Chapter 32
32
With the excitement of Focus North coming into school and the subsequent airing of the film on the local BBC news programme that Wednesday evening at 6.30p.m. – and which was actually extended to almost ten minutes rather than the anticipated five – the kids at St Mede’s were fractious and un-cooperative. They’d had their five minutes of fame and, with the exception of Year 11, who were facing GCSE mock exams in the new year, with just two weeks to go to the Christmas break the younger kids had obviously had enough and were voting with their feet and downing tools early.
Back at home, we alternated watching the Focus North clip over and over again – Sorrel highly critical of her performance, Mum just one proud mum that both her daughters were being shown in such a good light – with being force-fed Christmas concoctions that Jess thought she might make on the Friday while being filmed for the Yorkshire Christmas TopChef competition. All she’d been told was that round one involved the ten competitors coming up with and cooking a two-course Christmas meal of their choice using ingredients that were to be set out in front of them, before three of them would be chosen to go through to the final round.
‘Isn’t it cheating, practising like this?’ Sorrel asked, downing heavenly lemon and maple roasted carrots.
‘Not at all. They admit to it on MasterChef ,’ I said, pulling a warning face at Sorrel as Jess, behind us at the stove, looked worried.
‘It’s not cheating, is it?’ she asked, wiping her hands on her pinny before handing over tiny, deliciously crisp Hasselback potatoes swimming in chive and cranberry butter, and delicate slices of a turkey wellington made with the flakiest pastry, delicious duxelles and tender meat.
‘Course not, darling,’ Mum added her own reassurance. ‘But buying this little lot must have set you back a fortune?’
‘Two months’ child benefit,’ Jess admitted somewhat guiltily. ‘Oh, and Dean arrived with the goose.’ She offered a plate of sliced goose crackling with orange and rosemary and, with forks at the ready, we all dived in.
‘Dean? Dean did?’
‘Probably off the back of a lorry somewhere.’ Jess sniffed before lowering her voice as Lola left the kitchen to watch TV. ‘He knows he’s going to be by himself at Christmas now that the barmaid appears to have gone back to her husband.’
‘Oh, Jess, you’re not taking him back?’ I pleaded through a mouthful of delicious stuffing.
‘No, no, of course not. Lola wants her dad back here, of course, but…’
‘Dean’s well and truly cooked his goose.’ Sorrel grinned.
‘And Matt Spencer’s got his feet well and truly under her table,’ I added, joining in the banter.
‘ And under her duvet.’ Sorrel cackled.
‘Oy, d’you mind?’ Jess threw Sorrel a look as Lola strolled back in looking for pudding.
‘You do like Matt though, don’t you?’ Mum asked, desperate to hear the correct answer. ‘I liked him from the minute I met him. He really helped me get better this time, you know.’
‘She’s in love with him.’ Lola grinned. ‘Mum’s fallen in love.’
‘Matt’s coming with me to Harrogate – to the conference centre where the competition is taking place.’
‘Oh, good for him. You’ll need to set off early to avoid the Friday-morning traffic. I’ll come over as soon as you’re ready to go,’ I added, ‘and make sure Lola’s up and ready for school.’
‘I’m not sure I can do this,’ Jess now said, absent-mindedly offering the plate of potatoes again instead of the rounds of fig and sweetened roast chestnut crumble tart topped with Bailey’s ice cream. ‘I’m absolutely terrified.’
‘You can do it. We’ll be cheering you on from here,’ I said, going to give her a hug. ‘We’ll be there with you in spirit.’
By Friday we were all as nervous as Jess, who’d started hyperventilating whenever she attempted to prepare anything more exotic than toast and Marmite for Lola’s breakfast. When, in the middle of the night, she sat bolt upright, said she couldn’t remember how to scramble eggs or how long it took to actually boil an egg, Matt simply took her in hand, calmed her down and soothed her back to sleep.
I went next door at 6a.m. to see to Lola. Jess was showered, dressed and looking as if she was on the way to her own personal execution.
‘Off you go,’ I said, pushing her gently towards Matt’s car. ‘Just do your best and enjoy yourself. Let us know what’s happening.’
I spent the day anxiously looking at my phone, tearing strips off the kids who were getting right up my nose and giving out detentions like sweets for the least iniquitous offending.
‘Blimey, what’s up with her ?’ I heard a couple of Year 11 kids discussing me as they made their way to lunch. ‘I’d got to really like her recently – best teacher in this dump – but she’s been just as bad as the rest of them today.’
