Chapter 15
Fifteen
The school hall buzzed with the restless energy of parents balancing programmes and boxes of chocolates while stealthily stashing mobile phones set to ‘video’ under their coats. Folding chairs creaked as latecomers tried to shuffle into already-full rows.
Cardboard reeds flanked the stage, painted a too-vibrant green, and crinkling every time someone backstage brushed against them.
Christina sat beside Hamish in the middle of the fourth row, her coat half-off, knees pressed together, her hands twisting in her lap.
She could feel the heat of him beside her – familiar, frustrating.
They had driven over in silence and had spoken little since arriving, just murmured acknowledgements about where to sit and who they’d spotted.
In front of them, Elspeth bounded onto the stage as Ratty the water vole, in a brown leotard, pipe-cleaner whiskers, and an enormous bright orange tail. Christina felt their shared parental pride like a current between them.
‘She’s . . . orange,’ Hamish whispered, his eyes twinkling.
‘The brief was ‘make your own tail,’’ she replied, lips twitching into a smile. ‘Apparently the only fabric left in the drama cupboard was from a defunct fox costume.’
‘Ratty by way of a traffic cone.’
Christina laughed. The tension between them softened slightly, like steam escaping a kettle. On stage, a chorus of badger cubs began to sing ‘Messing About in a Boat’. Half were singing the wrong verse. The piano was a full two bars behind. It was dreadful. It was glorious.
Phones tilted. A baby gurgled. Parents beamed.
And then Elspeth stepped forward into the improvised spotlight – a teacher holding a lamp suspended from a broom handle – took a breath and launched into her solo.
It was sweet and clear, with only the faintest tremor in the high notes. Elspeth’s eyes searched for them in the audience. When they met Christina’s, something sharp and yearning stirred inside her. She smiled. Elspeth smiled back, brighter.
Beside her, Hamish gave a single, soft ‘huh,’ the sound he always made when moved and trying to pretend otherwise.
Christina felt the sting in her eyes, and a memory slipped into her mind.
She had been nine and the church hall had smelled of paint and sugary orange squash.
She’d been cast as ‘Star Number Three’ in the Nativity, her tinsel halo itchy and a little crooked.
Her parents were in the front row, her dad grinning, his eyes glued to the actors like he was watching a West End performance.
When she spoke her single line – ‘Follow me!’ – he gave her a standing ovation like she’d just delivered Hamlet’s soliloquy, yanking her embarrassed mother to her feet beside him.
He stood tall, still in his smart suit and tie, the one he wore to the office every day.
He’d rushed there straight from work, with no time to change, and the sharp lines of the jacket looked slightly creased from the day’s commute.
She dipped her face and grinned so wide her cheeks hurt.
On the way home, he held her hand, in his own warm one, and told her she’d been a star, a genuine star.
‘She was brilliant,’ murmured Dee. ‘A really lovely memory for you to take with you.’
Tina pulled her hand free. Why did her father need a memory, and where would he take it? ‘You aren’t going anywhere are you, Da?’ she asked, a note of panic in her thin voice.
He chuckled and grasped her hand. ‘Just a wee business trip, lassy.’
That had been just before he left.
Except . . . that wasn’t right. He hadn’t left.
Not at first. That was the story her mum told.
The one Tina repeated quietly to herself.
He’d gone. A business trip to New York, her dad said.
Nothing unusual. Overnight bag. Passport.
A hurried kiss on the forehead. Back soon, pet!
That version lasted a while. Through the last days in Glasgow.
Through the hush around the house. Through the long silences when Tina asked when he was coming home.
Then she and her mother had moved to Suffolk. New flat. New school where no one spoke to her. And a new story.
‘He left us,’ her mother finally admitted, sharp and tired. ‘It wasn’t a business trip. He moved to New York. Best to forget.’
Tina didn’t argue. But she knew, somehow. Knew that wasn’t quite right. Knew there was more. Something worse.
She’d overheard things. Caught hushed voices in doorways. Overheard two mums at school gossiping, staring at Dee, saying, ‘such a scandal,’ and ‘she claims she never knew a thing.’
