A Quiet Kind of Thunder(10)
Before I can think of how to reply, the communication support worker comes to stand beside us and I take a step back so she can speak to Rhys. They have a quick conversation that is too fast for me to follow before she hands him a couple of sheets of paper that I assume must be notes of some kind about the lesson. Then, to my surprise, she turns to me. ‘Hello,’ she says. ‘You must be Steffi.’ Both her voice and her hands speak.
I smile back, surprised. Who told her who I am? Mr Stafford? Rhys?
‘I’m Clare,’ the woman continues. ‘I’ll be popping in and out to give a bit of assistance to Rhys here at Windham. It’s good to know there’s another student who knows a bit of BSL.’
I wiggle my hand in a so-so gesture, hoping she won’t get carried away and think I can be anything like as helpful as her.
‘Oh, don’t be so modest,’ Clare chides, not even acknowledging the fact that I haven’t spoken out loud. I decide I like her. ‘Every little helps. I’ll see you after lunch, Rhys. Nice to meet you, Steffi.’
What’s your next class? I ask Rhys after she leaves.
Free period, he replies. He smiles and waves the sheets Clare had given him. I need to go over these. You?
Also free period, I say, then quickly add, just in case he thinks I’m hinting at anything, I’m going to the library.
Cool. Can I come? He hoists his backpack up over his shoulder and smiles expectantly.
I have to say yes. It’s only polite. Sure. I keep my expression relaxed, like this is a normal day for me. This way.
Steffi Brons – English, notes on Atonement Chps 1–3 Sept 7th Briony is a
Can you write instead of signing? SORRY!
SURE ? WHERE IS YOUR SURNAME FROM?
My dad’s dad was German.
What about you? Where’s Gold from?
WHO KNOWS? IT’S AN OLD WELSH NAME I THINK.
Ian McEwan is
HAVE YOU READ THE WHOLE BOOK?
No, just first 3 chaps. Have you?
NO. SEEN THE FILM THOUGH. IT’S GREAT.
Is it on Netflix?
PROBS NOT. I’VE GOT THE DVD.
YOU CAN BORROW IT IF YOU WANT.
Book opens with play – what does this say about construction of narrati— CAN YOU NOT TALK AT ALL?
I can talk sometimes.
WHAT MAKES THE DIFFERENCE?
No idea. Sometimes it just goes away and sometimes it’s fine.
I’m much better with people I know.
Strangers are harder.
IT MUST BE REALLY HARD.
Yeah. Sometimes. I guess it Not as hard as Maths!
Briony is a writer What is REAL, etc. How does I SAID I LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING.
oh . . . thanks ?
My email is [email protected]
No seriously that is my email address.
We have a family account, bronsmail.
I promise!
My dad thinks it’s funny.
He’s really proud of it. What’s yours?
[email protected]
cute funny address!
DO YOU USE JACKBYTES? IT’S AN APP. LIKE A CROSS BETWEEN WHATSAPP AND A CHAT ROOM. MY USERNAME IS RHYSESPIECES. SET UP AN ACCOUNT AND ADD ME! OH AND FACEBOOK TOO ?
Briony is
oh bugger this.
I play it cool and force myself not to add Rhys on Facebook until the end of the school day, when I head to the kennel where I work for my weeknight shift. I click ‘Add Friend’, then turn my phone off and put it in my locker. Done.
I’ve worked at the St Francis Kennels and Boarding since I turned sixteen. People are often surprised that I have a job, what with the whole not-speaking-much thing, to which I say – selective mutes have the right to earn money too. And I’m not even that mute any more.
St Francis is the only kennels and cattery in the county that operates a day ‘crèche’ as well as overnight boarding, so it’s always busy, even during term time. Now that school has started up again – in the summer I do a lot more hours – I work two days a week: Wednesday from 4 p.m. to 8 p.m., when I sign out dogs back to the care of their owners, and either Saturday or Sunday for the full day. At the kennels, I am happy. I am my best self. It is one of the places where I can talk almost as much as normal people, and it’s one of the reasons I can believe I’ll be properly OK one day.
‘Hello, Steffi!’ Ivan calls to me as I come through the door. He’s grinning, leaning against the reception desk. Ivan has known me for years, back from when I used to visit as a silent, unhappy child. He was the one who suggested I volunteer and then, later, become a paid employee. It is an understatement to say I owe a lot to Ivan.
‘Hi,’ I say, smiling back. ‘How’s everyone today?’
‘Oh fine, fine.’ Ivan’s dog, Sia, who has free rein across the kennels and loves everyone like they’re perpetually about to feed him raw steak, trots over to me and pushes his giant Labrador head against my hip. ‘One of the cats got out – not sure how – but we caught him in the end.’
I spend a happy four hours with the dogs, running across the acre with the boarders, handing over day-dogs to their owners, whose tired eyes always light up at the point of reunion. When I get home, the smell of strange dogs on me makes Rita eye me suspiciously until I lie down on the floor with her, reminding her that she is my doggish one and only.
And then, when it’s almost nine o’clock, I let myself go on Facebook.