by A. L. Bird
She knows Becky won’t be giving her own mother that recognition – there’d been messages, Becky had said, when all the press coverage about Caitlin Parsons came out. ‘I didn’t know he was such a monster,’ one that Becky showed her had said. ‘I’m sorry.’ But Becky has said it’s too late – that there’s damage that can’t be undone, reparations that can’t be made. A mother’s love should be unconditional, or at the very least a protective bubble against the world; thinking the best of your own child until someone else proves the worst. Becky’s mother had failed that test.
Maybe that’s what this was about for Becky – she needed to reclaim that notion of motherhood. She needed to be always there for her child, in a way her own mother wasn’t. Kirsten knows she is lucky in that regard. She still meets her mother for lunch. They find things to talk about. Occasionally her sister comes too, their mother sensing a full reconciliation. So Kirsten doesn’t have those issues.
But there are plenty to make up for them. Namely the mother-daughter-mother triangle to contend with, each facing the other, each with a tie to bind them to the other.
And so Kirsten drives on to work. It’s all she can do, for now. But at the back of her mind, there’s the constant refrain over the thrum of the engine: there must be a way out. There must be a way out. I must be able to be the mother I want to be. And I must be able to do it alone.
Chapter 58
BECKY
As soon as Kirsten leaves, Becky changes Harriet’s hair-clips to purple. Becky doesn’t want a pink-obsessed princess any more than Kirsten does. But you’ve got to play the game, haven’t you? Becky can see, each time she wins a little point like that, Kirsten’s heart breaking. Because Becky’s heart breaks whenever Kirsten wins a point. All they each want is authority, the total autonomy to make decisions on Harriet’s behalf. To be the absolute mother.
Kirsten will never have that. But Becky will. There’ll come a time. Gradually, there’ll be a flip over to when Harriet values Becky more than Kirsten. And when that day comes – be it in five months or five years – Kirsten will come home to emptiness.
The same emptiness Becky had for five years. Except Kirsten’s will go on for ever. Kirsten will experience the same self-doubt, the same self-hatred that Becky had during that time. Imagine, seeing those perfect little blue eyes of baby Harriet for only an hour before she was taken away. Not being around long enough to witness the change to their present hazel. Not having a photo. No memento. Just a void. And she can’t even get them back now, those memories, because all Kirsten’s photos were lost in the fire. Kirsten’s mother has some, but they are sub-standard, cold, detached – not the ones a mother herself would take.
Becky thinks of this whenever some sympathy for Ian flares up. Ian, now locked up pending trial for a crime he didn’t commit. She remembers, at the times when she pities him, how earnest and devoted to his craft he was at that summer school. How her skin had thrilled when he’d touched her for warm-up exercises. How sweet and tender the sex probably would have been if they hadn’t both been drugged. But then he’d robbed her. In favouring his reputation and his marriage over her, by sliding from the horrified innocent guilt when he’d found out he’d unintentionally slept with and impregnated her, to shallow self-preservation, he’d connived to steal both her child and her future.
Becky could have been like Kirsten, going out to work, having someone else to look after her child – she had been all set, garnering the academic credentials to be a star. When Becky sees that expensive jeep going out of the drive, towards a rewarding career, she has a stab of jealousy. And that is all down to Ian. Ian and Kirsten. So the pair of them deserve all they get.
But they haven’t managed to rob her utterly. Becky knows she has youth on her side. When Harriet is eighteen, able to make her own decisions, lead her own life, Becky will only be about as old as Kirsten is now. She can return to working, if that’s what she wants to do. True, she might even have to do it before then, if she and Harriet are to be self-sufficient. And she can teach again; Kirsten had persuaded St Anthony’s to drop the disciplinary charges, so Becky has a clean slate. Ian won’t be able to teach again, ever; that’s for sure.
