Chapter 9
9
ROBYN
I was determined that Sorrel was going to get through the audition at the Susan Yates Theatre School with ease, and so was intent on putting her through the three set pieces for her audition in London towards the end of January.
‘Come on, Sorrel,’ I chided, glancing at my watch. I knew I was being irritable, but time was of the essence. ‘There’s only twenty minutes left of lunchtime, and I’m teaching Year 7 after that. What? What is it? I’m telling you now, you carry on like this, looking like you have no enthusiasm for what you’re doing, and there’s absolutely no chance of your landing a scholarship. You won’t be the only one being auditioned, you know. I mean,’ I went on when Sorrel didn’t appear to be listening, ‘do you realise just how lucky you’ve been to get this chance…?’
‘Luck?’ Sorrel muttered, her head down as she started to untie her footwear. ‘Are you implying it’s all down to luck rather than any actual ability I may have? In that case, I might as well call in at the corner shop on my way home and buy some scratch cards and win the lottery. You know, if it’s all down to just luck …’ She trailed off, continuing to slowly take off her trainers and socks before reaching for her black leather dance shoes, and I felt my irritation mount.
‘Look, have you gone off the whole idea or what? There’s still work to do, you know. Your Sandy piece from Grease is just about perfect – you’ve worked on that for the school production for weeks. Mind you, you’ll find in this game, you can never sit back and rest on your laurels: there’s always a director narkily suggesting you could do better; always someone in the wings snapping at your heels just waiting for the opportunity to take a part from you. Believe me, I’ve been there…’ I stopped talking as Sorrel lifted her face towards me but gave no response. She eventually stood and moved over to the makeshift barre I’d managed to persuade Jobsworth Ken to put up for us, albeit with many accompanying words of doom and gloom about the school not being around much longer, never mind this bloody cold cellar I insisted on calling a drama studio.
Sorrel moved through a series of stretches and exercises, limbering up, pacing herself, but seemingly without a great deal of enthusiasm for the task. The sparkle, the verve, the downright talent and gusto Sorrel was capable of showing when dancing appeared strangely lacking this lunchtime.
Swallowing the unspoken words of censure on my lips, I crossed the studio floor for my phone, finding the music that accompanied the part of Sandy in Grease . ‘OK, Sorrel, let’s take it from the top.’
‘From the top?’ Sorrel did little to suppress a tired snigger. ‘This is St Mede’s comp in West Yorkshire, Robyn, not the effing London Palladium.’ Throwing a withering look in my direction, she positioned herself and, once the chords started, began her set piece. Just thirty seconds in, she stopped. ‘I need the loo,’ she muttered, setting off towards the three wooden steps that led to the lavatory set aside for use of staff.
‘You won’t be able to have a pee in the middle of a piece next week,’ I shouted after her but Sorrel was already out of earshot.
‘Have you got a rehearsal?’ Mason Donoghue had come into the studio, making his way over to where I stood waiting for Sorrel’s reappearance. ‘The kids not turned up?’
‘Just spending fifteen minutes – ten now – trying to get Sorrel up to speed for her audition in London.’
‘Right, OK. Couple of things.’
‘Oh?’ I turned to look directly at Mason. ‘You’re not about to tell me I can’t have the day off to go with Sorrel to London?’
‘I was thinking maybe someone else might go with her. Your mum? Or Jess?’ Mason looked hopeful.
‘I want to go. I’m the one who knows about this stuff, Mason. I know London too.’
‘We’re so short-staffed…’
‘Well, get some money spent and get some supply staff in.’
‘I’m already over budget.’ Mason sighed gloomily. ‘And, as you well know, getting supply staff to stay even for the day, never mind return for another, is almost impossible.’
‘Not really my problem,’ I said irritably. Sometimes I forgot Mason, my ex-lover, was still my boss. ‘What else did you want?’ I glanced at my watch and then the wooden steps. How long did it take for someone to have a pee, for heaven’s sake?
‘You all right, Sorrel?’ Mason had turned to see Sorrel make her way over towards her bag and trainers rather than back to where she’d been about to perform.
