The New Samurai Page 6

  Sylvie didn’t comment; instead she changed the subject.

  “So, do you have plans tonight? With Elle?”

  “Yes. She’s booked a restaurant in her part of Islington. Low-key, I hope.” He didn’t sound very hopeful.

  “Hmm,” said Sylvie, biting back whatever comment had occurred to her.

  “What about you and Wayne?” said Sam, ignoring her lack of response.

  She laughed incredulously. “Are you kidding? I’m eight months pregnant! I’m the size of a house! If Wayne comes near me I would probably suffocate him. Anyway, he’s going to his mother’s for a couple of days before…” She sighed. “Oh well, only two days to half-term and that’s me finished.” She chewed her lip absentmindedly. “It’ll be strange not being at school. I’ve never not worked…”

  Sam put his arm around her and gave her a hug. “You’ll love it,” he said, reassuringly. “Fiona was just the same, but now she says it’s the best thing she’s ever done.”

  “What about you, Sam?” said Sylvie, thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re great with Rosa: do you want to have kids of your own? When you’ve met the right woman?”

  Sam raised his eyebrows, a half-smile on his face.

  “Oh, sorry,” said Sylvie, who looked a bit embarrassed as she realised what she’d said.

  Sam shrugged. “You’re probably right. I can’t imagine Elle giving up her career even for a few months… but, yeah. I think I’d like to have kids. One day.”

  Sylvie patted him on the shoulder and wished him a pleasant evening.

  First, Sam had to get through the day.

  He was careful to get to all his classes early to remove any evidence of students defying the ban. Twice he had to sweep away offending envelopes, concealing them in his laptop case before the pupils arrived. He thought he detected one or two disappointed faces among his pupils but he kept his mind focussed rigidly on his work.

  It was therefore with some surprise and misgiving that he received a note during his last lesson of the day, requesting his presence in front of Principal Skinner.

  Sam packed up his crate, as usual filled with work to mark as well as a number of reference books borrowed from what was left of the school library, and made his way to the principal’s office.

  Yvonne, Mr Skinner’s PA, didn’t smile when she saw him. This was definitely not a good sign; normally she was a cheerful woman, overflowing with a calm and maternal kindness for staff and students alike.

  “He’s expecting you, Sam,” she said, softly.

  Sam knocked on the door and waited for the gruff, “Come in.”

  He entered and took the seat he was directed to, in front of Principal Skinner’s desk.

  “Ah, Mr Patterson. Thank you for coming. You got my note, of course?”

  Sam nodded.

  “Yes, yes, of course. Well, Sam, I’m afraid this is a rather delicate situation.”

  Sam waited, the contraband Valentine cards in his laptop case, weighing heavily.

  But the direction of the conversation surprised him.

  “As you know,” began Principal Skinner, “you were originally employed to cover Mrs Snow’s sick leave. That went on longer than any of us could have anticipated although, I must say, we have really valued your work here.”

  Now Sam was worried.

  “But I’ve had some good news today,” Skinner continued, although his expression was still severe. “Mrs Snow has informed me that she is fit to return to work – and would like to come back after half-term.”

  Sam felt his face go blank.

  “But I’m afraid that means, therefore, that your place in the English department will be, er, surplus to requirements. I’m sorry, Sam. I know you were hoping that your contract would be made permanent but I just don’t have the budget to spare. I will, of course, pay you a month’s salary in lieu of notice and will provide excellent references.”

  “You want me to leave on Friday?” said Sam. “In two days?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid that’s the size of it,” said Skinner, his face grave. “I really wish I had better news for you, Sam.”

  Sam shook his head bleakly. “Well, thank you for being so frank.”

  He stood up, feeling suddenly empty.

  “And I do hope you’ll come back and see us some time,” said Skinner, a businesslike smile on his face now that the deed had been done. “I’ll have Yvonne get the paperwork in order for Friday.”

  He offered his hand briefly and Sam was ushered out of the office. Yvonne’s face was sympathetic.

