by A. L. Bird
MIRIAM, OCTOBER 2018
Miriam takes a small sip of her white wine and smooths her dress down over her thighs. The same one she wore for the school interview. She ought to chuck it. Always makes her nervous. Or maybe it always brings her luck. She’s not sure which.
Ted’s late. Why suggest a date and then not keep it? She’s sick of people flaking out on her.
She looks at the bar menu for about the fifth time. Not that she’s hungry. It’s something to do.
‘Hi!’ There’s a tap on her shoulder. She jumps.
‘Ted!’ she says, like it’s a surprise.
They kiss each other’s cheeks, look at each other for a second, then sit down. Here’s where she should draw on her adult dating experience then … oh, right, yeah – she doesn’t have any.
‘This place is nice,’ she tells him.
‘Yeah, it’s OK,’ he says, looking around him.
They’re in Islington. It’s more than OK. Ted’s a bit keen – school stamping ground even though it’s a Sunday. Or maybe that was his way of keeping it casual – ‘I’m doing some marking this morning, fancy making my day worthwhile and grabbing a drink after?’
‘What can I get you?’ he asks Miriam, nodding at the bar menu.
‘Oh, are you eating?’ she asks.
‘Are you?’ he says.
One of them should make a decision.
‘Let’s share some triple-cooked chips,’ she tells him. He goes off to order. She can’t stare at the bar menu anymore, so she stares at her phone instead, flicking through the photos. Something to bring a smile to her face.
Ted returns and she shuts down the phone. Photos are private, right? Plus she can’t teach the kids manners if she doesn’t have any.
‘They’re on their way,’ Ted says, taking a sip of some blonde ale or other.
‘So how was the marking?’ she asks him. ‘Not too painful, I hope?’
He laughs. ‘Thanks for your concern. A whole load of stories about the holidays – more envy-inducing than difficult. When do I get my villa in Tuscany?’
She laughs back. ‘When you’ve earned it. So, maybe in another two hundred and fifty years?’
‘Surely not,’ he retorts. ‘Surely our pay will have gone up by more than one per cent a year by then?’
‘Hah!’ she says, into her drink.
‘So what brought you to this school?’ he asks her.
She looks around herself, mock-surprised. ‘What, is this the third-round interview?’
Ted looks bashful. ‘OK, touché – bit of an obvious question. Let me try another one.’
Miriam smiles, taking a sip of wine. That’s that one dodged, then.
‘If you could teach any subject, to any age group, what would it be?’ he asks her.
‘Um, general ed to reception … like I do now … I love my work, Ted.’
‘Oh come on, don’t be such a goody-two-shoes!’
‘Really!’ she protests. ‘That’s why I’m teaching the group I do. Why, what’s your fantasy group? A bunch of fifteen-year-old girls and sex ed?’
Ted blushes for her. And she does as well. She shouldn’t have asked that question. Fine line, for both of them, and she crashed right over it.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Inappropriate.’
He shrugs. ‘I’ve heard colleagues say worse things.’
‘What, at St Anthony’s?’ she asks, wide-eyed. ‘It’s a private pre-prep, for Christ’s sake!’
‘No, other places,’ he tells me. ‘Where I had the displeasure of teaching that age group. And you know what? I thought girls would be the bitchy ones. Boys were just as bad.’
Miriam does a mock-pout. ‘Oh, diddums, were they mean to you?’
He takes a sip of his pint. ‘Nothing I couldn’t handle.’
She mouths a silent ‘Oh’. This date is not going the way she’d hoped. Or maybe he’d hoped. She’s not sure what her expectations were.
‘I was a real mean girl when I was at school,’ she tells him. She doesn’t know where that’s come from. Must be the wine.
She still hasn’t learnt, then.
‘Really?’ he says, looking at her thoughtfully. ‘I can’t imagine you as part of a group like that.’
‘Yeah,’ she says, giving a laugh. In her head she’s thinking: even now, why will no one believe she belonged? ‘A real pain for the teachers. There was a group of us, in lower sixth, always flouting the rules on make-up, skirt length, cleavage …’ She sees Ted give a quick look. He can’t help himself. Yep, those were the old days, she wants to say. More buttoned up now.
