by A. L. Bird
That should be her life. Becky should be living in that house in Islington, making it a happy home. Ian knew it. Kirsten knew it too, even though she didn’t yet know who ‘Becky’ was – it was why she wouldn’t admit it. Instead, she spent what should be precious time with her family going off to that surgery. Sure, work in the daytime when your child’s at school. But not in the early morning and evening. And if that means you need to downsize, so be it. Greed. That’s all it is. Clear, selfish greed.
Becky tries to focus on her notes about the children, so she can give good feedback. But her brain is full of the idea that she is going to have to sit opposite Kirsten, giving that odious woman feedback on her own child. Is she going to be expected to say something negative about Harriet? Impossible, when the only negative in Becky’s mind is that Harriet lives in the wrong house, with the wrong mother. Or rather, she lives in the right house, with the wrong mother. It could all be so easily fixed.
‘Hey, Miriam!’
A tap on her shoulder reminds Becky that she is still meant to be Miriam. She looks up. It’s Ted. Becky winces internally. She realises she’s hardly said anything to him since she ran away from their so-called date to see Ian. Time to make amends. You never know when you might need an ally.
‘Hey, Ted, how are you doing?’ She gives him her best smile.
‘I’m good, thanks. Feels like it’s been ages. You, ah, avoiding me?’ He’s trying to sound jocular, Becky can tell, but she knows he means it.
‘No, of course not. I’ve just been swamped. Trying to sort out my project work seeing as we couldn’t have little Maya in the class, you know?’
Ted nods. ‘Sure. I was sorry to hear about that. It would have been great for the kids.’
‘But maybe not so great for Maya, it turns out. We had to put her first.’ Becky is practising her patter for the parents’ evening. She puts her head to one side, in what she imagines is an empathetic manner.
Ted nods along. Good. Maybe she can get away with her error of judgement after all, the mistake of overwhelming Maya with breakfast club.
‘And you never know,’ she says. ‘Maya might be able to come along later in the term.’
‘Of course she might. That’d be great. Good luck sorting it out. Anyway, how are things generally? Can I …?’ He gestures to the seat next to her.
‘Of course, sit down!’ Becky pushes her paperwork to one side. ‘I’m taking up far too much space.’
There’s some shuffling of papers, some apologising, and finally Ted is settled.
‘How’s it going, then?’ he asks again.
Becky puffs out her cheeks. ‘Oh, you know. Surviving. I’ll be glad when this parents’ evening is over!’
Ted nods in agreement. ‘Tell me about it! There’s only so many ways I can think of to tell the proud mums and dads that their little treasure is in fact perfectly normal. The worst moments are when they start playing you videos of their “bright little buttons” reading aloud!’
Becky laughs. ‘No! Really? They do that?’
‘Oh yeah, you’d better believe it!’ Ted grins. ‘Reading videos, counting to a thousand videos. “But my child is so bright!”’ he mimics. ‘“Why can’t they be streamed into the upper set?”’
Becky groans and rolls her eyes. ‘They know there’s like, three children across the whole reception class who get special tuition, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Ah, well, you can’t blame them for trying. If it were my child, I’d want only the best for them, I guess.’ She doesn’t need to guess. Harriet would get the best. But it wouldn’t be achieved through pushing her into advanced mathematics at the age of five. Becky doubts Kirsten even cares enough to give that kind of chat this evening, but maybe they all do it, these Islington types – the pushy parent trap they can’t help but fall into.
‘We all usually get a couple of bottles in the staffroom afterwards,’ Ted says. ‘When the parents are safely gone. Share war stories. Or horror stories.’
‘If there’s wine and bitching involved, I’m there!’ Becky laughs.
‘Great, I’ll see you later then. Good luck!’ Ted says.
‘Thanks, I’ll need it,’ Becky groans.
As Ted walks away, her smile fades. The idea of a communal bitching session over some wine sounds like hell. Not that she doesn’t want to bitch about Kirsten. Of course she does. But the one thing on her mind, she won’t be able to say: I wish she would just give me back my child.
Or explain the lengths she’s willing to go to if Kirsten won’t oblige.
