Chapter 8
ROBYN
‘OK, listen up.’ Robyn jumped to her feet, moving to and seating herself on the makeshift stage at the far end of St Mede’s drama studio, and the twenty or so kids followed her over.
‘So, as I mentioned previously, the plan to move the performances of Grease to July has been agreed by all the staff.’
‘All?’ Isla Boothroyd shot a derogatory huuufff in Robyn’s direction.
‘Don’t think so, Miss. Mr Vaughn was having a right strop about it in maths.
Trying to make out it was our fault you were wanting to shift it all.
And to when, Miss?’ Isla was in a combative mood.
‘When’s it going to be now? My dad wants to know. ’
‘Instead of the end of this term we’re going to move it to the end of the summer term.’
‘But we’ll have left school, Miss. We go off at Easter, didn’t you know?’ Isla pouted. ‘I’m not coming back to this dump once I’ve left.’
‘We talked about this, Isla. There’s just you, Lucy, Daisy, Sam and Noah from Year 11. Everyone else is from lower down the school.’
‘Oh, so you’re going to replace us all then?’
‘No, absolutely not.’ Robyn put out a conciliatory hand to Isla. ‘I can’t do without you as Betty Rizzo, Isla, or any of you Year 11 kids, you know that. We’re almost ready to go with the performance.’
‘So why aren’t we then? Why aren’t we sticking to the original plan?’
‘Because we’re not totally ready,’ Robyn soothed.
‘We want perfection, don’t we? Want to be at our very best, and Mr Donoghue agrees with me that we don’t want anything interfering with revision and your exam timetable.
You three are all doing at least one practical subject where the exam is actually in April.
I’ve checked and the dates we had in mind for the performances actually clash with your practical exams. The last thing we want is to put this pressure on you, and I don’t think your parents would be too happy once they realise this. ’
‘Don’t think my dad will give a flying wotsit,’ Daisy said crossly. ‘He’s gone again, Miss.’
‘Gone where, Daisy?’
Daisy shrugged, looking away and biting her nails as she did so.
Robyn paused, throwing the sixteen-year-old a sympathetic glance. ‘Look, can you not see how much easier it will be for all of us once the exams are out of the way?’
‘S’pose.’ Heads began to nod in agreement. ‘We won’t have to be leaving early from rehearsals to get home to revise,’ Lucy Earnshaw said.
‘Absolutely.’ Robyn could feel the kids coming round to her way of thinking.
‘And,’ she went on, ‘because my three Year 11 classes will have left, I’ll have a good five or so extra hours during the day to rehearse with you.
’ Robyn smiled. ‘You’ll be able to stay in bed until midday and then come along at your leisure in the afternoon for rehearsals. ’
‘I’ll have to be up at five as usual to sort my paper round,’ Seb, the Year 10 who was playing Danny, put in.
‘She doesn’t mean you lot further down the school, you moron.’ Lucy tutted, rolling her eyes towards Seb. ‘You’ll have to wait until next year to do that.’
‘And your Sorrel will still be Sandy?’
‘Yes, I will. The new London school promised. We promised.’ Sorrel had come in quietly, joining the others in front of Robyn. ‘And who knows,’ she went on somewhat airily, ‘I might be able to persuade Susan Yates herself to come up and do a bit of talent spotting as we perform.’
‘Ooh, really?’
‘Yes!’
‘Bloody hell.’
* * *
‘You do know there’s absolutely no chance of Susan Yates personally coming up to our amateur school production, Sorrel?’ Robyn said once the kids, now on a high, had dispersed.
‘Of course I know that.’ Sorrel laughed. ‘Why the hell would she or anyone from her school come up to this arse end of the country?’
‘Oi, language,’ Robyn censured. ‘You’re still on school premises.’
‘Yes, but only for a few more weeks. Actually, Robyn, I’m getting really nervous about going.’
‘Sorrel, the minute you’re in London, learning so much more than anyone here can teach you, you’ll never want to come back…
’ Robyn broke off as the drama studio door opened and closed.
‘Oh, Joel?’ Robyn’s eyes widened in delight.
‘What are you doing here? Should you be here? Are you allowed? Not breaking any bail conditions, are you?’
‘It’s fine, Ms Allen.’ Mason Donoghue had followed Joel in. ‘Ms Waters and I arranged that he should come back for final revision sessions and then be here to sit the exams. Different syllabus over in Castleford apparently.’
‘How’ve you got here, Joel?’ Robyn asked as Sorrel, pink faced and appearing suddenly shy, seemed unable to utter a word.
Robyn felt herself almost knocked over by the crackling tension between her little sister and this exceptionally good-looking sixteen-year-old now standing politely in front of her.
‘My youth justice worker brought me over. She’s going to wait until the end of the afternoon and then drive me back to Castleford.’
