Chapter 3. Yoghurt Stains

A little bit of background on the origin of my four-day things; it’s hard to say what exactly was the first but I believe an early, fleeting obsession was with a supply teacher we had at school when I was in year six. It wasn’t exactly The Graduate but Miss Quayle was perhaps the first female to force-feed me a butterfly. I learned as a result that it’s nearly impossible to properly digest a butterfly once swallowed and they have a tendency to sit in your stomach for a very long time.

 

I say Miss but there’s every chance it was Mrs and I’ve chosen to selectively misremember any details that contradicted the fantasy I had of one day marrying her. She was slender and had dark skin and smelt like a bookshop, in a good way. When we learned what a quale was, even though it wasn’t spelt the same, we all called her Miss Chicken which she appeared to enjoy.

 

Our regular teacher, Ms Clancy, who mum once described as a juiceless old fossil to another parent in the playground when she thought I wasn’t listening, was off absent under mysterious circumstances. Our headmaster announced on Monday morning that Miss Quayle would be covering the class for the week. We all cheered.

 

By Tuesday my four-day thing had started.

 

Joe was, in primary school, the kind of lad who wore Velcro trainers not through choice but out of necessity, as he couldn’t yet tie shoelaces. He always had a yoghurt stain on his jumper from an ejaculated Frube and he had a tuft of hair on his crown that was tougher to keep down than the mint custard they served on Thursdays after a soggy roast dinner.  

 

Joe revealed to me during break time on Tuesday that he knew Miss Quayle already – ‘personally’. He said that added word like it would be unsurprising to find them dining out together over a set 2-person tapas menu at the fancy Thai restaurant in the market square. I asked him what ‘personally’ meant. He shrugged and said that’s what his dad had said when explaining why Miss Quayle – or Lottie as, up until now he’d always called her – would often come round their house to drink wine with his annoying older sister Fran.
“She’s a family friend.” He explained, regurgitating the term as we had a last-man-standing contest hanging from the monkey bars in the playground. A plan was already forming in my head by the time my feet touched the floor.

 

That plan, in retrospect, was not so sophisticated, but in the mind of a ten-year old boy it had all the Machiavellian skullduggery of a salacious Bond villain. Joe’s mention of wine had sparked an idea. I’d seen how it affected mum when she’d have a glass whilst cooking dinner, all giggly and more inclined to dancing to a badly hummed tune, and I decided I wanted to see Miss Quayle the same way. So I got to work orchestrating a sleepover at Joe’s on Friday night in the hope that my teacher would be there too. That was step one and as ambitious as it was optimistic from the outset.

 

On Wednesday we were given a project to do. We had to design an information booklet about a topic of our choice. To flex my intellectual muscles in front of Miss Quayle I decided to do mine on volcanoes. In hindsight the choice of presenting a detailed report on erupting phallic-shaped megastructures to a beautiful supply teacher I was trying to court was not so much a conscious innuendo but was certainly reflective of something awakening in my prepubescent loins.

 

I spent a large portion of the morning drawing three volcanoes, one to reflect each state: active, dormant, extinct. When I showed Miss Quayle she laughed and said it was very good. I blushed. Bryony Campbell, the kind of girl who used to ride imaginary horses around the playground like an insane triple jumper, noticed and made a point of letting everyone else in the class know too. So I blushed even harder. Miss Quayle gave me a sympathetic smile and whispered, “I think volcanoes are really cool,” which made the capillaries in my cheeks explode to the point I thought I might actually pass out.

 

 At lunchtime on Wednesday, with a complexion that had returned finally to its normal shade of anemic peach, I shared my plan with Joe. He had an integral role and I needed him on board. He laughed and asked if I “luuuuved” her and I said obviously not. He started singing about me and Miss Quayle sitting in a tree, so I said I didn’t love her but I had thought about her boobs, which stunned him into shy silence. It was an alpha-male move. At that point I knew I had him.

We outlined phase two together: he’d steal his sister’s phone and bring it into school the next morning. From there we’d draft a text to Miss Quayle inviting her round on Friday night for wine. Once that was established I’d orchestrate our mothers into arranging a sleepover. We both agreed it was foolproof.