Chapter 31
KIRSTEN
Kirsten stumbles over her shoes as they walk to the school entrance. She reaches out for Ian’s arm for support, but whatever instinctive reactions they used to have to each other have gone. He doesn’t catch her, and the stumble becomes a fall.
A great start to parents’ evening.
Back on her feet, cursing her choice to wear the too-high shiny beige heels, Kirsten fumbles with her handbag. There’s too much in it, and the clasp won’t shut. She should just have used her big purple workaday handbag, the one that looks like a Mulberry from a distance, but isn’t. (Those cost a month of school fees.) For some reason, though, she felt like she had to put on a show tonight. So she’s gripping the mother of pearl clutch that she had for her wedding. She’s always thought of it as her ultimate occasion bag, but it’s starting to look a little sad. One of the threads is threatening to fray, she notices. She tries one last time to close the clasp, and the bag revolts, throwing lipsticks, tissues, and banknotes up on the path. Ian is striding up ahead, oblivious.
‘Ian!’ she shouts out. ‘Wait up!’
But no. He doesn’t seem to hear her. Kirsten tries to lean down elegantly to pick up her belongings, twisting her legs to one side, but her knee-grazing skirt is too tight for that. The only way is to kneel on the tarmac. She’s just weighing up whether she has to succumb, or whether it will be less embarrassing just to walk away leaving the items on the path, when someone calls out ‘Let me help with that!’
She turns. It’s another mum, she assumes, in a sensible but elegant trouser suit, jewelled flats, and a big bulky handbag.
‘Makes us all clumsy, that fear of going back to school, right?’
The other mum bends down with no effort and quickly gathers together Kirsten’s things.
‘Thank you so much,’ Kirsten says. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s a stupid bag, and my husband’s gone on ahead.’
‘It’s not stupid; it’s very nice. I just came straight from work so flung everything into this old sack.’ The woman gestures at the worn-looking black bag. Kirsten can’t help noticing the Mulberry insignia. ‘I’m Ellie, by the way. My son Thomas is in transition. Nice to meet you.’
Kirsten holds out her hand to shake, but the clutch threatens to spew out all its belongings again.
Ellie smiles at her wryly, and starts to root around in her bag. ‘I think I have … yep, here we go.’
She holds out a carrier bag to Kirsten. ‘Only Boots, I’m afraid, and you might find the odd bit of prawn mayo in there from my lunch, but better than dropping everything again.’
‘Thank you,’ Kirsten says. ‘Serves me right for using such a ridiculous bag. I’ve had one like yours sitting under my desk all day!’
‘Oh, I just assumed you didn’t work – you look so well put together.’
Kirsten doesn’t tell her she carved out the final appointment of the day, and went home to change and make sure Ian was (a) there and (b) had a clue what they were supposed to be asking about. For a man who was a teacher, he’d been pretty vague about the whole parents’ evening thing. Also, she’d wanted to make sure that she had enough time to monitor Yvette, who was babysitting Harriet. Make sure she wasn’t meddling in her style of parenting, suggesting different routines, the ones she would have used if she had her own child. Maybe that’s what this is about. Maybe Yvette is just making up for her sadness at not having her own child.
Kirsten feels a sudden pang of compassion. She’s the lucky one, after all, with (her) wonderful daughter. She should be kinder.
Feeling a sudden warmth at being a mother, she walks up the drive of the school with her new friend Ellie, chatting about their respective work, and how they think their kids are doing. It’s so easy, so nice – and so normal talking to another working mum. Or rather, a woman who happened both to work and have kids. By the time they arrive at school, Kirsten feels a mixture of relaxation at talking to someone in the same boat as herself, and envy that Ellie seems to be so much more at ease with the role than she is.
That relaxation leaves her when she gets inside and sees Ian. He’s found the wine. He is rocking on his heels, knocking the red stuff back as if he’d just walked through a desert. Kirsten bids goodbye to Ellie and watches wistfully as she goes and kisses a handsome ‘too rich or intellectual to wear a suit’ type, who sports a chunky red sweater and just the right amount of stubble.
‘I was wondering where you’d got to,’ Ian says in greeting. ‘I got you a glass of wine.’
He hands her the half-empty glass of wine she saw him drinking from a moment a go.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she tells him.
‘What time’s our slot again?’ he asks.