‘Oh? You’re going back? Can’t you stay a bit longer?’ Sorrel pulled a face.
‘Listen, you two, you’ve probably got some catching up to do.’ Robyn gave Mason a warning glance as he stepped forwards. ‘Bell’s not for another fifteen minutes. See you in English lit, Joel? Got your H. G. Wells?’
‘I bet I know it more than you do, Miss.’ He grinned, showing perfect white teeth.
More than likely, Robyn thought. She hated The War of the Worlds. ‘Got a minute, Mr Donoghue?’
‘You wanted me?’ Mason followed Robyn out of the drama studio and up the stone staircase towards the main hub of the school.
‘Nope,’ Robyn said cheerfully. ‘I just wanted to give those two kids some time together. Sorrel’s not seen Joel since January.’
‘I don’t want them getting up to anything,’ Mason said worriedly, on the point of turning back. ‘Not on school premises when I’m supposed to be supervising him.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mason, how much can they get up to in ten minutes?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Sorry, got to dash. Got 7BW for English: creative writing. It’ll be like pulling teeth.’ She made to move off, but Mason called her back.
‘Hang on two minutes. You, erm, appear to know George Sattar? Gossip in the staff room… As in know him…’
‘As in the biblical sense? That what you’re trying to say?
’ Robyn objected crossly. Just because she and Mason had had a fling, did he think she wasn’t averse to putting it about with anyone who looked her way?
Robyn found herself pulling herself up to her full height, her arms folded.
‘You really shouldn’t listen to tittle tattle, Mason. ’
‘Only way I get to know what’s going on in this place.’ Mason sniffed gloomily. ‘Petra was always ready to spill the beans on what was happening; the latest goings on. So, Robyn, you tell me then.’ He lowered his voice hopefully. ‘What’s the deal with you and George Sattar?’
Robyn paused, could already hear her Year 7 class champing at the bit along the corridor.
Much as she quite liked the idea of leading Mason down a rabbit hole of conspiracy, she really needed to nip this staff room gossip well and truly in the bud.
‘So, more than likely, Mason, George Sattar will soon be my uncle.’ She paused for effect, enjoying the look on the head’s face.
‘Your uncle?’ Mason stared.
‘Well, OK, my step-uncle.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Mum is going to marry…’
‘George Sattar? That’d make him your stepfather, not your uncle.’
Robyn tutted again. ‘Will you let me finish? Kamran Sattar, George’s eldest brother, is in love with Mum, has asked her to marry him and she’s said yes.’
‘All a bit sudden, isn’t it? And Kamran Sattar for heaven’s sake? The enemy of this school and the village.’ Mason was cross. ‘How could she?’
‘How couldn’t she, Mason? He’s lovely; he’s everything Jayden Allen isn’t.’
Mason, always a huge fan of her father’s music, sniffed again. ‘Bet he can’t sing like Jayden…’
‘And, best of all, he loves Mum.’
‘So now you’re on the Sattar side with regards St Mede’s? Happy to have this place razed to the ground?’ Mason gazed round at the dank snot-green-painted corridor, at the peeling walls, as if it were Buckingham Palace. ‘My school…’
‘Ah, Mr Donoghue, there you are.’ George Sattar himself was walking towards them. ‘Robyn.’ He smiled in her direction, planting a chaste but somewhat proprietorial kiss on her cheek before turning back to Mason. ‘We have a meeting, I believe?’
* * *
While she generally enjoyed teaching English to the younger classes, 7BW were not Robyn’s favourite set of kids.
Eight months into their new school, there was a bunch of them already flexing their behavioural muscles, seeing how far they could go, how much they could get away with.
This particular class would probably, she anticipated, become the class to watch out for once they became the dreaded Year 9s in a couple of years.
Having said that, they were still fairly malleable, as long as she showed them she wouldn’t put up with any nonsense from the get-go.
‘You’re late.’ Robyn looked up from her computer as Stanley Wilcox rushed into the classroom.
‘Been to the dentist, Miss.’
‘Fine, OK.’ Robyn turned back to her laptop.
‘And then we had a bit of a problem…’
‘Right, OK, Stanley.’
‘We had to wait for the IRA.’
‘Sorry?’ Robyn raised her head, staring at the boy.
‘Yes, the IRA, Miss. It were right exciting.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘This bloke told us to wait in the car and not move cos we could be dead if we did.’
‘Right?’
‘And then two big blokes came and me nan had to hand over the car keys while we waited on the side of the motorway.’
‘Goodness.’ She knew there was a growing organised crime problem in the village of Little Micklethwaite, but hadn’t realised the IRA were involved. Mind you, nothing these kids and their families got up to surprised Robyn any more.
‘Is she all right?’
‘Who?’
‘Your nan?’
‘Well, the IRA dropped me off here and then took me nan off somewhere.’