Chapter 16
16
‘ “Formally terminate our relationship!” Is that barrister wanker-speak for bugger off, I’m throwing you out of my bed and my life ?’ Jess was absolutely livid. ‘Give me your phone, Robyn, I’ll message him back. How dare he?’ She reached for my mobile, which I’d left on the kitchen table, unable to bear the thought of its pernicious presence carrying that ghastly text in my pocket or my bag. I didn’t want it anywhere near me.
‘Leave it, Jess,’ I snapped. ‘Don’t you dare.’
‘Well, let me at least delete that last message. Otherwise, you’ll read it again and again. And again , in the middle of the night and then?—’
‘OK, OK, delete the lot .’ I started to cry. ‘ Except that last message. It’ll remind me if I’m tempted to message him again. Yes, go on, all his messages except this one. All his contact details…’ I put my head down on the table and sobbed.
‘Probably the best way,’ Jess agreed, picking up the offending object. ‘You know, a bit like ripping off an Elastoplast in one swift final act. Hurts like hell to begin with, but then it’s over and done with and no going back, no picking at it…’
‘OK. OK, spare me the analogy.’
‘Bastard,’ she hissed as she reread Fabian’s final text once more. ‘Blimey, there’s a hell of a lot of them here… oh, some really lovely things… oh… listen to this one… oh, Robyn…’
‘Don’t read them ,’ I pleaded. ‘They’re personal. Just do it , Jess. Get him out of my life, as I appear to be out of his.’
‘Done!’ Jess gave a final flick of her wrist and Fabian Mansfield Carrington was out of my life.
As though he’d not been in it for the past four months. And, apart from that last message to remind me there was no hope, he was gone. Utterly gone.
‘Right,’ she said, throwing the phone back down onto the table, well out of my reach, before making a great show of metaphorically washing her hands of the man I’d adored. ‘I’m going to head off to the Co-op before I have to pick up Lola from school. I’m so stressed, Robyn, I need to cook and to bake. I’ll make something wonderful for tea, we’ll open a bottle of wine and then when – if – Sorrel gets back, we’ll sit her down and tell her we mean business…’ She broke off as a loud knocking came at Mum’s front door and both our heads shot up in unison.
‘The police?’ Jess whispered, biting her lip. ‘Mum said Sorrel was in trouble with them.’
‘Fabian?’ I whispered in turn, my heart racing as I ran down the tiny narrow passageway to open the door, conveniently forgetting he’d neatly and expertly terminated our relationship only an hour earlier.
‘Oh.’ I stared at the man standing on Mum’s doorstep, for a split second trying to work out who he was, so out of context was his appearance there. ‘How did you know where we lived?’
‘Easy. I spoke to the head at Beddingfield High.’
‘I didn’t think our personal details were supposed to be bandied around like this. Data protection and all that?’ Utter disappointment that the man standing there wasn’t Fabian come to rescue me made me caustic in my response. ‘Sorrel’s not home,’ I added.
‘I’ve not come to see Sorrel.’ Mason Donoghue smiled. ‘May I come in?’ He took a step inside.
‘You appear to be doing so,’ I replied somewhat tartly and then, remembering I needed to keep on the right side of this man if he was to relent and offer Sorrel a place at St Mede’s, I added, ‘Please. Come on in.’
‘Jess, this is Mr Donoghue.’ I ushered the man into Mum’s kitchen. ‘He’s the head teacher of St Mede’s.’
‘Mason?’ Jess looked up and stared. ‘You never said.’
‘You never asked.’
‘You two know each other?’ I looked in surprise from Jess to the man who was now easing his great height and well-toned body onto a kitchen chair, apparently making himself at home.
‘Mason’s granny is a guest at Hudson House.’
‘A guest?’ I gave a little chortle. ‘Is that what you’re called when you end up in an old folks’ home?’
‘As opposed to what?’ Mason Donoghue raised an eye in my direction. ‘A client? An inmate?’
‘Hadn’t really thought about it, to be honest.’ I shrugged. ‘So, at what point did you realise Sorrel was Jess’s sister?’
‘Not until you’d left my office and then I sort of put two and two together.’ Mason smiled across at Jess.
‘Oh, so does that mean you’re willing to take Sorrel as a pupil without blackmailing me, then? Now that your granny’s in Jess’s care? We could end up blackmailing you in return: you know, give Sorrel a place at your school or Jess won’t let your granny stroke the pet therapy dog…’
‘We don’t have a pet therapy dog…’ Jess started.
‘Or bar her from bridge sessions,’ I said, warming to my theme.
‘Tiddlywinks, ludo and, occasionally, draughts,’ Jess corrected.
‘Those as well.’ I nodded in agreement. ‘Take Sorrel, Mr Donoghue, or your granny will be blacklisted.’
‘Hang on. Blackmailing you?’ Jess frowned. ‘What are you talking about, Robyn? Mason’s blackmailing you? What have you done ?’
‘He says he’ll take Sorrel, as long as I go and teach there as well.’
‘Really? Well, how wonderful is that!’ Jess beamed at both of us. ‘You loved being a teacher, Robyn. Tea, Mason?’
