Master," smiled Rhiannon, getting to her feet. "Shall I use the extension here, or would you prefer me to make the call from Mrs. Harrison's office?"

"Oh, use hers," Dr. Warren mumbled, waving his hand in dismissal. Rhiannon went out, closing the door quietly behind her, and walking swiftly down the corridor to the office of the school secretary.

"Come in," came the melodious tones of Mrs. Hilda Harrison, school secretary, surrogate mother-to-all, and girl Friday rolled into one. She smiled at Rhiannon, who felt her nipples harden as she wondered what it was about 'mature' women that gave her such a lovely feeling deep down in the pit of her stomach.

She recalled StJohn Howe's taunts. No, she hadn't been smoking behind the bike sheds. Rhiannon smoked at home, and only then when Monica was out. And no, she hadn't been kissing down at the tennis courts either, but if she ever came across Hilda down there, and the chance arose, she'd be all over her like a rash, and kisses would be the first of many things Rhiannon would love to share with the sweet, kindly school secretary.

"Oh, Rhiannon, thank goodness," beamed Hilda. "I'm sure you'll be able to help. I think someone from Wales just telephoned here. I couldn't understand a lot of what they were saying. Whoever it was, she sounded very excited. Here's the number, look. Can you give them a call back and see what they wanted?"

Rhiannon took the proffered piece of paper, ensuring that her fingers brushed up against Hilda's hand. The older woman merely smiled.

"Would you like me to leave?" she asked. "You can sit in my seat then."

"Stay where you are, Mrs. Harrison," replied Rhiannon. "I don't expect this will take too long. I'd even go so far as to say it's probably someone who dialled the wrong number!"

She looked at the piece of paper Hilda had handed her and her heart skipped a beat. The dialling code was for the area of the village where Rhiannon had once lived. With trembling hands, she dialled the number on the paper carefully.

There was a series of clicks, then silence, and then Rhiannon heard the sound of the ringing tone in her ear. The phone at the other end of the line only rang twice before the receiver was snatched up and a woman's voice said, "Hello?"

"Good afternoon," began Rhiannon in English. "To whom am I speaking, please?"

There was a long silence, and then Rhiannon heard,

"Rhiannon? Is that you? Gwenno Evans here." The woman had switched and was now speaking in Welsh.

"Gwenno? What in hell's name are you doing phoning me in school?" Rhiannon replied in the same language. "You could get me into a whole lot of trouble!"

"Never mind getting you into trouble, good girl! You caused enough of that when you left the village to go and live down there amongst the English. I've got some really bad news for you, I'm sorry."

"What sort of bad news?" Rhiannon asked flippantly. "Has the council voted to ban male voice choirs again?" (This was a reference to a scandal that had been reported in the local newspaper about fifteen years ago, when it was said that the town council had voted to stop the village male voice choir from travelling to a competition. The report was totally false, but it didn't stop people talking about it for years.)

"Don't be dense, Rhiannon. I thought you were a teacher? Aren't teachers meant to be clever?" came the stern reply. "This is serious. It's your mam I'm phoning about. She's been acting strange for ages. She was in the shop last week and when old Gethin Thomas asked for a pint of milk, she got her tits out and told him, "Sorry. We're out of milk. Come back tomorrow." Now that's not natural, is it?"

"No. it's not," replied Rhiannon. She was shocked. Her mother was so puritanical usually. Sex had never been mentioned at home, and nudity was as foreign to her as smoking and swearing.

"I'll give her a ring when I get home from school, " Rhiannon promised. "Thanks for letting me know, Gwenno. I'll speak to you soon," she lied.

Replacing the phone receiver, Rhiannon smiled at Hilda.

"Sorry about that," she said. "It was someone from home. My mam's had a funny turn. I might have to go back to Wales at some point"

"There's no 'might' about it!" said Hilda sternly. "If your mother is unwell, you must return home to see that she is being cared for properly. I'll inform the Head Master of your circumstances. Now, off you go back to class, and try not to worry too much. Everything will be alright, I'm sure. Arrangements can be made for this coming weekend."

Rhiannon's mind was in a whirl as she slowly made her way back to her classroom. What had Hilda meant when she'd mentioned 'arrangements' for the weekend? Also, Rhiannon hadn't spoken to her mother in over two years since 'the falling out.' Admitting to her mother that she was a lesbian when she had come home from University on holiday had been a mistake. And bringing Monica to meet her mother had definitely not been one of her wiser decisions either.

The door to her classroom was shut, and automatically Rhiannon knocked before entering. StJohn Howe was lolling in her chair with his feet up on her desk.

"Back so soon, Blodwen?" he drawled. "What did you get? Six of the best for smoking, or detention for being behind the bicycle sheds?"

"Thank you for looking after my class, Mr. Saint John Howe," smiled Rhiannon, ignoring his barbed comments and deliberately mis-pronouncing his name.

He glared at her. "It's pronounced Sin-Jun Howe," he growled. "Can't you get your stupid Welsh tongue around that?"

He got up and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

"What a dick!" said Imogen, who had a secret crush on Rhiannon. "Everybody knows your name is Rhiannon, not Blodwen, Miss Pritchard."

"Thank you, Imogen. Please remember that all members of staff are to be respected. Even dicks like Mr. StJohn Howe!"

The class laughed, and Rhiannon got ready to re-start her lesson.

"Rhiannon is such a pretty name, Miss," persisted Imogen. "I know it's Welsh, but what does it mean?"

Rhiannon sighed. She wasn't going to be able to get control back unless... unless... She had a sudden inspiration.

"It means 'She-who-must-be-obeyed-at-all-times-and-who-won't-give-the-class-homework-if-they-settle-down-and-do-some-work-now'," she said with a straight face.