‘Don’t feel too good,’ she muttered, avoiding looking at me. ‘I’m going home. It’s only general studies and then RE. Seeing I don’t believe in any god, I don’t reckon Allah or Jesus will give a flying whatsit if I don’t turn up for them.’
‘Sorrel?’ I moved towards her, concerned.
‘Sorrel, you need to go down to matron’s room,’ Mason started. ‘If you’re not well.’
‘Not much point in doing that,’ Sorrel retorted over her shoulder. ‘We’ve not had a matron, have we, since Blane Higson nicked all the paracetamol and Night Nurse from her cupboard?’
‘I didn’t think anyone knew about that,’ Mason whispered in my direction as I began to follow Sorrel’s determined exit from the studio.
‘Mason, everyone knows.’
‘Actually, it was about Blane I was coming to see you.’
‘What’s he done now? Apart from getting high on matron’s drugs?’
‘He appears to have gone missing. He’s in 9CL – your tutor group.’ Mason’s tone was accusatory, as if it were my fault the kid wasn’t in school.
‘I am aware of that, Mason. He wasn’t in registration this morning. But that’s nothing new; he rarely gets to school on time, if he comes in at all. He’s always bunking off, you know that. How many times have you had to ring his mum and then the local authority’s attendance team to go and search for him?’
‘The thing is, Robyn, we need to have a point of contact for perennially absent children. With Blane, it’s always been his form tutor or head of year.’
‘Mason, Celia Logan is not only 9CL’s form tutor, but also the Year 9 head of year. As she’s now strapped up in a French Alps hospital muttering “ Sacré bleu” , but otherwise enjoying the unexpected extension to her holiday instead of chasing after Blane Higson, I would imagine the point of contact you’re looking for will have to be yourself? Hmm?’
‘The thing is, Robyn,’ Mason repeated, his voice persuasive, ‘the concept of a “constant person” to work with a family, once attendance issues become serious, is always seen as the best possible practice…’
‘Seen by whom?’
‘Sorry?’
‘ Who sees this as best practice?’
‘Well, you know… erm… educationalists.’
‘Mason, you’re beginning to sound like a politician.’ I went towards the door, Mason following on, obviously determined to have his say. ‘Stop quoting the educational dogma you learned off by heart in order to secure your headship here.’
‘Excuse me, will you please remember I’m your boss?’ Mason was beginning to sound as irritable as I was feeling. ‘You see, Robyn, this person, this one point of contact when a child is constantly absent from school, may not necessarily be a teaching member of staff…’
‘Great, that lets me off the hook, then.’ I opened the door, Mason still in my wake.
‘Indeed, leaders talk about the valuable skills and knowledge brought to this role by staff who have come from social work, police, mentoring or other backgrounds…’
‘Other backgrounds? Oh, such as a supply teacher with a knackered ACL, previously dancing in the West End?’
‘Perfect.’ Mason nodded with some degree of relief. ‘You know I hate to ask, Robyn, but with Petra pregnant, I don’t want her wandering round the streets of Blane’s estate looking for him. I’m so up to my ears with the day-to-day stuff, plus the press constantly wanting to talk to me about the alleged closing down of the school. As well as the attack on Joel Sinclair. And then there’s all the meetings I’m having to have with the local authority. I really don’t have the time to be Blane Higson’s minder as well. It was his mum who got in touch this time; she got a neighbour to ring school. Apparently, he didn’t actually go home last night…’
‘Well, he’s stayed out before. Remember I found him hiding in the girls’ toilets overnight because he’d lost his key and couldn’t get in his house when his mum had overdosed again…?’
Mason tutted. ‘Of course I remember, Robyn. And I know you have a special relationship with Blane.’
‘A special relationship?’ I turned back in Mason’s direction.
‘You’re good with these kids, Robyn. You care .’
