by Karen Osman
‘Here’s your coursework – just an average 65 out of 100, I’m afraid. While the arguments were solid, they could have been strengthened by additional details that you had missed out. Take this section for example…’
Alison barely heard the rest. She was still trying to come to terms with the grading. How was that mark even possible when she had spent so much time on the essay? Her eyes threatening tears, she kept her head down, trying to take in the feedback while focusing on the paper so Dr Asher wouldn’t see her fighting her emotions. After about thirty minutes, Dr Asher had finished going through her work and it was clear the meeting was over. As Alison stood up murmuring her thanks, one hand trying to discreetly hold her jeans together, her only thought was to get out of the stark office as quickly as possible. As a result, she didn’t hear Dr Asher’s comment that it was only the first term of the first year and that she felt Alison would have a bright future in law. Alison only heard her own thoughts reverberating in her ears – those of failure.
Out in the corridor and frantically searching for the ladies’ loo for a little privacy to fix her jeans, Alison fought the tears as her gut twisted with the realisation that her worst fears were becoming real. Her brain tried to process the word ‘average’. Academically, she had never been average. Academically, she had never had to work so hard for such little results. Staring at herself in the mirror, she tried in vain to reassure herself. That’s just one meeting; the next one will be better, she thought. Reluctantly, she headed to her next appointment and, despite being told she was a hardworking, promising student, all her marks were average across all modules. She found herself becoming angry and the more review sessions she attended, the angrier she became – with herself, with the education system, with the lecturers, even with Laura, who had had her appointments last week and who was, inexplicably, on track for a first-class degree. Alison felt incredibly tired, as if the whole term had been for nothing and all those long hours of study had been a complete waste of time.
Bitter, she swung her bag over her shoulder. She just had time to pick up a sandwich before her last appointment. As she waited in the queue to order her lunch, the day’s newspaper caught her eye. Curious, Alison moved the paper towards her for a better look. Glancing briefly at the headlines, she read:
Evans Conviction Overturned
Wednesday 3 December 1997
Andrew Evans, convicted in 1972 of murdering schoolgirl Judith Roberts, has sensationally had his conviction overturned after serving 25 years in prison. Evans contacted—
‘Who’s next, please?’
A tut behind her indicated she had slowed the impatient queue with her reading. Hurrying to the till, she ordered her sandwich to take away, slipping the newspaper in her bag as she did so, trying to imagine what it would be like to spend so many years in prison. With her sandwich in hand, Alison ambled reluctantly to her next appointment. Checking her diary, she had forgotten this session was with The Professor and her thoughts ran back with embarrassment to their last meeting at the Student Union, where she had been so clumsy. The door was ajar and after gently knocking and hearing the customary ‘Come in’, she entered his office. As she looked around, she was thrown off guard. There was a small but comfortable-looking couch, a tartan-patterned reading chair near the window and various artworks hanging on the walls. Potted plants, some in full bloom, were dotted around, and several shelves of books lined one wall. In the corner, asleep on a cushion, was a black and white cat. The office was more like a living room than a workplace, and for just a moment she felt the tension seep from her shoulders. While her home was less than an hour away on the outskirts of Durham, the restful room induced such powerful feelings of homesickness and loneliness, she felt unsteady on her feet.
The Professor had his back to her and was reviewing some papers. Without turning round, he motioned for Alison to take a seat on the sofa.
Gratefully, she perched at one end, carefully placing her book bag on the floor.
‘Sorry about that,’ said The Professor, taking a seat opposite her in the armchair. ‘Once I get into an essay, I like to finish it.’ Smiling, he peered over his tortoiseshell glasses at her.
‘So, how are you?’
And to Alison’s horror, she burst into tears.
*
Later, when this scene had already been scorched in her brain for almost a year, and she was in so deep she didn’t know how to get out, she knew that that moment of shared intimacy – of open vulnerability – was the start of it all. The desperation, the incredible highs coupled with the almost unbearable lows, the excitement of the unknown. She was on the scariest rollercoaster in the world, but unable to get off.
Chapter 6
Kate
‘For Pete’s sake, Kate, will you just give it a rest? We don’t always have to talk everything to death, you know! All I want to do is eat my meal in peace and relax after a long week at work.’
Kate flared up at her husband. ‘I’ve had a long week, too. At least you get a break in the evenings and at the weekends – I’m on call 24/7. With very little support from you, I might add.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry it’s so taxing spending so much time with our children—’
‘That’s not what I meant and you know it,’ retorted Kate, burning with anger at the sarcasm dripping from his voice. ‘I just want a conversation with you – why is that so difficult?’
‘Maybe it’s because I’m working all God’s hours, commuting two hours a day, and for what? For what?’ he said, shouting now. ‘For you and the kids, that’s what! And what thanks do I get, eh? A bloody steak that’s not even cooked properly!’ He pushed away his plate in disgust and Kate watched with dismay as the steak landed on the carpet. For some reason, the waste of the expensive meat upset her more than his refusing to talk to her. She could have bought several days of cheap cuts for the price of that one steak, and here he was wasting it because of his temper.
‘Keep your voice down – you’ll wake the girls,’ said Kate through gritted teeth.
