Influence (8 page)

‘Good, I
thought I wouldn’t get a chance to fill you in Liz,’ said Robe with a serious
look and lowered voice.

‘What do
you mean?’ Lizzie whispered back.

‘The
stepdaughter, Malene. She’s in league with Varin,’ Lizzie gave him a blank
look. ‘The evil dragon riding mage? Well they’re in it together. We will
retrieve the crystal only to be betrayed at the last minute at the citadel. The
real goal of the mage and his stepdaughter is to seize Dryonas’ throne.’

‘Robe, you
sneaky little thing, have you been looking in your brother’s books?’ she said
smiling.

‘No, of
course not, and I resent the accusation. It’s just that he’s… predictable.
Don’t get me wrong, my brother is entertaining, but he’s not terribly original.
I’ve played a few scenarios with him based on this theme and it’s been the same
thing each time with only subtle variations on narrative. Don’t let on you
know, just when it comes to the part in the citadel be on your guard.’

‘Um, sure
I’ll be ready I guess.’ With Vic out of the room they were in new territory.
Lizzie couldn’t recall ever being alone with Robe and an awkward silence soon
fell over them, awkward at least for Lizzie, the uncomfortable situation seemed
to be lost on Robe who again picked up his rule book, the rudeness of his
actions oblivious to him.

‘So, your
parents; they seem nice,’ said Lizzie grasping at anything to break the
silence.

‘Do they?’
said Robe, closing his book.

‘Sure. What
do they do?’

‘You mean
their occupations?’ Robe raised his eyes to the ceiling in consideration, as if
having never before been asked that question. ‘Mother does nothing, never has
done, Grandma’s money means she’s never been required to. She has some
psychological issues which makes working an unlikely venture for her. She
forgets things, and is prone to long mental black spots. Father is… a
playwright
,’
this he framed with exaggerated finger quotations. ‘I believe he was involved
in a semi-successful production in the early eighties but these days all he seems
to produce, locked away in his office day after day, is empty bottles of vodka
by the plastic bag full,’ he said without a hint of shame. Lizzie was stunned
by his candidness and wasn’t sure what to say in response.

‘I’m
sorry’, she decided on.

‘Why?’ said
Robe with genuine unknowing.

‘I mean it
must be hard on you guys.’ Robe shrugged in a what you gonna do gesture.

‘We deal
with it,’ he said. ‘When she’s at a low ebb I tend to take care of financial
matters, bills, school fees that sort of thing. And Vic does the house chores.’
Lizzie suddenly remembered the envelope stuffed with cash she saw in his bag.
She didn’t want to say sorry again, and couldn’t think of anything else to say
so they sat in silence for a few minutes until Vic returned carrying a small
stereo. He plugged it in and retrieved a tape from a pile in the corner of the
room. Classical music, badly recorded, dramatically filled the room. Some up
tempo number by a long dead composer Lizzie had probably never heard of.

On the way
home Lizzie had to concede to herself that she had enjoyed the evening. The
role-playing she could take or leave but to spend some time in the company of
people her own age had been nice. The boys had seemed to love the chance to
involve someone new in their game too. Vic had kept his flirting to a minimum
and she had even caught Robe laughing from time to time. The only sour note had
been on her way out of the house. She had passed by, what must have been, their
Father’s office and heard him in there. At first she thought he was arguing
with someone on the phone but then realised that it was a drunken rant with
either himself or some apparition in his intoxicated head. Vic had shown her
out and had, this time, looked a little embarrassed, keeping his voice low. Lizzie
could only imagine what might happen if they had caught his attention. Vic had
hugged her at the door; Lizzie had returned the hug, patting him on the back in
what she hoped felt like a platonic gesture.

Vic plagued
Lizzie with questions on their way into school, desperate to know whether she
had enjoyed the role-playing. She admitted that she had been pleasantly
surprised and that she was particularly impressed with how creative he could
be. ‘How come you’re not that creative in English class? I mean you had that
whole story prepared and you must also have been improvising a bit too
depending on what me and Robe did at any time,’ she asked him.

