Chapter 3

Elinor Cranfield poured herself another large gin, her hands shook as she held bottle to glass, another tremor shook her body and she had to concentrate like mad to avoid spilling the liquid. She glanced at her watch. He had been gone for three quarters of an hour. Would he come back? she wondered. What if he didn't? Should she phone his mother? And what would she say?

She gulped some gin. It was so unexpected. So out of character. At least it was not in keeping with the impeccable manners he had displayed in the four weeks she had been teaching him. What had come over him?

She leaned back on the cushions of the settee and went over in her mind the whole thing. Trying to make sense of his outrageous behaviour. Trying to decide what to say to him, if and when he came back. Wondering about the risks involved.

It had started so unexpectedly well: Simon had appeared at her house that first Monday and had astonished her with the amount of work he had done during the long summer break. Not only had he read all the books on her list but he had written reports on each one of them.

So well-written were these that she had had serious doubts as to whether they were genuine or whether Simon had got someone to do them for him. The report on Lawrence's 'Sons and Lovers' for example, had displayed a maturity of thought, such insights into human relationships, that she was convinced Simon could not have produced such work.

But as she had gone over the paper with him she had changed her mind and she had warmed to the thought of teaching this remarkable young man. So different from what she had expected, given the Simon described in the report the school had given.

And in the following weeks he had worked so hard: always on time; homework always done and beautifully presented... And so polite. And so charming.

Mrs Cranfield sipped some more of her gin and looked again at her watch. What was she going to say to him? She hadn't anticipated this. Not at all. He was so young despite his insights. Despite the aura of maturity. She couldn't afford to get it wrong.

She should have taken a different line when he had first brought flowers, she told herself. But it too had been so unexpected and he had been so charming about it as he had handed her the small bunch of tea-roses. Of course she had remonstrated with him but she had been pleased, and had finished by giving him a peck on the cheek as she had murmured her thanks.

She should never have done that. And it was so different from her usual behaviour towards her students. But than none of them had ever given her as much as a box of chocolates, far less flowers!

And from then on, each Friday, Simon had brought flowers. Never anything ostentatious. Always just simple lovely little bouquets. And with each successive Friday her 'Oh-you-shouldn't-have-Simon' little protest had become even less meaningful. And the kiss on his cheek more in line with her undeniable pleasure.

But there had been nothing. Absolutely nothing to suggest that he was harbouring the kind of thoughts he had made her aware of when he had arrived this evening.

Mrs Cranfield gulped down the last of her gin, put the bottle away in the cabinet and took the glass with her into the bathroom. She stared at her image in the mirror as she prepared to clean her teeth.

What Elinor Cranfield saw was a fairly nice-looking woman -' Well I am!' she said to herself - with a wide generous mouth set in a face whose bone structure meant that she looked a lot younger than her 44 years, and whose new hairstyle and slim build also contributed to that younger look. ' I'm not exactly a beauty, though', she thought, 'Why would I have that effect on him?'

'What possessed me to get my hair cut this way yesterday?' she complained to her image as she began to apply the minty-flavoured toothpaste.

Teeth cleaned and the scent of gin replaced by that of mint, Elinor Cranfield sat down at her dressing table to repair her face. As she applied the cosmetics she recalled the moment that had brought about this crisis.

Simon had come at his usual time of 7 p.m. He had taken off his coat and jacket as always and hung them on the line of hooks in the hall. She had walked ahead of him into the lounge and on turning had suppressed a smile as he reached into the inevitable poly bag and had produced an exquisite bunch of tiny red roses which he had placed on the coffee table in front of her

'Oh, Simon! How lovely. They are beautiful!' And she had gone round the table to peck his cheek. At least that was what she thought she was going to do.

But she had suddenly found herself enfolded in his arms. Not grabbed. Just 'enfolded'. There was no other word or words to describe what seemed to have happened.

One moment she had been leaning forward to kiss his cheek, the next she was in his arms. And his lips upon hers, as he kissed her with what she could recall only as passion. Lips that seemed to want to suck at her soul. She had become aware of her mouth opening as she responded to that kiss, and now, sitting at her dressing table, she remembered the feeling of her whole body moulding into his, and the strength of his thighs upon hers, her breasts pressed into his chest, and, for a fleeting second or so, the sensation of his maleness against her lower belly.

And then she had slapped him. Hard! A resounding open-palm slap across the cheek that had sent him staggering back.