So she’ll carry on his legacy. He’s taught her an awful lot. How to manipulate. How to lie. How to put the interests of yourself above all others. She’ll be even better than him, though, because Harriet’s interests will always be paramount. Like today, for example. Kirsten had announced she’d have no more appointments after 3 p.m., so she’d be home to come along on the school pick-up run. Sadly for Kirsten, she’ll have someone make an appointment for 5 p.m. And then cancel. It’s happened before. Kirsten never seems to realise Becky is behind the no-shows. But Harriet will get the benefit – because Harriet doesn’t want both of them bothering her at home time. Having them both ask, with the same rapture, about her school day. Both of them wanting to straighten her socks, soothe the grazed knee, swing hands with her as they walk down the lane. Being three spoils it for each of them.
Becky takes Harriet’s hand as they leave the house for school (wearing the red coat, not the pink one, because Kirsten will never know).
‘What will you be doing at school, today, my little one?’ she asks, as they walk along.
Harriet chatters about the project on bees that her form teacher, Ms Simmons, is doing with them. They are going to study hives, then all do a show about bees, buzzing around the stage.
‘You’ll be able to come and watch,’ Harriet tells Becky. ‘And Mummy too.’
Becky doubts that. There’s not the space for them both on the front row among all the proud parents. Kirsten may have a surprise late appointment that day too.
Thank you, Ian, for all of this, Becky thinks. May you rot in jail, but you’ll always be with me. And I know I’ll always, always be in the thoughts of you and Kirsten. After all, no one forgets a good teacher. Right?
Acknowledgements
I am grateful to all those who have brought The Classroom to my readers, directly or indirectly.
My insightful agent Amanda Preston at LBA Books for helping me take the initial idea to a novel-worthy concept. My wonderful editor Clio Cornish at HQ Digital for pushing first draft to full manuscript. And the whole HQ Digital team for their work behind the scenes – I still love that cover design!
Of course, there’s the whole domestic support team to acknowledge as well. My parents and my husband for being part of the childcare puzzle – and for everything else, over all the years. My sweet newborn son for putting up with sleeping on me while I type. And my lovely elder son for accepting that I can’t always play all of the time. May you both be your safest and best selves always. Or just yourselves. That is enough.
Given the subject of the book, I’d also like to acknowledge two teachers: Susan Saunders and Joyce Robson, who taught me English and Philosophy respectively at Central Newcastle High School. They made the classroom a safe and emboldening place to explore the words and ideas that have so enriched my creative life.
Thank you, of course, to my readers, for wanting more – without you, these books would have no place in the world. In particular, thank you to those who have placed reviews of previous books online, which very much helps the writer’s journey. I hope that is a large enough hint to those who would like to review The Classroom!
Reading Group Questions
1. To what extent did you sympathise with Kirsten? Did this change as the novel progressed?
2. What about Becky?
3. When a child is adopted fairly and legally, when do you think is the right time to explain their history to them? Is it ever right to keep a child’s real parents a secret?
4. How much responsibility should Clare take for what happened?
5. Did Yvette do the right thing when Becky comes to the house? If not, what would have been the right thing to do?
6. Has there ever been a time when you have ‘known too much’ about a friend, neighbour or college and have chosen to in
tervene? To what extent do we have a social responsibility to do so?
7. Is it ever acceptable for a teacher to have a relationship with a student or former student, if the student is of age?
8. Did you have a teacher who changed your life, for good or for bad? How? Why do you think teachers make such an impression on us?
9. Do you think Becky’s sister Julie reacted in the right way to the arrival of Becky and Harriet? What would you have done?
10. What do you think happens next?
Loved The Classroom? Keep reading for an extract from The Good Mother, another bestselling title from A.L. Bird – available now.