The truth was clearly messier. Unfinished. A cut that never scabbed over. But the lie – he left for New York; he never came back – was easier. A clean line. A closed book.
And even after she knew the truth, Tina had clung to that version. Not because it was true. But because it was tidy.
The lights came up for the interval, and the audience applauded thunderously, then stirred like a single, murmuring creature to gather bags and coats and head to the refreshments table.
Christina blinked back the memory and stood, brushing imaginary crumbs from her skirt. She would get this marriage back on track. She wouldn’t let her daughter grow up with silence and blank chapters.
‘I’ll get drinks,’ she said, her voice firm.
Hamish stood up. ‘I’ll come with you.’
But she was already moving toward the exit.
The school corridor resembled a carriage of a London tube train in rush hour – hot, stuffy, crowded and smelling of coffee and too many coats drying in artificial heat.
Two trestle tables groaned under foil-covered Tupperware and supermarket cupcakes, stacked like edible cairns.
The low thrum of conversation rose and fell with bursts of forced laughter, like waves crashing against the cliffs of mild social awkwardness.
Christina stood by the table, chewing politely on a chocolate brownie that was both dry and sticky.
Crumbs clung to her fingertips. She wasn’t hungry.
She wasn’t even sure why she’d taken one – other than to have something in her hands, something to do that wasn’t talking to Hamish, who was standing nearby looking like he didn’t know what to do with his arms. The actors were busy arranging the props for the next scene, but their siblings were darting about cramming sugar fuelled goodies into their mouths.
A voice rose behind Christina, overly bright.
‘Mole was wonderful, wasn’t she?’
Christina turned slightly. Mole’s mother, wearing a woollen scarf wound multiple times round her neck like a coiled snake, beamed at anyone who’d listen.
‘She brings such nuance to the role.’
Everyone smiled politely, including Christina, though the poor girl had been barely audible. Nuanced, yes – mostly through mime.
Hamish sidled up next to her, one hand wrapped around a paper cup of tea.
‘You know,’ he said, in his historian’s musing tone, ‘this reminds me of the Elizabethan court masque traditions. Carefully staged performances in stately homes . . . poorly lit, often inaudible, but everyone clapped anyway, for political reasons.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘Are you saying Mother Mole is trying to secure a court appointment?’
‘I’m saying she’d have thrived in 1582.’
Christina cracked a smile and was about to take another reluctant bite of her brownie when she spotted Mrs Henderson, folding her arms and scanning the room like a West End theatre director preparing for the next act.
‘Mrs Henderson,’ said Christina brightly. ‘Elspeth has really enjoyed rehearsing with you –she’s loved drama this term.’
Mrs Henderson smiled, then tilted her head. ‘I’m glad you’re both here. After your email, Mrs Pemberton, I thought it best to speak with you together.’ She glanced at Hamish, then back at Christina. ‘Is everything . . . all right at home?’
Christina’s heart did a slow somersault. Hamish, beside her, stiffened.
‘I–I suppose . . .’ Christina began, faltering, her mind scrabbling for words to describe a home life that wouldn’t embarrass her or be fictitious.
‘It’s just,’ Mrs Henderson continued gently, ‘as you saw in her report, Elspeth’s been unusually distracted. Moody, actually. And she’s . . . well, she’s been telling the other children that her parents are getting divorced.’
The word felt like a fist around Christina’s heart.
Her ears rang. She became suddenly aware of every sound around her – the pop of a cap on a squash bottle, the high-pitched laugh of a sugar-fuelled child, the murmur of a group of fathers discussing the rugby.
Hamish made a small, strangled noise. ‘What?’
Mrs Henderson winced. ‘I’m sorry. I take it that’s not the situation then. We do offer student counselling if it is . . .’
Christina forced a wooden smile she didn’t feel. ‘No, it’s not. But thank you. We’ll . . . talk to her.’
The couple walked away from Mrs Henderson, the weight of the teacher’s words numbing them to silence. Christina stared at the floor, at a faint stain from spilt tea and a squashed cupcake trodden flat.
Oh God, she thought. Our daughter thinks we’re getting divorced. What if we are?