‘Oh, don’t try and get to me through sycophancy…’
‘And every time his social worker is back on his case, he’s taken into care again. But he just runs back home. I thought…’
‘Look, if he’s not been home, then it’s a matter for the police. Surely you can see that? A missing fourteen-year-old? Social workers and the police need to be involved, Mason.’ I did sometimes wonder how on earth Mason Donoghue had been tasked with heading up St Mede’s. Exceptionally good-looking, charismatic and persuasive he might be, but after almost five months under his direction, I really was no longer convinced of his leadership. Oh, he was jolly good at talking the talk, walking the walk and, brilliant though he was with these St Mede’s kids, knowing just how to handle them, he appeared to have little knowledge of the actual administrative requirements for the day-to-day running of a school.
‘Look, I’ve missed Sorrel now.’ I tutted crossly as the bell for afternoon school sounded, shattering the corridor’s silence with its raucous clanging. ‘Jeez, why does that bell sound so loud down here in the basement?’ I headed for the stairs and the Year 7 class I was taking.
‘Acoustics,’ Mason was saying as he followed me up the two flights of stone steps and into the main body of the school. ‘And, of course , it’s a matter for the police and Blane’s social worker and they’ve been informed. Particularly after the attack on Joel. If the press gets to hear we’ve a missing child just a couple of days after what happened to Joel, they’ll be all over us like a bad rash…’
‘Hi, miss. I love your English lessons. You’re my best teacher.’ Billy Caldwell, his face pale beneath a mass of freckles, tapped my arm affectionately as if I were his mate and, despite the worry about Sorrel’s sudden departure and now the missing Blane Higson, I wanted to laugh.
‘You see—’ Mason continued to follow me even as I brought the class into the room ‘—you’ve a special relationship with the children.’
‘Are you stalking me, Mason?’ I finally asked as he walked in my wake right down to the desk at the front of the room.
‘No, no, I just…’ he started.
‘OK, Mr Donoghue, you let me out of school for the last period. It does mean you’ll have to get someone to take 9CL—’ anything to get out of teaching that shower ‘—and I’ll drive down to Blane’s house to see his mum and find out what’s going on. I’m not going after school, Mason – it’s getting dark by four and I need to get home to see what’s up with Sorrel.’
‘OK, OK. Good. We’ll do that, then. Good. Good. Very good. Excellent.’ Obvious relief that he’d managed to offload one of his many problems made Mason garrulous in his response. Then, apparently deeming even his effusive words of thanks insufficient, he bent to kiss my cheek before quickly leaving.
‘Blimey, did you see that?’ Lewis Bedford sat open-mouthed, staring after Mason’s departing back.
‘Cor, sir fancies miss…’ Kye Vant chortled.
‘My dad fancies her too. Says she’s right hot…’
‘ I do as well.’ Harrison Wade, staring somewhat dreamily in my direction, suddenly realised he’d spoken out loud and flushed scarlet as his mates started to make what could only be construed as sexually suggestive hand gestures while the low-level giggles started at the back of the room escalated into full-scale ribald laughter.
In no mood for these Year 7 kids getting uppity so soon into their time at St Mede’s, I silenced them immediately with a long, low: ‘Ex-cuse-me!’
Total silence ensued, apart from a couple of quickly smothered hiccups of laughter towards which I focused my favourite narrow-eyed glare. I stood facing the class of eleven and twelve-year-olds, starting the ten-second silence I reckoned would bring the class completely to heel.
‘OK, this afternoon we’re going to look at anagrams…’
‘Anna Gram’s what, Miss Allen?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You said we’re going to be looking at Anna Gram’s something . You got my last name wrong.’ Anna Graham, the brightest kid in the class, interrupted almost kindly. ‘You said you loved the poem I wrote last term. Do you want me to read it out again?’ Anna started reaching for her bag.
‘She’s so full of herself,’ Harper Cooke muttered to her mate. ‘You’re always showing off, Anna.’
‘Anagrams.’ I laughed in spite of myself. ‘OK, any idea what an anagram is?’
‘My nan sometimes swears when she’s doing the crossword, miss,’ Evie Blackburn said seriously. ‘“Another of them bloody anagrams,” she shouts out to my grandad and then he says, “Leave it, love, them things is too hard for us. Do the sudoku instead.” So, whatever it is, it’s hard.’
