Was he just giving me the good parts in the school plays because he had the hots for my ma?!
When the drama teacher started visiting us regularly and gazing at Mum with doe eyes, it was clear he’d fallen for her, big time.
He was in a relationship with another woman, though. A woman whom he’d been with for ten years. It was complicated, as his feelings for mum were deepening by the day and he simply couldn’t ignore them.
A tall, dark, and handsome man, with a large nose. He could pull off scruffy in denim dungarees, or be a dandy in a tweed three-piece suit, but he always elevated his attire with a silk scarf or bow tie, a peaked cap, or Theodora hat. A visibly eccentric thespian.
My mum welcomed his advances; the feelings were mutual, and as soon as he knew for certain, he packed his bags and walked away from his relationship, leaving behind the partner and his precious collections of books, instruments and vinyl.
It was a brave move to step into this all-female family of three. My sister, mum and I had been a team for so long, it was normal for us to talk openly about ‘female issues’, and we secretly revelled in his blushes as we discussed bodily fluids around the dining table.
He was thoughtful and considerate, though, and did a good job of stepping into our tight-knit group, cautiously, sensitively, never offering advice unless advice was requested, never trying to parent these teenagers with an attitude that had come as part of the package.
Living with my sister and me through our adolescence can’t have been a breeze, but perhaps the work he did as a psychiatric nurse before he took up teaching was helpful to him at this time? A calm understanding of our intensely emotional reactions to just about everything.
He was smart too. I mean, highly intelligent, with an IQ in the top 2% of the general population. A member of Mensa. And entertaining. A great storyteller. Through his nursing, he’d realised that the imagination has the power to heal. He took this clinical philosophy into his teaching, championing oral storytelling, not just as entertainment, but as a vital therapeutic tool for mental and emotional development.
He was obsessed with stories of every kind, and he’d gathered a wide variety over the years. They could be about the ‘Knights of the Round Table’, or a classic Celtic folklore, or even a psychiatric patient from his nursing days:
‘I used to clean a patient’s false teeth for her every night, and every night she’d say the same thing to me: “You brack ‘em, you pay for ‘em!”’
He told stories in English, French, even Scots Gaelic, which he learned just for fun and just so that he could be hailed as a Seanachaidh (a traditional Gaelic storyteller).
The guy was surely just showing off? He was from London, for god’s sake!
When I picture him in that house now, I see him sitting in the huge bay window, with the lovingly stripped and waxed wood. Usually reading a book and tapping on the tips of his moustache or twiddling his beard.
That bay was the meeting point for all family business: family meetings, birthday get-togethers, the location of the tree at Christmas. We’d all gather in that window to share secrets, air grievances, or open presents.
The drama teacher may well have been intelligent, but he didn’t have any common sense, it turned out!
He loved nougat and would often be gifted some for Christmas, so we shouldn’t have been surprised when he mistook the gift of a pink bath bomb as this sweet candy. We all watched as he sniffed it, our eyes widening and jaws dropping as he bit a huge chunk out of it. And we all waited with bated breath in anticipation of what would happen next. Effervescent explosion!
Surely, he wouldn’t fall for it a second time? Surely, he would suss us out if we gave him soap shaped like chocolate the following year? Surely?
Nope, he sniffed it, then bit off a huge chunk! What a total numpty!
F***ing hilarious!
Family celebrations would never be the same again. Now we were a family of four.
Four plus the two cats, Pinsky and Buff, who he was badly allergic to, but in my eyes, they were also part of the family. He would just have to live with them if he wanted to stay.
I was particularly attached to Pinsky, who had followed me for an entire paper round after I’d stopped to pet him. I went into the pet shop to ask if they knew who he belonged to.
‘He’s been sleeping under the hedge over the road for the past two nights, so we called the cat home to come and collect him. They’ll be picking him up in the morning. Would you be willing to give him a home for the night?’
I took him home and, right on cue, as I walked into the living room to ask Mum if he could stay over, he curled around my ankle.
‘Oh, pinskalina pussina!’ my mum cooed.
The cat home never did come to collect him.
I didn’t care that the cat’s presence was exacerbating this new lover’s asthma. He was here first and here to stay.
The poor guy had had a hellish history with his lungs. A severe asthma attack had caused one of his lungs to collapse when he was only nineteen years old. He’d had to suffer invasive surgery to fix it, only for the other to collapse a couple of years later. By now, he had an extremely fragile chest and a weak immune system. Coughs and colds were easily picked up, laying him out flat for days on end.
This fragility led to a sedentary lifestyle, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He was content to spend his time reading, playing musical instruments, learning languages, drawing comics, or writing poetry.
He soon realised that he couldn’t bear to give up his books, albums, and instruments. All the things he’d walked out on to be with mum. He’d have to bite the bullet and go back to collect them from his ex. Before I knew what was happening, our living room filled up with books from floor to ceiling, his mandolin and bodhrán drum adorned the walls, and his Ian Dury album ‘New Boots and Panties!!’ crackled on the turntable.
He and mum were deeply in love, and his feet were well under the table now.
I still had a slight niggle that he might be favouring me in the drama class because of this connection, but I didn’t care. At least I often got the best female roles. It was usually between me and this other talented girl, so when she got the lead in the next school play and I got a rubbish part, I was hugely disappointed.
Who could have predicted that just one week before the opening night, she’d be struck down with chickenpox? And who was there to save the day? Moi!
I glowed with pride at my next school report, which suggested that, with a little work, I ‘could go far in this sphere…’
He was a huge influence in my decision to study drama full-time when I left school, helping me prepare my audition pieces (one of which, an extract from this very play). With his direction and support, this once shy girl continued to gain confidence.
I was 14 years old, and he’d been living with us for nine months when the family meeting was called. ‘We have something to tell you both,’ mum said as she rallied us into the living room bay window.
It was the drama teacher who broke the news:
‘We’re going to get married.’
I felt a lump in my throat and my eyes filled with tears. Not sad, just taken aback. But what he said next stunned me so much more.
‘We’re also going to have a baby!’
MORE FROM THIS SERIES
I’m Julia, a mixed-media artist and web designer from Edinburgh Scotland. I moved to France in 2016 with my husband, Colin, to buy a house and open an artist residency. These are my stories.
Find me at www.juliadouglas.co.uk
and on Instagram @juliadouglas or Facebook @JuliaDouglasArt
I remember Mary telling me that Peter had been a psychiatric nurse earlier on in his life. I was a mental health nurse too and becoming a drama teacher would be an obvious spin off to me, from mental health nursing, as there is a lot of drama in mental health wards, that could be better expressed, and used as a therapeutic tool, through drama and acting.
So many people have bottled up emotions, that can make them ill. Always better to be able to let stuff out. Storytelling too. Everyone has a story to tell and being allowed to tell Your Story, can be healing too. Bottling things up is sometimes necessary, but in the end, it has to come out and people usually feel a lot better for expressing themselves in whatever way they find.
The Arts generally are all useful ways of making what is 'hidden' - visible. Art and Drama Therapy are both fully recognised now, as important fields in mental health work, as is music and Music Therapy. Dance, as well.
I never knew that Peter had gone through two lung collapses. He never looked 'ill' but going through that twice, would have given him time to reflect and maybe that was why he had a quiet side too. He would have had to Slow Down, to recover from these two experiences.
Sorry. This is a bit 'long.'
It strikes me that you have been so fortunate to have had such lovely people in your life, Julia. But then, like attracts like, so no surprise there!! Thank for sharing these memories with us. I would have loved to have met them both!