Never Greener

by Ruth Jones

  Kate sipped her stewed and tasteless coffee and wondered when British train companies would catch up with the rest of the country and start serving a decent brew. Her stomach rumbled and, embarrassed, she looked round to check no one else had heard it. God, she was starving. She’d hardly touched the chilli the night before, nor the porridge Matt had made her before she left.

  Not that Matt was aware. Over the years, she’d devised a handful of food-concealing techniques – chucking stuff down the loo, mixing it into plant-pot soil, hiding it in the dog bowl, or even – and this was the most extreme – when Tallulah was a baby, secreting unwanted food inside dirty nappies in the nappy bag. Sometimes she felt guilty for not telling Matt. But she knew he wouldn’t understand and he’d start lecturing her about nutrition and how unhealthy it was to be underweight. Easy for him to say – TV was ruthless. It wasn’t true what people said about the camera adding ten pounds: it added twenty. And Kate knew how important it was to look good – especially as she got older. She just needed to lose five pounds, and then she’d feel settled.

  Across the carriage from her, an overweight businesswoman in an ill-fitting suit was talking on her mobile whilst intermittently sinking her teeth into a breakfast baguette. Kate couldn’t help but surreptitiously watch. It comforted her, seeing fat people eat – made her feel secure in her hunger and the knowledge that she herself was nowhere near that size, or that out of control. The woman was discussing quarterly figures. She appeared to work for some kind of national retailer.

  ‘Well, Paul will have to take that up with you, Dave,’ she was saying, ‘because the report I’m reading tells a very different story.’

  As Dave presumably justified his actions on the other end of the phone, the woman took the opportunity to take another mouthful of her baguette. But she was too enthusiastic and her bite burst the yolk of the fried egg, splattering yellow goo all over her chin and right down the front of her shirt.

  She didn’t know she was being watched, silently swearing and looking around for a tissue to mop up the mess. Not wanting to waste anything, she scooped up the spillage with her forefinger before licking it clean.

  ‘Yeah, yeah … no, go on, I’m listening.’ She clearly wasn’t. She reached into the vast handbag stuffed under her feet and began scrabbling around inside, still feigning interest in the phone call. Eventually she pulled out a packet of wet wipes, struggling to free one single-handedly. She ended up extracting two, and vigorously wiped her chin with them before attempting to clean up her shirt. In the process, she dropped her phone.

  ‘Bollocks!’ It went right underneath the woman’s seat. Kate could see ‘Dave – Bolton Branch’ flashing merrily away on the screen whilst his little voice cried out for help. ‘Hello? Hello? You still there?’

  Kate looked away as the businesswoman’s hand flailed around under her seat, fruitlessly searching for the handset like one of those grabber machines in a seedy seaside arcade.

  Suddenly there was a kerfuffle and Kate looked back again to see the woman now on her hands and knees, her broad backside majestically swaying between the two seats as she stretched for the phone. Her calves were thick and dimpled and the cracked skin on the heels of her feet peeped through the twenty-denier tights she was wearing. Kate offered up a silent prayer of gratitude that she didn’t look like that.

  Phone retrieved, the woman clambered back into her seat, sweat now running down the sides of her neck. ‘Sorry about that, Dave. Where were we?’

  Kate and the woman caught each other’s eye momentarily before looking away, mutually embarrassed, until the embarrassment on the businesswoman’s face turned to delighted recognition when she realized that she was staring at the Kate Andrews! Unable to withstand the awkwardness, Kate picked up her bag and headed towards the smoking carriage.

  She stood in the vestibule at the far end of the train and lit up, the window open slightly for her to blow out the smoke. She thought about earlier that morning at home, waking up late to find Tallulah at the end of the bed, clutching Panda.

  ‘Hello, gorgeous. You gonna have a cuddle with Mummy before school?’

  Tallulah snuggled up. ‘Daddy said you’re going to school today.’

  ‘That’s right, pumpkin. Mummy’s old school back in Scotland.’

  ‘Was Mrs Pickering your teacher?’

  ‘No darling – I doubt Mrs Pickering was even born when I was in school!’

  Matt came in with Kate’s porridge and handed her a coffee.