‘It’s 7.55,’ she reminds him. Again. ‘So, you remember, the teacher’s name is Ms Robertson; she takes Harriet for breakfast club and all her lessons, except P.E., and we need to focus in particular on how her reading is going.’
‘It’ll be fine, sweetie,’ Ian tells her, and puts his free hand round her shoulder. ‘Hey? Relax.’
She wants to do as he says. She wants to sink back into the comfort of that arm. Share a drink, have a laugh. Not take all this too seriously. But she can’t. There’s too much going on. It could be her first and last parents’ evening. She wriggles herself out of Ian’s grasp and goes to the refreshments table. She opts for orange juice. She notices one of the staff doing a quick look at her tummy, unable to believe that a woman would opt for a soft drink unless they were pregnant. As if. ‘I’m driving,’ she says. Which she probably is, given Ian’s approach to the red.
At 7.56, Kirsten and Ian take their seats opposite Ms Robertson.
‘So,’ Kirsten says.
‘So,’ says Ms Robertson.
‘How’s it all going?’ Kirsten asks.
‘Good, good,’ Ms Robertson says, nodding her head. ‘Harriet’s a lovely child. I wish I could see more of her!’
Come on, Kirsten thinks. Get to the detail. We only have a ten-minute slot.
‘We think she’s doing well at her reading,’ Kirsten offers.
‘Oh, do you have a video to share?’ Ms Robertson asks.
‘What?’ Kirsten looks to Ian, who shrugs. ‘A video? Why?’
‘Never mind, sorry, it was a joke but … anyway.’ Ms Robertson clears her throat and continues. ‘Harriet’s reading.’ Ms Robertson’s eyes mist over. ‘I think she was reading Matilda, wasn’t she?’
Kirsten nods. ‘Exactly. Which seems a bit old for her. And I just wanted to check. Should we be encouraging her with that? Or do you think she’s just looking at the pictures and we should give her something more on the right level?’
‘Let her read what she likes!’ Ms Robertson snaps.
Kirsten jerks her head back, surprised. ‘Um, I’m sorry, I’m not sure that kind of comment—’
Ian wades in. ‘I’m sure what Ms Robertson meant was, Harriet’s doing brilliantly for her age, and we should just let her read the books that make her happy. Right?’
Kirsten sees Ms Robertson shoot Ian a glance. ‘Right,’ the teacher says, taking his line. ‘That’s what I meant. I’m sorry, it’s been a long evening.’
But it’s your job, Kirsten thinks. You’re paid to look after my child. And you seem … emotional? Drunk? Oh my God, is she drunk, this woman? Kirsten leans forward slightly, seeing if she can catch a whiff of anything on her breath. But she doesn’t smell anything, just sees beads of perspiration on her brow. Wow. So maybe she is finding it tough.
‘How is Harriet’s numeracy going?’ Kirsten asks.
‘She’s doing very well. Look, she’s doing very well at everything. I don’t know what more I can really say. Your daughter is talented, pretty, popular, she … excuse me a minute.’
Kirsten watches in amazement as the teacher gets up from her chair, goes to the refreshment table and gets a glass of white wine, her back to them. Instead of returning immediately, she raises her arm twice for swigs.
‘What’s with her?’ Kirsten asks.
‘I don’t know.’ Ian shrugs, but he is perplexed too, Kirsten can tell. His eyebrows have become a monobrow, knotted together in concern.
When the teacher comes back, her eyes are red.
‘I think I must be coming down with something,’ Ms Robertson says, by way of explanation.
‘You should come and see me at my clinic!’ Kirsten jokes.
‘I don’t think I could afford you,’ Ms Robertson counters.
Kirsten’s taken aback. It’s a catty comment, but that’s not all. How does the teacher call so readily to mind what it is Kirsten does, that she offers a paid for rather than NHS service? Kirsten shifts in her seat a little, unnerved.
‘Do you have any other questions?’ Ms Robertson asks.
‘Oh, um, I don’t know,’ Kirsten says, thrown. She thought the teachers were meant to provide information unilaterally. ‘Harriet seems perfectly happy at school. Is she?’
Ms Robertson nods slowly. ‘At school she is, yes.’
