by Ali Mercer
‘Yes?’
‘It’s good that you’ve started running. Maybe it’ll help. The last thing Becca needs right now is for you to start going backwards.’
He ends the call. Rachel puts the phone down and stares at the red mark on her wrist. She thinks of Leona with her bluebell tattoo, and of Viv’s cosy sitting room with all its knick-knacks and photographs, but no picture of her firstborn child on display.
Sometimes a painful reminder is what you want. And sometimes it’s more than you can bear.
Twenty
Rachel takes no chances about arriving early for the meeting at St Anne’s. Even so, Mitch is already waiting outside the headmistress’s office when she gets here.
He has washed his hair and trimmed his beard for the occasion, and has even had a go at ironing a shirt. He’s left the top two buttons of his shirt undone. His chest hair is beginning to turn silver now; she doesn’t remember it that way, always thinks of it as dark.
He looks pale and tired and profoundly uncomfortable, as if he’d rather be almost anywhere else, and he doesn’t smile at her as she comes in. The fat, twisty line of the scar on his hand is redder and angrier than usual, as if it’s been itching and he’s been rubbing or scratching it.
‘You made it all right, then,’ he remarks as she settles onto the chair one along from the one next to him.
Remembering the awfulness of turning up late to Becca’s show is like a stab to the heart. And yet she has so much more to reproach herself for.
‘Yes, no traffic problems this time,’ she says.
He studies her more closely, as if her appearance might offer a clue as to how far he can rely on her to behave herself in the meeting.
‘You look different,’ he says eventually. ‘Like you’ve got less make-up on. It suits you.’
She feels herself blush. ‘Thanks.’
Her expensive foundation has run out, and in the light of Viv’s comments about soap and Vaseline, she has decided not to replace it. After all, whatever Viv did was obviously working for her – Rachel has never seen an older woman with such good skin. And it certainly saves time in the mornings.
Mitch says, ‘So how do you think you’re doing? I mean, are you up to this?’
She folds her arms and presses them close to her chest; she’s doing her best not to do the pinching trick.
‘I’ve been OK. I mean, I think I’ve been doing pretty well.’
Why is it so difficult for her to speak to him without sounding as if she’s got something to hide?
‘I don’t want to intrude,’ Mitch says. ‘I want you to have the space you need. But I’ve got to be sure you can cope, Rach. You have to be the mother Becca needs you to be. Especially now. Is there anything I need to know?’
She shakes her head. She doesn’t trust herself to say any more.
The door opposite them opens and Becca’s class teacher comes out. She looks, as ever, girlishly sweet in a pretty dress and cardigan; her curly hair is pinned back from her face with Kirby grips. But her expression is sombre.
‘Mr and Mrs Moran? We’re ready for you now.’
Mr and Mrs Moran… still. It seems a long time since anyone has called her Mrs Moran. It makes her feel like an imposter, as if she should start issuing an explanation: At work I’m Rachel Steele – Ms Rachel Steele, I suppose, but Mrs Moran is still technically correct, we’re not divorced yet, only separated, my bank account and rental contract are in that name, so I suppose you could say that’s who I really am…
They get to their feet. Miss Finch holds the door open; Mitch holds back to let Rachel through first.
There had been a time when she had teased him for his old-fashioned manners. Now, though, she’s grateful to be treated this way by him. At least it is an acknowledgement that she’s a woman, even if she’s no longer a woman he wants.
She goes through into the headmistress’s office and the others follow. Mrs Mellon is sitting, not behind her desk – which is large and executive-looking, and occupies one corner of the office – but on the L-shaped sofa in front of it. Immediately the meeting feels more like a medical consultation than a face-off between someone who is providing a service and two potentially dissatisfied customers.
Rachel’s spirits sink. Mitch is right; chances are this is not going to be about Becca as much as it is going to be about her.
There is a file – Becca’s file, presumably – on the coffee table in front of her. Next to the file is a box of tissues in a silver holder, which Mrs Mellon must have moved there in anticipation, because last time she and Mitch were here it had been sitting on a corner of the desk.
