The Tutor Read online

  THE TUTOR

  DANIEL HURST

  www.danielhurstbooks.com

  Copyright © 2021 by Daniel Hurst

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  The Tutor

  THE FIRST LESSON

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  THE SECOND LESSON

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  THE THIRD LESSON

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  THE FOURTH LESSON

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  THE FIFTH LESSON

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  THE SIXTH LESSON

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  THE SEVENTH LESSON

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  THE EIGHTH LESSON

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  THE NINTH LESSON

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  THE TENTH LESSON

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  THE FINAL LESSON

  Coming soon from Daniel Hurst

  TIL DEATH DO US PART

  1

  2

  INFLUENCE

  20 MINUTES ON THE TUBE

  ALL BOOKS BY DANIEL HURST

  About The Author

  ‘Tell me and I forget. Teach me and I remember.’

  Benjamin Franklin

  THE FIRST LESSON

  The glow from the flames could be seen for miles.

  At a distance, they might have looked beautiful. But up close, they weren’t quite so pretty. They roared, raced and devoured every part of the building and soon there was nothing left of the school.

  This place where so many children sat exams was no match for the test it faced that night. In the morning, only ash and embers remained, and unless you were from this area, then you wouldn’t even know that a school had been here at all. But if you were from this town, then you will have known about the devastation that occurred here.

  A place where youngsters learnt, a place where adults taught, and a place where the first shoots of promising careers grew. All gone, wiped out in a blaze as unforgiving as a bad grade or a detention. By the time the sun came up on this Warwickshire town, there was no school and nowhere for the children to learn.

  Forget Maths, English and Science.

  The first lesson is that every action has consequences.

  1

  AMY

  I always hated school. The sight of all the uniforms descending on one location. The sound of the bell blaring out across the playground. The smell of disinfectant in the corridors, as if that would be enough to prevent the spread of germs in a place full of snotty children. And worst of all, the feeling of dread in my stomach as I passed through the gates on my way to another day of classes.

  Thank God I don’t have to go through that anymore. Thank God I am the parent now, instead of the pupil.

  I can still see all the uniforms around me, just like I can hear the bell ringing out across this concrete playground. I’m sure that if I walked inside and stood in the corridors, then I would smell the bleach too. But it doesn’t seem as bad now because I know that I am only here for a few minutes. Even the feeling of dread in my stomach is only a fraction of what it once was as I pass through the gates today. Maybe that’s because I’m older and wiser, or maybe it’s just because I’m driving through them in my car rather than shuffling through them by foot with my heavy schoolbag. Either way, being back here again isn’t as bad as it used to be for me. But that doesn’t mean that I like it. I still can’t wait to drop my kids off and get out of here. This place gives me the jitters.

  It always has, and it always will.

  As I head towards one of the few remaining spaces in the car park, navigating my vehicle through a sea of riotous youngsters and sleep-deprived parents, I am struck again by how much this place has changed since I was a pupil here. The uniform is still the same rancid purple colour that it always was, the bell still carries its eardrum-bursting volume, and the school gates still cause butterflies, but everything else is different. The drab grey building has gone, in its place a gleaming metallic structure that looks a lot more appealing than the premises where I spent so much of my childhood. The car park is bigger and better maintained now and not the pothole-ridden mess that it was when I used to navigate it as a child. And in the distance, I can see the fences that circle the sports pitches, all very modern and state-of-the-art and a far cry from the patch of gravel where I used to have to play hockey while trying to avoid falling over and losing half of the skin on my legs.

  There is no doubt about it. This place looks a lot better than it used to.

  Maybe the fire wasn’t such a bad thing to happen after all...

  I shake my head as if to brush away the memory of the inferno before it can entrench itself further into my day. It was a long time ago, and things have moved on. These school grounds are evidence of that.

  ‘Mum, watch out!’

  The sound of my son’s voice from behind me in the back seat snaps me out of my daydream, and I slam on the brakes just before I hit the mother and child walking across the front of our car.

  I wave an apologetic hand at the passing parent who scowls at me as she leads her daughter away from my vehicle. I was only going five miles an hour, but still, best not to bump into the pupils at any speed. That sort of thing could lead to the Headmaster issuing me with a ban from parking here which would be annoying for the school run. My daughter Bella is in her first year at Sharpbell High, so I’m a long way off leaving this place behind for good.

  ‘Good driving,’ says my son, Michael, and I roll my eyes at his sarcasm.

  ‘Let me know when you pass your test, and then you can comment,’ I reply, and that shuts him up.