  “We’re going to miss you, Sam,” she said, quietly. “You’ve been a breath of fresh air around here.”

  She stepped round from behind her desk and gave him a hug.

  “Thanks,” he said, his voice still dazed.

  Outside the principal’s office he bumped into Ioan Jones, his head of department. Instead of the usual benign smile, he looked furious.

  “Sam! I was told the news less than an hour ago! They didn’t even have the courtesy to discuss this decision with me first. I’m absolutely livid! I know we haven’t always seen eye-to-eye but this is unforgiveable. I shan’t be letting this go, I can assure you!”

  Sam was surprised and pleased, although he doubted Mr Jones would be able to sway their principal’s mind, let alone his budget.

  Mr Jones clapped him on the shoulder and left Sam to wander miserably to the car park. Two days! He wouldn’t even have a chance to say goodbye to some of his classes.

  He threw his crate of books into the car’s trunk and sat in the driver’s seat, his head in his hands. It was some moments before he noticed that more than a dozen Valentine cards had been tucked under the windscreen wipers.

  Sighing, he dragged himself out of the car and threw the cards unopened on the backseat.

  More slowly than usual, he drove home, stopping only at the newsagent to buy a six-pack of lager and a copy of the Times Educational Supplement. He slumped onto the settee and flipped to the situations pages; as of this afternoon, he was looking for a new job.

  He’d never felt less like going out to celebrate Valentine’s Day and twice picked up his phone to call Elle to cancel; in the end he decided it would be selfish to spoil her evening, too. And sitting around alone wasn’t going to solve anything.

  Keith found him still hunched on the settee, staring moodily at an unopened can of lager.

  “What’s up, mate?” said Keith. “Didn’t you get any Valentine cards?”

  He laughed noisily.

  Sam grimaced. “I got fired,” he said, flatly.

  Keith’s laugh cut off immediately.

  “What?”

  “The woman whose sick leave I was covering: she’s coming back. They want me gone by Friday.”

  Keith gaped. “Can they do that?”

  “They just have.”

  “Bloody hell, mate! I’m really sorry,” said Keith, sounding shocked.

  “You and me both.”

  Sam stood up and tossed the unopened can to his friend.

  “I’ll see you later.”

  As Sam drove to Islington, his mind was preoccupied. Twice cars honked at him when he failed to notice that the traffic lights had changed to green. He gave himself a mental shake: having an accident on top of everything else was not going to improve the evening.

  As he parked outside Elle’s house, Sam couldn’t help thinking that the Nissan looked sad and shabby in this fashionable neighbourhood. He’d hoped to upgrade his car later on in the year, but that was off the cards now he was unemployed.

  He rang the doorbell and waited until he heard the familiar clip-clop of Elle’s heels down the long hallway. She opened the door, looking fabulous in a pale blue cheongsam.

  She stared at him appreciatively.

  “Mmm! You look good enough to eat!” she said, practically licking her lips.

  “You look great,” he said, giving her a peck on the cheek.

  “What was that?” she said, crossly, barring
his entry.

  She was used to a more effusive response from him.

  “Sorry,” he said, quietly. “Bad day.”

  “Then let me make it better,” she said, grabbing him by his belt and pulling him through the door.

  She pushed him against the wall and began pulling on his shirt, her mouth urgent on his. He kissed back automatically, trying to respond with equal enthusiasm; he was getting better at faking it.

  “That’s more like it,” she said, releasing him at last. “Oh God, look at that.”

  She caught sight of her smudged lipstick in the enormous hallway mirror. “I’ll have to do it again,” she said, looking rather pleased with herself.

  As she reapplied the lipstick with expertise, she carried on talking.

  “I’ve booked the most divine restaurant,” she said. “It’s been reviewed everywhere; I was lucky to get a reservation.”

  She caught the look on his face.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, acidly. “I’m paying.”

  “Elle, you know that’s not what I meant,” he said, coolly. “But it’s been a bad day today, I…”

  She interrupted him, frowning.

