He knew that shifting the blame, manipulating loved ones and becoming abusive were all part of the illness, but it didn’t make it any less painful. The idea that one day her behaviour might result in her appearing in front of a judge made him sick to his stomach.
But the upside of today’s case was that it was being heard at Snaresbrook, one of his favourite courts. It was situated in the borough of Redbridge and was a beautifully ornate building with wonderful gardens and even a lake. Inside it was like Hogwarts, with its magnificent staircases, impressive turrets and mysterious locked doors. It was a showcase for how a Grade Two listed building could look if money wasn’t an issue. Next to Snaresbrook, the Starlight Playhouse looked like a rundown brothel.
He’d just left the Robing Room when he heard his name being called.
At first, he didn’t recognise the voice. Why would he? He hadn’t spoken to his father for several years. It was only when he turned and saw Harvey Elliot walking towards him that his brain made the connection. His initial instinct was to run, but that wouldn’t be overly mature, and besides, his feet wouldn’t cooperate.
‘When I saw your name listed today, I hoped we’d bump into each other,’ his father said on reaching him. ‘Good to see you, son.’ He held out his hand.
Tom stared down at his father’s outstretched hand, wondering if someone had transported him to a parallel universe – one where they weren’t estranged and his father hadn’t walked out on his mother eight years earlier. Tom’s gaze lifted to his father’s face, visibly older than when he’d last seen him, his hair and moustache silver-grey, his eyes surrounded by wrinkles and framed by thick-rimmed glasses with bizarre purple-tint lenses.
His father was a Silk. Queen’s Counsel to use its proper title. Their gowns were made of silk – hence the name, and they were considered the heavyweight boxers of the criminal justice system. They strutted and postured in court like sprinters before a hundred-metre final, acting as though they were intellectually superior to everyone else in the room.
His father’s attitude to parenthood had been just as intimidating.
Tom instantly felt his chest tighten.
But he was no longer a spineless teenager, too afraid to stand up to his father, or disobey his ultimatums. He might not be equal in terms of barrister status, but there was no way he was about to pretend the past hadn’t happened.
His father appeared unperturbed by his son’s refusal to shake his hand. ‘How are you, Thomas?’
It was such a simple question and yet one that was fricking hard to answer. How was he? What? For the past seven years? He opted for brevity. ‘I’m fine.’
‘And work?’
‘That’s fine too.’ Tom wasn’t about to share his growing sense of dissatisfaction about his career. Not least because his father wouldn’t understand. He’d never been ‘soft’ like his son.
‘What time are you due in court?’
There was no point lying – the trials were listed on the wall. ‘Soon.’ He kept his response vague.
‘Tricky case?’
‘Not really. Was there something specific you wanted?’ Tom rubbed his chest, wishing he’d taken a shot of Fostair this morning as a preventative.
His father glanced behind, waiting until the corridor cleared before speaking. ‘I wanted to let you know that I haven’t been…well.’
Time slowed. It took a moment before he realised the thumping he could hear was coming from his chest. But he wasn’t going to soften, not after all this time. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Nothing serious, I hope.’
Harvey Elliot cleared his throat, as though debating whether to continue. ‘I was having chest pains. I was admitted to London Bridge Hospital for an angiogram. The test results showed the onset of atherosclerosis. It causes angina.’
‘Right.’ It felt like a pathetic response to such a big announcement, but what was he supposed to say? Despite everything that’d happened, he’d act like the dutiful son and bury the hatchet? That wasn’t going to happen. There’d been too many arguments over the years, too many hurtful accusations.
His father waited, but it was obvious Tom had nothing more to add. ‘I thought you should know.’
‘What’s the prognosis?’ Tom felt he needed to know what he was dealing with, even if they had burnt their bridges.
‘Medication. Eating better, taking more exercise. Less stress.’ His father tried for a good-natured smile. ‘Torture, right?’
Tom didn’t feel like engaging in friendly banter. ‘Surgery?’
