Chapter 31
AS THE WOMEN left the town hall, they stared up at the small concrete-grey cloud, chatting about where it had come from and why it was that colour. It attracted lots of attention. Crossing the square toward the school to watch the talent show, they kept glancing up, exchanging theories.
For Greta, the cloud was something insignificant she’d seen countless times before. She ignored it, choosing to focus on Lottie’s talent show performance instead.
Greta had never been to the school in Mapleville before. It hadn’t featured in the commercials, and she wondered what other places she had yet to discover in the town.
The school was constructed of terracotta and cream stone, imposing and grand, with towers that reminded her of the Tower of London. It looked like the kind of place that, in England, might be frequented by members of the royal family, children of pop stars, and future politicians.
Inside, the walls were all painted white without any chips or flakes. It was well-kept, unlike Lottie’s school in Longmill where small plastic bowls collected the rainwater dripping from the ceiling in the gym.
All the paintings on the walls were accomplished, as if done by professional artists rather than students.
The parents in the hall wore polished shoes and neat suits, with no one slouching in a tracksuit or—as Greta had once spotted in Lottie’s school—pyjamas and slippers.
A line of trophies sat on a table on the stage, as if every participant were guaranteed one regardless of their performance.
A banner hung above the stage that read Mapleville High School Talent Show.
Jim was already seated in the middle of a row, waiting for her to arrive. Greta sat down beside him.
There was already an excited buzz in the air, about the show and also the cloud. ‘Have you seen it?’ Jim said, pointing out of the window.
‘It’s a cloud, Jim. They’re supposed to be that colour,’ Greta said, opening the programme. Her stomach danced when she spotted Lottie’s name.
Charlotte Perks—Magic and Vocal Performance.
She showed the page to Jim, and they shared a proud look. Lottie’s was the final act.
The chatter died down when the headteacher walked onto the stage.
She was dressed from head to toe in tweed, including a small cape that reminded Greta of Sherlock Holmes.
After adjusting the microphone, she launched into her welcome speech, gushing about the students’ achievements.
The Best School Award, a regional boat race championship, and the Excellence in Performing Arts Award were some of the many accolades.
During her speech, someone slipped into the seat next to Greta.
Greta barely noticed at first, her attention fixed on the stage. Until a familiar voice said, ‘I can’t wait to watch Lottie’s performance. She’s going to be wonderful.’
Greta stared ahead, her pulse almost stuttering to a standstill. The programme slipped from her fingers, dropping to the floor. Disbelief thundered through her, and her thoughts failed to make sense in her mind.
It can’t be.
Her breathing shallowed, and shock mingled with hope in her stomach. Could it really be the person she thought it was?
Slowly, Greta turned her head.
She saw the soft walnut curls first. Then the faux cream Chanel skirt suit, its shiny gold buttons glinting in the light as if freshly added. Greta hadn’t seen that outfit in years. It was unmistakable.
She was so shocked she could barely whisper.
‘Mum?’
‘Hello, love.’ Marjorie smiled sheepishly. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late. That’s never happened before.’
Greta’s mouth opened, then closed again. She felt jerky, as if someone had yanked her chair from behind. ‘What are you doing here?’
Her mum smiled warmly, as if they’d only seen each other yesterday. ‘For Lottie’s talent show, of course,’ she said, smoothing down her skirt. Her voice was so casual, so normal, it made Greta’s head spin. ‘Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Greta felt like she’d stumbled and kept on falling. ‘But, how . . . ?’
‘Shhh,’ Marjorie said. Holding a finger to her lips, she nodded toward the stage. ‘The show is starting.’
Greta stared ahead, her breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. A hurricane of emotions tore through her—disbelief, joy and something she couldn’t quite name. It made her want to stand up, throw her arms wide, and shout, ‘My mum is here.’
On stage, the a cappella singers stepped into position, holding their boater hats to their chests. They seemed to look directly at Greta as they sang.
A very warm welcome to the show,
will you stay, or will you go?
The choice is yours, the stage is set,
an evening to remember, don’t forget.
You’re always at home with Maple Gold.
The headteacher took out her programme to introduce the first act.