‘I can’t do hard stuff,’ Billy muttered. ‘Can’t we read some more of War Horse instead? We’d got to a right good bit.’
‘OK,’ I went on, ‘so an anagram is a word or words with their letters mixed up to spell a different word. Or words.’
Silence.
‘I can’t spell words when the letters aren’t mixed up.’ Billy slumped back in his chair, obviously fed up that, after his bigging me up as his favourite teacher, I wasn’t turning out to be quite so accommodating after all.
‘So, for example, the word lump – a fruit is the clue…’
‘A lump of fruit?’ Billy was now almost horizontal across his desk.
‘Plum!’ Anna Graham shouted.
‘Yes, well done, Anna. A cheap fruit.’
‘Banana?’ Billy offered. ‘Me mam says I can have them ’cos they’re cheaper than pineapples. An’ I really love pineapples an’ all…’
‘If you go to Aldi, they’re all quite cheap,’ Aria Spencer, already middle-aged as the sole carer for her mum with MS, piped up sagely. ‘And you’d be gobsmacked at their carrots and turnips. Right good value…’
‘Peach!’ Anna shouted, excitedly.
‘Yep.’
‘There’s no rage with this fruit,’ I quickly wrote on the smartboard.
‘Orange!’ Anna was on a roll, pushing back her hair and preening.
‘Aw, don’t let her get any more, miss.’
‘OK, a bit harder now.’ I smiled. ‘A dirty room – where you might sleep. Work together in pairs, use your jotters. Don’t call out, hands up when you’ve worked it out. Come on.’
There were times when I totally forgot I wasn’t into teaching, that I was in a classroom only by default. Lessons like this, with Year 7, were fabulous. Finishing with best in prayers – a female pop singer – and cheering along with the class when Billy Caldwell came up with the solution first, I was as surprised as the kids when the bell went for the end of the session.
Before my final lesson of the day, now that I’d permission to leave school early, I checked my phone hoping for a message of explanation from Sorrel but, instead, found a text from Fabian.
Fabian
Can you meet me down in Beddingfield village straight after school?
Robyn
I can, but it won’t be straight after school. I’ve to go look for a kid down on the estate in Little Micklethwaite first.
Fabian
OK. Shall I come with you?
Robyn
See how the other half live, you mean? What’s up? Why d’you want to meet me?
Fabian
Tell you when you get here.
Robyn
Best if you drive over to school and follow me down. Am free in 45 minutes.
* * *
Exactly fifty minutes later, having left teaching notes for Petra Waters, who had been roped in to take my last class of the day, as well as remembering to send round a note to cancel my weekly extra-curricular dance class for the Year 7s and 8s, I gathered my bags and made for the main door.
‘S’OK, Robyn.’ Sally, one of the school secretaries, knocked on the glass window of the office before sliding it back.
‘What’s OK?’
‘Blane’s back at home. He’s turned up there. You don’t need to go after all, Mason says.’
‘Oh, I’m on my way now, Sally,’ I tutted. ‘I’ve sorted my last class and cancelled my after-school session.’
‘Well, Mason says?—’
‘Tell Mason you missed me, that I’d already left.’ And, with a cheery wave over my shoulder, I made good my escape, heading into the chilly damp January afternoon. Very tempted to go straight home to see Sorrel, or at least take Fabian down to The Green Dragon for a quick one before he headed back to Harrogate, I decided I was a professional. I’d have to report back to Mason as well. He wouldn’t be too impressed if he knew I’d left school early in order to find Blane, only to spend what was left of the afternoon down in the boozer with my lover. Besides, I genuinely wanted to find out what Blane had been up to; where he’d been all night. And, nosy old so-and-so that I was, I wanted to see for myself this mother of his who didn’t appear to be doing the best job of looking after her recalcitrant son. Seeing Fabian’s silver 911 parked behind my own little red Honda, I waved, jangled my keys in his direction and intimated that he should follow me to the address I’d taken from the class register.