‘Not at this stage. Hopefully it can be managed without the need for surgical intervention.’
‘Well, thanks for letting me know. I hope things improve.’ He went to leave, but his father caught his arm.
‘The thing is, it’s made me re-evaluate my life. Lying in a hospital bed waiting for results tends to focus the mind. Makes a man think about his life, his…decisions.’
Tom turned to look at the man who’d made his teenage life hell and walked out on his mother when she’d needed him the most. ‘And what conclusions did you come to?’
‘I decided that I didn’t want to miss out on any more of my son’s life.’ His father took a step closer. ‘It’s time to bury the hatchet. I’m willing to move forwards, if you are. I was hoping we could call a truce and forgive each other. What do you say?’
Tom rubbed his chest. ‘You think I need your forgiveness?’ He studied his dad’s face. There wasn’t a hint of insecurity. ‘I’m curious. What terrible crime have I committed that requires your forgiveness?’
‘You’ve barely spoken to me in seven years—’
‘And why is that?’
His father sighed. ‘Because you felt the need to punish me for leaving your mother.’
The man wasn’t stupid; he’d give him that. ‘She has an illness. She needs constant help and yet you decided to put your own needs ahead of hers.’
His father frowned. ‘Do you have any idea how hard it was for me?’
The blood drained from Tom’s face. ‘Hard for you?’
There were so many things Tom could have said, but at that moment he was genuinely lost for words. His father thought it would be that simple? That he could just decide it was time for them to ‘move forwards’ and forget everything that had gone before. Jesus. He really was a piece of work.
Tom was saved from saying something he’d regret by his phone pinging with a message. He glanced down, expecting to see Izzy’s name. They’d accepted an offer on the flat and were close to exchanging contracts. But it was a missed call from his mother.
Ignoring his father, he pressed play. Did you know you could get green apples…? From now on I’m only going to buy green apples. No other colour… Can you get other colours? Pink? I’d like pink apples. Add green and pink apples to my grocery shopping this week. Thank you, darling. Love you.
Tom didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The world was conspiring against him. An unwinnable case, his father having a mid-life crisis, and his mother losing the plot. And it was only bloody nine-thirty.
He turned to leave. ‘I need to deal with this.’
‘Will you think about it?’ his father called after him.
There was nothing to think about. Some things were beyond repair.
The relationship with his father was one of them.
Chapter Eight
Saturday 23rd September
‘You cannot exclude my child,’ the woman said, squaring up to Becca. ‘You have no right. I’m paying you to teach my kid to dance, not inflict this rubbish on them. It’s not even dancing.’ She gestured to where the kids were balancing beanbags on their feet, trying to flick them up and catch them standing on one foot.
‘You’re right. It’s not, but—’
‘If I wanted my kid to mess around playing games, I’d do it at home. I wouldn’t pay some jumped-up freak to do it for me.’
Freak? That was a new one.
The woman jabbed a finger. ‘Get on with t
eaching them to dance and don’t tell my kid he can’t join in, you hear me?’
Becca was conflicted. Part of her wanted to give in, especially as the other parents were nodding in agreement, supporting the woman’s grievance. But she knew she had to make a stand. If she didn’t, things would never improve. She couldn’t spend every Saturday morning shouting until she was hoarse. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t agree to that.’
The woman looked incredulous. ‘Excuse me?’ She turned to the other parents. ‘We’re paying for you to teach our kids ballet, right? Nothing else.’
A few mothers nodded in agreement.
‘So get teaching, or we’re gone.’ The woman folded her arms, ultimatum delivered.
Becca could feel the burn of numerous eyes on her. She was a pathetic excuse for a teacher. But she was trying her best to remedy that. She was at a crossroads where she needed to make a decision. Give in, or stand her ground.
