‘It’s different to how it was when you or I were at school,’ I say. ‘Everything has to be fair. Benji has a right to play football, even if he is a little bit crap.’
Mum frowns. ‘Well yes, he should be allowed to kick a ball around in the privacy of his own garden, where nobody else has to witness his lack of skill. But is it actually fair to let him play in a match? If anything, I’d say the kindest thing would be to keep him as far away from a football pitch as humanly possible.’
‘You’re probably right.’ I let my gaze wander around the kitchen, hoping to solve the conundrum of what we’re supposed to be having for supper. ‘But it’s a moot point now anyway. He won’t be chosen again until next season.’
Mum tuts. ‘Well, I think it’s absolutely ridiculous. All this pretending that anybody can do anything. It’ll only lead to disappointment in later life. Kids today need a few home truths.’
The kitchen door crashes open and a ball comes flying into the room, followed seconds later by an exuberant Benji.
‘He shoots! He scores!’ he yells, skidding to a halt by the table. ‘You should have seen me today, Mum!’
‘Here he is!’ My mother beams at her youngest grandchild. ‘The Player of the Day himself!’
I stare at her. What happened to a few home truths?
Benji giggles. ‘It’s not Player of the Day, silly,’ he tells her. ‘It’s Man of the Match.’
Then his face falls. ‘Only I didn’t get it. I never get it.’ He turns to me. ‘Jasper McKenzie was Man of the Match again. For like, the gazillionth time. It’s not fair.’
I shrug, thinking about what Mum was just saying. ‘Well, it probably is fair,’ I tell Benji. ‘If he played really well then he deserves to get the title.’
‘That football coach wouldn’t know talent if it kicked him in the face,’ protests my mother. ‘Honestly. I thought that Jasper McKenzie child was nothing but a glorified thug. And what’s more important? Being able to kick a ball in a straight line or being a nice person?’
‘In this particular context, I’d say that kicking a ball is probably what they’re looking for,’ I venture, but Mum has already pulled Benji towards her and is murmuring platitudes and reassurances about how, if it were up to her, he’d be Man of the Match every single time he set foot on the pitch.
*
Once Benji has been placated and sent off to finish his homework and I have managed to find some tins of tomatoes lurking at the back of the cupboard, Mum stands up and reaches for her bag.
‘Thanks for helping me out today,’ I say. ‘I really appreciate it, Mum.’
She walks across the kitchen and gives me a hug. ‘I’m worried about you, Hannah,’ she tells me. ‘Is everything all right?’
And I want nothing more than to sink my head onto her shoulder and tell her that no, I am not all right. I feel like I’m splashing about in the middle of the ocean, searching desperately for a life raft while just behind me is a luxury cruise liner where everyone I know is relaxing and laughing and drinking exotic cocktails with those little paper umbrellas that I really, really love.
But I can’t tell my mother that I am miserable and all at sea because I want a cocktail umbrella. It’s self-indulgent and stupid and utter, utter middle-class angst. I cannot tell the woman who brought me up all on her own, sacrificing her own wants and needs to ensure that I had good Clarks school shoes, that I feel adrift.
Instead, I give her a squeeze and plaster a big smile on my face. ‘I’m fine, Mum. Just a bit tired, that’s all.’
She gives me a piercing look and I know that she isn’t fooled.
‘It’s okay to ask for some help, now and again,’ she says. ‘I know how hard it can be when your kids start to get older and you’re trying to juggle several hundred things all at once. It makes your brain hurt!’
‘I don’t mind the juggling.’ It’s true, I really don’t. I’m an expert juggler. My skills are so brilliant that I could run away and join the circus, if I so desired. ‘I just wish that at least one of the balls had my name on it.’
Mum laughs. ‘Well, that’s not so difficult,’ she tells me. ‘If you really want to juggle your own ball then you’re going to have to write your name on it yourself!’ She takes her coat off the back of the chair. ‘And my advice? Use an indelible pen then the buggers can’t rub it off when you’re not looking.’
*
It is freezing cold and bleak outside, which matches my mood nicely.
