Chapter 19
19
Thursday morning, 5.30a.m. Fabian was there with me, his dark eyes full of love, and I lay, my own shut tight, desperate for the images that played behind them to crystallise into the actuality of his being beside me. Then, in his apartment, I’d wake from sleep knowing he was smiling down at me, watching me in the already light hours of another summer’s day in the capital. He’d reach for me, pulling me out of sleep and towards him, and make love to me in such a way that, still half asleep, I wasn’t quite sure where I ended and he began. I was a part of him, and I never wanted to be without him ever again.
I tried desperately to hang onto the dream but, like a fading memory that refuses to focus and eventually disintegrates, he was gone. I opened my eyes to being alone, back in Beddingfield, with the nausea-inducing knowledge of my first day in a new job I didn’t want. I turned over, my knee aching and heavy, unwilling to get out of bed and into the first-day-in-a-new-job outfit I’d carefully set out neatly for myself, before allowing myself the luxurious, but dangerous, game of ‘What if?’
There’d never been any side to Fabian; never been any time when I’d thought he might have been flattering me simply to get me into bed, to make me fall in love with him. As far as I knew he’d always been honest with me (apart from pretending, that first night in Graphite , he didn’t know who I was) and had so much integrity, which, knowing I’d deliberately not told him about my grandfather murdering my grandma and her lover, I’d not been able to match.
His bloody integrity, I reminded myself crossly, had vanished down the pan when he’d taken on the defence of a misogynistic and sadistic murderer. This thought had me more than awake and, by the time the shrill call of my alarm shattered the tiny box room – as well as my lovely memories of Fabian – I was well and truly brought rudely back down to earth with the reality of my new but unlooked-for life.
With a deep sigh of resignation, I headed for the bathroom before waking Sorrel. She took more than a couple of shakes and threats to have her up out of her pit, but she did eventually acquiesce. And, once up, came down sporting not too much make-up as well as eating the porridge I put in front of her.
‘You look lovely,’ I said, meaning it. ‘How did it go yesterday? You said very little on the way home.’
‘You didn’t ask,’ she said.
‘I didn’t want to treat you like a five-year-old on your first day at school.’
‘The history was good,’ she conceded grudgingly. ‘The rest was shit.’
‘OK.’
‘And I don’t get the maths. Never have. It’s a waste of effing time.’
‘Well, unfortunately, you’ll need it. Have to say, it wasn’t my strong point either, Sorrel. Jess is pretty good at maths. Much, much better than me.’
‘She’s always far too busy to help. And she might have been good at it at school, but it didn’t get her anywhere, did it? Ended up with that pillock Dean persuading her not to go to uni, pregnant at nineteen and working in the frozen-food factory as well as at that awful care home.’
‘To be fair, Sorrel, it’s not that bad. I mean, as care homes go. Not that I’ve been in many,’ I conceded. ‘I’ve said I’ll go out to Ilkley Moor on Saturday with Jess and some woman who wants to scatter her parents’ ashes over there.’
‘Have you? Why?’ Sorrel pulled a face of utter contempt.
‘You could come with us.’ I tried to jolly her along. ‘You know, make a family outing of it? Lunch, maybe in Ilkley? I’ll treat us all.’
The look on Sorrel’s face was so incredulous I nearly laughed. Nearly. Glancing at the kitchen clock, I knew we had to get off, and any further attempts at jollity went right out of my head.
Just an hour or so until kick off.
I’d tried to suss out the drama studio the previous afternoon but, finding it locked, I’d abandoned the quest, Mason promising he’d get the caretakers to have it unlocked and ready for me in the morning.
So now here I was, in a freezing-cold room in the bowels of the Victorian building. The walls and ceiling of the cellar – for that was what it was – had been painted entirely black but with a tiered and stepped area where the kids would gather at the start of a lesson and which would be used as a stage for performing. An attempt had been made to brighten the place with posters of Oscar-winning actors as well as some large stars painted onto the walls in luminous yellow paint. The effect was spoiled by every known swear word – as well as some new to me – felt-tipped onto each phosphorescent star. The posters themselves were graffitied with moustaches, beards and cigarettes, as well as one particular national treasure, in the role of Lady Macbeth, being treated to an erect penis directed towards her open mouth as she spouted, presumably, immortal lines of the Bard. Those would be coming down straight away, and I immediately set to, tearing at the tattered posters that were only adding to the sense of despondency in what was supposed to be an area of dramatic creativity.
‘Ah, sorry, Robyn, I was on my way to do just that.’ Mason Donoghue had appeared at my side without my realising.
‘I’m amazed you’ve allowed it,’ I said irritably, cross that he’d not got round to removing the posters himself. ‘And the graffiti – there’s stuff here I’ve never heard of, let alone considered physically possible.’