The nuance isn’t lost on Kirsten. ‘What do you mean, at school?’
Ian butts in again. ‘I think she means—’
Kirsten holds up a hand. ‘No, Ian. Let Ms Robertson tell us what she means.’
Ms Robertson takes a couple of breaths. Kirsten sees her lower lip trembling. ‘What I mean is—’ And then there’s a tear, plain as day, running down her face. Ms Robertson clears her throat. ‘Dr White. Kirsten, what you need to know is—’
‘Becky!’ Kirsten hears Ian shout. ‘That’s enou—’
And as the name sinks in, Kirsten sees both of their faces freeze in turn, Ian’s and the woman’s. Their faces asking the question: did you hear that? And did you understand?
Yes. Yes, she did.
Chapter 32
BECKY
Ian. You idiot. You absolute idiot.
Becky sits fixed where she is, staring at Kirsten’s face. She follows as emotions paint themselves there. White with shock. Head tilting back, mouth opening, as realisation mounts as to what this really means. Eyes widening with fear. Hatred, as the eyes flick to Ian. Anger, as she looks between both of them. Or maybe fury would be more accurate.
And then, what is perhaps most alarming to Becky is – nothing. There’s a mask. Or rather, a veil comes down. Like Kirsten’s somehow taken on some of Ian’s old drama teaching. Or been playing too much poker. Because now her face is blank, cold, emotionless. Which means Becky has no idea what Kirsten is going to do.
What she does in fact do is, very slowly, get up from her chair, and walk away.
‘Kirsten!’ Ian calls after her.
She doesn’t turn back.
‘We need to follow her,’ Ian says. ‘I’ve never seen her like this.’
They catch her up. Ian takes Kirsten’s arm. Kirsten shakes him off.
‘Why don’t you stay here with Ms Robertson? Seeing as you have clearly been getting on so intimately.’ She spits out the last word. Her voice is low, controlled. ‘I’m going home to see my daughter.’
Your daughter? Becky wants to shout. But there’s something about Kirsten’s tone that suggests it isn’t wise to answer. If Ian hears it, he ignores it, because he speaks again.
‘Kirsten, listen, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to find out like this, I wanted—’
‘I always have to find out somehow, don’t I, Ian?’ Kirsten says. Beneath the bitterness, there’s a tiredn
ess in her voice. Becky feels almost sorry for her. Almost, but not quite.
‘I’ll come round to see you both tomorrow,’ Becky says, finding her voice again. ‘Now you know, well, there’s a lot to discuss. About Harriet.’ She tries a laugh. It comes out wrong, manic. Her throat is too dry and her eyes too wet. ‘Funny, for a parents’ evening.’
Kirsten leans in very close to her. So close that Becky has to force herself not to step back. Very quietly, she says, ‘You will stay away from my house. And you will stay away from my child.’
Before Becky has a chance to respond, Kirsten is walking away. This time, Ian doesn’t try to follow her. Becky begins sobbing. Loudly. She can’t help it. She notices people staring. It’s becoming a scene.
‘Come on,’ says Ian, quietly, taking her by the elbow.
‘But I’ve got to see more parents,’ she tells him.
‘We need to resolve this,’ he says. His face is white.
‘I can’t just leave. I can’t. I’ll—’
She knows she can’t stay either, though. There are three more appointments. There’s no way she can coherently talk her way through them. She spots Ted, getting himself a glass of water.
‘Ted,’ she says.
Before she’s had a chance to say anything, he looks at her and exclaims. ‘Becky! What’s wrong?’
‘Some mother’s given me a bad time. And I think I’m coming down with something. Vomiting bug. I just nearly threw up over someone. Can you explain to the parents I’m meant to see? I’m sorry. I’ve just got to go.’
‘Of course, you poor thing – I will do, but don’t you think you should tell Mrs McGee?’ he says. He nods over to the far wall. ‘She’s just over there.’
The thought of the confrontation, of walking past all the parents, is too much. ‘I can’t, Ted. I’ve just got to go.’
And she walks as quickly as she can out of the school hall, to where Ian is waiting. She feels her shame all over again, five years on. Like when her peers first knew. A dishevelled girl, too young for her world, too confused to do anything other than follow Ian White.