‘Must have made life hell for the poor teachers,’ he says, giving her a cheeky grin. ‘I imagine you’re pretty good school disco material.’
‘Oh my God! That is such a lechy thing to say!’ she tells him, mock-offended.
‘What? I’m not saying I wanted to ogle a seventeen-year-old you, I’m saying—’
There’s a silence, as they both realise that means he wants to ogle Miriam as she is now. He looks mortified. She begins to giggle.
‘Maybe we should turn the topic away from school,’ he says, blushing to the tips of his ears.
‘Maybe,’ she says. But the ice is broken. They lean a little nearer to each other, hands around their drinks on top of the table, knees a little closer to each other under it.
‘So …’ he says. ‘What do you like to do when you’re not at school?’
‘Talk about school in pubs,’ she jokes.
He smirks. ‘You’re not helping me much on the conversational side, you know that?’
‘Sorry, I’ll stop answering back,’ she says. ‘Um, outside school – just the usual, I guess. Bit of socialising, bit of shopping, bit of cooking. Nothing special.’ She doesn’t tell him she spends her evenings thinking about her pupils, drawing up lesson plans. It doesn’t do to be the school swot.
‘Cool,’ he says, nodding into his drink.
If I told you everything, she feels like saying, you wouldn’t be like that. You would take my hand across the table and I’d be wiping away your tears of pity.
Instead, she says, ‘How about you? What do you do for kicks?’
‘I’d like to say something cool, like martial arts, or opera, or something, but much the same as you – bit of this, bit of that. And I know it’s sad but, lesson planning and marking takes up quite a chunk of time, right?’
‘Right!’ she says.
Obviously feeling more confident now, he continues. ‘I mean I think if you have a job like ours which, let’s face it, is a vocation—’
‘Absolutely!’ she says, taking another sip of her wine.
‘Then that’s your hobby as well, right? I can’t just rock up at 9 a.m. each morning and see what my boss has in store for me.’
‘Because it’s what the children need, isn’t it?’ she says, agreeing. ‘And we’ve got to anticipate it. Be ready. Know before even they or their parents have thought it out fully.’
‘I was thinking more having the answers ready to their questions, having the energy to engage them but, yeah, that too.’
They nod. Maybe the safest topic is the most dangerous one. The most apparently boring one.
Miriam’s phone starts vibrating in her bag. She should check it, but she doesn’t feel like it. She’s making a connection here.
‘Have you spotted that once-in-a-lifetime pupil yet?’ asks Ted.
She takes a sip of her drink. The phone starts to vibrate again.
‘Oh, you know …’ she says. ‘They’re all special.’
‘Come on, someone keen like you – you’re bound to have favourites, ones who make teaching really worthwhile.’
She keeps looking at him. Maybe now is the time to reach under the table and get her phone.
‘I don’t mean in any inappropriate way,’ Ted says. ‘Just, you know, the ones who make you not hit snooze on the alarm clock in the morning. Because you’re looking forward to seeing them.’
Yes, he has
it right. It’s just like that. If she needed an alarm clock, that is. She always finds herself lying awake at dawn.
So she tells him.
‘There is one girl, at the moment,’ she says. ‘Harriet.’
It’s such a pleasure to say her name. The way it conjures up her face, and those pigtails full of her gorgeous hair.
‘I don’t know her,’ Ted says. ‘What is it about her that fires you up?’
She shrugs. ‘There’s just that something, isn’t there? She draws my gaze. Sometimes feel like she’s the only kid in the room.’
Ted is nodding like he gets it, so she carries on.
‘I’m a bit worried about her, though, to be honest. I don’t think she’s being very well looked after. Always dropped off early, picked up late, not really smiling, bit violent towards the others.’ She feels tears in her eyes and blinks them away.
Not before Ted notices though. ‘Hey, don’t worry,’ he says, reaching out to touch her hand briefly. ‘I have heard about her, now you mention it. That incident the other week?’
She nods. She wipes away a tear that’s escaped.
Ted’s hand appears again.