 

Thursday morning, day three of four, and I was so excited I barely spoke to mum in the car on the way to school. I couldn’t wait to see if Joe had managed to get his sister’s phone. He was waiting by the school gate when mum pulled up in the layby. He had a big grin and the remnants of breakfast on his face. I knew he’d done it – the sticky-fingered wonder. I jumped out the car with an air kiss from mum trailing behind me. I sprinted across the road with my PE kit bumping up and down on my back. My coat, which I was wearing only by the hood on my head, billowed like a cape.
“Have you got it?” I asked. He lifted it slightly out of his pocket like he was showing me a bag of coke. We high-fived. At that moment Miss Quayle came walking down the street. She was wearing a wooly white scarf and her lovely brown hair had been caught inside it. She looked slightly out of breath like she’d been running just moments before.
“Hello boys.” She said.
“Hello miss,” we murmured, eyes firmly on the ground. The bell went. All three of us went inside.

 

We went to the cloakroom at break time. We hunched over the phone like I imagine cavemen hunched over fire. The backlight of a Samsung doesn’t provide as much warmth though. Joe took a deep breath and hovered his finger over the home button like he was about to launch a nuclear weapon up a Soviet asshole and turned it on. We were met with a password and my heart sank but Joe looked at me and grinned.
“She’s so basic,” he said and punched in a four-digit code: 1-4-0-6. “It’s Prince’s birthday.” Prince was their Alsatian. It’s dead now much like his human namesake.

 

Once we found the right contact I was in charge of drafting the text. I went through a few drafts trying to capture Fran’s voice in an authentic way.

 

You. Me. Wine. Friday. captured her aversion to writing in full sentences but it sounded a little pushy.

 

Hey girlfriend, watcha doing this Friday? Round mine for wine? was well written but maybe a little too hammed up and as Joe pointed out, Fran wasn’t exactly a poet.

 

We finally settled on a nice, simple Hey Lottie, What are you up to Friday? I have wine.

 

Joe proof read it and gave me a nod of approval.

 

I sent the text. We looked at each other. The plan was in motion.

 

The phone didn’t buzz again till lunchtime when were sat in the school hall. I was eating a pack lunch, most likely a ham roll and a pack of quavers. Joe was brushing sausage rolls crumbs from his lap. In a flash the phone was out of Joe’s pocket and on the table. It was a reply from Miss Quayle.

 

YES! A million times yes.

 

We looked at each other. Joe sat back in his chair with a face like he was the smoothest operator in the southwest despite the fact that it was my words that had lured Miss Quayle into our honey trap.

 

The phone lays open in front of us as we both pondered the response.

 

“Joe and Ian,” came her voice out of nowhere, “what’s the rule on phones in the lunch hall?” Miss Quayle loomed over the table. She’d come in via the door directly behind us. She was tucking her own phone surreptitiously into her back pocket. She was smiling despite the admonishment in her voice.

 

She held out her hand expectantly. Her eyes flicked towards the screen and Joe and I held our breath. She raised an eyebrow and picked the phone from the table at which point I knew we were busted.

“Joe…” she said slowly. Before she even had time to finish her sentence Joe was pulling me in front of him as a deflection from the oncoming inquiry.
“Ian’s been imagining your boobs Miss,” he said as the world stopped turning, a puppy was put in a microwave, a category 9 ripped through the Caribbean and all of humanity’s most traumatic events played out in a single instance.  

 

I’ve thought about my death and that long tunnel I’ll one day walk down and I have a few theories on what that elusive light might be. The current frontrunner is that I’m sure I’ll be faced with the doors of an old movie theatre. The showboard will have black letters that spell out “IAN PALMER: A LIFE” and I’ll push open those doors and be faced with a gleaming foyer bedecked with pulpy grindhouse posters that depict all the defining moments of my life. I’ll buy a tub of salted popcorn from the Grim Reaper and he’ll tell me it’s on the house. I’ll thank him and he’ll offer out a gnarly white knuckle for a fist bump, which I’ll reciprocate. Then I’ll take my tasty snack through to an auditorium where a dusty old projector plays out in sepia tone nostalgia my greatest hits and lowest points. My face as Miss Quayle stands there shocked with Joe’s sister’s phone in her hands will be present for sure.   

 

Final word on the matter: Miss Quayle handled the whole sorry affair with the upmost discretion. For that I remain grateful. By Monday Ms Clancy was back from her mysterious sojourn elsewhere and Miss Quayle was gone but not forgotten; my four-day thing left on standby. She can’t help but remind me when her and I happen to cross paths in town or at Joe’s because she’s still friends with Fran and now a full time teacher at the primary school. I sometimes wonder how many boys are drawing pictures of erect volcanoes to try and impress her these days.