  ‘Thanks.’ She took a big slurp. ‘Oh why do I have to go, Matt?’

  ‘Babe, you just have to show your face, that’s all. Let them take a photo, say a few words about how humbling it is to be there. They’ll be so disappointed if you cancel. It’s their centenary!’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s not like I went there a hundred years ago, is it?’

  ‘State of you, this morning, you look like you might have done!’

  ‘Cheers, mate!’

  Matt laughed. ‘Honestly, what was all that about? Bloody marathon in the middle of the night.’

  Kate sighed and looked away.

  ‘Daddy, you said a bad word! – Panda says you’re very naughty.’

  ‘Yes I am. Sorry, Panda. Now let’s leave Mummy to get dressed – she’s got a train to catch.’

  Tallulah jumped off the bed and ran out onto the landing. Alone with Kate for a moment, Matt leant over and smoothed her cheek. ‘I’ll see you tonight, bub. I’m going to ask Hetty to come. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Course not.’

  ‘I mean, if you’d rather it was just us two …’

  ‘Hetty is always welcome, you know that. She’s one of the few people in my life who never irritates me.’ She took his hand, kissed it and whispered, ‘I love you so much, Matt. I’m sorry I’m such a monumental pain in the arse.’

  Kate knew how much it meant to him when she was kind, how it pulled the rug from under him when she showed him any rare sweetness. Berating herself for not treating Matt better, she vowed to try harder. Whatever demons took up occasional residence in her head were certainly not put there by Matt.

  ‘Eat your porridge, Goldilocks,’ he’d said and she watched him chase after Tallulah, sighing at the prospect of the day ahead. What had she been thinking, saying yes to this school visit? She must’ve been drunk at the time. Or distracted. Because going home to Edinburgh was not something Kate did unless absolutely necessary, like when she’d returned for her grandmother’s funeral, or for Christmas five years ago when her mother refused to take no for an answer. There were too many ghosts in the Scottish capital and she already felt haunted enough.

  She lit up a second cigarette. Chain-smoking helped alleviate the anxiety gnawing away inside her like a rat on a bone, but only briefly. She closed her eyes and let the brutal force of the air outside blast her face as it rushed in through the window.

  It had been seventeen years.

  In the early days, she’d patiently waited for the healing power of Time to work its legendary magic, to mend her and make her feel better again, just like the aphorism always promised it would. And yes, the pain had diminished considerably since then. But she’d eventually come to realize it would never leave her completely, and hardly a day went by without her thinking about what had happened or wondering how her life might have turned out had a different choice been made.

  Time had given her something else, though: an expert ability to steel herself in the face of any unwelcome emotion, to never allow in anything which she couldn’t control. It wasn’t much of a consolation prize, but it was better than being at the mercy of her enemies: Weakness and Vulnerability. When it came to self-admonishment, Kate was a boot-camp bully. ‘Pull yourself together, for fuck’s sake,’ she whispered, drowned out by the invading wind.

  ‘We will shortly be arriving in Berwick-upon-Tweed,’ the distorted tannoy voice of the train manager announced. Kate took her final puff and threw her stub out of the window before cramming two s
ugar-free mints into her mouth.

  As the sliding door of the carriage opened to let her back in, she noticed the businesswoman now tucking into a large croissant and jam. Kate’s stomach rumbled again and she inwardly purred with self-righteousness. The woman called over to her, flakes of pastry framing her mouth, ‘Can I just say, I’m a big fan of your work, Miss Andrews!’ and she smiled as she carried on munching.

  4

  The taxi driver was also a fan. Not only that, he was a fan with career advice and not afraid to dish it out. ‘Aye, see when y’did that show on the BBC? About the nurse?’

  ‘Ah, you mean Sisters?’

  ‘Nooo, they were nurses, nae sisters!’

  Kate bit her tongue. Keep smiling. ‘Yes, it was called Sisters – did you like it?’

  ‘What a load of bollockin’ baloney!’

  ‘Thanks,’ she muttered.

  ‘Ey, don’t get me wrong, ye were terrific in it! Full o’ sass an’ spark, eh? But your wee fella, the guy with the eyes …’

  ‘Jimmy McColl.’

  ‘That’s him. I canna stand the man. With his wee gurnin’ face all twisted up like a neep.’