‘It’s good to care – but, look, you can’t let it get to you. I’m sure she’s fine. Her parents know what they’re doing. Probably hot-shot City types, trying to make a buck or two for that place in Tuscany!’
Now is the time to divert herself by checking her phone. She lifts up her bag and starts rummaging round in it.
‘You looking for a tissue?’ asks Ted.
‘No, my phone,’ she says. ‘It’s been vibrating for ages. It might be important.’
Finally she finds it.
Seven missed calls and two text messages. One from voicemail.
She checks the other message. Finally, her landlord’s got in touch.
‘Listen, Ted, I have to go I’m afraid. Landlord problems.’
She starts to stand up out of her chair.
‘Miriam, are you OK? If this is about getting upset in front of me then please, don’t worry about it. Stay, have another drink.’
She shakes her head. ‘It’s not that,’ she says. ‘I really do have to go. See you at school tomorrow.’
And she goes. Because he’s her landlord, right – he has the power to kick her back into the gutter if he needs to. And there are some things she’d really like him to fix.
Chapter 19
BECKY, 10 AUGUST 2012
Becky may not have been to the pub again after That Night, but she’s not missing the after-show party. Just one more scene, and they’re done. She waits in the wings. Across the other side of the stage, the drama teacher gives her a reassuring wave. She waves back. She’s in his good books again. The day after the vomiting incident, she went to see him, apologetic. She’d had to – he’d threatened to impose a curfew on all of them due to the ‘disgusting mess’, unless someone confessed.
She’d gone from extreme popularity to object of resentment in just twelve hours. With everyone, including Caitlin, it seemed, but not Andy (although he’d had to endure some gags about ‘vomit breath’). The teacher had been nice about it. Said it seemed out of character. Then he gave her a couple of paracetamols for her head, told her to be true to herself, and sent her on her way.
Now, though, it’s all forgotten. There’s such a buzz – everyone is on an adrenaline high, wanting to do their best not just for the parents in the audience, but for each other. Andy comes up behind Becky and takes her hand, kissing her lightly on the neck.
‘Break a leg,’ he murmurs. ‘You’re my shining star, babe.’
Becky feels an additional thrill of anticipation. She can’t wait for the rest of the summer. Who knows where things might lead before term starts again? She might even be able to have that conversation with her sisters. Be a real grown-up in their eyes.
And then it’s her cue. She takes a deep breath and walks into the spotlight.
* * *
‘You were brilliant darling!’
‘That was amazing!’
‘I’m so proud of you!’
At the impromptu stage door (i.e. the entrance to the hall), the air is thick with parental congratulations. For all that the students have come of age that week, they still want the grown-ups’ adulation.
Becky is no exception – she is almost jumping up and down with excitement as her parents pat her on the back.
‘We never knew you could sing like that. Imagine – our little bookworm taking centre stage!’
Becky can feel herself glowing, and sees the glow reflected in others. Even Caitlin, who’d been oddly moody again since the pub the other night, meets her eye and grins.
The drama teacher comes over to meet her parents. ‘I’m really pleased with how Becky’s done. You’ve worked so hard,’ he tells her, his hand briefly on her shoulder. Becky’s parents look on proudly as Becky blushes, accepting the praise.
‘Her schoolwork’s the real thing, of course,’ Becky hears her mum say. ‘But it’s nice to have a hobby.’
Becky rolls her eyes inwardly. Her mother has clearly been worrying that the great medical or teaching career will be in jeopardy if Becky gets the acting bug. She knows what dreams her parents have in mind for her. Her dad says something about ‘Living in the moment for once.’ Her mother makes a sharp remark. Becky allows herself to be parted from them in the surge of people.
Gradually, all the parents begin to fold away, as is the arrangement. The after-show party is not intended for them.
Becky changes into her comfy jeans and a sparkly top – no more body-con dresses, thanks – and helps the other students strike the set, taking down the minimal scenery. Finally, the stage is cleared, the (soft) drinks are served, and an old honky-tonk piano is wheeled out – for those who aren’t already hoarse, there are plenty more show tunes to be sung.
Becky is looking round for Andy when Caitlin taps her on the elbow.
‘Hey,’ Caitlin says.
‘Hey,’ Becky replies.
