Class Act Read Online Free PDF

bully she is. How she yells at me all the time even though I’m doing my best, I really am. It’s just I’m no good at my work.’
    â€˜I know.’ Dad scratched the back of one hand with the other. ‘I really do.’ Brian watched the skin wrinkle and redden. ‘I was the same. Maths, spelling – didn’t have a clue. We’re not cut out for school, Brian.’
    â€˜So? That doesn’t give her the right to treat me like that. Please, Dad, go in.’
    â€˜I …’ Dad blinked. ‘I wouldn’t know what to say.’
    Brian slipped off the desk. ‘I just told you.’
    â€˜What if they don’t believe me?’
    â€˜But it’s true.’ Brian glared at him. ‘Don’t you believe me?’
    â€˜Of course.’ Dad’s eyes were soft and scared. ‘It’s just I’m no good at this sort of thing.’
    â€˜Who cares? It’s your job.’ A bomb went off inside Brian. ‘ Mum would’ve gone in! She’d never have let this happen in the first place. She’d have sorted Florrie out ages ago.’
    Dad bunched his hands in his lap.
    â€˜But you just sit there,’ Brian yelled, ‘hiding behind your desk, all pathetic and hopeless and scared!’
    Dad closed his eyes.
    Wheeling round, Brian strode out of the workshop, slamming the door so that the whole shed shook. He marched across the lawn, numbed by the venom of his words. Then, like a wasp sting, their poison sank in. Rage and guilt fought inside him. Dad deserved all that. He clenched his fists. Well maybe not all. Maybe not pathetic. He shoved the back door open. Or hopeless . He ran through the kitchen and down the hall. But definitely scared. He climbed the stairs, two at a time.
    On the landing he stopped. Instead of going into his room and hurling himself on the bed, he crossed to Dad’s – Mum’s – bedroom.
    Opening the door, his anger gave way to guilt. If it wasn’t for him, Mum would still be here.
    He sat on the bed, winded for a second by grief. Then, breathing slowly and carefully, he opened the drawer in Dad’s bedside table and took out a wooden box. The lid was curved and embossed with gold like a mini pirate chest. Brian opened it. To Lily , it said inside, with you know how much love. Bernard.
    Mum had once told Brian that Dad’s name meant brave as a bear. ‘Brave as a feather,’ he muttered savagely.
    Inside the box were pieces of Mum.
    Before you go and ring the police, please understand that to Brian Mum’s jewellery was part of her, just like her nose or her laugh. She’d worn most of it most of the time because, of course, it was made by Dad. There was the amethyst butterfly on a chain that swung forward every time she bent to kiss Brian. There were the gold bangles which clinked as she climbed the stairs, heralding the bedtime story.
    But Brian was looking for something else. Closing his eyes, his fingertips explored each familiar piece. It felt as if he were touching not metal and gemstones but Mum herself. There was the sharp tip of her dragonfly brooch, and there the cold moons of her agate necklace. His fingers closed round a smooth hoop. Yes. He took it out, slipped it onto his middle finger and opened his eyes.
    Mum’s engagement ring. It was the only piece of jewellery Dad had ever bought. The oval amber, set in silver, was held by four tiny clasps. It was as plain as a barley sugar – except for one thing.
    Mum had often told Brian the story of their fourth date. Dad had taken her for a picnic by the river. Kneeling down on the rug to propose, he’d been so nervous that he’d knocked over a pot of honey. She’d laughed and said, ‘Oops, and yes I will.’ When he’d clasped her hand and promised to make her a dream ring, she’d said, ‘Thank you, Bernard, oh look there’s a bee stuck in the honey.’ Then she’d lifted it out