‘OK. It’s a date. Of sorts. So you aren’t angry with me?’
‘Oh, this is one of my favourite teacher lines. I’m not angry with you, Stuart, I’m just a bit disappointed.’
He laughed loud and long, squeezing me tight.
‘I’d love to do detention with you,’ he said. ‘Who knows? Perhaps one day.’
He tapped my shoulder, then extricated himself.
‘I really have to go. Forgive me for taking advantage of you.’
‘You didn’t take advantage of me. I wanted to do this – I’ve always wanted to do it – and now I know how it feels.’
‘Good.’ He stood, looking around for his coat. ‘Well, thank you, Cherry. You’ve made my last night of shore leave very memorable indeed.’
‘De nada,’ I said, awkward now. How does one wrap up a session of this nature? Is there a formal etiquette?
He put on his coat and then pulled my nearly-nude body to his, imprisoning my head between his hands for a long, luscious kiss.
‘You’re gorgeous and you deserve better,’ he whispered. ‘But I’ll be at Gunwharf Quays in two years, if some other lucky bastard hasn’t snagged you by then. In the meantime, get out there and get spanked.’
I giggled, but the giggle wanted quite badly to mutate into something embarrassing and tearful.
‘I’ll try.’
‘See that you do. Or I’ll have to come back and spank you myself.’
‘That would be awful.’
‘Hmm. Goodbye, then.’
‘Take care. Don’t get sunk. Don’t get scurvy. Pack plenty of limes.’
‘I rarely have to treat scurvy these days, but I’ll bear it in mind.’
‘Watch out for pirates.’
‘I will. And now I really must go.’
And he really did go.
Chapter Two
I WENT DOWN to Spice Island the next day and watched Stuart’s ship sail, kicking myself for my pathetic sentimentality. The crew were lined up on deck, waving back to their families at the dockyard. I wondered if Stuart had anyone to wave to. I couldn’t make him out amidst all the uniformed men and women, though I squinted hard enough to send me cross-eyed. Off he went, past the Isle of Wight and away to hotter, more dangerous climes. Would he come back? I waited for the hulk of greyness to disappear, along with the onlookers, and went home to plan my first week’s lessons.
Two days later, I was back at work. We were to be eased in gently with a teacher training day, so the usual crowd of scuffling, high-fiving kids was nowhere in evidence as I cycled through the high-rise canyons and into the school grounds.
After locking – or rather, double-locking, given the area the school is in – my bike, I turned around and ran slap-bang into exactly the person I had most hoped to avoid.
‘Oh, Gareth,’ I flustered, picking up my bag and the Biros that had spilled out on to the playground. ‘Have good holidays?’
‘No,’ he said, in his hurt voice, the one that reminded me of a plaintive buffalo. ‘I had a lot on my mind.’
‘Oh well. Good weather though. I expect you played lots of cricket.’
‘It was only the cricket keeping me sane.’
‘Cricket therapy, eh? The crack of leather on willow.’ I had to stop. Leather. Willow. Mmmm. Leather.