‘No need for fabrication, Jess.’ I shook my head in her direction as she went to fill the kettle. ‘I’ve already told Mr Donoghue here that I hated teaching. That I was a rubbish teacher.’
‘You passed, did your NQT year,’ Jess protested. ‘You’re qualified.’
‘Qualified to know that, after a year at the chalkface, I never want to be back there again. Ever.’
‘No chalk these days.’ Mason smiled. ‘All whiteboards and SMART boards.’ He sighed. ‘When they work, anyway. Look, Robyn, I’m desperate for someone to take over the drama department.’
‘Take it over?’ I stared. ‘You didn’t say I was going to be in charge of it.’
‘Would that make a difference?’
‘More pay, Robyn!’ Jess was jubilant. ‘We’re going to need more funds to keep both houses warm and running now that Dean’s gone and isn’t sending me any money. The cost of living is horrendous. I haven’t put the central heating on yet and never have a bath.’
‘Not sure we should be a party to your personal hygiene habits, Jess.’ I tutted. ‘Or lack of them.’
‘You know exactly what I mean.’ She tutted in response. ‘Look, Robyn, as your elder sister, I’m ordering you to take this lovely teaching job. It’ll be right up your street.’
‘ Ordering me? Who do you think you are?’
‘Your big sister. We need the money, Robyn—’ She broke off as the front door banged and all three of us glanced towards the open kitchen door.
‘Oh, God.’ Sorrel stared at Mason Donoghue sitting comfortably, and without a trace of embarrassment, at the kitchen table.
‘Almost, but not quite, Sorrel.’ Mason smiled.
‘I’m off.’ Sorrel made for the door she’d just come through, but Jess barred her way.
‘Oh, no, you don’t. Listen, Sorrel, Mr Donoghue is here to offer you a place at St Mede’s. Robyn and I are not prepared for any backchat.’
‘You’re not my mum.’
‘Loco parentis,’ Jess snapped.
‘That again?’ Sorrel raised an eyebrow as did Jess, the pair of them squaring up to each other like a couple of bantam hens. ‘Look.’ Sorrel glared in my direction. ‘I’m definitely not going to your school if she’s going to be there every day. How embarrassing to have your big sister there teaching, watching everything you do, knowing what you’re up to and reporting back to Sturmführer Jess every night.’
‘I’m impressed, Sorrel.’ Mason raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve obviously been listening during your GCSE World War II history module.’
‘I like history.’ Sorrel shrugged. ‘’Bout the only thing I do like, apart from dance.’
‘So, rather a bonus to have lessons with a professional West End dancer, then?’ Mason, in turn, looked in my direction.
‘Hang on,’ I said, rubbing at my knee. ‘For a start?—’
‘Perfect,’ Jess began, hands on hips. ‘You take the pair of them, Mason, and I’ll make sure your granny is right at the front of the queue when the hairdresser comes. And gets a second helping of afters when it’s chocolate pudding with chocolate sauce.’
‘OK, OK!’ Sorrel put up both hands in a show of apparent acquiescence. ‘I don’t want to have to go to the PRU,’ she said sulkily. ‘What do I do about uniform? Do I have to wear one?’
‘Of course. Where uniform’s concerned, I’m as strict as Beddingfield High,’ Mason said seriously. ‘We have second-hand stuff.’
‘I’m not wearing second-hand,’ Sorrel protested.
‘Well, it’s either that or you shelling out yourself for a new blazer, sweater and tie,’ Jess said firmly. ‘Mum only bought you a brand-new uniform three weeks ago. You always seem to have money on the go.’ All three of us looked towards Sorrel, who, under adult scrutiny, glared back and turned away from us. But not before I’d seen her face flush slightly. Oh, hell, if it was true that she had funds, we needed to know where they were coming from.
‘So,’ Mason said, turning back to me, ‘it’s a yes from me and Sorrel, then, is it?’
‘And from Robyn as well.’ Jess smiled sweetly in my direction, but there was a steely determination I recognised from old behind it.
‘How about, Robyn, you start with us at St Mede’s on a supply basis rather than on any contract, temporary or otherwise?’ Mason suggested. ‘I’ll be there to help and support you, as will both the PE and the English department, who’ve been covering the dance and drama curriculums with me. Why don’t you come back in tomorrow and I’ll show you round again and give you all the planning documents we have? I’ll need to see all your certificates and get references from the school in which you did your NQT year, and I’m assuming your DBS is up to date? If not, we can soon sort that out.’
‘Of course it is.’ Jess nodded enthusiastically. ‘It was only a year ago she was teaching in schools. It’ll be like riding a bike,’ she added. ‘It’ll all come flooding back, Robyn.’
‘D’you think I can speak for myself, Jess?’ I glared in her direction. ‘Are you both not forgetting one thing?’
‘What’s that?’ Mason and Jess, as well as Sorrel, all turned back to me.
‘I’m disabled!’ I lifted my leg with its black brace towards them. ‘I need physio and rest on this leg, not starting a new job where I’ll be on my feet all day. And how the hell do you suggest I’m going to teach dance with a knackered knee?’