Imogen giggled.

"Wow! Welsh must be an awesome language if one word can mean all that!" she said.

The rest of the lesson passed quickly and successfully, and Rhiannon kept her promise. No homework was allocated.

Rhiannon rushed home after school had finished.

"Mon? Are you home?" she called as she came in through the front door. There was no answer.As well as being a landlady, Monica was Head of Human Resources at the town's hospital. Since Covid, she sometimes worked from home, but recently she'd started going back into the hospital more regularly. Today was obviously one of those days.

Rhiannon hung her coat up in the front porch and took her shoes off as she was required to do before entering the house. Barefoot, she wandered into the kitchen, and put her slippers on.

"Tea," she thought to herself. "I'll make myself a cuppa before I phone mam."

Rhiannon carried her mug of tea into the front room and sat down. She reached for the telephone and dialled her mother's home number. As she listened to the ring tone, she sipped her tea and rehearsed what she was going to say to her mother after so many months of silence.

There was no answer, and even after nearly two minutes of ringing out, her mother's answerphone didn't kick in. Rhiannon replaced the receiver and went to get her school bag. Delving into the depths of the voluminous bag, she eventually came up with the piece of paper on which she'd scribbled Gwenno's number. Picking up the receiver again, she dialled the number.

"Hello. Gwenno speaking," said the familiar voice. Rhiannon identified herself, and asked if Gwenno knew what had happened to her mother.

"She should be in the shop at this time," Rhiannon said. "I rang the house number, but the extension should ring in the shop. There was no answer."

Silence... which seemed to go on for ever.

"Gwenno? Are you there?" Rhiannon asked.

More silence, and then Rhiannon heard Gwenno clear her throat.

"Hell fire, Rhiannon, when I phoned earlier I didn't know, honest."

"Didn't know what?" replied Rhiannon, feeling her heart beat increase.

"It's your mam," Gwenno replied. "Some children went into the shop after school this afternoon to buy sweets. They found her collapsed on the floor. She's been taken to hospital."

Gwenno talked for quite a while. She told Rhiannon how people felt when she had left. "They thought your mam was very unfair," she said. "Everyone in the village except your parents knew that you and Ffion were an item. When your mother went round to Ffion's parents house and accused them of producing a pervert, everyone was shocked. As you know, Ffion left home to go to University at the same time as you, and she's never come home. A bit like you, really, only you did bring that Monica here for a while. Your mother didn't like her either!"

"Mam never accepted that I'm a lesbian," Rhiannon managed to break into Gwenno's monologue. "That's why I applied for the job in Surrey. Monica transferred from her London post to one in a hospital near my school, and we've lived together ever since."

What Rhiannon didn't tell Gwenno was that Monica was a very different type of lesbian to Ffion. Monica was strict, and enjoyed being seen as a 'butch bitch'. Both Rhiannon, and her former girlfriend Ffion identified as lipstick lesbians. Rhiannon doubted if the very heterosexual Gwenno would understand the difference. She also kept the fact that she and Monica were going through a pretty rocky patch in their relationship, a secret.

"I'll ring the hospital now, and see how mam's doing," Rhiannon said. She thanked Gwenno again and hung up.

Twenty minutes later, Rhiannon replaced the receiver with a trembling hand. She'd eventually managed to track down the ward that her mother was on, and after proving that she was indeed Rachel-Ann Pritchard's daughter, she'd been informed that her mother was 'seriously ill, but comfortable'. The sister in charge of the ward had also informed Rhiannon that her mother was due to undergo tests for dementia as soon as the antibiotics had cleared up the pneumonia that Rachel-Ann was suffering from.

Rhiannon wandered into the kitchen and swilled her empty cup out under the kitchen sink tap. She left it on the draining board and walked slowly back into the front room, her mind in turmoil.

Forgetting all about the very precise house rules, she reached into her school bag and brought out her cigar case. She lit up and sucked the creamy smoke down into her lungs and held it for a few seconds before exhaling. She was still smoking twenty minutes later when she heard the front door open, and Monica's voice echoed from the front door.

"Rhiannon? You've parked in the middle of the garage again! I can't get my car in now. How many bloody times must I tell you? Park tight to the left hand wall! Bloody hell! For a teacher, you seem to be remarkably dense!"

Rhiannon looked up as Monica came into the front room, sniffing suspiciously.

"What the...?" she screeched. "You're smoking! In my house! In the bloody front room, for goodness' sake! What the hell's the matter with you? Have you lost your mind?"

"No, that's mam," replied Rhiannon, and two fat tears ran down her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Mon. I've had some bad news. Mam's been taken into hospital. She's seriously ill."

"Since when have you started worrying about her?" sneered Monica. "Not only did she kick you out of the family home, she was exceedingly rude to me when I visited you. I'm sorry that she's unwell, but it doesn't change the fact that she's a homophobic woman, who can't get her head around the fact that her daughter's a lesbian!"

All what Monica had said was true, Rhiannon knew. But it didn't change the fact that her mother was ill, and blood was thicker than water, she told herself. Wordlessly, Rhiannon got up and went out to move her car. When she came back into the house, Monica was spraying some air freshener in the front room, to try and mask the smell of Rhiannon's cigar.

The rest of the evening passed in uncomfortable silence, and Rhiannon went to bed early. When Monica eventually came up, Rhiannon pretended to be asleep, although in reality, it was the early hours of the morning before she eventually dropped off.

Rhiannon went down for breakfast the next morning to find a note from Monica on the kitchen table. She read the words mechanically, her lips moving as if she was someone who was still struggling to master the art of reading.