Page 3 of Hot to Go

Charlie

‘What on earth is that on your face?’ Patricia, our head of religious education asks me, as we walk towards the school hall for the staff meeting.

A hand automatically goes to my face as she smiles broadly. Patricia is the sort of teacher you feel is in the bones of this place, a woman of indeterminate age, a woman of legend (she threw a Bible at someone’s head once), and for some reason she’salways had a soft spot for me, telling me I remind her of a young Alain Delon (yes, I had to Google him). It’s been six months of growing out my facial hair and the teens of this West London school (like Patricia) have been quite unforgiving. I’ve been called everything from Mr Twit to Gandalf. The problem is I do feel pride in the fact I grew this myself, even though I am aware I am starting to look like a common variety cult leader.

‘Not a fan then?’ I ask her.

‘I can’t see your lovely face, Carlos.’ She’s also the only person in school who calls me Carlos because I teach Spanish and she thinks it’s funny. It would be, except I don’t look like a Carlos. To me a Carlos is someone with swag and casual hotness like Pedro Pascal. The only thing Pedro Pascal and I have in common is brown hair, conversational Spanish and a penchant for spontaneous dancing.

She fans herself down with her hands, her silver bobbed hair clinging to her face. I slow my pace down to walk alongside her, to try and appear gentlemanly, but really because when I’m kind she’ll sometimes give me a mint humbug from her handbag. I love a mint humbug.

‘It’s fucking hot, isn’t it?’ she says, puffing out her cheeks. I take it she’s not talking about my facial hair anymore. ‘And it’s only May. If it continues this way, I’ll die in my little portacabin classroom.’

She’s not wrong. I mean, I hope she’s wrong about the dying part as she’s the sort of teacher I think and hope would live forever, but the mercury hit thirty-three degrees today and after lunch, the classrooms had become a mix of water guns, body odour and moaning ruddy-faced children.

‘I have started keeping ice pops in the staffroom freezer, you know?’ I tell her. ‘Help yourself.’

‘Flavour?’

‘I have a range, Patricia.’

‘Well, I look forward to having a suck on one of them,’ shejokes, and I try to restrain my face from reacting. The banter is always crude and mildly terrifying with her. The sort that would see HR make us have a sit-down meeting. ‘Are they big?’

‘They’re manageable,’ I reply, and decide to match her game. ‘You know, Patricia, I can’t take it when you tease me and say we can’t be together.’

‘You’re so right. I’d ruin you,’ she says, cackling.

I nod, grinning. And, on cue, a boiled sweet comes out of her handbag, almost like a thank you for humouring her.

‘You still with the painted lady from English?’ she asks me curiously.

I look around nervously in case Krystal is in the vicinity. I know she won’t take kindly to the comparison. She often refers to Patricia as a relic, so at least the animosity is mutual.

‘They’re tattoos. You make her sound like a circus sideshow,’ I tell Patricia.

Patricia makes a face. ‘She’s all pierced and wears those big jumpers with the holes. It’s like the moths have been at her.’ Patricia wears a boucle suit to work every day with the same butterfly brooch, a low navy heel and a handbag. She looks like a First Lady in waiting.

‘You disapprove?’ I ask her, curiously.

‘I’m just jealous, obviously. Plus she’s the one dragging us along to this meeting in a heatwave. How long is it supposed to last?’ she asks as we arrive at the school hall.

‘Hopefully, not long…’ I say, picking up some biscuits on a silver foil tray at the front of the room. They really know how to treat us in this place. I hand a Rich Tea to Patricia, not before feeling a hand on my arm. I turn to see Krystal standing there.

‘Where have you been?’ she asks, looking furious. ‘I needed you here.’

‘I was escorting Patricia,’ I tell her. ‘She was being very complimentary about my beard.’

Krystal runs her fingers through it and I submit to this obligingly. ‘Isn’t it giving millennial Jesus vibes, Patricia?’

Patricia grimaces at the reference. ‘I was thinking more Tom Hanks inCastaway. Was it your idea then?’ she asks.

‘Well, I think he looks rugged and distinguished,’ Krystal says proudly.

‘It looks like a big seventies muff…’ Patricia whispers out of the side of her mouth. Far from being offended I laugh and then choke a little on my biscuit. Krystal doesn’t get the joke and we stand there stewing in this strange awkward face-off.

‘Oh look, it’s Bev. I need to have a word,’ Patricia says to break the silence, putting an arm to mine and giving me a cheeky wink before taking her leave.

‘Relic…’ Krystal says as she’s out of earshot.

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