My Secret Lover

because nobody’s arms could be that size just from working out.
    ‘He’s a boy!’ I say, laughing a bit
nervously. ‘And sometimes boys will be boys.’
    He joins in with the last three words
like a chorus.
    I was going to have a word about the
bullying, but I can’t bring myself to now. And the swearing’s much improved
since he’s been married.
    ‘And you’re not allowed to hit him!’
his dad growls.
    ‘No, of course not,’ I stammer.
    ‘I’m going to give you something,’
says his father, slamming his great hand down on the table so hard that the
pile of workbooks beside me jumps into the air.
    He rattles off a long number.
    He points at the notepad I have in
front of me.
    ‘Got that?’
    ‘Err, you couldn’t just repeat it?’
    This time, I write it down.
    ‘That is my mobile,’ says Robbie’s
dad. ‘If you’ve any trouble with him, any trouble at all, you call me and I’ll
be down to give him a hiding. I’m only working up the road.’
    ‘I’ll make sure his new teacher is
aware of that,’ I say.
    We stand. We shake hands. His grip is
enthusiastic, to say the least. He claps me on the back with his hand. I wonder
if it’s meant to be a friendly gesture, or a demonstration of the punishment.
    At the classroom door, he winks and
says, ‘Remember now!’
    I wave weakly.
     
    Only one more.
    Ethan’s father. His face appears
above the row of children’s self portraits that I’ve stuck on the half-glass
wall which separates classroom and corridor. Robbie’s dad shakes him by the
hand. I see the wince. Then the head of the dad from Hell floats off above the
smiling children’s faces, and Ethan’s dad appears in the doorframe. He’s
wearing white. White trousers, white shirt. The dad from Heaven.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘I didn’t have
time to change.’
    ‘Can take a lifetime,’ I say.
    Rather unprofessional I know, but
we’ve seen each other outside school.
    I wonder what it is he does. Perhaps
I’m going down the wrong route with the medical profession? He’s a little too
smooth. I’m wondering Minor Celebrity Chef, but don’t they normally wear
checked trousers?
    Odd, really, that I don’t know,
because Ethan’s one of the children who talks.
    He sits down.
    ‘Ethan’s a pleasure to have in the
class,’ I begin. ‘He’s got good communication skills, and he always plays his
full part in classroom discussions. He listens well and works hard. He’s
achieved the targets in maths we talked about last time. I think that was with
your wife—’
    ‘Ex-wife.’
    ‘Number bonds to ten are fine. He
needs to do a bit more work with money now
    ‘Don’t we all?’ says Ethan’s dad.
    He’s staring at my mouth as I speak.
It’s slightly disconcerting.
    ‘His writing’s coming along nicely.
He’s very imaginative.’
    I look up. He’s nodding his head,
taking it all in.
    ‘Actually, sometimes I wonder if he’s
a little too imaginative…'
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘I’m a bit concerned about him blurring
the line between fact and fiction... Perhaps to be expected when there’s been
some problems at home.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘It’s just that he’s so keen on owls.
I sometimes think that maybe he thinks he is an owl. He’s most insistent that
you can fly.’
    ‘Me?’ He laughs.
    ‘Yes!’ I laugh.
    ‘I can fly,’ says Ethan’s dad.
    Oh dear. Now I’m going to have to do
a report for the social services.
    ‘I wouldn’t be much use if I
couldn’t,’ he says, balancing on the back two legs of the chair.
    ‘Be careful you’re very likely to...’
    Too late. He’s over. Legs and arms in
the air like an upturned tortoise. He managed to get his elbows down before his
head, so probably no damage apart from the humiliation. I notice he’s narrowly
missed the spillage of Muller yoghurt that the dinner ladies should have wiped
up after lunch.
    He seems in no hurry to get up.
    ‘I haven’t got wings or anything like
that...’ he says, doing a little flappy demonstration with his hands. ‘Well,
only in a manner of speaking.’
    I’m hovering between pretending he’s
normal, and smashing the glass over the fire alarm button.
    ‘I am a pilot,’ he says. ‘Aren’t you
going to give me a hand up?’
     
    I’m actually not sure whether I fall
or he tugs me down on top of him.
     
    ‘I’ve been wanting to do this for
some time,’ he says, as his lips come closer to mine.
     
    ‘Everything all right, Lydia?’ asks Mrs Vane at