'How dare you!' she had screamed at him as he clutched his cheek. ' What do you think you are doing?' She had stood there, shaking with rage, with shock, with disbelief.

In all her life Elinor Cranfield had never been in a situation where something so intimate, so physical, had happened to her, so spontaneously and so unexpectedly. She had opened her mouth to start a diatribe of anger and outrage at Simon when he had straightened up and stepped towards her.

Instinctively she had backed away, nearly tripping over the coffee table... Indeed she would have fallen had not he caught her. And again in that moment she had felt his strength as he held her close. Then he had pulled away and stood facing her,

'Mrs. Cranfield', he had said in a quiet calm voice - a manly voice, she had thought, not a boy's at all - ' I'm not going to apologise for kissing you. I've been wanting to do it for weeks'

She had attempted to interrupt but he had raised his hand and somehow she felt made to keep quiet.

'I'm very attracted to you' His voice had never altered in its tone or strength and she stood there mute and trembling from head to toe 'I think about you all the time. I imagine myself kissing your mouth, your breasts, your belly, you... '

'Stop! Stop!' She had shrieked at him 'You are mad! I'm old enough to be your mother! I'm your teacher! You are a boy! Now get out! Get out!' She had moved towards him, shaking all over but determined. Then, suddenly, it was if a great calm resolve filled her.

'Simon', she had said, her voice shaking but now controlled. 'I don't know what I've done to deserve this outrage. But I need to think about what your behaviour means. And you need to get out there in the fresh air and clear that head of yours. Now get out of my house and don't come back for at least an hour. By then I'll have decided what I'm going to do about this and what I'm going to say to your mother as to why I can no longer tutor you. Now go!'

And he had gone. Without another word.he had gone into the hall and donned his jacket and coat and quietly went through the outer door. As she moved to close it, he turned and before she could push the door shut on him he spoke.' 'I'm not a boy, Mrs. Cranfield, I'm a man.'

And he had gone...

... She looked at her watch. It had been an hour and ten minutes since he had left. What if he didn't come back? What if he had become frightened and had run away?

'I shouldn't have said anything about telling his mother', she thought., 'What am I going to say if he does something stupid?'

The sound of the doorbell caused her to jump. And her heart began to race.

We sat facing each other, Mrs Cranfield sat on the settee, I perched nervously on the edge of the armchair. The gas fire burned brightly the flames dancing among the artificial logs. It was warm. There was a slight cough, a clearing of the throat from the settee.

Mrs Cranfield sat there and looked at me, her back as stiff and straight as a ramrod, hands in her lap, fingers clasped in a double-fist, her mouth tight-lipped, her eyes unfriendly and cold. Every inch the schoolmarm.

I thought of what I'd planned to say and my head swam with doubts and misgivings.

'Well ?' the voice was as cold and unfriendly as the eyes, 'have you some explanation of your behaviour? Have you come to your senses after a spell in the cold air?' She paused. I could hear the clock ticking in the hall. My throat felt parched. I licked my dry lips and spoke,

'I am sorry, Mrs Cranfield, I made a stupid mistake, I... '

'A mistake! A mistake!' She almost spat the words back at me, eyes full of anger, ' I need more than that for an apology and an explanation, young man. What on earth was going through that head of yours? What possessed you?'

Whether it was in her words or in her tone or in her look, something touched a chord in me and I leaned forward to stare straight into her eyes and responded with a new-found strength,

'Mrs Cranfield, I am sorry for upsetting you. My mistake was in thinking you are something more than the image you present.I thought there was someone I could relate to inside the shell.'

She stared at me as her face drained of colour and I saw in her eyes for just a fleeting second a look that gave me hope. Then she spoke with controlled rage making bayonets of every syllable,

'You... saw... someone... to... whom... you... could... relate... ' Each word was ground out. ' What do you know about relating? You are a boy. I am a grown woman! Did you want to boast that you had made a pass at old 'Cranny Berg' as they call me? Did someone in my school make a wager with you? Or did you thinks I'd fall into your arms because I'm an older single woman? Did you think I'd be flattered?'

The last words were ground out and she was trembling with anger. I felt that at any moment she would get up and tell me to get out. I needed to calm her.

'Mrs Cranfield', I spoke as softly and calmly as I could, ' Please let me try to explain and then you must decide what to do with me... I've never done anything like this before and I didn't do it for a bet and I would never tell anyone about you. Not ever!'