It was
Thursday morning which meant Robe had no classes before lunch and left Vic with
Lizzie all to himself, however whenever Lizzie was alone with him he seemed
petrified, as if his brother was the source of his courage. The silly flirting
gave way to awkwardness and a tendency to talk relentlessly to fill every moment
blocking any chance of a lull.

‘That stuff
is easy, you don’t have to worry about grammar or structure or even whether
anyone else will like it because once you start playing you can just change it
round if it isn’t working,’ Vic was on course in English to achieve the lofty
heights of a B at best, according to the prelims, which is why an evening
filled with Vic’s own compelling, if a little cheesy, creative writing had come
as something of a surprise. ‘It was good fun last night, you know Lizzie, you’re
not like other girls I know,’ he said as they turned off the road into the
school grounds.

‘Yeah? What
other girls do you know?’ Vic wanted to respond but he had nothing, Lizzie’s
sour joke lingered in the air. ‘I’m sorry Vic, what I mean is thanks, I had a
good time too, really. Normally magic and dragons and all that aren’t my thing
but you did good Vic. What’s Robe doing with his morning off?’ she said moving
the conversation on.

‘He was
still in bed when I left, which is a bit weird normally he’s first one up, I
guess we just played too late last night. You guys have philosophy this
afternoon though right?’ asked Vic playfully kicking a pine cone along the long
driveway into school before a wayward strike sent it off under a bush.

‘Yeah, last
class before exams start, kinda scary. Are you all set for finals?’ asked
Lizzie.

‘As I’ll
ever be.’ Vic shrugged, his hands thrust into his pockets. ‘I dunno, I guess
there’s not that much pressure on me, I haven’t even decided if I want to go to
uni next year. Everyone’s so focussed waiting to see how amazingly Rob does
that I just sort of glide under the radar.’

‘If not uni
then what?’ Lizzie was a little taken aback by this, and she wasn’t sure why
they hadn’t discussed it before, although she suspected he didn’t want his
brother knowing.

‘I’m not
sure, get a job, get out the house.’ This, at least, made sense to Lizzie. As
unconventional as her own life had become since her mother’s death she could
not picture living in the Adams household, it made her shiver just to imagine it.

The
classroom clamoured with a dozen different conversations, Lizzie and Vic took
their places at the back row of the class.

‘Alright,
settle down,’ announced Miss Abrahams tapping her pen on the desk. Order settled
and Miss Abrahams continued, ‘If you haven’t yet handed in your final draft
stories, I need them today. You’ve been warned that this is the final deadline
so I don’t want any excuses.’ English was the only subject Lizzie and Vic had
together. It had been her favourite subject at her previous school and had
always been one of very few classes she would look forward to.

‘Today’s
class will be a revision session,’ said Miss Abrahams and a drone of
disappointment sounded. ‘I want you to pair up and practice close reading, discuss
your answers but try to keep it down to a roar if you can.’ Miss Abrahams began
making her way down the rows collecting bundles of paper from students.  She
stopped at the desk in front of Lizzie to collect Amy Schuster’s final draft.
‘You two should pair up for this exercise,’ the teacher suggested much to Vic’s
disapproval. Amy turned to Lizzie and smiled. ‘You two have a lot in common, if
your stories are anything to go by, both cheeky and rather brilliant,’ said Miss
Abrahams leaving the girls a little embarrassed and in a slightly uncomfortable
position. If Lizzie was considered quiet then Amy was, by comparison, a mute.
They had exchanged the occasional greeting when entering the class, or in the
corridors, but little more.

‘Do you
mind pairing up?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Not at
all,’ answered Amy spinning her chair round to face Lizzie. She released her
dark ponytail from her hairband as it was becoming loose. She gripped the band
in her teeth while she reassembled her hair and bound it again. Amy looked a
little like Lizzie, same height and same frame, but her hair was long, and she
had a prettier face than Lizzie, high cheekbones and kind eyes.

