Chapter 23: Confession

We had a very, very pleasant day in Westmouth. During what remained of the morning, we strolled along the seafront and then had lunch in the pub at the end of one of the town’s three piers. In the afternoon, we walked up Westmouth Hill to visit the university campus. I thought it might be nice to get a feel for the place to help me make up my mind if I wanted to apply there or not.

“I can’t believe this place,” Clarissa said as we came out of the massive campus library. “It’s just so ... Wow!”

“Yeah, it is nice.”

“So, could you see yourself here? Are you going to apply?”

“I’ll put it down as one of my choices, certainly. I just need to decide on the other four. At the start of the year, I was thinking the further away, the better, you know? But now...” I smiled at her. “Now, I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

She returned my smile with interest but didn’t reply.

“What about you? You decided which five you’re going to apply to.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, I’m not going.”

“You’re not? Why not? I mean, you’re easily going to do well enough in your exams, so why not?”

“Mom doesn’t think I need to.”

“And you always do what your mom tells you?”

“Pretty much.”

“But she didn’t want you to go out with me, did she?”

She stared at me for what seemed like an age. “No. No, she didn’t. But that’s ... That’s different.”

“How?”

“It just is.”

“If you say so.” I thought for a second then said, “So what does she want you to do instead?”

With a shrug she said, “She says I’ll learn more by going to work in the offices at the factory as soon as I’ve finished school, but to be honest I think she just expects me to get married, have kids and be a ... what do they call them? A Lady that Lunches.”

I nodded. “One of the Country Club Wives.”

“Yeah. Just like her.” Her tone told me she didn’t find the idea particularly appealing.

By this time, we’d crossed the open square in front of the library and reached the steps that led down the hill to the main road through the campus. From there we’d head for the exit and walk back into town. A dark-haired girl came up the stairs as we got there. She was talking to her friend, who was as blonde as the first girl was dark, and not watching where she was going.

“Oh, sorry. Excuse me,” she said as she nearly bumped into us, side-stepped then breezed past.

Clarissa watched her walk away then turned me and said, “Did you see who that was, Paul?”

I shook my head.

“It was Chloe Goodman. I’m sure it was.”

“Really?”

“I’m sure it was. You must come here, Paul. You might make friends with her.”

“Isn’t this her last year? She won’t even be here next year to make friends with—which would be pretty unlikely even if she was still here, wouldn’t it?”

Clarissa smiled and shrugged and we started down the steps.

“But, what do you want to do next year? Not your mom. You?” I’d taken a few more steps down before I realised that she’d stopped and was looking at me with the strangest expression. “What?”

She shook her head. “I’m just ... I can’t remember the last time someone asked me what I wanted. I mean actually asked me instead of assuming they know what I want or telling me what I want.”

“That’s mad. You don’t really mean it. Do you?”

With a sad little nod, she said, “I do. I really do. Mom never asks what I want—she tells me what I want. And other people ... I think the last person who actually asked me that was Daddy. When he had days off, he used to ask me what I wanted to do with him.” She sniffed. “I miss him, you know.”

I nodded. I didn’t have to say anything. She knew I knew how it felt. I climbed back up the stairs until I was standing in front of her, one step down. I took her hands in mine, looked her in the eye and said, “So, what do you want to do after you leave school?”

She breathed deeply, swallowed and said, “I want to teach. I want to be a teacher.”

“Really?” I said, horrified by the thought of coping with unruly teenagers who didn’t want to listen. Imagine having to put up with someone like Del Stevens at fifteen.

“Yeah.” She wore a big grin now. “Primary school. You know, the younger kids. Five and six-year-olds would be best—the one’s just getting started. I think that would be great.”

I returned her smile. Six-year-olds would definitely be better than teenagers.

“So what’s stopping you? They have an Education Department here, don’t they?”

She shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

“Have you not even looked at the prospectuses?”

“No. I didn’t see the point. Like I said, Mom doesn’t want me to go.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but here’s the thing, it’s not her decision to make, is it? It’s yours.”

“You don’t know my mom.”

“True. But what’s stopping you from at least filling in the application forms? It keeps your options open and then ... Well, then you have time to work on her. Come on.” I climbed a few steps so that I was higher than her and held out my hand.

“Where are we going?”

“To The Union building. Someone there should be able to tell us where the Education Department is, and then we can go and have a look. See what we can find out.”

She nodded and offered me one of her dynamite smiles. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Clarissa picked up some literature about the Bachelor of Education course before we headed back into town where we’d parked the car. We stopped at one of Westmouth’s larger supermarkets on the way home so that she could get all she needed for the meal that evening. She clearly knew her way around the store, whizzing around the aisles and putting all sorts of things in the basket I carried as I trailed in her wake. Fresh pasta (not dried, she pointed out—not that I knew what difference it made), chicken breasts, mushrooms, an onion, some herbs, bacon lardons and three different types of cheese—two of which I’d never even heard of.

At my house, Vicky showed Clarissa where all the pots, pans and other things she would need were, then left early for work. I sat at the kitchen table and watched my girlfriend as she chopped, fried and stirred, her face a mix of concentration and sheer pleasure.

“You’re enjoying this,” I said, more a statement than a question.

“Yeah, I love cooking. Don’t you?”

“Me? I can just about cope with frying an egg and grilling some bacon for sandwiches. No, Vicky’s the cook in this house.”