I haven’t given up on the idea of a new job, but there’s just a lot going on at the moment and it’s not appropriate for me to be thinking about changing my life. I suppose I have to accept that we all have a time, and that right now, it isn’t mine. I have just got to make the best of a crappy situation and ensure that Miriam keeps me on next year.
I have pushed the entire plan to the very back of my head and I’m pretending that I don’t feel a little bit sad, slightly pointless, and also mildly terrified that I may not have a job in September.
‘Can I help you with anything, Mum?’ Dylan walks into the kitchen and sidles up to me, wrapping one arm around my shoulder. This is a sure sign that he wants to talk. ‘Do you need a hand with cooking supper?’
‘You can open the tomatoes,’ I tell him. ‘And then find some tuna. I’m making my specialty, haute-cuisine pasta bake, tonight.’
I pass him the tin opener and get on with chopping some onions. I learnt a long time ago that if teenagers want to tell you something, then it’s best not to look them in the eye. They’re easily spooked, a bit like ponies. Or Medusa.
‘So, I wondered if you could give me a lift to the station on Saturday?’ he starts.
I play it as cool as I am capable. ‘Sure. Going anywhere nice?’
‘Not really.’ He shrugs. ‘Just thought I might go to the cinema.’
‘Nice.’ I nod thoughtfully, like he’s just said something incredibly intelligent. ‘Who are you going with?’
Dylan takes the lid off the first tin and pushes it across towards me. ‘Just a friend.’
‘Cool.’ Nobody says cool anymore. Nobody except people in their forties who can’t quite bring themselves to believe that they are possibly middle-aged. ‘That’s totally cool. Anyone I know?’
Dylan busies himself with the complex task of opening the second tin. ‘Nah.’
This is your chance, Hannah. Your chance to be the liberal, non-interfering mother that you always thought you would be. The mother who allows her children to have privacy and respects their decisions because she trusts them and she knows that she cannot control their entire lives forever more.
I take a breath and tip the onions into the warming oil. ‘Oh. That’s fine. I can take you to the station.’
There is silence for a moment and I’m fairly sure that Dylan is wondering, just as I am, if the conversation is really over.
‘But just tell me who you’re going with,’ I say, as casually as possible. ‘In case there’s an emergency.’
The conversation isn’t over. It has barely even begun.
‘What emergency?’ Dylan looks at me, one side of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. ‘I’ll have my phone, Mum. You can text me any time.’
Is it a girl? Is it that Zoe who Scarlet was talking about? Does she go to our school? Why don’t I know who she is?
I have ransacked my brain but I can’t recall ever teaching a Zoe, so maybe she transferred to us for Sixth Form.
Is she nice? Will she fit into our family? Are her family more fun than us? Am I going to lose you?
I stare at him, clamping my mouth shut in a desperate attempt to stop the words shooting out.
‘I’ll let you know what time when I’ve spoken to her,’ Dylan tells me. He’s doing it deliberately now, dangling tempting morsels of information right in front of my nose. ‘I think your onions might be burning, Mum.’
I can do nonchalant.
I can be easy-going and chilled out.
‘I
don’t care about the arsing onions. You just said “her”, so it’s obviously a girl. Just tell me!’
There goes my nomination for Mother of the Year.
I grab a wooden spoon and scrape the onions off the bottom of the pan. I do care about them a little bit. Nobody likes burnt onions in their pasta sauce. Then, smiling as sweetly as I know how, I turn to face my first-born child.
‘Dylan. It is not me being nosy.’ Actually, I suspect, deep down, that this counts, completely and utterly, as nosiness. ‘It’s just that, as your mother, I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to casually enquire about the company that you will be keeping.’
Dylan grins. ‘Is that what you’re doing? Casually enquiring?’
I nod and tilt my head to one side, in an attempt to look wise and sage-like. ‘It is. And you know, some people do find it helpful to talk about how they’re feeling and what they’re up to and whether they’re intending on asking someone out. Or not.’
