The Stranglers Honeymoon

5

Monica Kammerle sat waiting outside the school welfare officer’s office.

While she was waiting, she wondered why she was in fact sitting there. To be honest there were two reasons, but they weren’t really connected. Not directly, at least.

In the first place she had promised that priest to go to the school welfare officer and talk to her about her situation. He had both nagged at her and appealed to her, and in the end she had agreed to go along with it. Not that she was going to tell the welfare officer everything — that was what Pastor Gassel had intended, of course, but she was not going to go quite that far. If she had really wanted to do that, there would have been no need to call in at the church — he ought to have realized that. And there was professional secrecy and there was professional secrecy, that was something she had gathered long ago.

The whole business had disturbed him deeply, that was obvious. She had tried to explain that quite a lot might look worse from the outside than it did from the inside, but he had dismissed any such thought.

‘Look here, my girl! You simply cannot go on like this, you must surely see that!’ he had said when she met him for the second time. ‘What you have confided in me goes against all ethical and moral values, and will end in disaster. You are too young to escape unscathed from anything like that. You won’t be able to cope with it!’

And you are too inexperienced to understand, she had thought.

Anyway, in the end she had promised to talk to the welfare officer: but before making an appointment she made sure she had thought up a rather more seemly reason. It hadn’t been all that difficult: her relationship with her schoolmates was sufficiently poor for it to merit a meeting, anybody could see that. As long as she was able to describe it convincingly.

When she had come that far, she had decided to take matters a step further.

A change of school. It was a good idea to have a specific proposal to make. She intended to explain to this washed-out fifty-year-old woman — who called herself a welfare officer, but hadn’t made a very convincing impression when she was introduced to the pupils at a special assembly in the hall soon after her appointment — to explain certain carefully selected parts of her situation as comprehensively as possible, and make her understand that a school transfer was the only plausible solution for a pupil with Monica Kammerle’s problem profile.

As it was called. She had been there before.

The Joannis Grammar School out at Löhr, for instance.

As far as she had been able to discover there were eleven grammar schools in the Maardam area, and if there was one which might be able to give her the opportunity of a new start, it must surely be Joannis. If there was a school where she stood a chance of being completely unknown to her new unprejudiced schoolmates, this was the one. No pupil from Deijkstraa had ever attended a school in Löhr — one lunchtime she had checked through all local school record books for the last four years in the library, where they were kept in large black files. Yes, she felt confident that she would be able to convince the welfare officer that taking this step would be reasonable and necessary. The business of bus passes and choice of subjects and other practical and technical details — well, if she really was a welfare officer she should be able to sort out such matters.

Monica laughed when she thought about this and her own sudden ability to act positively. Perhaps it was the young priest who had inspired her to such decisiveness, despite everything; but something had also happened after that latest embrace with Benjamin. Just happened, apparently of its own accord.

Embrace? She didn’t really know what to call it, but after having come to terms with the feelings of disgust and the almost shocking re-evaluation of their relationship, some sort of inner strength seemed to have germinated inside her. She had noticed it even before she went to confession for the first time: obviously it was far from certain that it would last — she had been through periods of depression before, and there were those who maintained that manic depression was a hereditary illness. But why not take this opportunity of doing something positive if she was on a high for once?

Why not, indeed? She looked at the clock and established that the welfare officer was running ten minutes late. Or that her current client was going on at length. The little lamp over her door shone red and insistently. In a way Monica felt comforted to discover that there seemed to be other pupils with problems. That she wasn’t the only one. That there was evidently some other confused and lonely teenager in there, who didn’t know what he should do next. Or she.

Or was the old witch just sitting there, gossiping on the phone and drinking coffee?

Monica sighed, sat up straight and began thinking about Benjamin Kerran instead.

Nine days had passed, and he hadn’t been in touch.

She couldn’t make up her mind if this surprised her or not. She didn’t know if her mother had been seeing him: in any case, they hadn’t been seen together at home in Moerckstraat, she was quite sure of that.

But she had been talking about him, she certainly had. In a way and in such words that Monica suspected her mother was becoming rather dependent on him. On having a relationship with him. And that she probably hoped it would develop into something more serious.

There wasn’t much doubt about it — her mother was not the type to hide her feelings and her thoughts. Not from her daughter. And she never bothered even to try to do so, even if that might have been best at times.

No, it seemed her mother wanted to carry on seeing Benjamin Kerran. Monica had begun to notice the first signs that her stability was starting to waver, but the more she was able to hold that Sunday morning experience at arm’s length, the more convinced she became that it might be possible to sort things out somehow or other.

That her mother and Benjamin might be able to have a perfectly normal relationship, and that this shameful triangular affair in the early days might gradually fade away and be forgotten.

Why not? she thought again, and wondered if perhaps this was how it felt when you weren’t seeing problems from a slightly manic point of view.

Mind you, how she would react when she met Benjamin the next time was something she was not at all sure about.

And she had no desire to think about it, either. Que sera sera, as they say. And how would he react?

She noticed that sitting there on the chair was becoming uncomfortable, and that she was becoming impatient.

Turn green now, you little bastard! she thought in irritation as she gazed at the lamp over the welfare officer’s door — and as if as a result of a telepathic miracle, it suddenly did just that.

‘Wow!’ Monica whispered to herself. She stood up and opened the door.

It went more easily than she had imagined.

Much more. The welfare officer listened to her account of the situation at school, and to her proposed solution. Nodded encouragingly and promised to make contact with Joannis that very afternoon and see if there might be a place for her there. If Monica called in at the same time tomorrow, she would find out what decision had been made.

It was almost as if she wanted to get rid of me, Monica thought as she walked back to her classroom; but she dismissed the thought.

And when she found herself sitting once more on the comfortable green sofa in the welfare officer’s room the next morning, she was informed that everything was done and dusted. There was no reason why Monica couldn’t start at the Joannis Grammar School this coming Friday: there was a biology class with only twenty-three pupils, and if she found that she would be happy in it, she could transfer straight away.

She was given the name of another welfare officer at the new school who would help her on Friday, then she could spend the weekend thinking things over, and make up her mind.

So easy, Monica thought. But perhaps these matters weren’t so difficult after all, provided you applied yourself to getting to grips with things.

And she hadn’t said a word about Benjamin Karren.

That same evening, Thursday 21 September, she noticed definite signs that her mother was on the way down again.

When she came home from school her mother was in bed, half asleep. Monica woke her up and explained that she was thinking about changing schools and would be travelling out to Löhr the next day: but her mother only nodded and muttered something about that no doubt being a good idea.

She had a sore throat, she claimed, and had skipped today’s course — but it was a crappy course anyway, so it didn’t really matter.

She hadn’t done any shopping, so if Monica wanted a meal that evening she would either have to go to the shops or see what was available in the freezer. She wasn’t hungry.

There was virtually no money in the housekeeping kitty, so Monica made an omelette and a sandwich. She had just finished eating and washing up when the phone rang. She expected her mother to answer, but gathered she had probably pulled the plug out in the bedroom. Monica hurried into the living room and took the call.

It was Benjamin.

He was in his car, outside their front door, talking on his mobile, he explained. He asked if she had anything against meeting him for a little chat. It might be a good idea to discuss a few matters, he suggested.

She hesitated for a few moments, made a quick calculation and concluded that it was now eleven days since he had slunk out of her bedroom.

Then she said yes.

Provided it didn’t take too long, she added. She had quite a few things to see to.

Benjamin accepted this, and five minutes later she was sitting in the passenger seat of his car. He was wearing the same shirt as he’d had on that first evening on the sofa, she noted.