Read In a Class of His Own for Free Online Page A

house.” A few people went past, calling
goodnight. I responded absently and then turned to Joyce again. “What
should I do? How can I help her?”
    “She
needs to see someone professional. She needs to get herself down to
her doctor’s,” Joyce said in a matter of fact voice.
    I hesitated.
    “Do
you want me to have a word, lovie? You know, from a professional
point of view?”
    I looked at Joyce in
relief. Had she understood so completely how difficult it would be to
persuade Mum to leave the house? “I don’t know how to thank you,
Joyce. After all, we hardly know you.”
    Joyce waved her hand
airily. “No matter, no matter. Tell you what, give me a lift home
and we’ll call it even-stevens.” She put her arm through mine and
added companionably as we left the hall, “Do your muscles feel as
wobbly as mine? And tell me,” she hissed in a provocative tone,
“Are all headmasters nowadays as young and good-looking as your Mr.
Thorpe? What a dreamboat! Hasn’t done much for my blood pressure, I
can tell you. And I thought yoga was supposed to be relaxing!”

Chapter Five
    Seven
thirty
on the first Saturday morning of the half term holiday. I stretched
luxuriously, still in bed. I turned the pillow over to the cool side
with every intention of sleeping in. With a sigh I snuggled down.
Bliss.
    “Rise
and shine Nicola!” Dad banged into the room, put a cup of tea on
the bedside table and threw open the curtains. “It’s a lovely
day.”
    I groaned and pulled the
duvet over my head as bright sunshine pierced through my closed eyes.
    “Come
on love, can’t stay idling in bed on a day like today!” And with
that he went noisily back out of the room, whistling a jaunty tune. I
was wide-awake by the time he’d slammed the door shut.
    With
any chance of catching up on some sleep gone, I gave up, slid myself
into a sitting position and sipped my tea. I thought over the events
of the last few days. Joyce, loyal to her word, had talked to both my
parents about her concerns. Mum had
reluctantly promised to make an appointment with her GP but Dad had
remained silent. I knew he’d found the situation impossible. He
came from the school of “stiff upper lip and pull your socks up”.
I knew he was completely bemused by any suggestion of mental illness
– to him it just didn’t exist. He had compensated by becoming
incredibly busy: cleaning shoes, polishing silver, pruning the garden
to within an inch of its life. What he hadn’t done was talk about
it. He changed the subject every time I brought it up but remained
grey-faced with worry. As for Mum, she hadn’t as yet made the
appointment to see her doctor. It had been on my mind since Joyce had
mentioned it at the yoga class and I was exhausted just thinking
about it. Previously in my life, if a problem occurred, I sorted out
the solution and then acted. I felt powerless to deal with this.
    My
thoughts escaped
to those of school and I smiled. I leaned back on the pillows and
watched the curtains move in the light breeze coming through the
window which Dad had opened.
    Jack and I had met to
discuss planning on most evenings after school, as he had to teach
Year Six. I’d been reluctantly impressed with how he’d handled
the situation. Tony’s class, not used to any semblance of routine,
had succumbed to the Thorpe charm and implacable discipline. But my
burgeoning admiration for the man was based on more than that. I’d
seen Jack teaching individual children at break times, when he should
have been catching up on his other responsibilities. And I knew from
Joyce that her granddaughter, Katy, was making real progress because
of Jack’s dedication. It had had an impact on staff and children
alike; there was a grudging but discernible respect growing in the
school for Jack’s hard work, even though some of his decisions
remained unpopular.
    We had
certainly been busy. On top of the usual workload,
a series of parents’ evenings had made the last days before