‘Some people might prefer to keep that information to themselves,’ agrees my son. ‘Luckily for you, Mother, I have no problem in telling you that I’m going to the cinema with Zoe and that yeah, I’m thinking about asking her out.’
‘You could have just told me that in the first place,’ I mutter. ‘It would have saved me a lot of effort.’
‘It would. But it wouldn’t have been so entertaining.’ Dylan walks across the kitchen and starts randomly opening the cupboards. ‘Where do we keep the tuna?’
‘Not in with the cereal,’ I tell him. ‘Honestly, it’s hard to believe you actually live here sometimes.’
‘Well, I won’t be for much longer,’ he says, trying a different cupboard. ‘It’s only seven months until I go to uni.’
My stomach flips a bit, like it always does when this subject comes up. Nobody warns you, when you hold that tiny baby in your arms and promise them that you’ll do whatever it takes to keep them safe, that one day you’ll have given them enough skills that they can walk out of the door and leave you behind – and that you’ll have to plaster a great big smile on your face while you watch them do it. Nobody tells you that you won’t feel a single bit less love or any less need to protect them than you did when they were helpless babies. If you do your job right, then your teenager will break your heart. It’s a difficult truth to deal with sometimes.
‘You’d better finish off the pasta bake then,’ I say. ‘Then at least you’ll be able to cook one meal when you go.’
We potter around each other in silence for a minute or two and then, once the cheese is grated and the tuna is stirred into the sauce, I throw a tea towel across the kitchen at Dylan.
‘You can go now,’ I tell him. ‘Thanks for the help.’
‘I don’t even know if she likes me,’ he says in a rush. ‘How am I supposed to know?’
He stands there, this man-child who can be so grown-up one moment and then remind me of the little boy that he once was in the next.
‘How could she not like you?’ I tell him, because it’s the truth. She might not like him, but I cannot begin to understand how anyone could not and that’s the best that I can give him. ‘And you’ll know. If you listen to her, she’ll tell you if she likes you. Just don’t be in too much of a hurry.’
He darts across the room and gives me a quick hug before heading out of the door. ‘Don’t tell Scarlet!’ he yells back over his shoulder.
He’s wasting his words. She’ll know by breakfast time. She always does.
Chapter 9
I am slumped in the staffroom in my usual seat, crammed in between Peter, who runs the English department, and Isobel, the unfeasibly young and trendy PE teacher. Opposite me, in a similarly depressed state, is my best friend, Cassie, who teaches Chemistry. She’s sitting next to Mrs Knight from Home Economics who, as ever, is unnaturally chipper for Monday lunchtime.
‘Challenging morning?’ asks Peter, eying me sympathetically as I mainline my coffee.
‘Year Nine,’ I tell him. ‘Class C.’
He grimaces and nods understandingly. ‘I taught them last year. I knew things were bad when Brandon Hopkins asked me if I was planning anything nice for my retirement.’
I wince. Peter is the same age me.
‘It’d be fine if they’d just leave the melodrama at the door for one lesson now and again,’ I say. ‘The theatrics – god, it takes over everything.’
‘Which is ironic when you consider that they’re the worst class I’ve taught in years,’ throws in Adele, the Drama teacher, from across the room. ‘Not one single brave, creative soul among them. Last lesson I asked them all to re-enact the process of being born through the medium of mime and it was a complete and utter shambles.’ She tuts loudly and throws her hands in the air. ‘They’re too concerned with being cool to let go and throw themselves into the unknown.’
I shudder, trying to imagine Brody and Vincent performing the scene of their own birth.
‘I can’t imagine any pupil failing to be inspired by one of your lessons,’ Danny tells her, walking across from the kitchen area. Danny teaches Physics. Danny is new to teaching. Danny is still perky and enthusiastic and keen.
None of us really like Danny.
‘But what a fascinating activity, Adele,’ says Miriam, prowling towards our part of the room. I hadn’t even realised that she was in here – but that’s one of her super-talents. Popping up when you least expect her.
I groan silently and brace myself. Miriam is the kind of person who fails to understand that a school staffroom is no place for a serious discussion about education.
She leans forward now, fixing Adele with her beady eyes. ‘So what was the objective of that lesson?’
