Lessons

by Ian McEwan

Then you started your lessons. You were quiet, shy, vulnerable, a long way from home. It set off something in me. I tried to explain it away as frustrated maternal feeling. And my loneliness. Or because little boys can be pretty, these were buried lesbian feelings I was discovering. I wanted to adopt you. You were so quiet and unhappy. But it was more than all of those. I knew that really, but I couldn’t admit it to myself. The other thing was that very soon I could tell that you were gifted. There was one time you came in. I thought I knew you well enough by then to be convinced you were lying when you said you’d been practising the first Bach prelude. But I was wrong. You played it so beautifully, expressively, with such a lovely touch. Impossible sounds, coming from a child! I had to turn away because I thought I might cry. Then, I couldn’t help myself, I kissed you. On the lips. As my feelings about your coming each week got stronger the only way I could deal with them was to be or pretend to be very strict with you. I mocked you. I even hit you, slapped you hard.’ ‘You used a ruler.’