Teach Me Dirty

“George! What did you say to her? What did you do?” She headed towards me and I turned from her, trying to blink the stupid tears away. “Take no notice of him, he’s like a bull in a china shop, getting all carried away.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Dad said. “There’s something not right about that bloody teacher, Angela. He was shifty.”

I felt Mum’s hand on my shoulder and heard the tut of disdain. “Don’t start, George. You think everyone’s shifty.”

That made me laugh, and it came out weird, like a choked little blub.

“Mock all you like, Angela, but I’m telling you now. That man was shifty.”

“Yes, George, I’m sure he was.” She turned me around by my shoulders. “Your dad’s just got himself all worked up, as usual. I told him you were just late.”

“We were painting,” I said in a stupid croaky voice. “I didn’t mean to be late.”

“I know, love. Forget about it now. Your dinner’s in the oven.”

“She isn’t going to be cavorting around with him on her own again, Angela. I don’t trust him.”

She shot him the evil eye. “I told you not to start, George. He’s her teacher, for God’s sake.”

“I don’t give a shit who he is, I know a letch when I see one.”

Katie poked her head around the door. “Helen and Mr Roberts, sitting in a tree. K.I.S.S.I.N.G! Ewww!” She giggled and poked her tongue out. I could have slapped her.

“Out!” Dad yelled, and Katie vanished upstairs.

Mum rolled her eyes and took my dinner from the oven. Business as usual, even though my chest ached and my knees were shaking and I felt like the world was ending. I forced down some lamb stew, and it felt like I was chewing bricks and gristle. Mum was smiling, trying to lighten the mood.

“How was the painting?” She looked at Dad. “Did you see Helen’s paintings, George? Were they good?”

“He didn’t notice,” I said. “He was too busy being angry.”

“I saw them!” he protested. “They were good, yeah.”

I landed him a look over my shoulder. “What were they, then? Tell me about one.”

He surprised me. “Stars and mountains and the desert and all that. It looked good.” He sighed. “You’ll understand one day, I’m just doing this for your own good. The world’s a seedy place, Helen, you just don’t see it. Even this town’s going to the dogs, it’s not like it used to be.”

“Mr Roberts isn’t seedy, Dad. He’s a really good person.”

Mum fetched me a juice, set it down on the table and ruffled my hair. “I’m sure he is, love, your dad’s just worried about you. That’s it, isn’t it, George?”

I heard him groan. “Nobody ever listens to me. Try to look out for people and nobody ever appreciates it.” He grabbed a beer from the fridge and left for the other room, and Mum smiled at me.

“It’s all alright, love. Just forget about it now. He’ll calm down.”

I managed a smile but my heart was racing. “Please don’t let him stop me seeing Mr Roberts… it’ll ruin everything, all my art… everything…” The thought made me well up again, and she took my hand across the table.

“You leave your dad to me,” she said.

***

Mark

I’d dug myself a crater so big I couldn’t climb back out of it, and it was horrible at the bottom. I felt like a terrible person and the most vile excuse for a professional. Helen’s father’s eyes had spoken volumes; I was a letch, a pervert, messing around with a vulnerable young girl I should be trying to nurture and take care of.

I’d broken a moral code that ran through my profession, and my very soul. And I’d hurt her. I’d hurt her in a way that made me feel sick to my stomach.

A virgin. I should have known. But I hadn’t known.

I wasn’t sure which was worse — taking aside the moral implication and the ethics I’d committed to as a teacher — getting involved with a girl half my age and taking her innocence, corrupting her before she’d even had chance to grow up for herself, or leading her on and then casting her aside in the name of decency?

I poured myself another glass of wine and stared at my phone. Her dad had seen straight through me, bristling in recognition of my intentions towards his daughter. His teenage virgin daughter.

Christ, I was in the shit up to my neck. But I was more worried about Helen.

Poor sweet Helen and her horror when I’d pulled away.

Sending her a message would be risky, but I took a long slug of wine, then did it anyway.

Are you ok?

Officially the most lame excuse for a text message in the history of mankind.

Helen: Not really.

I’m so sorry.

Another lame excuse for a message.

Helen: I don’t want you to be sorry.