They had come here then to plead extenuating circumstances, and to ask for flexible terms for payment of the school fees. Rachel had cried, which was better than getting angry. In the end the school had given Becca a bursary that reduced the amount of money they had to find, though there was no guarantee that this would continue to the next academic year. Which is just another reason why Becca cannot afford to fall behind.
Mrs Mellon stands and shakes Rachel and Mitch’s hands in turn. She is an imposing figure, more authoritative than kindly, and her touch is firm and swift. She graciously invites everybody to sit, and Miss Finch takes the place next to her. Rachel settles next to Mitch and tries to take deep breaths without anyone noticing.
Mrs Mellon kicks off: ‘This is rather a difficult conversation to have and I’m sure we all regret that it’s necessary, but I know I’m right in saying that we all only have Becca’s best interests at heart.’
‘This’ll hurt me more than it hurts you,’ Mitch mutters.
Mrs Mellon looks mildly startled.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I can’t remember if my old headmaster ever actually said that,’ Mitch explains. ‘It would have been pretty hypocritical if he had. He was the kind of sadist who used to do quite well in the educational establishment – in a certain kind of boys’ school, at any rate.’
Mrs Mellon raises her eyebrows as if she’s not sure whether to be insulted, and Rachel suppresses a wild urge to giggle. She had forgotten that Mitch could be like this, so… bold. And protective. This is his way of sticking up for Becca; he’s never been one to let other people put her down.
Of course, it could turn out to be counterproductive. And Becca is technically something of a charity case, so alienating the school probably isn’t wise…
‘They were into caning back then,’ Mitch goes on. ‘Seems extraordinary now, doesn’t it? Still, I guess we all feel like taking it out on somebody sometime. Anyway, I’m digressing, aren’t I? I’m sorry, Mrs Mellon, you were saying?’
‘You must understand, Mr Moran, this is not a disciplinary matter. This is a pastoral discussion.’
‘That’s good to hear. Because when I spoke to Miss Finch, it almost sounded as if Becca was in some kind of trouble for not doing as well as she used to do. Well, as you know, Becca’s had a difficult time lately. I would hate to think that you were punishing her for that. Or that you’d brought us here today so you could threaten to kick her out, rather than working with us to try and help her.’
Mrs Mellon has turned slightly pale. She allows a silence to fall over the room, and when she next speaks her tone is determinedly light and controlled.
‘Of course we all want what’s best for Becca. We were wondering if there might be anything either of you could share that would help us to unpick what’s going on.’
Mitch says, ‘I think we’ve already told you everything you need to know. We split up.’ He glances at Rachel. ‘Becca’s mother hasn’t been well. We went through all this on the application form for the bursary. How much more detail do you need?’
‘We have all seen that when Becca decides to commit herself to what she’s doing – when she’s truly motivated – there’s no stopping her,’ Miss Finch says. ‘I think we can all agree that she turned in a sterling performance in Oliver! It occurred to me that maybe being involved in the show had giv
en her a sense of family that she now is missing again. Or it could have given her self-esteem a temporary boost, which has inevitably worn off.’ She looks from Mitch to Rachel. ‘We do sometimes see, in a situation like this… that it can be more difficult when there’s ongoing hostility between the parents.’
‘Obviously, what happened was a shock for Becca, and it’s a big change to adjust to. But I think it would be fair to say that we came to an agreement about the terms of our separation fairly quickly and I, for one, would certainly describe the relationship we have now as a cordial one,’ Mitch says. ‘We’ve done everything we can to give Becca as much continuity as possible.’
‘That was partly why I moved out,’ Rachel says, and her voice doesn’t sound nearly as steady as she would like. Her vision is misting and she hopes she won’t need to reach for the tissues in a minute.
Mitch glances at her nervously. He moves his hand closer to her, pats her gingerly on the knee. The right hand. The scarred one. He hasn’t touched her for months. Since the day she left.
‘I think what Rachel means to say is that we’ve had our difficulties, but we’ve done our best to always put Becca first,’ he says.