  ‘A lot of women find him very attractive.’

  ‘Pfff, the man’s a prize jessie, no mistake. Calls himself a detective? They say he shaves his chest! I mean, have ye ever heard anythin’ so—’

  ‘You can pull up just here actually, I’ll walk the rest.’ Kate had had enough of his blethering.

  ‘You sure, hen? It’s nae bother for me to—’

  ‘No, it’s fine. Honestly. I fancy walking.’ She took out a twenty from her purse. ‘Keep the change.’

  ‘You little angel. Tell you what, it’s nice to have you back in your home town, Miss Andrews. A lot of folk they leave an’ come back all pumped up with their English airs and graces, but you—’

  ‘Hey, I’m married to an Englishman, y’know!’ She chided him with a smile.

  ‘Well, we can’t all be perfect.’ And he laughed. ‘Ye take care now – here’s my card in case you need fetching back.’

  She took it and got out of the car, absorbing the sight before her. Just a hundred or so yards away stood the school gates of North Park Primary, now painted green instead of the shabby white they’d once been. Behind her the taxi pulled away with a cheeky hoot of his horn.

  Walking through the gates felt strangely comforting. On the rare occasions she came back – a handful in the last seventeen years – she’d pretty much stayed at her parents’ house for the duration of her short visits. She’d certainly never ventured up the Queensferry Road to the site of her old school. But returning here now, to a place where she’d only spent six years of her life, really did feel like coming home.

  She made her way to the main reception. The large oak and glass door with its brass fittings had been there in Kate’s day. She turned the handle just like she would’ve done thirty-odd years ago – but nothing happened. It was locked. A face appeared on the other side.

  ‘You have to buzz the buzzer.’ This was Mrs Crocombe, the school secretary.

  ‘Can’t you just let me in?’

  ‘No, you have to buzz the buzzer.’ Mrs Crocombe was a stickler for school rules, even when they didn’t make sense.

  Kate, on best behaviour, smiled politely and buzzed the buzzer. ‘Hi, I’m Kate Andrews and I’m—’

  Mrs Crocombe cut her short. ‘I know who you are, my dear. In you come.’ And she opened the door to let her in. Kate resisted commenting as she stepped into the foyer. ‘Headmaster will be with you shortly.’

  ‘Right. OK, thanks.’

  Something about Mrs Crocombe’s reverence for the term ‘headmaster’ and the fact that she missed out the word ‘the’ when referring to him made Kate want to rebel and unforgivably misbehave.

  Mrs Crocombe left Kate standing alone, serenaded by the sound of small children singing a hymn in the hall nearby.

  ‘Dance, dance, wherever you may be …’

  She looked up at a huge mosaic-effect banner, made no doubt by hundreds of small hands holding Pritt Sticks and bits of coloured paper. It declared ‘North Park Primary 100 years! Welcome’. And scattered beneath it on several noticeboards were dozens of photographs of the school since its opening in 1902. She peered closely at the smiling, fading faces.

  ‘Recognize anyone?’ The Headmaster was looking over her shoulder.

  ‘Oh, hello. I was just—’

  ‘Brian Boyd. It’s an enormous pleasure.’ He held out his firm hand for an even firmer handshake. ‘Of course, I never taught you, but I was trying to work out when you left.’

  ‘Nineteen seventy-four!’

  The Headmaster whistled his incredulity. ‘So Colin Marshall was in charge then, I believe. I wasn’t sure if …’

  But Kate wasn’t really listening. She was still trying to take it all in. ‘It’s almost exactly the same … the kingfisher statue, and … and the floor … the woodblock floor … and the door handles, and even the smell … What is that smell?’

  ‘I like to think it’s a mixture of hard work and happy times!’ This was Brian Boyd’s mantra. He was so proud of its invention that he used it whenever the opportunity arose.

  Kate edged towards the main hall, drawn by the sound of the singing. ‘Dance, dance, wherever you may be …’

  ‘Can I have a little peek?’

  ‘Be my guest. Infants’ assembly.’