‘Listen, I’m sorry I’ve been off with you,’ Caitlin continues. She seems nervous. ‘I guess I was just jealous of how well things were going with you and Andy. He’s really into you, you know.’
‘Thanks.’ Becky does know. She feels radiant with it.
‘But, you know, I think what would really make him go that um, further distance,’ Caitlin continues, ‘is if he had a little competition.’
‘What do you mean?’ Becky asks. This sounds like one of Caitlin’s bad ideas. Although, to be fair, the body-con dress hadn’t been such a bad idea, nor had the whole drama course attendance.
‘There’s nothing that gets a boy lusting after you like a bit of jealousy,’ Caitlin says.
Becky knows this is nonsense, but Caitlin’s a friend, so she humours her.
‘What are you suggesting?’ Becky asks her.
‘Why don’t you snog someone else?’ Caitlin replies, grinning wickedly.
Becky shakes her head. ‘I’m not going to do that, Caitlin. Anyway, who would you have me snog? You? That would turn him on no end!’
Caitlin backs away a little.
‘Joking,’ Becky says. ‘Come on, lighten up.’
‘OK, whatever. But I reckon you could totally aim over there.’ And Caitlin nods to stage right.
Becky can’t see any boys over there, just the drama teacher. ‘Who?’ she asks.
‘Him.’ Caitlin nods again, emphatically.
She does mean the teacher.
Becky laughs. Now she knows Caitlin must be joking.
‘You’re crazy,’ she says. ‘I’m going to find Andy.’
‘I’m not crazy,’ Caitlin tells her. ‘Honestly, I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Can’t resist touching you.’ She mimics him. ‘“Oh, Becky, you’re doing so well. Oh, Becky, let me just warm you up again.”’
Despite herself, Becky feels herself blushing. Caitlin immediately begins crowing.
‘See, I’ve touched a nerve! You know it’s tr
ue. But I bet you couldn’t pull it off. You’re a one-hit wonder with Andy! Or maybe you’re scared of going all the way with him.’
Becky begins backing away. She needs to find Andy. Caitlin has seriously lost the plot.
But then, almost as suddenly, Caitlin changes tack. ‘Oh, look at your face! Come on, I’m just messing with you. Here, I got you your boring Diet Coke.’ Caitlin hands her the drink in a plastic cup, which Becky accepts. ‘Go on, off to Andy. See you later.’
Glad to be released, Becky does as she is told, and goes to find Andy. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Caitlin opening conversation with the drama teacher. She’s slightly worried about what Caitlin might be saying but pushes it out of her mind. It’s Andy she cares about.
* * *
An hour later, she can’t seem to find Andy. Rather, she can see him – he is there, sitting in the auditorium, with Caitlin. But for some reason, she doesn’t seem to be able to call out to him, and her legs feel like they’re made of jelly. She’s sitting right at the back of the stage, talking to the drama teacher. She can’t make out what he’s saying. His words are indistinct, and fuzzy, like they’ve been drinking. But there’s no alcohol here. Around them, raucous show tunes fill the air. As if they were in a gin palace. But it’s dry here. The staff have made their views very clear.
It must be the adrenaline comedown. After her French oral at GCSE, she remembers she had such a shift that she couldn’t get her words out at all – they were all blurry and strange for an hour or so. That’s what this is. Yes, it must be, she thinks, as she finds herself sinking onto the drama teacher’s shoulder. He’ll understand. He’s been here before.
Caitlin’s words cross dimly through her mind. ‘I bet you couldn’t.’
She bets she could. It’s just she doesn’t want to. She wants Andy. But he’s too far away.
Chapter 20
KIRSTEN, OCTOBER 2018
After Ian leaves for Croydon, Kirsten feels a slight pang. Perhaps she should have told him the whole truth. She watches him from the window, just to check he’s going the right way (don’t let Yvette meddle again, please, Ian …). Harriet sits reading next to her, her feet up on Kirsten’s knee. Kirsten idly strokes her daughter’s hair. Her gorgeous girl. Yes, there Ian goes, the right way. Slings his jacket over his shoulder and walks off out of view. Into his ignorance.