Adele puts on her ‘earnest educator’ face.
‘It’s all about reimagining your own story,’ she explains. ‘By acting out our own birth, we are able to relate to the innocence and naivety that we once possessed and then bring that into our everyday lives.’ She pauses. ‘It’s incredibly therapeutic and highly intense and, done correctly, it can help a person address their weaknesses and faults.’ She looks at Miriam. ‘It’s all about learning to fail.’
In my head, I chime an imaginary gong. Well done, Adele – you’ve managed to include one of this term’s buzz phrases. Good job.
‘And it helps to build resilience.’
Strike two! But can she go for the Holy Trinity? I hold my breath and watch as Adele gears up for her finale.
‘And it’s a perfect activity for promoting a growth mindset. It’s literally like being born again!’
And the crowd goes wild! Adele for Teacher of the Year!
Across the room, Cassie catches my eye and raises her eyebrows.
‘Are you hearing this bullshit?’ whispers Peter. ‘The scariest part is that I can’t figure out if Adele is just winding her up or if she’s being deadly serious.’
We stare at the Drama teacher. Her eyes are flashing with something that looks a lot like fanaticism. That, or she’s been overdoing it on the energy drinks.
‘I think she’s serious,’ I whisper back. ‘I might just go and sit in the staff toilets for the rest of break time.’
But before I can move, Miriam claps her hands together and looks around at those of us who are unfortunate enough to be nearby.
‘I’ve just had the most marvellous idea for our next Inset day!’ she exclaims. She turns to Adele. ‘Do you think you could run a drama workshop for us all? Something that incorporates this kind of thing?’
Adele’s face lights up. ‘Absolutely, Miriam!’ She thinks for a second. ‘I’ll call it “Facing Your Fears” and we’ll have lots of fantastic group activities that push everyone out of their comfort zones. We can start with the birthing mime and progress from there – I have plenty of ideas!’
‘Wonderful!’ Miriam looks at her watch. ‘I’m free next period if you’ve got the time to run through a few thoughts about how we could structure the day?’
They stand up and leave, snippe
ts of phrases such as enlightenment and healing hands of self-reflection floating back to the rest of us who are sitting in shock.
‘She isn’t serious, is she?’ Beside me, Isobel has gone a funny colour. ‘We’re not actually going to have to re-enact our own birth in front of everyone?’
‘I volunteer you to go first,’ calls Cassie. ‘You’re the youngest. Sacrifices must be made.’
Nobody else speaks, each of us too caught up in our own horror to have the energy to console Isobel.
Eventually, Peter clears his throat.
‘Does anyone know when the next Inset day actually is?’ he enquires.
The Art teacher consults his diary. ‘It’s the first day back of the new school year,’ he informs the room. ‘The second of September.’
‘That’s something to look forward to then,’ mutters Cassie. ‘I think I might go somewhere very exotic and disease-ridden this summer. Maybe I’ll contract something and need to take the first week back off work.’
Peter suddenly springs to his feet and grabs this week’s copy of the Times Educational Supplement from the coffee table. ‘I’ll be having that, thank you very much,’ he says, flicking the pages until he finds the vacancies section.
‘Where’s your team spirit?’ I ask him, pulling a face. ‘And anyway, there won’t be many jobs in there at the moment.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ he crows, peering at me over the top of the page. ‘There’s a job going here at St Hilda’s and it’s got my name written all over it.’
‘Seriously?’ I’m suddenly interested. ‘Is it full time? I didn’t think there’d be any jobs until after Easter.’
‘Not only is it full time but it also offers a free lunch every single day. We don’t get that here.’
St Hilda’s. The school on the other side of town where the aspirational send their offspring and teachers go to die. There are never any vacancies at St Hilda’s – nobody ever resigns or moves on. They just keel over at their desks, happy that they kept working in their idyllic, joy-filled school until their very last breath.
I wrench it out of his hands and scan the sheet. The St Hilda’s school logo leaps off the page and I quickly read the job specification. Then I lower the paper and glare at my colleague.
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