Free Hard Word by John Clanchy Page A

her, but I know she’s still waiting.
    â€˜Why on earth wouldn’t I love her?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ she says. ‘There’s no need to get mad.’
    She’s become a great watcher, Laura. People, relationships. Which normally I’d rejoice in. Except that now it’s me she’s watching. And that’s what produces these sudden little eruptions between us.
    â€˜Do you really enjoy teaching?’ she says another day. I’m sitting at the dining-room table, marking some exercises. She’s just come in after school and has plonked herself down on the couch. She’s half-lying there, slumped, at a loose end.
    â€˜Yes, I do,’ I say. And wait. That’s something I’m learning from her.
    â€˜Lots of our teachers don’t. They’re always telling us how they’d much rather be somewhere else, doing something else.’
    â€˜Well, they shouldn’t be teaching, then,’ I say. And keep listening for what this is really about.
    â€˜They say if they weren’t teaching, they’d be able to do a lot more things. Without all the correction, and the preparation and things.’
    Ah.
    â€˜Like with their families?’ I say.
    â€˜Yeh,’ she says, dragging a string along the couch for Yogi to catch in his paws. ‘Or just for themselves, I suppose.’
    I finish the last of the exercises, pack the papers back in a folder. Laura is still playing with Yogi. But her mind isn’t there.
    â€˜Saturday,’ I say. ‘Would you like to go swimming?’
    â€˜Yes,’ she says, ‘I guess.’ And then, after a while, ‘That’s if Philip’s going to be home. To babysit Grandma.’
    We’ve always swum together, Laura and me. In Greece, first of all, from the time she was tiny, and then later back here. We’d swim three mornings a week – even school weeks – summer and winter. Occasionally Katie’d come with us. After my own laps, I’d teach Katie to swim while Laura chatted with friends – one boy, David, in particular – and snapped the bottoms of her bathers, and looked around.
    But it must be months now since we’ve swum, six in fact. In fact six exactly, if I’m to be honest. Since the day Mother came to live with us. Laura’s never once asked or complained about it all this time. Which is how I know she misses it as much as I do.
    â€˜Mum, you’re so slowww –’ she used to say, sitting on the side of the pool after she’d done her laps and watching me breaststroke towards her. ‘What are you doing, your meditation again? Your Boo-dhist swimming?’
    â€˜Exactly,’ I’d say. And that’s something I do miss. In the centre of my being. My Boo-dhist swimming, as Laura calls it.
    I have tried to convey to her what teaching means to me.
    â€˜It’s not money,’ I’ve told her. ‘Over half of what I earn goes to Mrs Johnson.’
    â€˜What, then?’
    And I know I’ve got to get this across. Because if it’s not money, then it has to be something pretty important to weigh against what’s lost.
    â€˜First of all,’ I tell her, ‘it does a lot for me. It’s like swimming. You know how sometimes you go to the pool, and you’re not really feeling like it, but you think you should, or someone else makes you go, and by the time you finish your blood’s racing and you’re just bursting with energy –’
    â€˜Most of my teachers only just crawl out of the room like they’re heading for an ambulance, or something.’
    â€˜I’m sure they’re not all like that.’
    â€˜Miss Temple’s okay. She’s got lots of energy left.’
    â€˜Well, I’m like Miss Temple.’
    â€˜She’s young but,’ Laura says.
    â€˜Thank you.’
    â€˜I didn’t mean that –’
    â€˜But it’s more than that. It’s what