'Crystal King – 21st Century Girl' - A Soap Opera Novel by Dee Marshall - Part 3

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Catch up with previous installments: Part 1, Part 2.

Chapter Two

‘Your mum’s a real nutter,’ Sarah frowned, sympathizing abstractedly while she thought about her own cash strapped family. ‘I thought my mum was bad but she don’t hit me. Have you got those bruises all over your body?’

Although she was speaking kindly to Crystal she was feeling wide eyed with blank shock as if she’d heard a news story about her favourite boy band breaking up. How could Crystal bear to look in the mirror with all those horrible marks on her? They looked all the worse because Crystal had such soft, silky skin.

‘I only get them on my arms usually coz Mum runs out of steam. She has this temper see and just lashes out if she gets upset. She can’t help it’.

Crystal felt so ashamed that Sarah had seen her rainbow of bruises. Normally she made a big effort to hide them, wearing long sleeved tees in baking hot weather, even for PE. At least it was only Sarah. Miss Anderson and Megan hadn’t noticed, or even worse, Megan’s busy body mum. She’d probably have reported Crystal’s mum for it or blamed Dad. You weren’t really supposed to hit your kids that hard were you? Crystal felt even more ashamed that she had caused so much trouble just having fun winding up Moany Megan. She closed her eyes as she secretly squeezed a big, painful pinch on her thigh to punish her stupid self.

The bell went so break was over. Crystal shook herself mentally, making a conscious effort to pull herself together. The original problem of Megan was nearly forgotten. She had to adopt her usual submissive behaviour policy of quietly complying with everything other people wanted. Block all the hassle from her mind. She’d done it so often it came as second nature. It was the most hassle-free path in life for her. If you can’t do anything about it just forget, forget, forget! She didn’t care about her life anyway as long as she caused no one any problems.

Years 10 and 11 used the Stratton Road High main entrance to return to the building. This was supposed to be a privilege to make the passing students feel like responsible adults. Actually, it worked out as a chance for a sideways uniform check by the strict, rule enforcing Deputy Head whose drafty office was there.

As Sarah and Crystal went through, the harassed school receptionist hurriedly beckoned them over. A visitor was waiting. Although on a comfortable beige, padded armchair, the smartly dressed man was perched tensely on the edge of the seat. Reluctantly, the girls stepped over and were told one of them was to show Mr. Grant to Mrs. Skinner’s office while the other should tell the next period teacher where she was.

Crystal said she’d escort Grant. He was cute with a really nice voice. Crystal found bronze skin and blond hair highlighted by the sun a very attractive combination. The ‘beach boy’ look came naturally to Cal Grant. Lucky Mrs. Skinner having such a dishy visitor. In spite of his anxious expression, he had what Crystal thought of as ‘hot looks’, male tough with a definite air of excitement and ruthlessness. Perhaps he was a rep of some sort. They had to be well presented and personable. Maybe he was flogging art materials. He looked as trendy as you can in a whistle and flute... and he had a large, well filled man-bag slung on his broad shoulder.

After taking Mr. Grant to Mrs. Skinner’s office, Crystal quickly made for the loo to take five on her own. Poo! The place stank of toilet cleaner battling with a million shots of wee. She checked the jaded and scratched plastic mirror, expecting puffy eyes after all that crying in the playground but, oh no, red pig eyes, that was bad. Lucky it was maths so she’d be able to immerse herself in linear equations and there’d be no danger of tears leaking out again. She brushed her long, long, glossy brown hair and clipped it back with her school uniform style clasp.

The rest of the school day passed with only a small hiccough at lunch time when she saw Mr. Grant in the crowded canteen. Her tummy danced as if she’d missed the last step on the stairs. He didn’t see her, or maybe he did but didn’t acknowledge her. Home time came... time to face Mum.

***

As they went upstairs to the ‘powers that be’ corridor Grant glanced sideways at Crystal. Through his pre-interview nerves he registered that wow, she was eye-candy plus with a vulnerable look as if she was scared. Well, not quite scared, more permanently startled. It was his turn to shake himself mentally. Cut that thought. He was a teacher now or hoped to be next term so he’d better start as he meant to go on and be totally professional. She was a student, nothing more.