Prologue
The girl gets into the car that’s waiting for her. She looks over her shoulder first, like he’s told her to, to check Mummy isn’t watching. Would Mummy really mind? She can’t be sure. But he seems to think so. And he knows best, right? So she does the covert glance then slings her schoolbag into the back seat, like all the other times. He holds his cheek towards her for a kiss, which she dutifully bestows. Then he starts the engine with a vroom. Familiar buildings pass by. Buses on their way to places she recognises: Muswell Hill Broadway; Barnet (The Spires); North Finchley. There are a couple of kids from school. She raises her hand to wave but the man, seeing her, says, ‘Best not.’ So she lowers her hand and plays with the hem of her skirt, gazing absently out of the window.
Gradually, the territory becomes less familiar. The other man, the man they are going to meet, always insists on meeting outside of her home area. Says it’s safer that way. She hopes he’ll buy her a hot chocolate again. That was nice. Lots of whipped cream. Mummy always says whipped cream is bad: ‘You’ll end up big-boned. No one wants to be big-boned.’ The girl commented that the women at Mummy’s cupcake studio don’t seem big-boned. And they have lots of cream. ‘That’s because they spend a lot of time in the bathroom after each session,’ Mummy explained. That didn’t make much sense. But still, after the last visit, she hung round in the bathroom for a good ten minutes, so that the cream didn’t invade her bones and make them puff up.
And if there is hot chocolate, the girl thinks, it will be something to keep me busy. Because there’s not a lot of talking on these trips, so far. The other man doesn’t seem to know what to say. He looks at her a lot. Taking her in, from top to toe. She can feel his gaze travel down then up, up then down. Sometimes he gives a little smile. Other times a frown. She wants to please him, of course. She wants to please everyone. But when she tells him about the usual stuff – school, Mummy, music, boys even – he doesn’t say much back. And the two men glare at each other whenever they’re not looking at her. She can’t figure out why they keep hanging around together. Or what they want her to do on these occasions. So perhaps better just to concentrate on pushing the little wooden stirrer stick up and down in the hot chocolate to make holes, revealing the hot chocolate below. You have to get it to just the right meltiness to drink it. Then it’s delicious. She licks her lips in anticipation. Last time, the other man, the man they’re going to visit, looked like he was anticipating hot chocolate the whole time. Kept licking his lips. If he wanted some of her drink, he should just have said.
This might be the last time at this place, though. Because the previous time the other man, the man they’re going to see, had suggested they meet at his home. More relaxing. They could learn more about each other. He’d even given directions.
‘I just want us to be close, Cara,’ he’d said. ‘You’ll be quite safe. You’ll have your chaperone there throughout.’ He said ‘chaperone’ in a funny way. Like he was making a joke. Perhaps he only used that word because he didn’t know what to call the man who brought her. She didn’t, either, not really. Not once they’d had the little chat that evening in the car, his hand on her knee. Everything changed after that. She couldn’t be herself around him, couldn’t think of anything to say to him at all, never mind his name. She’d settled into the pattern after a while. But it was still odd. Of course it was odd. She would have asked Mummy. If Mummy were allowed to know.
Anyway, whatever he was called, the chaperon didn’t seem to like the idea of going to the other man’s home. So here they were, driving fast to the usual café. A bit faster than usual, maybe? Were they late? She looks at her watch, then realises she doesn’t know what time they’re meant to be there. And she doesn’t really know where ‘there’ is.
So there is nothing to do but sink into the seat. It’s out of her hands. But she’s perfectly safe. Of course she is. It would be like all the other times. See the men. Then go home to Mummy. She looks across at the chaperone to smile, to show him she still trusts him after everything. But he doesn’t smile back. He looks ahead and he frowns.
Chapter 1
My eyes flash open.
There’s a bed, a room and a blankness.
I leap off the bed, a strange bed, a single bed, and collapse straight onto the floor.
Where am I? What’s going on? Why am I so weak?
I put my hands over my eyes. Remove my hands again. But nothing becomes right. I’ve still no idea where I am. Why am I in this alien room? In pyjamas? Is it day, is it night, how long have I been here?
And, oh God.
Where’s Cara? Where’s my daughter?
Look round the room again. It looms and distorts weirdly before me. I don’t trust my eyes.