  ‘I am the Lord of the Dance, said he …’

  Tiptoeing up to the window in the door at the back of the hall, she looked inside and saw a hundred kids, the oldest no more than seven years of age, sat cross-legged, dutifully singing words they didn’t really understand. ‘I remember this one!’ She blinked back sudden tears as she sang along in a whisper.

  ‘And I’ll lead you all, wherever you may be …’

  She hadn’t expected this. To be taken hostage by emotion and led down Memory Lane, transported back to a simpler, painless time in life, unfettered by the complications and inexplicable fears of a grown-up world.

  ‘And I’ll lead you all in the dance, said he!’

  ‘I thought you could meet the Year Sixes first.’ The Headmaster was always on the go and oblivious to Kate’s nostalgia. ‘Year Six translates as top juniors in old money!’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ She snapped out of her reverie. ‘I’ve got a five-year-old myself, so …’

  ‘Right. Well, it’s in the same place that it always was – up the stairs, end of the corridor. Shall we?’

  As they mounted the steps, she remembered instantly the feel of the handrail and the sensation of running her little fingers up and down its polished mahogany. She carried on down the corridor, the Headmaster by her side wittering something about class sizes and downturns in economy. Kate could hear children laughing, reciting, shouting in the classrooms as she passed, their voices blending with those of the ghosts of pupils past.

  Blissfully ignorant of what she was thinking, the Headmaster trampled all over her private thoughts and announced, ‘Course, we’ve had eighteen fire doors put in since you left. And a computer suite. Right, here we are.’

  They’d stopped outside the final classroom. This used to be Mrs Jackson’s room when Kate was there nearly thirty years ago. But now the plate on the door bore the name of a different teacher.

  Mr MacGregor

  Kate felt simultaneously sick and exhilarated. It couldn’t be, could it? A loud rushing in her ears and she subtly steadied herself with her hand on the door frame. Fortunately, Mr Boyd didn’t notice. Kate gathered herself.

  ‘Not … Callum MacGregor?’

  The Headmaster knocked enthusiastically on the door. ‘That’s right. Joined us last year from St Mary’s in Portobello. Deputy head. Quite a coup!’

  A voice came from inside the room.

  ‘Come in.’

  Kate couldn’t focus, could barely hear. Her mouth felt like it was filled with sand. The Headmaster, still wittering, opened the door and made way f
or her to go in. But her feet wouldn’t move. She stood rooted to the herringbone tiles of the junior-school corridor floor.

  Sitting at his desk, in front of a classful of excitable eleven-year-olds, was the man she had fallen in love with seventeen years ago. Her voice wouldn’t work. Nothing would work.

  Callum looked at her. Gentle. Unsurprised.

  ‘Hello, Kate.’

  5

  Matt stood up from his desk in the little office at the back of the shop, drained the dregs of his espresso and stretched. He hated doing paperwork – the downside of having his own business. But the upside was being able to work around Tallulah and her school hours. With Kate working such long days, she couldn’t be relied upon for childcare. Not that this was something Kate had ever negotiated – she simply expected Matt to accept that her career came first. It was a practicality and he justified it by telling himself his job meant he could have the best of both worlds: running a small and flexible business whilst being a stay-at-home dad. Well, not quite stay-at-home – more stay-at-shop. Or stay-at-gallery, to be more precise.

  At Warwick he’d studied History of Art. He was passionate about other people’s work. Probably because he himself couldn’t paint, or draw. Not so much as a wonky stickman or potato print. Yet he could talk in detail about portraits and landscapes and abstract pieces till the cows in a Julien Dupré painting came home. And when his grandmother died, she left him a tidy enough sum to set up his own small art gallery in Brackenbury Village. He’d agreed with his mum after she’d gladly signed over the money that ‘those who can, paint – and those who can’t, open a gallery’. It did surprisingly well. Well enough to pay for Peter, his part-time assistant and old school friend of his mum’s, who could mind the shop when Matt needed to be a dad – like now, when he was about to head off to watch Lula in her school play. Of course, he’d prefer it if Kate could be there next to him, but he’d long since learned not to point this out: he knew she felt guilty at being such an absent mother and reminding her of the fact would only lead to a storming row that could last for two or three days. Life was easier when Matt just accepted Kate’s rules. And although at times he felt like a single dad, spending more time with Tallulah could hardly be called a challenge.