  “I don’t want to hear it!” She held up her hand like a traffic cop. “This is so not the time for bad news. We’re celebrating, remember?”

  Sam bit back a reply. He was afraid if he said anything, he might rapidly regret the words. Or she would.

  A taxi’s horn honked outside.

  In a stony silence they left Elle’s house. He could feel her throwing puzzled looks at him, but he ignored them. As they walked towards the taxi they passed his car. She suddenly pulled on his arm, forcing him to stop.

  “Wait!” she said, angrily, “What are those?”

  She pointed to the pile of unopened pink and red envelopes on the back seat of his car.

  Sam shrugged.

  “Valentine cards,” he said, tiredly. “From my pupils. I don’t know; I haven’t opened them.”

  Elle’s lips pressed together in a thin line but she didn’t say any more.

  The restaurant was a very short distance from Elle’s house. Sam would never have bothered to get a taxi for what was, in effect, a 10 minute stroll. He wished she’d give up those damned high heels sometimes and live like a mortal for a change.

  He held open the restaurant door and she stalked in. The maitre d’ took her coat and Sam’s jacket and led them to a table in the middle of the room. Elle was pleased: she liked being the centre of attention.

  Already the room was full of happy couples examining the menus and knocking back the champagne and free amuse-bouche that were being served up.

  Sam stared sourly at the ridiculous prices displayed on the menu. Why did she always have to choose places that were so pretentious? He hated the fact that he couldn’t really afford to pay his way, especially when she made an issue about it – and especially now. He would pay his way, of course, even if it left him short for the rest of the month. And Skinner had promised him a month’s severance pay. What the hell. Why not enjoy it while it lasted.

  He forced himself to smile and took Elle’s hand in his, gently kissing her fingers, one by one.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day, Elle,” he whispered, looking seriously into her eyes.

  Her frigid expression melted instantly.

  “I’ve got you a present,” she said, giggling in a very un-Elle like way, “but you can’t see it till later.”

  He raised one eyebrow.

  “How much later?”

  “Let’s skip the dessert,” she said.

  Just then his phone rang.

  “Leave it,” Elle ordered.

  “I’ll turn it off,” he agreed.

  But the caller ID surprised him. Sam frowned.

  “Actually I’d better take this one: it’s Sylvie.”

  He answered the phone whilst Elle’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

  “Hey Sylvie, what’s up?”

  “Oh, Sam! Thank God!” came a frightened voice.

  He was shocked by her tone. “What’s the matter?”

  “My… my waters broke!” she cried, her voice cracking, near hysteria. “And Wayne’s on his way to see his mother in Bournemouth and he’s not answering his phone. I’m so scared! It’s a month too soon. Sam, I know you’re with Elle, but will you come… I…”

  “Of course I will,” said Sam, quickly. “Phone for an ambulance and I’ll get there as fast as I can. Just try and… be calm, Sylvie.”

  “Thank you, Sam. Please hurry!”

  Sam flipped the phone shut and stood up quickly.

  “What. Was. That?” said Elle, her face dark with fury.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But that was Sylvie. The baby’s coming. We need to go.”

  “We?” she said, her voice loud with disbelief.

  Several of the other diners looked up in surprise.

  “Fine,” said Sam, also more loudly than usual. “Just me, then. But Sylvie needs me and I have to go.”

  “You’re not going anywhere!” said Elle, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. “What does she need you for? You’re not a midwife! Do you know how hard it is to get a booking at this restaurant?”

  Sam stared at her in disgust. “Well, enjoy your meal. I’m going.”

  He pulled away from her and collected his jacket.

  “You walk away now and don’t even think about coming back,” she said, her voice loud again.

  Several diners tittered and the maitre d’ hovered nervously.

  “Whatever,” said Sam.

  “Don’t you dare leave!” she shouted to his back.

  He carried on walking.

  Her screech of anger carried across the entire room.

  “Fuck you, Sam!”

  “Not anymore,” he said, as he strode from the restaurant.