  At sixteen, he is still a year off being able to begin driving lessons, which means he is still a long way from being ready to get behind the wheel and drive himself around. He hates the fact that I still drop him off, although I have told him that he is more than welcome to get the bus or walk instead. Of course, he doesn’t do either of those things because that would require him having to get out of bed earlier in the morning and he can’t bear the thought of doing that.

  I guide my car into the parking spot and relax, having successfully navigated my way through the minefield that is the school grounds at half-past eight on a Monday morning.

  ‘Thanks Mum,’ Bella says as she picks up her bag from the footwell and opens her door.

  ‘Have a good day love,’ I say to her, but she is already out, eager to get inside and see her friends. She
actually likes going to school, which is something that neither Michael nor I could ever say.

  ‘Good luck with your test,’ I say to my son as he begrudgingly gathers up his belongings and forces himself out into the real world.

  He grunts back a response and then slams the door shut, which was nothing less than I expected. He’s hardly been the best conversationalist since he entered his teens and things aren’t likely to improve now that he is in the final year of school and facing the dreaded GCSE’s. Like I was at his age, he hates life and can’t wait to leave the world of classrooms, teachers and homework behind. He doesn’t know what he wants to do after his exams, but I’m trying not to worry about him. I am sure that he will figure it out, just like I did. The important thing is that he knuckles down and gets good grades because that will give him more options when he does finally decide on what he wants to do.

  As I watch my offspring walk away in opposite directions across the car park, I smile at how different the pair of them are. Bella is almost skipping across the concrete as she heads for class, whereas Michael is moving like he is walking through mud. I’ll miss these times when they are gone.

  But I won’t miss this place.

  Satisfied with another successful school run, I fiddle with the rear-view mirror and prepare to reverse out of this spot and get home. But before I put my car back into motion, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror and notice the bags under my eyes and the line of wrinkles on my forehead. I never put makeup on to do the school run, but perhaps I should start. I look like something that has crawled out of a tomb. Okay, maybe not that bad, but I’m hardly looking my best. I’m only forty, but the reflection in the mirror has me looking older.

  As I reverse out and head for the school gates, I find myself feeling a little envious of all the youthful faces that pass me by. But then I remember where they are going and what they are going to be doing all day and that envy turns into a smug satisfaction.

  They have to go and listen to some boring old fart teaching them about grammar, Periodic Tables and tectonic plates, whereas I am on my way home to put my feet up and have a cup of tea.

  I’d rather be forty than fourteen, that’s for sure.

  2

  MICHAEL

  I hate my life.

  I’m sitting at the back of a classroom listening to some boring old fart wittering on about tectonic plates, and I have no idea why I need to know about any of this. I live in the middle of England. While there are a lot of problems here, earthquakes aren’t one of them. Nor do I have any ambition of having a career in geology. So why am I being forced to listen to this spiel about subduction? Why am I being forced to listen to an old guy who I have nothing in common with?

  And why is that old guy now looking right at me?

  ‘Sorry, what?’ I say, suddenly aware that all eyes in the class are on me. I’ve obviously just been asked a question, but I have no idea what it was.

  ‘How do you expect to pass your exams if you don’t pay attention?’ Mr Reynolds asks me, with the smug superiority that all my teachers seem to possess.

  ‘I’ll be fine on the day,’ I reply, which gets a few chuckles from my classmates around the room.

  ‘The results of your mock exams say otherwise,’ Mr Reynolds snaps back, instantly cutting me down and letting everybody here know that I’m not actually as clever as I am pretending to be right now.

  I resist the urge to say anything else, even though I have several comebacks that I could use to get another laugh from my audience. But that would be pointless because it would probably just end with me being put in detention again and I don’t want that. I just need to get through these next few months. Then I will be free.

  No more school. No more teachers. No more learning about things that will have no bearing on the rest of my life.

  Mr Reynolds goes back to his textbook, but my attention drifts to the window, where I look out over the empty playground and at the sports fields in the distance. I can’t wait to leave this place behind. I can’t wait to see something other than these walls and that concrete and those pitches.

  I just need to be patient. I just need to get through my exams.

  Then all of this will be over.

  3

  AMY

  It’s good to be back home. Fighting my way through the morning rush hour is a staple of my week, but now it is time for another one. A cup of tea and a slice of toast. And not an angry motorist in sight.

  Bliss.

  Sitting down on the sofa and grabbing the remote, I turn the television on but make sure to keep the volume low so as not to disturb my husband in the other room. Nick and I have been married for eighteen years, and he has been working from home for ten of them. It suits him because he doesn’t have to commute and it suits me because it means I get to see him whenever I want to, although I try not to disturb him too much. He has an important job, although I can’t even pretend to understand the complexity of it. He works in I.T. and can fix his client’s server issues remotely, but that’s about all I know. It sounds very technical and geeky, and his desk is full of huge textbooks about different software systems and such, which he seems to enjoy, but I just find confusing and dull. He’s a clever man, certainly much smarter than me, which is why he is fixing somebody’s computer problems right now while I’m eating a piece of toast and watching This Morning.