Mason frowned. ‘All right, OK, most of the dance lessons will continue to be covered by the PE staff and, I guess, by myself. You’d be mainly teaching drama, Robyn, which, I believe, you’re qualified to do? Obviously, it would be better if you could be hands-on… knees-on… but I’m sure you’ll be able to teach and guide the kids from the sideline, as it were. As I mentioned earlier, I’ll also need you to cover some PSHE and English lessons.’
‘Sex education and all that!’ Sorrel grinned loftily in my direction as if I weren’t aware of the meaning of the first acronym. ‘After the mad passionate affair I hear you were having with that new man of yours, Robyn, you’ll know how to teach that …’
‘Excuse me,’ I snapped, utterly embarrassed as Mason held my eye, his own full of humour. I glared at Sorrel who, despite her being my little sister, I was now beginning to dislike intensely.
‘That’s good, then.’ Mason grinned. ‘Looks like we’re making progress. OK, it’s Monday now.’ He paused, obviously thinking on his feet. ‘Not got my diary and, I’d forgotten, I’m actually out of school tomorrow, but I’ll expect you both in on Wednesday for a bit of an induction and then, on Thursday, we’ll crack on.’ He turned to Sorrel, speaking softly. ‘And, Sorrel, don’t you go thinking St Mede’s is a soft touch. My school is turning a corner: I’m determined to make it a place parents want to send their children to and I won’t have anyone in it who disregards my rules. You play fair with me, Sorrel, and we’ll be there for you and do everything in our power to help you get where you want to be. I’m telling you now, my teachers and I won’t stand for any of the behaviour you’ve been involved in at Beddingfield High. You work with us, and we’ll work with you. If not, you’re out…’ He raised an eye in Sorrel’s direction and, while she tried to stare him out, eventually she lowered her gaze and looked away.
Mason held out a hand to me. ‘Welcome to St Mede’s, Ms Allen. I hope your time with us, until you’re able to resume your career in London, is a happy and profitable one.’
Totally exhausted by the events of the last two days – surely it must be more than two days since my entire world had come, literally, crashing down around my ears? – I tried hard to eat the utterly wonderful food Jess had put in front of me, Sorrel and Lola. While my big sister and niece both tucked in with relish to the fragrant-smelling chicken and tarragon dish, neither Sorrel nor I were able to do justice to her cooking. I knew what had taken my appetite but, glancing across at my little sister’s set face and demeanour, knew I was a long way from understanding what was troubling Sorrel. The bottle of cheap red wine Jess had spent her last few pounds on at the village Co-op and opened in celebration of both Sorrel’s and my own new beginning at St Mede’s High School did go some way to releasing the anxiety- provoked constriction in my throat, and I was able to force down a few mouthfuls with some accompanying oohs and aahs of appreciation and approval.
‘You should go on MasterChef ,’ I said, as I always did whenever I ate Jess’s delicious meals.
‘Really?’ Sorrel sneered before replacing her fork on her half-eaten food and making to leave the table.
‘We’ve not finished eating, Sorrel,’ I said as calmly as possible. Constantly berating her would get us nowhere.
‘Well, I have,’ she said, standing. ‘I’m off out.’
‘No, you’re not.’ Both Jess and I spoke as one while Lola’s head, moving in turn from her mother to her scowling fifteen-year-old aunt, followed the action like a crowd at Wimbledon.
‘I’m really not sure how you’re going to stop me,’ Sorrel replied, her face flushed. And, screwing up the piece of kitchen roll I’d laid at each place in lieu of napkins, she stood and left the kitchen.
Later that evening, much later, I woke from an exhausted sleep full of dreams of the whole of the cast of Dance On laughing uproariously as I fell again and again off the stage while Mason Donoghue stood, arms folded in incredulous contempt, at the back of some windowless classroom watching as I attempted to teach a sex education lesson, using a video of Fabian making love to Fish Face as a visual aid.
I shot up in bed, covered in perspiration, my knee throbbing and stiff and, reaching for my phone, saw it was only 11p.m. I’d been asleep for just an hour. From down below came the sound of a car door slamming and the murmur of voices. Manoeuvring myself and my knee out of bed, I moved over to the bedroom window. Sorrel, laughing at something that had obviously been said by whoever was in the back seat of the black BMW, made her way up the garden path. A few seconds later the front door banged and I heard her move to the kitchen before opening and closing the fridge door.
Well, at least she was home. I turned over in the box room’s uncomfortable single bed, resolving that in the morning I’d move my things into Mum’s room, and tried to sleep once more. But I was now wide awake, panic and pain threatening to engulf me in equal measure as I went over the events of the last few days.
Pulse racing, I made another decision: no way was I taking this teaching job I’d been bulldozed into accepting at Mason Donoghue’s bloody awful school. No way, Pedro. I’d rather get a job down at Aldi or delivering parcels for Amazon.
No way on this planet was I ever going back into a classroom.
Not now. Not on Wednesday. Not ever.