I try to pull myself to my feet but black spots and nausea get in the way.
OK, Susan. Stop trembling. Try to remember.
A hallway. At home. The doorbell ringing. Delivery expected. Chain not on.
Going to answer the door.
Yes, that’s it. A door. I see a door now, in this room. Maybe Cara is on the other side?
Crawl over the floor. One hand in front of the other. Grunt with the effort. Feel like I’m Cara when she was learning. Past a tray of partially eaten food. White fish. The smell makes me want to vomit.
Approach the door, in this room. Lean my hands against it, inch them higher and higher, climbing with my hands. Finally at the handle. Pull and pull. Handle up, handle down. Please! Open!
Nothing. It stays firmly shut.
In my mind, in my memories, the front door of my house opens. I’ve answered the door. Then blackness, blankness. Nothing but: Cara, my Cara, I must see Cara!
I’m shouting it now, out loud. Screaming it. Black dots back again before my eyes.
Come on. Comprehend. Don’t panic.
Slide down from the door. Look around the room. It’s clean, too clean, apart from the half-eaten fish. White walls. A pine chest of drawers. Potpourri on a dresser. Beige carpets. All normal. My hands ball in and out of fists. It is not normal to me.
And you are not here.
But why, Susan, why would she be here? Was she even at home when that doorbell rang? She’s fifteen, why would she be there, at home, with Mum? She might be safe, somewhere else, happy, even now.
I shake my head. Wrong. It feels wrong. I need to know where you are. Something is telling me, the deep-rooted maternal instinct, that you’re not safe. I need to see you.
Footsteps! From the other side of the door.
A key in the lock. I watch the handle turn. Slowly, the door pushes open.
Him.
How could I have forgotten about him?
We face each other, him standing, me on the floor. Bile rises in my throat.
So.
This is the now-known stranger who has locked me in here. Wherever ‘here’ is. It’s been what – two … three days? He must have drugged the fish. That’s why it took me a while, for any recollection to return.
He’s holding a beaker of water.
‘Thought you might like something to drink, Susan.’
He knows my name. A researched, not random, snatching then. Watching, from afar? For how long?
I stare at him.
‘Where is she?’ I manage. Not my usual voice. My throat is dry. The words are cracked, splitting each syllable in two.
‘You mustn’t hate me, Susan,’ he says.
I wait for more. Some explanation. Nothing.
Could I jump him? Could I run past him, out of the door? I must try, mustn’t I? Even if there is no ‘past him’. He fills the whole doorway.
Stop thinking. Act! Forget the shaking legs. Go, go, go! Storm him, surprise him!
But he is too quick. He slips out. The door closes. The lock turns.
‘They’ll come looking!’ I shout, slamming my hands against the door.
Because they will, won’t they? Paul, even now, must be working with the police, following up trails, looking at traffic cameras, talking to witnesses. Find my wife, he’ll be shouting to anyone who’ll listen. Neighbours, dog-walkers, Mrs Smith from number thirty-nine with that blessed curtain twitching. My afternoon clients, they must have raised the alarm, when I wasn’t there. Right? I must be a missing person by now. Please, whoever has lost me, come and find me.
And, please, let Cara be with you. Let my daughter be safe.
Images of Cara frightened, hunched, bound, dying.
No!
Just focus. Look at the room. How to get out of the room.
Look, a window! High up, narrow, darkness beyond it, but possible maybe?
There’s a kind of ledge. I can pull myself up. Hands over the edge, like that, then come on – jump up, then hang on. Manage to stay there for a moment, before my weak arms fail me. Long enough to judge the window isn’t glass. It’s PCV. Unsmashable. And, of course, there is a window lock. And no key. Locked, I bet, but if I just stretch a hand – but no. I fall.
OK, so I need to put something under the window. That chair. Heavy. I push and pull it to under the window. Placing my hands on the back of the chair, I climb up onto the seat. With my new height, I stretch my arm to the window, then to the window latch.