There was no real dilemma. She’d rather risk losing half the kids than give in to their bullying parents. Having said that, she’d be a fool if she didn’t try to win them over. Without any pupils, she wouldn’t have a class. Or income. And Carolyn was relying on her to help improve the fortunes of the playhouse. She had to try and turn the situation around.
She gestured to the kids, who were oblivious to the heated discussion taking place by the piano. ‘If these kids are serious about making it as a dancer, then they need to learn the art of listening.’ And discipline, she added silently, something that was also currently lacking. ‘Until we reach a point where I’m convinced every child understands that if they don’t listen they can’t join in with the class, then I can’t move forward with more complex activities.’
Becca had spent the last two weeks trawling through numerous videos and articles, and quizzing her mum about teaching. Her mum’s message had been clear. There was absolutely no point in teaching her students about adagio, fouette, jeté or pirouettes, if they didn’t listen. If you didn’t listen, you couldn’t learn. So, much to the horror of the parents, she’d begun today’s class by announcing that from now on there would be rules, and if those rules were broken, there would be consequences.
‘Mrs Morris never had a problem with our kids,’ the woman said, urged on by the other mothers. ‘Maybe you’re not cut out to be a teacher.’
This was entirely possible. But it was Becca’s class, and she needed to develop her own way of teaching. And that didn’t include spending the entire hour shouting and being ignored. If the parents didn’t like it, tough.
‘I’m sorry you don’t agree with my approach.’ Becca feigned a confidence she didn’t feel, trying to hide her shaking hands. ‘It goes without saying that I’d love for your children to remain in my class.’ She looked at the parents, some of whom avoided eye contact. ‘But I honestly feel this is the best approach. However, the decision is entirely yours. If you’d prefer to try a different class elsewhere, then that’s your prerogative. I’ll refund you this term’s money.’
They hadn’t expected that. There was a murmur as the mothers huddled together, discussing what to do next.
Becca had no idea how Carolyn would feel about refunding the fees. She was taking a big risk, but it was the only way she could wrestle control of the situation.
She spotted Ben and Phoebe’s mother standing to one side. When Rosie smiled and discreetly gave her a thumbs-up, her panic levels lowered. The woman would probably never realise how much that single show of support meant.
The ringleader approached with the verdict. ‘I’m taking my kids to someone who knows what they’re doing. They’re good kids. I don’t appreciate you treating them like they’re not. I’ll expect a cheque in the post. I want a full refund, you hear me?’ The woman yelled at her three kids, and then dragged them from the room.
Becca waited to see who else would follow. Two other mothers scuttled out, heads down, their kids in tow. That left five kids from the original class and two new starters. It had been three, but one mother left before the class started, unimpressed by the state of the dance studio. Oh, well, you couldn’t win them all.
As the door banged shut behind them, Rosie came over. ‘That must have been hard. But you did the right thing.’
Becca sighed. ‘I hope you’re right.’
Rosie smiled. ‘Take it from me – children need boundaries. And they need to learn the consequences of pushing those boundaries. I’m more than happy for you to discipline my kids. Anything that makes my life at home easier.’ There was a sadness to her expression, which lifted as quickly as it had arrived. ‘Just out of interest, why are you getting them to juggle beanbags?’
‘It helps improve balance,’ Becca said, watching the kids flipping up the beanbags trying to stay upright. ‘If you watch Lionel Messi playing football, or Roger Federer on the tennis court, they could literally be falling over and yet somehow still make the shot. It’s what sets them apart. And it’s the same with dance. Balance is the most fundamental attribute a dancer needs.’
‘I never realised. Maybe I should take it up myself.’ Rosie gestured to her walking stick, which until that moment Becca hadn’t noticed. ‘I always wanted to dance, but never learnt as a child. It’s too late now, I’m forever falling over.’
Becca didn’t want to pry, but her reaction must have given her away.
‘Multiple sclerosis.’
Becca flinched. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
Rosie didn’t look more than early thirties. She was slim, with a lovely open smile and wavy brown hair that fell around her shoulders. Life could be so unfair.