Greta’s eyes kept sliding sideways to check again that her mum really was still sitting next to her. She wanted to reach out and grab her arm to check she was real.
Everything about her was just how Greta remembered. The same gentle expression, the same perfume, the way she rested her hands on her lap.
Jim didn’t seem remotely surprised by Marjorie’s arrival. He leaned forward, greeted her with a smile, then focused on the stage.
The performers ranged in age from eleven to sixteen. A boy glided around on a unicycle, juggling oranges with ease. Another performed hundreds of keepy-uppies with a football, a feat that was impressive but seemed never-ending.
Next came a tap-dancing trio, a violin solo, and a young comedian whose jokes left the audience in stitches, despite being the kind found inside Christmas crackers.
Each act was accomplished, but none had the charm and spontaneity Greta remembered from Lottie’s school productions in Longmill.
She’d sat through several pantomimes or plays where Santa had fallen over a cardboard chimney, the kids had forgotten their lines, someone dressed as an angel had picked their nose on stage, or a bawling baby in the audience drowned out the performance. It had all added to the fun and charm.
Here, everything ran like clockwork, each act outshining the next. The students were all talented, though their acts lacked emotion and spontaneity.
When Lottie finally stepped onto the stage, she radiated confidence and poise, without a hint of stage fright in sight. She wore a purple satin cape, tied at the neck, draped over her pink plaid skirt suit.
A thrill surged through Greta when her daughter launched into her magic act without a hiccup. Lottie made balls vanish under cups, dazzled the audience with a complex card trick, then produced a top hat. With a flourish of a magic wand, she peered inside and pulled out a white rabbit.
Greta fixed her eyes on the bunny. Was it another reminder that time was running out? She stared as Lottie handed the rabbit to the headteacher, who whisked it off the stage.
Next, Lottie settled at the piano. ‘Here’s a little song I wrote myself,’ she announced. Her voice filled the air, melodic and pitch-perfect, while her fingers flew effortlessly across the keys.
Greta thought she couldn’t feel any prouder until Lottie stepped up to the microphone at the front of the stage. She recited a Shakespearean sonnet with such emotional depth it sent shivers down Greta’s spine. Tears blurred her vision, and beside her, her mum also let out a sniffle.
As the last note faded, Lottie gave a low bow. The entire room erupted into a standing ovation. Greta leaped to her feet, too, clapping until her hands hurt. She almost burst with pride when the headteacher presented Lottie with a trophy.
Yet beneath it all, Greta couldn’t shake a niggling doubt. That this polished version of her daughter felt remarkably like the idealised child producers had wanted for the Maple Gold commercials.
The headteacher returned to the stage, clasping her hands together. ‘That was absolutely brilliant, Charlotte,’ she said, using the full name Lottie never went by. ‘You all performed wonderfully and have bright futures ahead of you in the spotlight.’
While everyone began gathering their hats and coats, Marjorie leaned in to talk to Greta. ‘Lottie was absolutely marvellous,’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘You must be so proud.’
Greta swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘I am.’
Lottie headed their way, wearing a wide grin. ‘Hey, Mum and Dad, thanks for coming.’ She turned and gave Marjorie a big hug. ‘It’s so nice to see you, Grandma.’
Greta felt a rush of fierce love. Lottie had been devastated when Marjorie passed away, shutting herself away in her bedroom for days and refusing to eat. Now, in Mapleville, they all had a second chance to be together.
‘I’m going to stay and help tidy up,’ Lottie said. ‘Dad’s staying, too. Is that okay? We’ll see you at home later.’
‘Of course it is,’ Greta replied, her gaze lingering on her daughter. She was aware of every minute ticking away, toward her staying or leaving.
She turned back to her mum. ‘Why don’t we go and grab a coffee, Mum?’
Marjorie’s face lit up. ‘Yes, how lovely. Maple Gold?’
Greta smiled, with a wistful edge to it. Something about this moment felt fragile and precious. This might be the last time she’d ever spend with her mum, or it could be the start of many coffee dates together in Mapleville.
‘Maple Gold sounds perfect,’ she said softly. ‘Let’s go.’