‘That is admirable,’ Miss Finch says, with just the kind of face she might wear if one of her pupils claimed the dog ate her homework. ‘I’m sure you’ve done your very best, as you say.’ She glances at Mrs Mellon, who gives her an almost imperceptible nod.
‘Well, it seems there may be no immediately obvious reason for the current tricky patch,’ Miss Finch says.
‘We’ve tried to persuade Becca to go to counselling, but she won’t hear of it,’ Rachel said.
‘We have a comprehensive programme here to support the girls’ wellness, as you know, so you can rest assured that we’re doing all we can to support Becca and all our other students,’ Mrs Mellon told her. ‘Let me show you what triggered our concerns.’ She opens the ring binder sitting on the coffee table and hands out a pair of identical printouts. ‘These are your copies to keep,’ she says, and Mitch and Rachel automatically thank her.
The first page is a spreadsheet filled with numbers. The second is a series of graphs, all of which tell the same story: a wavering line, followed by a steep descent.
‘These are Becca’s marks since the New Year, and as you can see, it is not going the way we would like,’ Mrs Mellon says. ‘Sometimes this kind of pattern can be resolved swiftly, especially with good, prompt parental reinforcement. If not, however, we at St Anne’s can find ourselves in a very difficult position. There are so many wonderful girls we would like to admit, and we have to say no to far too many of them, which is why it is such a cause for regret when one of our girls appears to be struggling to make the most of all her opportunities.’
‘I knew it. You’re saying that if Becca’s marks don’t pick up, you’re going to expel her,’ Mitch says.
‘Mr Moran, if Becca falls behind with her studies, we all need to ask ourselves whether this is really the best possible place for her to be.’
Mitch’s gaze flickers towards the small framed watercolour of a riverside scene, just about recognisable as the Thames in Kettlebridge, hanging on the wall next to a wooden cross.
‘Are you an art lover?’ he asks, pointing at the painting. The scar is a crimson slash on his raised hand, impossible to miss.
‘I hope I can appreciate beauty, yes.’
‘Modern art?’
‘I stop with the Impressionists, I’m afraid.’
‘I thought you might,’ Mitch says.
‘You have must have much more knowledge than I do where art appreciation is concerned,’ Mrs Mellon says smoothly. ‘Thank you both so much for coming in. I think this has been a really good preliminary discussion, and, of course, we’ll all continue to keep Becca’s wellbeing at the forefront of our minds. Now, unless there are any questions you’d like to ask…?’
Mitch pulls a face and shakes his head. Rachel remains silent.
‘Do liaise with Miss Finch going forward, though you’re welcome to make an appointment with me at any time,’ Mrs Mellon adds.
She and Miss Finch are quick to rise; Rachel and Mitch stand more reluctantly, as if loath to concede defeat.
‘I’ll see you out,’ Miss Finch says, and accompanies them at a brisk pace to the front of the school building, where she bids them a quick goodbye and they suddenly find themselves outside.
It is as if they have been ejected; everything looks slightly unfamiliar, the way it does after a shock. It is the beginning of a beautiful evening. The light is a fading blue; a silver half-moon is high in the sky, its outline hazy with mist. The air smells sweet and promising and the miniature decorative trees set in tubs around the edges of the car park are stippled with the bright green of new growth.
Mitch says, ‘I’ll talk to Becca again about the counselling thing.’
‘OK. It’ll probably be better coming from you. She seemed to really resent it when I suggested it.’
‘I don’t hold out much hope of success. And, you know what, maybe we should just try and listen to her, too. She might not be ready to open up about how she feels. You know how private she is. Our trying to force her could actually be having the opposite effect. She knows what this meeting was about – that in itself might be the shock she needs. And I’ll keep an eye on things, make sure she’s spending enough time on her homework and so on. Rachel…’
‘Yes?’
He gazes at her and there is something in his face she hasn’t seen for a long time. Affection. Pained affection, but affection nevertheless. A kind of guilty tenderness.
He reaches out almost as if unthinkingly to brush a strand of her hair back from her face, then drops his scarred hand as abruptly as if it’s betrayed him.