‘It flares up every now and then. Doesn’t make dealing with two energetic kids any easier. Luckily, I have Dan to help me, my other half. He’s a saint.’
And Becca had thought dealing with a ruptured Achilles and severed patellar tendon was hard? She vowed never to moan about her injuries again.
Rosie nodded to the kids. ‘Can I give you a word of advice?’
‘Please do. You might’ve noticed I’m new to this.’
‘Kids need discipline, you’re right. They also need a lot of encouragement. Good behaviour should always be praised.’
She touched Rosie’s hand. ‘Thank you, I’ll remember that.’ Becca turned to the class. ‘Excellent work, kids. You’ve done really well today.’ She was rewarded with a few beaming smiles.
Rosie smiled. ‘See? You’ll have them eating out of your hands in no time.’
Becca could only hope.
Despite the first forty-five minutes of the class being torture, the last section flew by. The kids seemed to enjoy the balance games and there was definitely less crying than the previous two weeks. It was too soon to believe progress was being made, but she’d be lying if she didn’t feel relieved that the more ‘vocal’ mothers had quit the class.
A few of the kids said goodbye as they left the dance studio. Rosie’s kids even gave her a wave. Maybe she was starting to win them over? She hoped so. For Carolyn’s sake, if nothing else.
Becca decided she needed to address the state of the dance studio with Carolyn. All the advertising in the world wouldn’t improve numbers if the décor put people off.
She pulled on a pair of joggers over her dance tights and zipped up her hoodie, ensuring she kept her muscles warm. Her knee felt pretty good today, but her Achilles was tight. The scar was itching, something that happened on occasion.
She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. Freak, one of the women had said. It seemed a little harsh. She’d toned down her clothing for the classes, opting for traditional ballet attire instead of her modern dance gear, removing all jewellery and keeping her nails neutral.
That just left her hair, which although still blonde with blue ends, was neatly twisted into a knot at the base of her neck. For her, it was positively conservative. What else could she do? It wasn’t like her tattoo or bellybutton ring were on show.
She flicked off the light and locked the door.
It
shouldn’t matter what she looked like. She should be judged on her performance, not her appearance. Not that she was glowing in that department either. But at least she could do something about that. Changing how she looked was not an option. It was who she was.
She passed through reception and knocked on the office door.
No answer.
She tried the handle in case Jodi was wearing her headphones. Her cousin wasn’t expected to work on a Saturday, but she’d offered to do a few hours ahead of her shift at the restaurant later. Carolyn had a habit of talking to herself, so Jodi had started wearing headphones to block out the noise.
The door was unlocked, but Jodi wasn’t at her desk. Becca was about to leave, when she realised Carolyn was asleep on the sofa. She was curled up, one arm flung off the side, her head at a strange angle.
Becca went over and removed Carolyn’s shoes. She lifted her head and placed a cushion underneath, trying to make her more comfortable. The sofa was too small for her tall frame, but there was nothing Becca could do about that. The woman smelt of booze. The office keys were clutched in her hand.
She slid the keys from Carolyn’s hand, intending to give them to Jodi when she saw her.
When she stood up, she noticed the wall safe was open. She couldn’t imagine that had been intentional. Carolyn had probably got distracted halfway through a task, as so often happened.
She went over and shut the door. The office looked much tidier now. Jodi had spent her first week filing, shredding and finding homes for various things. She’d always known her cousin would impress. She’d just needed someone to take a chance on her. And now Carolyn had.
Shutting the office door, she headed down the corridor towards the café. A couple of creative types wearing tie-dye overalls were enjoying a brew; other than that, the place was deserted. The Starlight Playhouse boasted an art studio, a small cinema, a theatre and a grand ballroom, and yet all the rooms lay empty, unused, failing to generate any income. It was a travesty. And a waste too. This place could be a thriving arts centre if it was in better shape.
Starlight on the Palace Pier Page 7