‘I’ll do what I damn well want in my own home, which I pay for!’ he retorted, raising his voice even more.
Kate somehow found the strength to turn away. If she said or did anything else, it would only make him shout louder and the noise carried so far in these flats. Kate repressed an almost primal urge to scream.
The evening hadn’t started off well. She had put the girls to bed slightly earlier than normal but they wouldn’t settle. So instead of being able to give her full attention to preparing the evening meal, she was in and out of the girls’ room trying to get them to sleep. Kate knew she wasn’t the best cook – a fact that her husband used to think was charming when they first lived together after their wedding. These days, she could usually rustle something up but she still needed to focus, and multitasking was out of the question if she didn’t want the food to burn or a pan to boil over. She usually bought inexpensive cuts of chicken and turkey and she had hesitated for just a fraction when she saw the price of the prime steak. But it was his favourite and she wanted him to be as relaxed as possible. However, as she watched him bite into the meat, she realised she had overcooked it and it was tough and chewy. She had also misjudged the mood. Stupidly, she had decided to plough on anyway. Why hadn’t she just left it for another evening?
Anger and frustration seeping through every pore of her being, she headed to their bedroom. There was nothing for it but to get into bed and have an early night. How Saturday nights have changed, she thought sadly. Sinking under the covers, she remembered how they used to go to the pictures. They both had a passion for films and Kate had loved everything about those dates, from the darkness of the cinema where they would snuggle up to each other, regardless of who was around them, to the interval when he would always treat her to an ice cream, its cold vanilla creaminess flavouring their kisses. She turned over onto her left side, trying to make herself comfortable. Pausing, she listened intently. It was quiet but she could still hear it
. Getting up, she stood outside the girls’ door to see if they had been disturbed and heard the soft crying of her younger daughter. She clenched her fists, trying to quell the desire to hit something. Quietly, she went into the room and rocked her tearful child back to sleep, whispering that everything would be all right. As hot tears slid down her own face, she didn’t know if the reassurance was more for herself or for her daughter.
*
‘Mummy!’ Someone was pulling on Kate’s arm. ‘Mummy!’ the voice whispered, now even more insistent. Kate opened her eyes to see her elder daughter dressed in her new school uniform. Even half asleep, Kate could see that the buttons on the pinafore were mismatched and the tie was slightly askew but otherwise her little girl had done a pretty good job of getting herself dressed.
‘What time is it?’ Kate mumbled, groping for her alarm clock, afraid she had slept through it. It said 5.37 a.m. Relieved, Kate lay back on the pillow. Looking at her daughter, she couldn’t help but smile.
Normally, it was a lengthy battle to get her up and dressed, yet here she was on the first day of school ready to go, two hours early. Kate wondered fondly how long the enthusiasm would last. Quietly getting out of bed, so as not to wake her husband, Kate put her finger to her lips and gently led the little girl out of the room. Once in the darkness of the living room, she assessed her options. She could try to put her daughter back to bed; she could put the TV on for her and go back to bed herself, or she could make a cup of coffee and sit with her daughter, who was now jigging on the spot, bursting to talk about her upcoming first day at school. Realising the latter was the only choice; Kate tried to imagine the enormity of this event for her daughter. She had looked forward to starting school all summer, telling everyone and anyone who would listen that she was starting ‘big school’ in September. As she put on the kettle and scooped the Nescafé into the cup, her daughter chattered away in exaggerated whispers.
‘Mrs Allsopp said the playground has a new slide, Mummy!’
‘I know, love, I was there when she told you,’ replied Kate, thinking back to the half-day school visit for new pupils.
‘Mrs Allsopp also said we can paint – every day if we want to!’
‘Well, I’m not sure about every day but, yes, I’m sure you’ll be doing lots of painting.’
‘Nope,’ her daughter responded confidently. ‘Every day.’ Kate smiled at such certainty.
‘Aaaaaaaand… my new pencil case is going to be the best one in the class!’
Despite being granules and not the real thing, Kate took her first delicious sip of the steaming liquid. She was thankful she had agreed to the pencil case, even if it was the most expensive. With a magnetic clasp, individual compartments and swirls of pastel pinks, it certainly was the business and it was the only one her daughter liked. Her daughter often had to go without, so to be able to treat her to something she really wanted was a lovely feeling.
Today marked a memorable chapter in the little girl’s life but it was also an important milestone for Kate herself. The house would be quieter, the days would be calmer, and Kate experienced something she hadn’t felt for a long time: a sense of freedom.
Leading her daughter over to the sofa, Kate scooped her up in a cuddle and leaned back into the cushions, listening to her excited whispers. As the sun rose, dispersing the gloom of the night with its watery rays, for the first time in a long time, Kate felt hopeful.
*
The family didn’t have a car – her husband cycled to the station and commuted by train – but luckily the school was just close enough to walk. It was a good twenty minutes away and probably wouldn’t be pleasant in bad weather, but today the skies were clear and Kate sent a silent prayer of thanks that they wouldn’t arrive wet through on the first day. Pushing the buggy, which also held her daughter’s new school bag, with one hand, and holding her elder child in the other hand; Kate was surprised that they made the walk in record time, thanks to her daughter practically skipping the whole way there.