‘At least the majority’s spelled correctly.’ Mason attempted humour but, when he saw my face, backtracked. ‘I set one of the caretakers to the task during the six-week break, but he left once a vacancy came up at the Frozen factory. Said he’d rather be freezing peas than his “bloody backside off in t’bloody cellar…”’ Mason did his best, but failed, to speak the words in a Yorkshire accent and not for the first time I wondered where in the UK he’d originated.
‘And yet you expect me to teach down here? Kids to be educated down here?’
‘You’re a professional, Robyn,’ Mason soothed. ‘I have every faith you can sort it. No one’s been down here since the end of last winter when the boiler broke. We’re up and running again now – the heat’s been on all morning, not that we can afford it – and I’ll help you get these posters down. The kids will be raring to go – they’ve not had a drama lesson for… well, for a long time.’
‘Now I know why you avoided bringing me down to the “drama department”—’ I put air quotes round the words ‘—when you showed me round the other day. What do the parents think? And your governing body should be sacked.’
‘The majority of St Mede’s parents have enough problems simply getting through their day without being concerned about a drama room that needs a bit of TLC.’
‘A bit of TLC?’
‘And there’s a vacancy for a teacher rep on the governing body, if you want to put yourself forward?’
Before I could give Mason the short-shrift answer his question deserved, Petra stuck her head around the door.
‘Ah, sorry, Robyn,’ she apologised in turn. ‘I had every intention of staying behind yesterday afternoon to take down those posters and tidy the place up a bit. And then, you know…’ she trailed off when she saw my face ‘…stuff happens. Listen, you’re down to cover Year 7 until break.’ She turned to Mason. ‘Sonya Harrington’s just rung in, she’s not well again .’ She turned back to me. ‘I’ll cover instead and leave you to sort things down here. That OK with you?’
I was about to retort that, no, it was not OK. I could be visiting Mum instead, having some physio on my knee, going back to London and begging Fabian to abandon the madness of defending Rupert Henderson-Smith. But I was a professional; we needed the money; I needed to keep an eye on Sorrel, however covert a mission that turned out to be.
I could do this.
‘That’s fine.’ I nodded towards Mason and Petra. ‘That gives me some time to get this place ready.’
It was unfortunate that my very first lesson was going to be a drama session with a Year 9 group who, according to John Vaughn, Head of Maths – aka Sandy Head – were the ‘worst set of wankers’ at St Mede’s. Ask any high school teacher and they’ll generally tell you Year 9 kids are the most obnoxious. They’ve got through Years 7 and 8 where, as the newest and youngest kids in school, they’ve been kept in their place by the older pupils. By Year 10, GCSEs are imminent, with all the work that goes with them being piled on, and pressure’s mounting. But Year 9 is an in-between phase when, with hormones raging, voices breaking and friendships dissolving, sex is calling, school and parents are being dissed and learning and co-operating are the last things on adolescent minds. John Vaughn had gleefully warned me that St Mede’s present Year 9, despite being only two weeks into the new academic year, were particularly obstructive characters.
‘Don’t listen to him,’ Petra had advised. ‘John just doesn’t know how to handle them. Think back to when you were thirteen, going on fourteen and I bet you hated the world and his wife? I know I did. And kids today have all the extra complications of social media and cyber bullying at a time when their face is full of acne, they’re frightened they’re going to start their period in the middle of a maths lesson, lads terrified their willy will never be big enough and, when you’re not hungry for your tea, your mum is convinced you’re starting with an eating disorder. Which leads you to actually having an eating disorder, especially when Gran suggests you’ve put on a bit of weight…’
I got the picture.
I found the switches for the overhead lights – four out of the ten weren’t working, and neither were the footlights at the base of the tiered steps. The studio was beginning to warm up and, with as much preparation done as possible, I changed into black tights, little black skirt and ballet shoes – I didn’t trust what was on the floor to go barefoot – in the drama teacher’s tiny room before making my way back down to the studio.
I stretched, I loosened up, I moved and, using an old chair as a barre, went through a variety of routines trying to lose myself in simply becoming at one with my body. My knee hurt like hell, but it wasn’t as bad as I’d first thought and I closed my eyes, arms raised as I swayed to the music playing in my head…
‘Fuckin’ hell, where does Old Hopalong think she is?’
I came back to the present, opening my eyes and turning to see a gaggle of sniggering kids, their noses pressed to the glass window of the door, elbowing each other out of the way to get a better view of this daft bint. I walked over to the door, opened it and was nearly flattened as kids and huge bags threatened to have me arse over tit.
Start as you mean to go on, Robyn, I warned myself, pulse racing.
‘OK, this is a drama studio.’
‘It’s an effing cold cellar, miss.’
‘And you will all go out, line up and come back in – without your bags – and sit down on the steps and await my instructions.’
No one moved.
‘Now,’ I said calmly.
No one moved.
‘Now,’ I yelled, all the anger and frustration of the past few days pouring out of me like venom.
‘No need to shout, miss.’ A small under-developed white whippety kid, obviously a ringleader, turned to the others. ‘Right, she wants us on the steps.’ He proceeded to jump into the lap of a well-built black girl, pulling another whippety kid onto his own knee, and the others soon got the message, piling onto each other until there were four Leaning Towers of Pisa, each pillar in competition to see which could attain the greatest height without falling over.