  The good thing about I.T., at least from my perspective, is that it pays very well, which means I only have to work part-time in my own employment. I do two days a week at an office in town and get paid a pittance for it, but it gives me a change of scene and gives me my own income to spend on little luxuries. There’s no stress in filing a few papers and listening to the girls in the office gossip about what they watched on television the night before, and I’m happy to do it, even if we would be fine on Nick’s wage alone. But today is one of my days off so it’s feet up and time to relax.

  With the kids at school all day, and my husband beavering away in the study until I interrupt him with a cup of tea later, I am free to do whatever I like. That sounds like I have many options but considering it’s raining outside and it’s only Monday morning, there isn’t actually that much to do. I’ll probably put a wash on later.

  Go me.

  But it is nice to have this time to myself. It didn’t always used to be this way. I haven’t always had a lovely family, home and so much free time. I used to be just as unequipped for life as Michael is going to be.

  I find myself worrying about my son even with the tea, toast and TV to distract me. The results of his mock exams last month were dreadful, even worse than the grades I got in my school days, which is saying something. It’s not that he doesn’t have the brains to succeed; it’s just that he isn’t applying himself. The string of detentions and letters from school is evidence of that. I don’t like to call my son a troublemaker, but I’m afraid that seems to be what he is. I know he isn’t like that because he is genuinely a nuisance, but rather because he is bored. Nick has spoken to him several times about the importance of working hard over the next few months and leaving school with good grades, but Michael doesn’t seem to take it on board, and their talks usually end up in an argument. That’s because they are so different. Nick is happy to sit in a room all day with a laptop and a pile of paperwork, but Michael isn’t. He wants to be outside being active and getting himself as far away from anything that resembles work as possible.

  I have tried speaking to my son about it too. After all, I was exactly like him at his age. I was forever in detention and forever being told by my parents that I needed to stop messing around and knuckle down with my studies. It’s only with hindsight that I can see they were right. There is no doubt that I would have avoided so much of the stresses that accompanied my late teens and early twenties if only I had focused more at school and given myself options after leaving. As it was, I spent several years bouncing about between various dead-end jobs, never really having the direction,
drive or finances to change my life for the better. I’m sure I would have turned out just fine even if I hadn’t been with Nick, although there is no question that I wouldn’t have been able to work part-time and live in a house like this without him.

  Money isn’t the be-all and end-all of life, and real happiness comes from family and friendships, which I am so grateful to have. But I want my son to be comfortable when he is older and having a good job will see to that. He might not care about having the money for a house and a holiday now, but he will do one day.

  But by then, it might be too late.

  I turn off the television because I can’t concentrate on what is happening on the screen. My mind is running away with itself again, as it likes to do on several occasions, and the only way to snap myself out of it when I am like this is to go and talk to Nick. He always knows what to say to make everything alright. But I also want to discuss something with him. It’s the same thing we have spoken about before, although we haven’t come to a final decision on it. It’s the thing that I know Michael will hate in the short term but might be for the best in the long term.

  It’s the idea of hiring our son a personal tutor.

  4

  MICHAEL

  Lunchtime. The only part of the school day that I enjoy. I am free to run around in the fresh air and kick a ball about for the next hour without anybody asking me a question or giving me homework. I’m going to enjoy it while I can.

  ‘Pass!’ I shout to Nev, who is my best friend but a terrible football player. Unfortunately, Nev fails to do as I say and he gets tackled, losing the ball and gifting the other team with an easy goal.

  ‘Sorry mate,’ he says sheepishly as I jog past him and I can’t help but smile. He isn’t rubbish at football on purpose; he just doesn’t have much of a natural aptitude for the game. Fortunately, I am a little better, and I demonstrate this by receiving the ball and taking it around two players before passing it to a teammate to level the score.

  As I give Nev a high-five and get back in position, I know it isn’t his fault that he isn’t gifted at this sport. He didn’t choose to be bad at something. Nobody does. I certainly didn’t choose to be bad at Maths, or Science, or any of the other boring subjects that get forced down my throat five days a week. I just don’t pick things up as quickly as other people do, just like Nev can’t do things with the football like I can. At least he is good in the classroom. His mock exam results were miles better than mine, and he is on course to achieve A’s and B’s in our end of year exams. I, on the other hand, would consider a C to be a fantastic achievement, but even that is being optimistic.