‘I know how hard you’re trying,’ he says. ‘Just don’t overdo it, all right? For all our sakes. Don’t feel you have to start raking over the past. It won’t help. What’s done is done.’
‘Mitch…’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s just a thought, but since she was in Oliver!, Becca does seem to have got a lot closer to Amelia Chadstone, and I just wondered…’
He glares at her, the almost-closeness of a moment before completely forgotten. ‘What?’
‘Well… what if Amelia isn’t a particularly good influence? Maybe she’s a bit of a distraction.’
Mitch rolls his eyes in exasperation. ‘Come on, Rachel. I know you feel bad about this, and so do I, but Amelia’s a model student. You can’t blame her. If Becca’s having problems it’s our fault and nobody else’s.’
He turns abruptly away and heads for their old family car. It’s pretty dirty. Mitch never could be bothered to wash it; that chore that had fallen to Rachel, who had hardly ever done it either.
It’s our fault. Not it’s your fault. It was generous of him, in a way, to share the guilt. Generous, but wrong. Because she was the one who had turned Becca’s world upside down.
The sun is surprisingly warm on her skin; the sighing breeze riffles the new leaves on the boughs of the decorative saplings. Mitch doesn’t look back, doesn’t wave. He accelerates away and she’s suddenly alone.
Twenty-One
Viv and Rachel’s Sunday trips quickly begin to adopt a pattern. Rachel arrives at Park Place at half-past twelve, giving Viv time to get back from Sunday service and have something to eat. Then they set off for Tring. Viv is eager; they talk, and Rachel finds herself telling Viv things – little things, mainly, inconsequential things, about her week at work or what she had watched on TV the previous night. Sometimes she talks about whatever she had done with Becca the day before, or what she is thinking of doing next – bowling, perhaps, or a trip to a beauty spot, or the cinema again.
She never goes into details about the events that had preceded her separation from Mitch, and Viv doesn’t ask.
Aidan is always the same, too, always dressed in the same T-shirt; each time, he waves Rachel goodbye from his window.
&nb
sp; Then, on the way home, Viv is silent, and Rachel lets her be.
But after the meeting at St Anne’s, Rachel is unusually quiet. She can’t quite bring herself to talk about it.
On the way to Tring, Viv offers her a peppermint; she takes one, and keeps on driving in silence. After a while Viv says, ‘Rachel, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong.’
Viv doesn’t say anything; she just waits until Rachel says, ‘I suppose there is something, actually. I got called in for a meeting at Becca’s school, with Mitch. Her marks are down, and they told us that it might be because of the situation between us.’
‘Oh. Oh dear. I imagine that’s left you feeling rather dreadful. And very worried, naturally. I suppose you’ve had a chat with Becca about it?’
‘No, I haven’t had the chance. I mean, she knows about the meeting, and I’ve been trying to get her to see a counsellor for months. But she always just shuts down when I bring it up, and I don’t think Mitch is having any luck either. When he tried to talk to her about all this after the meeting, Becca just headed the whole thing off at the pass by telling him there wasn’t a problem and she was going to pull her socks up.’
‘And are you happy with the way the school has handled it? I only ask because from what I hear St Anne’s can be pretty ruthless. They chucked out the granddaughter of one lady I know because the poor girl wasn’t quite up to it academically.’
‘That’s exactly what they were implying they’d do to Becca! Frankly, I’m confused about the whole thing. I’m furious with them, but I’m even more furious with myself. I don’t think Becca would be having these problems if it wasn’t for me. I just want her to be all right.’
‘Well, you know, children go through ups and downs. All children, and I include Aidan in that. When he was little sometimes it seemed as if he’d never progress. And then, all of a sudden, he would. Just at his own pace. Anyway, whatever is going on with Becca will most likely work itself out. But you mustn’t beat yourself up. How will you be ready for her when she needs you if you’ve worn yourself out worrying that you’ve failed her? You mustn’t doubt yourself. You’ve got so much to give – I can see that, Leona can see that, even your husband can probably see it, unless he’s a complete idiot. One day Becca will see it, too.’