Chapter 23
23
September morphed into October, and the only thing keeping me going was the thought of half-term and a week’s respite. Respite from the daily grind of planning and executing lessons and the seemingly constant aggro that accompanied the majority of lessons I taught. The Year 9 kids were still the bane of my life, the thorn in my side, my bête-noire (I’d been teaching lessons on imagery) but, also by half-term, I had hope that Mum would be back home with us.
OK, I lie: there were three other things that were keeping me from burying my head under my pillow and, like Sorrel occasionally, refusing to get out of bed. The first was, unbeknown to Jess – and she’d have gone ballistic if she’d had any inkling – I’d entered her for the Yorkshire Christmas TopChef competition: ‘to discover the county’s best talent through a series of extraordinary cooking challenges, watched over by the north’s most prestigious food judges’. While both Sorrel and Mum had said I was mad – barking was the word Sorrel had actually thrown at me – and that Jess, when she found out, would be even madder, Jayden had encouraged me to do it. Like a couple of underground resistance plotters, we’d got started on the forms before, in his usual inimitable way, he was off back down to London once more, neatly dodging any flak destined to descend on our heads once my sister found out what we’d done. ‘You just cancel if she refuses to have anything to do with it,’ Jayden had said airily, reversing off the drive at speed, promising he’d call in at the hospital before hitting the road back to his other life, the one he loved best, once more.
The second good thing was that my knee, after much handling and manipulation by the area’s top physio – paid for by Jayden – was beginning to heal. ‘You won’t be doing anything with that knee, let alone treading the boards, for a good six months at least,’ Maria, the physio, had warned, ‘but do as you’re told, don’t try anything daft, do your exercises and you might eventually be able to go back to dancing.’
And the third little glimmer of light in the whole of this ridiculous pantomime darkness I’d found myself catapulted into? Well, unbelievably, Mason Donoghue.
After Lola had let out of the bag that she and Jess had been discussing me in terms of Robyn and Mason , I found myself unable to be in his presence without thinking of him as a… well, as a man rather than as a head teacher – as my boss, for heaven’s sake. Instead of reading through the latest handout on ‘Funding and Budgets’, or ‘How Best to Disarm a Child with a Bladed Article’ with the other teachers in an early morning staff meeting, I’d find myself studying Mason, blushing slightly if he looked my way.
What did it say about me that I was lugging my broken heart around in its permanently shattered state, and yet I could sit back and view Mason Donoghue – actually enjoy the view – quite objectively as one very handsome, very hot, red-blooded male? I wasn’t the only one: a surreptitious glance around the room revealed the younger, single – as well as those older attached – teachers hanging onto his every word, stumbling over their own if he directed a question their way, pink-faced with pleasure if he praised, as he so often did.
This man had, what was the word? Charisma. Yes, Mason Donoghue was charismatic with a capital C.
Mind you, he didn’t think twice about bawling out any member of staff he felt wasn’t treating the kids fairly, wasn’t teaching how he wanted them to teach; ordering loitering drug-pushers to move on and then reporting them to the police; or breaking up fights between our kids and warring gangs from other schools who had, as one kid told me as he rushed excitedly out of the school gates, scores to settle.
So, my mind wandering from the government directives in front of me, I’d find myself appraising Mason Donoghue, comparing him – sometimes and sometimes not so favourably with Fabian. Both tall and well built. Mason had the upper hand when it came to sheer muscle power. A little subtle eye movement in the direction of our boss’s pecs beneath the blue striped shirt was de rigueur as he abandoned his navy suit jacket before either bollocking or praising us.
As far as I knew, from information gleaned from Petra Waters, who was always happy to wax lyrical about the main man, Mason was originally from the south but had migrated to the north for university, settling here after marrying his wife.
‘His wife?’ I’d asked, trying not to appear too interested or display my little flicker of disappointment.
‘Doesn’t talk about her much.’ Petra had nodded sagely. ‘Not even sure they’re still together,’ she’d confided. ‘He’s a bit of an enigma – doesn’t reveal anything of his personal circumstances.’ She’d paused. ‘Even to me, as his deputy, and you know, that’s what deputies are for – to be there for a bit of offloading when things get tough.’ Petra had pulled a face. ‘He doesn’t wear a wedding ring,’ she’d added, knowingly.
‘Doesn’t mean anything, these days,’ I’d replied. ‘How many couples do actually marry these days? And wear rings to advertise the fact?’
‘Well, I certainly do,’ Petra had said, holding up her left hand as proof. ‘Mind you, doesn’t stop me looking.’ She’d given a dirty laugh. ‘Blimey, most disconcerting having a head teacher who looks like Mason does. You know, when you’ve only ever been used to the dandruffed shoulders, comb-overs and men who’ve stopped caring about changing the lives of kids and are counting down to a full pension and the excitement of a tour of the Isle of Man in their new camper van.’