Which each tower eventually did, spewing its giggling or expletive-bawling teenaged contents onto the dusty steps, and the floor below.
‘That were right good, miss, shall we do it again?’
‘Fuck off, you’ve broken me bloody neck.’
Oh, the shame of having to bring in the behaviour support staff in the very first five minutes of my first lesson. No one could hear me down here; no one could come down and rescue me. What was that immortal tagline from Alien ? ‘In space no one can hear you scream…’
I felt my pulse race and wanted to get out of there but, looking on the positive side – if I could manage to salvage any iota of positivity – no one, apart from the twenty little sods in my care, knew what an utter dog’s dinner I was making of trying to teach drama. Taking a deep breath, I tried once more.
‘OK, you lot, the joke’s over.’ I managed to make myself heard over the chattering and giggling.
But it obviously wasn’t. Little Whippety Ringleader was off, racing round the room like a whirling dervish, his bag spinning over his head in the manner of a helicopter blade.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ one of the girls eventually said in disgust. ‘He’s like an effing five-year-old. Grow up, you pillock.’
‘He’s on something… again,’ her mate said, retrieving a copy of Grazia from her bag, and the pair of them settled down to peruse the contents together.
Fight or flight?
I fled.
Up the three wooden steps to the teacher’s tiny room, grabbed my phone and immediately rang Jess’s mobile.
‘Jess, I can’t do it. I can’t do it. They’re mad. These kids are feral …’
‘Yes, you can,’ she replied calmly. ‘You can do it. Think back to all your training. And if that doesn’t work, go and get the heavies in. Go on, Robyn. Go. You can do it.’
I ended the call, wiping away the tears of anger, frustration and utter sadness that this was where I’d ended up. But instead of making my way back to the tiered steps to face the horde once more, I dithered, uncertain what to do next.
‘Hey up, miss? You all right?’
A tall, well-muscled and exceptionally handsome kid stood at the bottom of the three wooden steps and I looked up at him, unable to speak.
‘You Sorrel’s big sister? I heard you were down here.’
I nodded.
‘Right, give me five minutes. Wait there.’
Joel Sinclair, I found out later, was the Cock of St Mede’s. You didn’t mess with Joel and live. Watching, as I gave Joel the requested five minutes, I saw the class of thirteen-year-olds brought to heel. It was like watching an intelligent but ruthless collie dog rounding up recalcitrant sheep. His back to me, he directed a low, calm voice towards the group so I couldn’t catch what he was saying, but his intention was obvious. He finished by turning to me, pointing a neat navy-blazered arm in my direction, his fabulous corn-rowed hairdo moving only slightly as he did so.
‘Ms Allen, here, is a top dancer. A West End professional who has been on Strictly …’
Sorry?
‘…who has taken the lead part in Matilda …’
Hang on!
‘…and you lot are so fucking lucky to have her here to teach you…’
Hmm, that bit’s all right.
‘Why’s she here, then? In this dump? If she’s so famous?’ Whippety Snicket sneered and the rest of the group turned for clarification in my direction.
I stepped forwards. ‘As you can see, I injured my knee as I executed a tour jeté …’
‘She’s killed someone?’ I heard a thrilled whisper.
‘Killed someone?’
‘She just said she’d executed somebody called Atour Jettay!’
‘I was on stage in London less than a week ago,’ I went on. (If I couldn’t get this lot on board by my teaching methods, I’d have to try pulling the alleged fame card.) ‘Unfortunately, as you see, I have a knee injury. No professional dancer, like a professional footballer, can carry on with an injury. As a result, I’m having to take a break, and Mr Donoghue asked if I would come and teach you what goes on in London’s West End. In Covent Garden. On New York’s Broadway.’
‘ I’m going to be a dancer, miss.’
‘I’m going to be a film star, miss. Going to be famous, make loads of money and get off with Taylor Swift…’ the kid paused and then went on ‘…and buy me mam a house instead of the council flat we have to live in.’
‘Yah.’ Whippety Snicket sneered. ‘Dancing? Who wants to fucking dance but sissies and girls? I’m going to be a footballer. Take over from Messi at Barcelona.’
‘He’s not at Barcelona any more, you thicko.’
‘Hang on, hang on.’ Joel Sinclair put up a hand and addressed Whippety. ‘How do you think Messi learned to move across the pitch so gracefully? He had dance lessons…’
Hang on, kid: do not tell this lot I taught Messi all he knows.
‘Did he?’ There was silence as the kids in front of me digested this unexpected nugget of information. ‘Nah, he didn’t…’
‘So, you think only girls and sissies dance?’ Joel raised an eyebrow and then, bending, slowly removed his black brogues and socks before steadying himself, taking several steps and leaping away towards the back of the room, performing a series of totally professional jetés .
Well, that shut them up, as nothing else had done!