‘Hello!’ Mrs Allsopp greeted them at the door of the classroom. Turning to her daughter: ‘You must be starting school today!’ she said with a warm smile.
‘I am!’ announced the little girl. ‘I have a new pencil case!’
‘Do you? Well, I can’t wait to see it! First, though, hang your coat and your bag up over there in the corner and join the rest of the class.’
She ran off with barely a backward glance and Kate didn’t know whether to be relieved or sad that her daughter had not even said goodbye.
‘Kate, good to see you. How are you?’ Not waiting for a response, Mrs Allsopp continued, ‘If you have any queries, feel free to have a chat with me at any time. Though, she looks like she’s going to settle in nicely, don’t you think?’ Kate followed Mrs Allsopp’s gaze to where her daughter was busily going through a toy box with her classmates.
‘Yes, I’m sure she will! She’s been excited for weeks!’
‘She’ll be fine; I have a great day planned for them. I’ll see you at school pick-up?’
While Kate was not quite ready to leave her little girl just yet, she felt Mrs Allsopp was keen to get her class started.
‘Yes, of course! See you then.’
Kate cast a last look at her daughter before heading out of the classroom. Her first-born was off on the start of many adventures and she wouldn’t be there to protect her. Kate felt a catch in her throat. Turning away from the classroom and towards the reception area, Kate looked around her.
It had all changed since she’d attended the school twenty years ago, but the smell of chalk, paint and musty blackboards remained the same, taking her back to her own school days. Even the old notice board in the main entrance was still there. Kate scanned the general notices before her eyes fell on a green flyer that was offering free creative writing classes at the adult community college in the next building. Every Tuesday from 7.30 p.m. to 9.30 p.m., taught by Mr Barnes. Kate had always loved writing. She’d written hundreds of letters to pen pals when she was growing up – childish scribbles to Canada, Germany, France and America, a chronicle of the simplicity of childhood. Even today, she still relished the feel of a pen in her hand, the flow of ink, gliding across the page. It reminded her of an ice-skater leaving a trail of beautiful ice patterns behind her. And while she was more likely to be writing shopping lists these days than creating a work of fiction, the very act of putting pen to paper still gave her an element of control and satisfaction. Kate looked at the flyer again, imagining how wonderful it would be to have a couple of hours a week to herself to do something she enjoyed. Turning to leave, she hesitated. Why couldn’t she attend the classes, she thought to herself. They were free, and the girls’ would be in bed so they wouldn’t even know she was gone. As long as her husband was home, then she could easily attend.
Kate turned it over in her mind, rapidly planning the schedule in her head. If the class started at 7.30 p.m., she could have the girls fed, bathed and in bed easily enough by 7.00 p.m. and it would still give her enough time to walk to the class.
But what if one of the girls woke? Well, her husband would have to deal with it. He wouldn’t like it, but maybe it was time he started helping out a little more in the evenings, Kate thought determinedly.
In a moment of rare spontaneity, she signed her name and added her phone number to the sign-up sheet. To hell with it, she thought, remembering their argument and the wasted steak. Why should he care anyway? He’d probably be happy that he had the house to himself for a bit and didn’t have anyone nagging him.
‘Come on then,’ she said, looking down at her younger daughter. ‘Let’s get our day started! Shall we go to the park?’
Stepping out into the September sunshine, Kate felt a surge of self-determination. She would attend the classes. After five years of dedicating herself to her family, a couple of hours a week were really nothing in comparison.
Chapter 7
Catherine
15 September 2010
> Dear Michael,
Thank you for your letter and responding so quickly. I am writing this letter at my desk, which looks over our garden. Today is a fine day weather-wise. Autumn is one of my favourite seasons – I have always considered it to be more of a fresh start than the more traditional January. I think it has something to do with the school year – when I was a girl, nothing used to please me more than the promise of a fresh clean notebook and buying all my school supplies. It’s funny the things you remember and carry on to this day. Even now, I like to buy a fresh notebook every September! You mentioned you were a teacher – did you have that exciting back-to-school feeling or was it more of a dread going back to work? I would have liked to have been a teacher myself – unfortunately things didn’t work out that way, but I’m heavily involved in the local school. I’m part of the Education Committee Association and dedicate a lot of time to running and attending meetings and organising all the activities. As I mentioned in my last letter, I’m also a volunteer at the local library. I’m a big reader so to be amongst all those books several times a week is a wonderful feeling. My husband doesn’t understand it – he’s more of a television person! Finally, I also do a lot of charity work – mainly children-associated. All in all, my days are kept quite busy. And now of a course, I’m a volunteer writing to you.
Catherine paused, her pen hovering over the paper. It had taken a huge amount of effort to write something about herself, but she knew if she was going to get him to open up to her, she would have to take the lead and initiate it. Catherine considered herself a very private and self-contained person but she knew she had to share things about her life. Talking about her family to a criminal was especially difficult, but in her gut she knew it was the only way. Taking a deep breath, she picked up her Mont Blanc pen – a gift from Richard – took courage from its comforting weight in her left hand, and ploughed on.