Blood is Thicker than Ink
Welcome to the Advent Calendar Story Train, where you can read through 24 stories under the theme Surprise.
Jane sits at her desk at the front of the class. Following the expected high spirits before the Christmas holidays the class has now settled down and she can concentrate on marking their homework. She takes a moment to listen to the sleet lightly slap the window.
On her desk is a piece of A4 paper, its lines filled with neat, slanted writing in black ink, and the effect makes her tilt her head a little. In her hand is a red pen; and she doesn’t know where to start. She’s afraid to take her pen to the page, to leave ragged red scars and ruining the beauty of the writing.
But beauty is only skin deep, she thinks. It’s the content that counts.
Still her pen remains suspended over the page, as if defying her. She can’t understand where the problem lies; after all, everyone else had had little problem with the homework. At (almost, she tells herself) 16 years of age, the girl, Christine, should be more than capable of writing chapter summaries for The Grapes of Wrath. Spelling mistakes abounded and she still had problems with basic grammar. Jane thought back to her own childhood, how her mother had transmitted her love of English to her. A mother’s love. Even after what had happened, her mother’s love had remained constant. How she missed her mother. Jane sighs, then brings the red pen to bear.
The red pen stops its Bic blitzkrieg, and Jane thinks back to that chat with Christine earlier that term, just the two of them, and just after Jane had arrived at the school (There was only ever this school, she tells herself); teacher and student discussing the latter’s plans after leaving school.
‘I wanna be a journalist,’ the girl had said.
Jane is a great believer in optimism but concedes a limit must exist. The girl wanted to study journalism yet she could hardly construct a paragraph that didn’t require red biro butchery. She wouldn’t even get on one of the tabloids.
Jane had been digging that day and the chat had revealed more than anticipated. Christine was having a hard time of it at home. Being the eldest child, responsibility fell on her shoulders and she had to take care of the children while she should have been studying but her mother, (Mother!), was out and about and up to who knew what.
Looking down at the page, Jane too feels the weight of responsibility and wonders what she can do to help. A Christmas miracle, maybe, she thinks before making another note in the margin on the use of the apostrophe. Christine, we really need to look at the work you’re producing and how we can… improve it. There, that was tactful. Improve it.
Christina sits and writes, ignoring the class and the weather outside. She hates Christmas; why had she been born on Christmas Day? She couldn’t think of a worse day for a birthday.
The slap of sleet has given way to the patter of large snowflakes and the class, with their low ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ is now distracted. So is Jane. The only head that isn’t turned to the window is Christine’s, which is still down as she continues to write, which she does until the bell goes. Everyone is off their feet, with cries of “Happy Christmas, Miss” and out the door by the time Christine stops writing. Jane waits.
‘Christine, can I just have a moment, please?’
Jane walks over and closes the door. She comes back and sits on the desk in front of Christine and takes a deep breath.
‘Look, when you come back in January you’ll be in your last term before your exams.’ She hands Christine the homework and lets her read her comments. ‘If you can’t get these basics right, you’ll…’ “Fail” was too strong a word. ‘You’ll struggle in the exam. This is the one subject you need to have in the bag if you want to go on to study journalism, Christine.’
Christine looks up from the wave of red scrawl.
‘I will study journalism. I have to. I can’t fail. I won’t fail.’ Her shoulders sag and her head drops and rests on her upturned hands, elbows on the desk for support. She chokes back a sob. ‘I just can’t find the time to study.’
Jane wants to reach out and offer comfort. She needs to be practical.
‘So, let me help you find the time to study. Let’s say two hours a week.’
Christine’s head, still down, shakes a little.
‘I can’t. When I don’t have to look after the kids I work at the café twice a week. I can’t even afford to lose the pittance they pay.’
‘I know,’ says Jane, and Christine looks up, frowning. She opens her mouth, but Jane holds up her hand. ‘How much do they pay you?’
Christine’s eyes widen.
‘How much?’
Stung by the question’s directness Christine drops her stare. ‘Six quid an hour, four hours a week. Why? What’s it got to do with…’
Jane’s hand goes up again.
‘I’ll cover it. We’re more alike than you think. I too can’t fail. I won’t fail and you will pass this exam.’
‘But why would you do something like this for me? Why would anyone look out more me like that?’
It’s now or never, thinks Jane and her hand reaches across the table. At first Christine’s hand is reluctant but then surrenders.
A mother’s love. Her mother’s love. Memories come flooding back. The affair, his arrest, the sacking, his career lying in tatters. Jane the 15-year-old, pregnant by her English teacher, forgiven by her mother and finally giving birth on the day her classmates were at home unwrapping their presents. A mother’s love.
‘On Christmas Day, it’ll be 16 years that I’ve been looking out for you.
The end
Thank you for reading today’s story. The next one will be available to read on December 17th, titled “A Disappointing Surprise“. This link will be active tomorrow when the post goes live.
If you missed yesterday’s you can go and read it here.