  Sam ran to his car and accelerated out of Islington at top speed. He fumed at every red light, every pedestrian crossing, and his fingers drummed impatiently on the steering wheel at every junction.

  Twenty minutes later the car screeched to a halt outside Sylvie’s house and Sam crossed the pavement in one stride. She was standing at the door, tears coursing down her face, her hospital bag packed and ready by her side.

  “Where’s the ambulance?” said Sam, his throat constricting painfully.

  “They said I’m not a priority,” whimpered Sylvie. “They say it’ll be at least an hour, but I mustn’t worry because the baby won’t come that quickly! But it is! I’m sure it is. Sam, what do I do?”

  Sam looked around him in a panic. He was way out of his depth. Tearful pregnant women were definitely not in his lesson plan. His sister’s birth had been mounted with military precision – there’d been nothing left for him to do. But Sylvie…

  “I’ll… I’ll drive you to the hospital,” said Sam. “Just don’t have the baby until we get there, okay?”

  Sylvie whimpered and clutched her stomach.

  “What’s happening?” choked Sam, his face ashen.

  “Contrac…tions!” gasped Sylvie. “I think you’d better hurry!”

  Sam tossed Sylvie’s overnight bag onto the rear seat, scattering his Valentine cards like confetti. Then he opened the passenger door and gingerly helped Sylvie climb in. He leaned across her, doing up her seatbelt as she wheezed and gasped.

  He practically vaulted over the bonnet in his desire to get the hell out of there, hands shaking.

  His eyes were wide with terror as he raced through the busy London streets. Sylvie’s contractions were coming faster now and it was obvious, even to Sam’s inexperienced eyes, that they didn’t have long.

  He overtook a line of cars outside the hospital, ignoring their furious honking, and abandoned the car at a rakish angle in front of A&E.

  “I’ll be back!” he shouted at Sylvie, his eyes wild.

  He charged through the hospital doors and flung himself at the receptionist.

  “My friend’s having a baby!” he yelled
, pointing behind him. “I think she’s having it now!”

  “Is she booked to have a baby in our maternity unit?” asked the receptionist calmly.

  “Yes! It’s not due for another month but she’s having contractions now!”

  The fact that the baby was early spurred the receptionist into a rapid and practised routine. Seconds later two nurses ran past with a wheelchair and Sam could hear the receptionist paging the midwife on duty.

  Sam sprinted after the nurses and watched anxiously as they helped Sylvie out of the car. He tried to follow them but a severe-looking security guard told him to move his car or it would be clamped.

  “I’ll be alright, Sam,” said Sylvie, her voice tight with pain. “Just find me as soon as you can.”

  Swearing under his breath, Sam ran back to the car and raced it round to the car park. He fumbled in his pockets for change: he didn’t care about getting a ticket, but he couldn’t afford for it to be clamped or towed – not when he might need it for Sylvie.

  He was running back to the hospital when it occurred to him that Wayne might have arrived at Bournemouth by now. He skidded to a halt and dialled his number.

  “Hello, mate,” came the calm voice. “I thought you’d be on the big date with Elle by now. Come to your senses, have you?”

  “Wayne! Don’t you ever pick up your bloody messages!” shouted Sam. “I’m at the hospital; Sylvie’s gone into labour. You’ve got to come back!”

  When Wayne spoke, his voice sounded faint and more than a little confused.

  “But she’s not due for another month?”

  “Well, the baby doesn’t know that,” yelled Sam, “so get back here now!”

  Finally the penny dropped, and Wayne was bellowing down the phone.

  “Right. Right! I’m on my way! Sam – stay with her, won’t you? She’ll be terrified if she’s all by herself.”

  Sam promised, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do – he’d have been happier running in the other direction, wrestling grizzlies, facing a mob of Millwall fans – anything but being relied on by a scared, pregnant woman.

  He sprinted back to the hospital, and even the few seconds it took to find out where the maternity ward was located seemed too long.

  Sam heard Sylvie’s screams echoing down the corridor before he saw her. The sounds had a feral, uncontrolled edge to them, and it stopped him in his tracks.