‘You were
cutting it fine with your story weren’t you?’

‘Not
really,’ said Amy, ‘I handed it in a few weeks ago but I wanted to make a small
change so I asked for it back. So what did you do your story on?’ Lizzie had
achieved high praise for her writing at her previous school, it was something
she enjoyed, and something she needed. There was a catharsis to writing that
Lizzie had become reliant on since her mother had passed. It made having few
friends tolerable. It was with excitement and pleasure that Lizzie embraced the
news that their English class required a folio of writing to be assessed
externally and would form part of the students’ overall grade. Lizzie also
loved the remit of one of the folio pieces to be produced. The students were
required to take a fairytale of their choosing and re-write it or re-boot it
with either an alternative viewpoint or with a modern take on the theme. Most
of the class had groaned at the prospect but Lizzie thought it was an inspired
idea.

‘I actually
took three different fairy tales and meshed them together. The idea is that you
have the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk, the troll from The Three Billy
Goats Gruff and Rumplestiltskin all sitting in a holding cell awaiting trial
after their respective stories had ended and you sort of get an alternative
view of the stories from them. What did you do?’

‘I took a
bit of a risk,’ said Amy lowering her voice. ‘I did a version of Snow White set
in modern day where “Sue White” an infamous madam at a high class brothel in
Soho has attained the nickname – “Not so White” and caters for the more unusual
and extreme tastes of her clientele. She has a team of diminutive courtesans
who become renowned throughout the industry and “Not so White” had found
herself locked in a battle with an older scheming mistress who’s own brothel
had been replaced as the place to go in town.’

‘Oh my
God’, said Lizzie her mouth agape, and Amy looked a little disappointed at her
reaction. ‘That is bloody brilliant, you have to let me read it,’ Amy’s face
lit up again.

‘I had the
idea ages ago, but I wasn’t going to do it when old Fletcher was here, there’s
no way he would have let me. But when I mentioned the idea to Miss Abrahams she
said go for it.’

‘I know
what you mean,’ said Lizzie. ‘When Fletcher read my first draft he said
something like “I see what you tried to do here Lizzie, but I don’t really
think it’s what the assessors are looking for. Perhaps you should talk to some
of your classmates and maybe have another go at this one.”’ Lizzie used her
best croaky, demented voice to imitate her old teacher. ‘Then he pushed it back
to me with that creepy twisty hand of his and refused to take it’, she continued.
‘Of course I reminded him that it didn’t matter what
he
thought since it
would be marked by other people. In the end he took it but barely said two
words to me after that. But when Miss Abrahams read it she loved it, so up him.’

Mr
Fletcher, a stuffy middle aged nervous mouse of a man, had been the English
teacher when Lizzie had arrived at Queen’s. He was probably in his early
fifties but had the appearance of someone much older with his lack of hair and
geriatric shake. He was known less as Mr Fletcher and more as one of two
nicknames: Old Fletcher, or The Claw, which was in reference to his chronic
rheumatoid arthritis. Both hands were gnarled, and on a bad day he could barely
grip anything, but his right hand in particular was badly affected. All of the
fingers were curled round into a fist, unable to be freed except for the index
finger which was locked in an extended long curl giving him a perpetually
malevolent Nosferatu point, which he used to good effect at his students. She
had felt sorry for him, initially, but a couple of negative run-ins with him
quickly changed that and her sympathy had turned to apathy at best, distain at
worst. It was a widely known fact that Mr Fletcher and Mr Pallister hated one
another. Since his divorce from Mrs Fletcher the man had become withdrawn,
depressed and predictably absent. Queen’s Grove House prided itself on so many
things and seldom having to invoke the assistance of relief teachers was one
such boast. Indeed in the first few months of Lizzie’s life at Queen’s she had
been taught by Miss Abrahams, a newly qualified substitute teacher, as often as
she had been Mr Fletcher. And since Christmas Mr Fletcher had not been seen at
school at all giving rise to various rumours of growing ridiculousness from fits
of deep depression to a murder suicide pact with his ex-wife now circulating.