I’d laughed at Petra’s picture of a species of head teacher that probably went out with the ark but it gave me food for thought. Although I’d determined, on my next visit to Mum, I’d try to get her to open up about the headmaster and his wife who’d adopted her, and from whom she’d run away when she wasn’t much older than Sorrel, Mum was equally determined that her past was just that. She had, it appeared, no intention of opening up to us about her life as a child with these adoptive parents.
The weeks slipped by and, before I knew it, October, with its promise of mellow fruitfulness, was halfway through and I felt I’d never been anything else but a high-school teacher. That my former life with Fabian, and as a performer in the West End, was nothing more than a dream, blown into the ether every morning when my alarm went off at 6a.m. and I was brought back into the reality of my life. What with school, with visiting Mum in hospital and trying to keep Sorrel on the straight and narrow, as well as doing the laundry and making some sort of food for us to eat, I was absolutely knackered.
I was slumped over my desk at 5p.m., a couple of days before the start of the half-term break, trying to get my breath back from a particularly horrendous session with the most notorious of the four Year 9 classes. Catching sight of myself in the fly-blown mirror adjacent to the whiteboard (why the hell there was a mirror in a classroom I wasn’t sure, but can only assume it was there so the previous incumbent could have eyes in the back of her head while writing on the board) I put my head down on the desk, closed my eyes and let out a loud groan of utter tiredness and frustration. My hair, tied up with a rubber band, was in dire need of a good cut; any make-up I’d attempted at seven that morning had caked and smudged as I’d sweated my way through various dance and drama sessions with either totally over- or under-enthusiastic – dependent on age and disposition – pupils, and a familiar low-down ache heralded the start of my period.
‘Great stuff,’ I muttered into my sleeve. ‘Bloody great stuff…’
‘You OK?’ Mason Donoghue stood at the classroom door, arms folded, looking concerned. Or was it amused? ‘You’ll frighten the cleaners.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Absolutely fine, as you can see.’ I raised both a hand and a pair of bleary, mascara-smudged eyes in his direction, hoping he’d go away. ‘Two days to get through and then it’s me, a bottle of SB and my bed for a week.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame.’
‘What is?’ I peered across at him suspiciously.
‘So, there’s a production of Grease being put on in Midhope over half-term. Petra and I have arranged to see it with the idea of our own kids putting on a performance of it at Christmas.’
‘Well, good luck with that!’ I laughed hollowly, stopping him in his tracks before he went any further. ‘A performance of Grease ? With this unruly lot?’ (As I say, I was feeling particularly shattered and belligerent, otherwise wouldn’t have had the temerity to offend Mason’s sensibilities re his pupils.) ‘And in…’ I counted off the weeks on my fingers ‘…just eight weeks or so?’ I laughed again, genuinely amused. ‘As I say, good luck with that.’
‘And,’ Mason went on, undeterred, ‘as we’d like you to choreograph, direct and produce our production, I’ve bought another ticket.’
‘Sorry, I’m washing my hair that day.’ I pulled at the rubber band but my hair, being so dirty, didn’t fall as a sexy waterfall around my shoulders but, instead, stood out at all angles so that I resembled one of those exotic, desirous-of-mating male birds from David Attenborough’s Planet Earth .
‘Which day?’
‘Sorry?’ I raked a hand through my hair, meeting nothing but tangles, and in the end tied it back up again.
‘Which day are you washing your hair?’
‘The day you’re off to the theatre. And all the days you think I’m prepared to be putting in producing some ridiculous Christmas concert. Any production like this should have started its rehearsals at the very beginning of term. Oh, and you have to have permission from the owners, whoever they are; copyright and all that. You can’t just glibly say you’re going to perform Grease without getting permission.’
‘You see? You know all about this kind of thing.’
When I just shook my head but said nothing, Mason went on, ‘Oh, well, if you won’t help, I suppose I’ll just have to do it all myself as usual.’
‘As usual? You’ve done it before, then?’
‘No, not really,’ he admitted. ‘But I’m prepared to have a go. OK, Christmas is probably a bit ambitious.’
‘More than a bit.’
‘So, Easter, then? That would give you more time?’
‘No, I’m sorry, it wouldn’t. Because I’m not doing it. If you remember, Mr Donoghue, I’m here on a supply basis and I’m very much hoping that by Easter I’ll be back looking for work in London.’
‘Oh, well, that’s a shame. Especially as I have three tickets for next week. Why don’t you come with Petra and me anyway?’
