at home. Then your maths teacher speaks up, saying if he isn’t mistaken it’s not that you’ve lost your parents but that they live elsewhere, and so your home, at least during the school term, is with your grandparents. Not that you’ve been abandoned, he adds hastily, but your father works in another state, one with few if any, well-regarded schools. My heart goes out to you and your paper companions.
From then on, I am kinder.
You aren’t entirely unskilled at clay sculpture, but I’m more encouraging than I would have been.
‘That’s a fine cow,’ I say.
You look at me doubtfully. ‘It’s meant to be a horse.’
Hastily, I give a talk on how art lies in the eye of the beholder.
‘So it doesn’t matter what I’m trying to do?’ another student asks.
‘It does. But you cannot control how others choose to see.’
You stay back in class, hanging around until the others leave. I wonder why. I don’t think you’re about to ask me about the subjectivity of interpretation. You shuffle up to my desk, papers and books in hand. Your hair, usually braided in plaits, has come undone, your ribbon trailing down your arm. You are twelve, but your limbs seem at odds with your age, like they will settle only a decade later. You will be tall and beautiful, I’m sure, even if now you’re gangly and awkward and coltish. You glance at me, your eyes dark as paint.
‘Have you always wanted to do this?’
I ask what you mean.
‘This.’ You gesture around the room.
I lean back in my chair. No one has asked me this. At least not here. I could tell you many things. That of course it was a dream to work with children, to teach them about beauty, and how to make beautiful things. But I decide to tell you the truth.
‘No.’
You don’t seem surprised.
I look down at my hands, hold them up in front of me. ‘I wanted to be a pianist.’
‘Did you go to a music school?’
I nod. I did, for many years. I even began performing recitals here and there. Not much scope in this small town that we live in, so I would also give lessons at people’s homes, trying to save up to move to a big city.
‘Then what happened?’ Or in other words, get to the point, why was I here.
‘I was in an accident … I hurt my hands.’
With the cold pragmatism of a child, you look at me and say, ‘But you still paint.’
I tell you it is all I can do.
‘Oh,’ you say, and leave. Maybe there was no reason for me to have been honest. You’re a child. With limited understanding. What had I been hoping for? Sympathy? Concern?
I am left alone in the room, feeling, for some reason, decidedly silly.
In the next class, you are missing. And the next.
And even though I try and feign indifference, I’m concerned. What’s happened, I ask the others. What’s happened to you? A bronchial infection, apparently. One accompanied by a cough and high fever. I wrestle with myself, wanting to send you ‘get well’ wishes, yet wishing to keep a distance. I know your classmates have made cards for you, but I don’t jointly sign any of them. I don’t send enquiries from my side. In ten days you return, paler, wan, still coughing. You’ve lost weight. I make you a little clay flower, paint it red, and leave it at your corner. I do it for all my students who’ve been ill. You thank me at the end of class, and don’t linger like you usually do. It leaves me, uncomfortably, wondering why.
I find you quieter than usual.
You have stopped with the paper animals and clay figures, and instead are painting sheet after sheet of paper in deep, unvarying blue. Then orange. Then green. I joke that you’re an abstractionist, but you do not laugh.
One day, I catch you in the corridor and ask how you are.
You don’t look at me when you say you are fine.
‘I heard you’ve been unwell …’
‘Better now, thank you.’
‘Is anything the matter?’ I can’t help asking.
You shake your head, your eyes still fixed to the floor.
I want to say that you can tell me, that you have someone you can talk to. That I know you live in a house with two old people, that you might feel alone. But I don’t. I give you a perfunctory pat on the shoulder, and you’re on your way.
It’s odd, but I miss you staying back in class, chatting in your sharp, inquisitive way. I miss your singing, your flowers, your incessant questions, your attentiveness to everything I say, even the merest, most mundane instruction. I hope it might revive at the end of term. Especially when I make the announcement that we’re to hold an exhibition of all we’ve made over the past year. Most of the students are excited, whispering to each other, debating which of their works they’d like to display. Some have much to choose from. You look as though you haven’t even heard me.
I allow a few classes to pass before I ask you. That afternoon, you’ve lingered, unintentionally, because a sheaf of your painted papers fell to the floor, scattering like leaves.
‘Have you thought about it …?’
You stare up at me. Startled.
‘What you’d like to display … for the end-of-year exhibition …’
You still look blank. It’s exasperating.
‘Yes …’
‘Oh good. And …?’
‘I’m still thinking … I don’t know …’
I begin to make a few suggestions, and then stop. What am I doing? This is undoubtedly the best way to get you to not participate. ‘Well … let me know if you need any help …’
You nod, and shuffle out of the room.
One day, when I’ve given up on any hope of you returning to your old self, you stay back in class. I’m at my desk examining some paintings for our show.
‘What happened?’
I look at you, puzzled.
You come closer, clutching your books to your chest. You’ve never really recovered your weight since your illness, and your cheeks remain pale and hollow.
‘What do you mean?’
You gesture at the paintings.
‘I’m trying to choose frames …’ I begin.
‘No,’ you interrupt. ‘I mean your hands. What happened?’