As soon as the final bell for the day – and the week – sounded, I waited for Sorrel and together we drove home in silence, leaving Little Micklethwaite and its school behind for the weekend. We motored slowly through Beddingfield, the main high street decked out in opulent but elegant seasonal white and silver, the huge Christmas tree stylishly decorated by the parish council. No garish multicoloured lights in my village, I thought before smiling inwardly. I finally appeared to be happy and content to be back home in Yorkshire with my family, proud to live in this beautiful part of the country once more.
‘I’ve been feeling so anxious all day,’ Sorrel finally admitted. ‘If my stomach is in knots just thinking of Jess not being able to remember how to make a béchamel sauce or her ice cream not setting, how the hell am I going to feel when it’s my turn to head off down to London and Susan Yates’s next month? You will come with me, won’t you?’ she pleaded. ‘Oh, and just so you know, all the Pink Ladies have gone off you. Isla Boothroyd says you’re a bossy bitch and Mia’s dad’s hens appreciate them and know more about dance and musical theatre than you will ever know.’
That made me laugh, and by the time we got back home we were both hiccupping with giggles and ready to face the news of how Jess had got on, whatever the outcome.
Matt’s car was in the drive and Sorrel and I raced straight round, flinging back the kitchen door in our eagerness to see how it had gone.
Mum, Matt and Jess were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea, looking serious and certainly not as if there was any good news in the offing.
‘Oh…’ I hesitated, scanning Jess’s face. ‘Not good news? How’d it go?’
‘Absolutely terrifying,’ Jess finally said, glancing across at Matt, who took her hand. ‘I can’t tell you how frightening it was.’
‘She was brilliant,’ Matt said.
‘You don’t know that.’ Jess tutted, slightly crossly. ‘You weren’t allowed in. They wouldn’t let anyone in with us. It was just the ten of us, the three judges and the camera crew.’
‘And? And?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m through. Three of us were chosen to go to the final.’
‘Well, flipping heck, Jess, show a bit of enthusiasm, will you?’ I went over to hug her but she felt stiff, unyielding. I stood back, looking down at her. ‘What? What’s happened?’
‘So, there were ten of us there, all at our own worktables just like on MasterChef .’
‘And?’
‘And we all had our white Yorkshire Christmas TopChef aprons on.’
‘Yes? And?’
‘With our names on the apron. Beautifully embroidered in red and green so they’d look Christmassy…’
‘And? The embroidery wasn’t up to standard? They spelled your name wrong?’
‘And it just never occurred to me, even when I eventually saw his name. The thing was, Robyn, I was so nervous, so desperate to get on with the actual cooking, that I didn’t really look at the other competitors.’
‘Name? Whose name, for heaven’s sake?’ I asked irritably.
Jess glanced across at Matt, who nodded slightly in my direction. ‘Look, Robyn, I think… possibly… maybe… you said he could cook…’
‘ He? Well, it can’t be Mason because he’s as terrible a cook as me; it can’t be Jayden because he’s still touring and it can’t be Fabian because he’s not from Yorkshire…’ I trailed off. ‘Fabian?’ I stared. ‘Fabian Carrington? Fabian was there?’
‘Well, it said Fabian on his pinny,’ Jess said, slightly huffily. ‘I mean, how many good-looking… all right, sorry, Matt… absolutely gorgeous -looking blokes called Fabian are there who can cook? Anyway, this Fabian bloke, me and another girl called Bea are through.’
‘Fabian’s not from Yorkshire, Jess,’ I interrupted crossly. ‘Just because there’s some bloke there called Fabian doesn’t mean he’s suddenly my Fabian. For heaven’s sake , Jess!’ I felt my pulse, which had revved uncomfortably at his name and the possibility of his being just thirty miles or so away, now race out of control as I lost my rag with Jess. ‘And, if you remember, he’s not my Fabian,’ I corrected myself. ‘Look,’ I went on, trying to speak calmly, ‘even if he lied and said he lived in Yorkshire, he’s far too involved in preparations for the Henderson-Smith trial to be having time off from London. And to have entered himself into a provincial cookery competition. And he was nowhere near as good a cook as you, Jess.’
‘Not that provincial, Robyn.’ Matt was straight in there, defending the status of Yorkshire Christmas TopChef as well as his new love. ‘ Focus North were there.’
‘They get around,’ I said irritably. ‘Look, Jess, just concentrate on the fact that you’re through to the final round next week. That’s fantastic. Well done. Let’s open a bottle to celebrate.’