‘No strings attached?’
‘What sort of strings?’ Mason held my eye for longer than was necessary and I had to look away. Hell, he was sexy.
‘None of your trying to persuade me that there’s any chance of turning our kids into something from Glee .’
‘ Glee ?’ Mason frowned.
‘Oh, you’ve no idea, have you? Look, a lot of these kids wouldn’t listen to a word anyone was trying to tell them; they’d not turn up for rehearsals and more than likely go AWOL on the opening night when something better came up.’
‘Still not got a very good impression of the children in my school, then?’
‘In a word – no.’
‘OK, just come with us – it’ll be a night out. Shame to waste a ticket.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ I offered ungraciously. ‘If I can recover from what your kids are putting me through on a daily basis.’
‘Robyn, have faith in yourself. I saw you the other day showing great empathy with the class you were teaching; you understand some of the kids have issues and respond accordingly. And they’re beginning to not only respect you, but really like you too. I’ve stood and watched you teach a couple of times.’
‘I really wish you wouldn’t.’ I frowned, embarrassed at the thought I’d been prancing about, giving it all I’d got, while not realising Mason was observing.
‘And you’re good. You know your stuff, you’re enthusiastic.’
‘That enthusiasm is pure adrenaline,’ I scoffed. ‘If I can act a part in front of them, take on a role, then at least it stops them butting in and trying to take over the lesson. If I’m talking and attempting to jump about’ – I held up my sore knee to remind him I still wasn’t capable of much gallivanting about – ‘then at least I have some control over what’s going on.’
Mason laughed at that. ‘OK, ticket’s here.’ He left it on the table at the back of the classroom. ‘Meet Petra and me outside Midhope Theatre at 7p.m. next Wednesday. If you don’t show, well, I get it. Even though it’ll be a waste of a ticket.’
‘I suppose this is your handiwork?’ Jess flapped the A4 piece of paper in my face before screwing up the offending article and lobbing it neatly into the wastepaper bin. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Robyn. There’s absolutely no way I’m putting myself forward for Yorkshire Christmas TopChef. Bloody silly name, anyway, just aping MasterChef .’
‘You don’t have to put yourself forward, Jess, because I’ve done it for you.’
‘Well, you can jolly well get it undone, then. You know,’ she added, glaring at me as she whisked egg white for some pudding she was experimenting with, ‘you were saying how Mason was trying to manipulate you into producing a show for him, and how you most certainly weren’t going to be manhandled into doing it? Well, I feel the same about this.’
‘It’s not the same at all.’ I tutted. ‘Come on, what do you have to lose?’ I moved to the bin, retrieving and smoothing the letter before reading its content: ‘You just need skill, enthusiasm, drive, a love of food and a desire to change your life,’ I said, enunciating each requisite clearly so she got the message. ‘You’ve got all of those things but especially the bit about wanting to change your life.’
‘What’s up?’ Lola, coming into the kitchen and seeing Jess’s face, as well as the way she was angrily bashing the egg whites in their bowl, stopped and stared. ‘Mum, you’ve always told me that if you whisk meringues too much the stiff peaks will go back to liquid.’
‘Lola, Jayden and I have entered your mum for a cooking competition—’ I started.
‘Oh, I might have known he’d have something to do with this,’ Jess snapped, folding melted chocolate into the meringues.
‘I don’t know why you’re so mean about my grandfather.’ Lola pouted. ‘I really like him. And of course , you’ve got to enter. Will you be on the telly?’ she asked excitedly.
‘No, because I’m not doing it.’ Jess sniffed crossly. ‘I’m not having anyone looking at my big behind on TV.’
‘It’s only local TV,’ I said. ‘And they film you from the front – no one would ever see your bum. It’s a very nice bum anyway. You really have to get over this hang-up with your bum, Jess.’
‘Will you stop saying bum ?’ Jess frowned, starting to laugh. ‘Even if I had a little bum like… like… Kylie Minogue, I still wouldn’t go in for this daft competition.’
‘Of course you have to,’ Lola said calmly, her manner belying her ten years. ‘Come on, Aunty Robyn, let’s both fill in these new forms with the further details they’re asking for, then she’ll have to do it.’
‘Is it just for northerners, then?’ Jess asked, peering over our shoulders as Lola and I started filling in the new form. ‘Do you have to come from Yorkshire?’
‘I would imagine so.’ I nodded, smiling as I saw Jess begin to relent. ‘Anyway, you probably won’t get chosen. There’ll be loads of people all wanting their five minutes of fame with their Yorkshire puds on Focus North and they’re just choosing ten from the application forms for just one heat. And then three will go forward to a grand final. Don’t get your hopes up too high!’