‘Were you
here that day when old Fletcher got Tabitha to read her story to the class?’

‘Oh God
yeah, that was unbearable,’ said Lizzie recalling that particular afternoon.
Fletcher had taken a bit of a shine to Tabby Perkytits, no surprise there. He
claimed her story was exactly the type of thing the rest of the class should be
aiming to emulate. Lizzie would have hated the story no matter what she had
produced but she was a little relieved to discover her story was, in fact, awful.
A lot of the class had opted to place themselves, or loosely veiled versions of
themselves, in the lead roles of modern takes on fairytales and Tabby’s effort
was one such. She had re-told sleeping beauty writing herself as a frustrated
office clerk trapped in a dead end job, in a relationship going nowhere, metaphorically
asleep until the love interest arrived; some clichéd chisel chinned executive
who had awoken her with a kiss – and some truly cringe-worthy, clumsily written
lovemaking – and led her into his privileged high flying life. The girls
laughed remembering how sincerely Tabby had read her story and how offended she
had looked when the class had failed to erupt into spontaneous applause when
she had finished.

‘What did
she expect,’ chuckled Lizzie, ‘it was a total puke-fest.’

Vic was
forced to work with a boy in the class who had failed to find a partner of his
own, from what Lizzie could see they pretty much sat in silence for an hour. Lizzie
on the other hand found working with Amy a welcome relief from being
perpetually paired with Vic. Although they chatted about so many things, not
just the schoolwork, they were still a far more productive team and when the
bell rang to signal the end of class Lizzie couldn’t believe the hour passed so
quickly.

The
students began shovelling their books back into their bags. ‘How’s the study
going?’ asked Amy carefully placing jotters and books into her backpack. ‘Are
you taking much in? I swear the words are just bouncing off my brain and
falling out again.’

‘Yeah much
the same really, I guess we just have to trust it’s doing
some
good and
keep bashing on,’ the first exam on this year’s timetable was English and it
was only a little over a week away.

‘Hey after
exam week I was planning to do something to celebrate, do you fancy tagging
along?’ Lizzie paused her own book packing for a second, taken aback slightly
by this sudden development in what could barely be called a friendship.

‘What did
you have in mind?’ said Lizzie trying to sound nonplussed.

‘My
brother’s band is playing at the Mill, sort of an end of year blow-out. They’re
worse than awful but they’re a good bunch, should be fun.’

‘A gig?
Hell-yeah I’m in.’

‘Hey don’t
go getting excited. If you like music you’ll probably hate it. It’s usually a
spree-kill of massacred covers by pretentious teenage boys who’ve drunk enough
to find the courage to get up and perform, but too much to play their
instruments properly.’

Lizzie and
Vic ate their lunch in the library – which they were not supposed to do, but
the nameless librarian always turned a blind eye. Robe would usually join with
them at lunch time, There was no sign of him so far though. ‘Is he sick?’ asked
Lizzie.

‘I don’t
remember the last time he was sick, he’s probably just running late. I don’t
think he’s missed a day’s school in his life,’ he said.

There was a
feeling of finality about Sully’s class. Robe had failed to show up and there
were only three students in attendance. Sully hadn’t bothered arranging the
desks as normal and instead had merely pulled a few chairs together. He ran
through a checklist for the final exam, making sure everyone knew the areas to
concentrate on. He stated that he would be popping into the school from time to
time before the exam and that he had left his office phone number with Mr
Pallister and could be contacted for any last minute advice. For the first time
Lizzie felt a twinge of sentimentality toward Queen’s Grove House, albeit she
acknowledged it was more accurately to do with Sully than anything else. His
laid back style of teaching and the way he treated his pupils as mature adults
was refreshing and Lizzie hoped it was a little taste of the university life
they would be experiencing next year. Lizzie would admit, if pressed, the fact
that Sully was easy on the eye didn’t hurt, and the faint Scottish accent also
made him all the more approachable but these were only after thoughts. He was a
terrific teacher and she would miss his class very much.