‘Absolutely,’ Matt said, going to the fridge, where he’d placed a bottle of fizz earlier. ‘You’re through to the final, Jess. It may be just a “provincial competition”…’ here he glared in my direction ‘…but you got there. You and the other two, whoever they are.’
‘So, what happens now?’ Sorrel asked.
‘Mum and the other two have to cook again next week.’ Lola, who’d just joined us in the kitchen, was totally overexcited. ‘Mum’s in the final three. And it’s on a Saturday, so can I come with you?’
‘Who was he with?’ I asked Jess idly.
‘Who was who with?’
‘This Fabian bloke?’
‘Why? Why does it matter?’ Jess said spikily, still upset that I’d had a go at her.
‘Just interested.’
‘Well, he came out of there really excited.’ Matt laughed. ‘And this absolutely ravishing blonde ran over to him and nearly knocked him over as she hugged him and showered him with kisses.’
‘Yes, absolutely ravishing,’ Jess agreed. ‘Although a bit over the top, to be honest.’
‘Hey, I kissed you.’ Matt smiled. ‘And she was nowhere near as gorgeous as you, Jessica.’
‘Keep on,’ Jess encouraged. ‘This is just what I want to hear.’
She leaned in, kissing Matt until both Lola and Sorrel chorused, ‘Yuck,’ and I was on the point of suggesting pouring a bucket of water over the canoodling pair.
While I was utterly thrilled that Jess was not only in the throes of a wonderful new relationship with the lovely Matt Spencer but also showing the world – well, OK, Yorkshire – what a great cook she was, and Sorrel was spending every available moment in St Mede’s drama studio going through her audition moves, I was envious of both of them. I had to continually berate myself for feeling this way.
Mason had given me permission – and the key – to use the drama studio out of school hours, much to the chagrin of Jobsworth Ken, who refused to put the heat on while we were there and constantly stood at the door tutting while looking at his watch and asking how much longer before he could lock up and put the alarm back on. What he thought was going to be nicked from the place was anyone’s guess. Determined that Sorrel should win one of the coveted scholarship places at the Susan Yates Theatre School at the end of January, I was a hard taskmaster and on more than one occasion she flounced out and began walking home. But, on the whole, she worked her socks off before going round to Jess’s for help with her maths, while Jess simultaneously experimented with new recipes for the upcoming Yorkshire Christmas TopChef final.
The following Monday morning I was standing in for the PSHE teacher who’d gone home with – allegedly – excruciating period pain. I’d never got on with Sonya Harrington, whom I considered both unfriendly and arrogant, and, convinced her period pain was really a chance to get over to Meadowhall for Christmas shopping while it was relatively quiet, I wasn’t in the best mood for teaching her Year 8 class the planned lesson of ‘Learning to learn and the acquisition of thinking tools’.
What the hell did that mean anyway? I’d quickly scanned Sonya’s lesson plan, but it was written in such a user- un friendly way and made little sense (to anyone, including, I suspected, Sonya herself) that I gave up on it and, instead, started a discussion on ‘Disability’, which, looking at the PSHE long-term planning, I’d spotted was on the following term’s curriculum. Tough, Sonya, I thought scathingly, when the kids, in January, all chorus, ‘We’ve already done this, miss.’
I’d started the lesson, and had reminded the kids that not all disabilities, particularly mental, are visible, when Sol Baxter, gazing out of the window, suddenly shouted, ‘Caretaker Ken is fighting with some nutter down there who’s off his rocker, miss. Look, look!’
Twenty-four kids left their seats and rushed as one, stampeding across the floor to the classroom’s second-floor window, opening it as wide as Health and Safety allowed, to get a good look. Knowing it was pointless telling them to get back into their seats, I walked over to see what all the commotion was about – maybe I could use whatever was going on as a teaching aid.
Jobsworth Ken was losing his rag with some bloke – a drunk? A vagrant? – who’d seemingly wandered onto the school playing field and was now trying to make his way onto the paved area down below, Ken equally determined he should not. Ken had hold of the man by his arm, attempting some sort of military hold he’d obviously learned from his days in the 2nd Battalion, Yorkshire Regiment, but the intruder was having none of it. With a couple of choice swear words that drifted up through the classroom’s open window, the man wrenched himself from Jobsworth’s grasp, smoothed himself down and stood looking up at the windows where myriad cheering kids were now applauding his bid for freedom.
At which point Mason Donoghue himself appeared on the scene accompanied by Sally, one of the school secretaries. As the bell rang out loudly for the start of lunch break, Mason looked up and, seeing me standing at the open window, shook his head slightly before shouting: ‘Ms Allen, would you join us in my office, please?’