Chapter 18
Eighteen
THE DAYS RAN AHEAD of themselves. First year had dragged, but second year sped past in a blur.
Assessments followed assessments, rehearsals bled into one another.
Before one piece of work was performed, another was being demanded of you.
There were parties, cigarettes and sick up the wall.
Late walks at night and crack-of-shite starts, piss-yourself laughter and broken hearts.
The year spun on its axis, getting faster and faster, until the final weeks of second year approached and third year lay before us, tantalizingly close, the industry, the big wide world, suddenly near enough to touch.
Then, in June, things fell apart.
Grandma had been complaining of a sore throat and shortness of breath for a few months. She was always wheezing and turning away from the receiver to cough when I spoke to her on the phone. I asked Mum what was going on, but she batted my questions away.
‘It’s nothing, probably bronchitis or something. I’ll get her to ring the surgery. You just pick things up at her age. She’ll get better soon.’
But she didn’t get better. When she finally secured a doctor’s appointment, they said her blood oxygen levels were so low they were surprised she’d managed to get herself in.
They rushed her to the ICU, stuck tubes down her throat, and pumped her full of God knows what.
Dad texted me the news. He told me not to worry, that the hospital said it was pneumonia, and that he and Mum were taking care of it.
I remember thinking: Pneumonia? Who gets pneumonia in June?
She died a week later.
Jolly knew. We were making a stir-fry and running lines when I got the call.
He promised he wouldn’t tell anyone, but the next day Victoria sprinted into the rehearsal room and flung her arms around me.
She held me for maybe thirty seconds, grasping fistfuls of my hair before stuffing a note inside my palm and turning away.
If you need ANYTHING at all, I’ve got you. Love you always. X
The funeral was in the penultimate week of second year. We were performing Brecht’s The Caucasian Chalk Circle on Wednesday. The funeral was on Monday. I caught the train home Sunday night and was back in school for the dress rehearsal at 9 a.m. on Tuesday.
On the morning of the funeral, an extravagant spray of blue lilies arrived at our house.
I asked Mum who they were from. She said she didn’t know, the sender hadn’t left a note.
At the local cricket club after, someone had put a hundred quid behind the bar.
Sipping their gratis brandies by the buffet, a few of Grandma’s circle whispered among themselves, trying to guess who her anonymous benefactor was.
‘Well, who’s not here?’
‘It could be Pat?’
‘Surely not, his wife’s not been cold two months.’
‘Well, what about Lionel?’
‘Maybe.’
‘A secret admirer! Our Mary’s still surprising us even now.’
I picked up a stack of empty plates and took them through to the kitchen.
I could’ve told them about my oh-so-generous friend who conquered every corner with her bounty, flinging her generosity hither and thither.
I could’ve pricked their delight, cut short their gossip, but grief, or maybe just the fat weight of exhaustion, stayed my tongue.
WHEN I RETURNED TO school, Victoria kept her distance.
On Thursday, after a Movement class in which I’d excused myself to cry in the bathroom, I saw her speaking in low voices with Frida.
I thought they were talking about me, that Victoria was reminding Frida about my recent bereavement.
I remember feeling a rush of gratitude, then guilt that made me well up all over again.
Later, after we were kicked out of the rehearsal room by maintenance, I sidled up to her.
‘Thank you,’ I said, squeezing her hand.
‘For what?’
‘Everything,’ I said, feeling a lump develop in my throat. ‘The flowers, the tab, talking to Frida.’
She gave me a queer look. ‘Frida?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You spoke to her earlier, didn’t you? About why I was upset?’
‘Oh, that.’ She shook her head. ‘No, that was something else.’
Jolly pushed past us. ‘Good luck tomorrow, V!’ he yelled. ‘Sorry, got to run, I’m meeting Terrence.’
‘Bye,’ Victoria called after him.
We continued down the stairwell in silence. My thoughts ticked. Good luck, good luck, good luck. What did he mean? I flexed my fingers, afraid to know, afraid not to know.
‘What was that about?’ I asked finally. ‘I mean, the good luck thing?
‘Oh, nothing,’ she said, waving the question away. ‘Just an audition.’
The words hit me in the gut, winding me. An audition. I pushed my fingernail into the centre of my fist and tried to breathe.
‘An audition?’ I said. We reached the bottom of the stairs. I pushed open the heavy glass door, and Victoria stepped out ahead of me into the warm evening air.
‘Yeah, for this TV thing.’
‘What is it?’ I asked, my fist trembling. ‘I mean, what show is it?’
She hesitated, clearly unsure whether to answer.
She glanced behind her, then seemed to decide it was safe to do so, that my relative insignificance would shield her from any NDA backlash.
‘It’s this HBO thing, pretty hush-hush. I can’t really say much about it.
’ She paused, but I could tell she wanted to say more.
She smiled to herself and looked sideways, as if some prying interloper might be listening in.
‘But if I pull it off,’ she whispered, ‘it could be, well . . . significant.’
‘Go on?’
‘I shouldn’t really say any more, Shan . . .’
‘You can trust me. Go on,’ I said.
‘Well, it’s sort of this drama that chronicles the life of Queen Elizabeth the first.’
‘And . . .’
‘And, well, I’d be playing Queen Elizabeth.’
I felt some part of me flatten.
‘The lead,’ I said, trying to sound excited, trying to hide the black bile of jealousy rising up inside me. ‘That’s great,’ I said weakly.
‘Yeah,’ she agreed. ‘It’s actually a second meeting. I did the first on Monday, so, you know’ – she waved her fingers in the air – ‘fingers crossed.’
Monday. So, while I was sitting watching my grandmother’s body disappear behind a curtain from where it would never return, she was standing in front of some of the biggest TV executives in the world, being praised and fawned over, offered opportunities beyond anything I could ever dream of for myself.
While I was drinking her pity booze, she was climbing the ladder, the ladder that would eventually take her up, up and away from me. Her great glass elevator.
‘That’s so great,’ I said again. If she heard the disappointment in my voice, she chose to ignore it.
‘I’m trying not to get my hopes up,’ she continued. ‘But it’s a pretty big deal. It’ll get me out of this dump, at any rate.’ She gestured at the school, our school, now behind us.
‘You’ll – you’ll leave?’
‘Oh, definitely. I’ve already discussed it with the tutors.
They say my final marks can be based on the TV performance.
I can still graduate like everyone else, I can still get my degree’ – she put the word in air quotes – ‘just without having to go through the whole dreary rigmarole of third year.’ She glanced across at me.
My expression must have faltered. She slipped her arm through mine.
‘Oh Shannypoo, don’t worry,’ she said brightly.
‘I’ll come and see you in all your shows.
’ But then her attention seemed to drift elsewhere. ‘I mean, if my schedule allows.’