Straight into Mrs. Skinner’s luxurious sanctum, introduced to the officious looking Chair of Governors, followed by his well polished presentation then a barrage of questions most of which he had prepared answers. Phew, it all passed in a blur.

This particular post meant so much to Cal - his first teaching job, the culmination of 4 years slog at Uni. Three years spent majoring in a BA Honours in English Lit., not the soft option many people thought, followed by one pressurised, eye-opening year completing a P.G.C.E.. This school was ideally located with an interesting ability and cultural mix of students. The kind of school he felt at home with. The social life in the area was diverse, good for an all-rounder like him and, best of all, they needed an NQT in the English department. To succeed here would be step one of his career. Student debt considered, he’d be well financially rich. How great that would be?

Mrs. Skinner had said they were seeing three other candidates and Cal would be contacted before 6 pm to learn whether or not he’d been successful. If..., if he got the post, he wanted to investigate the area in the evening and sample an eatery. He could even recce the accommodation. Might as well make a day of it. An afternoon to kill then. As he had seen round the school pre-interview, it was worth a saunter round the locality. Maybe he’d take up Mrs. Skinner’s offer of trying the student canteen first. He headed that way, tummy rumbling as he sniffed a cooking aroma in the air.

***

Yvonne King stomped her swollen ankles homeward, her fury gradually turning to a feeling of tearful helplessness. Another problem in her shitty life she didn’t understand. How could Crystal have involved herself with this bullying rubbish? The Megan kid was so childish. Bullying was a fact of life. Whoever heard of the person who’d never been bullied? It toughened you up for the inevitable horrors to come.

The school was always in the right of course and if you argued or even tried to put your point of view, there’d be a closing of ranks and you’d be labelled ‘pushy parent’. That Mrs. Gray had been pushy, doing all the talking for Megan who, let’s face it, seemed a bit thick. But Megan had been the victim, boo hoo, so all hearts would go out to her. It had always been that way since Mrs. King herself was at school.

At least that young teacher had seemed to realise that the matter would be dealt with at home, contract or no contract. Mrs King only had experience of one way of dealing with it. She’d give Crystal a good slapping – knock some sense into her. Talk did no good with young people, well, with anyone really. Imagine trying to ‘talk’ with her husband, Tom, when he was in one of his moods. Hah, laughable idea! It’d only annoy him even more. She’d learnt years ago to keep stum and take it. These days he was usually too drunk anyway to notice any noise she made be it speech or screams.

That reminded her, she needed to divert to the local stock-crammed post office and pharmacy for some Arnica bruise relief cream. It was nearly five quid a tube now but lasted about a year if she hid it from Crystal. Her Tom had been very handy at the weekend and it wasn’t healing so quickly as she got older. Mrs. King was always short of money as her two part time jobs combined only paid the basic ‘living’ wage but bruises could be so excruciating that the expense of Arnica was justified.

Thomas King, Tom to his mates, not that he had any now, was labelled by society as ‘Job Seeker’. Ridiculous as he was more of a ‘Job Avoider’. Once, when they’d first met, Yvonne King, a slender, happy, height of fashion blond, into Mariah Carey and Shania Twain and Bryan Adams mad... Tom, good looking, swanky and fun, he’d been a well paid brewery delivery driver with enthusiastic plans to buy his own lorry by the time he was thirty. However, he’d been banned from driving about five years after Crystal was born. It was the drink of course, what he privately called ‘the only crutch I need - my best mate’. It had started to dominate his life, at first with gallons of beer and whiskey in the pub, then copious lagers all day reinforced by a whiskey hip flask, then enormous bottles of strong cider down the rec, and finally when cash ran out, anything with an alcoholic kick would do, begged or stolen. So far he had stopped short of mouthwash or aftershave. That crap cost a fortune anyway. Even he hadn’t stooped that low yet.

Yvonne knew Tom would be out all day today, thank God for small mercies, signing on then drinking his fill of benefit dosh. He might even be too far off his face to make it home and crash out somewhere else, with any luck. A gossipy neighbour had seen him early one morning snoring on the proverbial park bench. That was fine by her.

Mrs. King had only been in a quarter hour, just long enough to unpack her little bit of shopping and put the kettle on when she heard Crystal’s key in the latch.

***

Don't miss the next installment of ''Crystal King – 21st Century Girl'!
Coming soon on @deemarshall!

Thank you for reading!