‘Not for many, many years,’ said Becky.
‘Old teachers don’t die, their chalk-marks simply fade away,’ Pop smiled. ‘Look at me, Becky Calderwood. One day, a hundred years from now, this will be you.’
Becky’s eyes filled. ‘Are the eyebrows optional?’ she asked.
Pop grinned. ‘You can always hire a pair.’
She reached out, and hugged him. ‘I’ll borrow yours,’ she whispered.
They stood, outside the classroom door. Inside, the electric hum of children waiting. Becky gulped, and reached for the ancient wooden doorknob.
‘Hang on,’ said Pop. ‘You’ve forgotten something.’
‘What?’ she asked, throat so tight, she could barely speak.
‘This.’
He held out his stick of chalk to her.
‘It’s the nearest thing I could find to a baton, to pass on,’ he smiled.
‘Will I be worthy of it?’
‘I’ll eat it, if you’re not. Good luck, lass.’ He turned away.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Pop . . . I don’t even know your real name.’
‘I’ve been Pop so long, I’ve almost forgotten. Clarence. Wouldn’t you rather be called Pop?’ His smile was more than a smile: there was a lifetime of understanding in it, a wisdom which came from many years of turning children into adults, of watching the world like an ancient soul who had come back to help.
‘Go for it,’ he said. ‘You were born and made to teach here. Trust me.’
Becky looked down at the well-worn chalk stick in her hand.
‘I’ll try to live up to this,’ she whispered.
Then paused, and took a deep, shuddering breath. Her whole future, hers and Jon’s, depended on this. Doing this work, living in this small town at the foot of the Dales, a future – maybe – with Mike at her side. They all trusted her, Noel, Mike, Henrietta, and now Pop. Could she make the change, to teaching small, fragmented rural classes? Could she earn their trust?
Becky swallowed, steeled herself, and opened the classroom door.
Chapter 7
Noel looked up from his book. ‘Well, how did you get on?’ he asked.
Becky slumped wearily onto her seat. ‘The day went so quickly, and I was so busy setting up work for the kids to do in the afternoon, that I forgot my lunch,’ she said. ‘I never had time to be scared. Now that it’s over, my legs barely carried me home.’
Noel closed his book. ‘These sandwiches,’ he said, ‘get them eaten now. I’ll make us both a pot of tea.’
‘I’m too tired to argue.’ Becky rummaged in her bag and brought out dry and crooked sandwiches. She took a reluctant bite, then stared in surprise to find the sandwich gone and her fingers reaching for another. ‘They’ve kept well,’ she said indistinctly.
‘Let me make you fresh. . . .’ Noel started.
‘Too late.’ Becky dusted her hands. ‘Where’s that mug of tea?’
‘Is teaching going to make you bossy?’ Noel demanded, bringing it over.
‘No. I was bossy before I started teaching. Somebody has to organize people. . . .’ Becky drained the mug. ‘I’m as bad as Henrietta,’ she sighed. ‘Lord knows what I’d be like if I was carrying coal.’
‘Covered in black dust, rather than chalk dust,’ Noel said.
‘I’m not, am I?’
‘Unless it’s dandruff.’
Becky coughed. ‘I’ve never stopped talking all day . . . what with four groups of kids, all asking questions. My voice is ruined.’ She kicked off her shoes. ‘Ah . . . that’s better. It’s a while since I’ve been standing so much.’ She gulped through her second mug of tea. ‘Noel,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose the fairies have been at it again, have they? Leaving the odd bottle of Merlot through in your cabin?’
Noel considered. ‘Not recently.’
‘Damn,’ said Becky. ‘I wanted to celebrate.’
‘Where’s Jon?’ he asked.
‘Stayed on at school – to play football.’
Noel nodded. ‘So Mike was right, a little coaching worked the trick.’ He paused. ‘Were you serious about that wine?’
‘Not serious enough to go back up the village, and buy a bottle.’
‘No need,’ said Noel. ‘There’s white wine chilling int’ fridge – as they say oop here. I thought your throat might need some cooling down.’
‘Noel,’ she said. ‘You’re an angel.’
‘I know,’ he said modestly. ‘Small glasses, or large ones?’
‘Need you ask?’
‘Right, hip-bath size.’ Noel rummaged through the cupboard.
‘Make that three. . . .’ The Ella Mae rocked slightly, as Henrietta came down the cabin steps.
‘Oh,’ said Noel. ‘Do come in. A mug of tea?’
She shook her fist at him.
‘All right,’ he sighed. ‘But we’ve only got two big glasses.’
‘No problem. Look out a small one, for yourself.’
Noel grinned. ‘Before you ask, she did fine. A bravura performance.’
Henrietta cocked an enquiring head in Becky’s direction.
‘I survived,’ said Becky. ‘At least I didn’t make any mistakes that I can remember now. The kids were great – full of enthusiasm. And Miss Forbes told me to call her Liza, in the afternoon.’
‘She’s never told me that!’ Henrietta exclaimed.
‘She’s scared of you.’
‘Me? Never!’
‘You can be a very scary person – especially with paperwork.’
Henrietta raised her glass. ‘To our stroppy new teacher,’ she toasted.
Noel shook his head. ‘You’re supposed to propose a toast with a full glass,’ he objected. ‘Not one that’s already half empty.’
‘Oh,’ said Henrietta, crestfallen. ‘Well, we can soon put that right.’ She held out her glass to Noel. ‘Fill this up and I’ll propose the toast again – only, this time, I’ll do it properly. . . .’
Out on the road beyond the promenade, the sun was oppressively warm. For once, there was no wind blowing from the estuary; yet, paradoxically, Kathy was finding it harder to run through the motionless air than against a gale.
Her heart wasn’t in it. She slogged on, heavy-legged. This was the fourth day she’d been out, and David wasn’t there.
A stream of tourist cars, heading to Southport, crowded her into the side of the road and left her choking in their dust. Kathy stopped, hands on knees, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath.
Out over the marshland of the Mere, she heard the bubbling call of a curlew – normally one of her most favourite sounds. Today, it seemed lost and mournful, doom-laden. Kathy started to run again, stumbled. It was as if her legs were sulking, refusing to listen or obey.
She began to walk, instead of run.
She had never felt so down, so miserable. Normally, after any knock, she bounced back quickly. This time, all she wanted to do was to stay in her flat, pull the curtains closed, and hide in the darkness.
Kathy forced herself into a trot, then a proper stride – but could find no running rhythm. She slowed down again, panting, ultimately dropping back into a slow walk.
This was no good. The problem was in her head – and her heart – rather than her legs. Kathy hesitated, then stepped through the fence boundary into the Mere, walking over to a low mound in the grass. She sat down, the sun warm on her arms and bare legs, staring out over the dark-green rushes and the patches of blue water. A bee buzzed round her, then away. The curlew call came again, more desolate than ever.
This had never happened to her before; the sure and certain knowledge that here was the man she’d been looking for, a soulmate who would share her life, her laughter, and maybe even her tears. This was no casual attraction. At some deep, emotional level, she was already locked into this relationship, however early in its development.
Why was there such a shadow over it? A cold, dark shadow which blighted everything it touched?
David was being torn apart: not just by his old love for his dead wife, but by his living love for his daughter. While Sally was still devastated by the loss of a woman whom Kathy would never know, lashing out against the only target she could find, the new woman in her father’s life. Blocking instinctively any movement that her father might make towards someone else – other than her dead mother.
How could Kathy unravel this desolate emotional tangle? Could she lead the father out to love and freedom, while the daughter was clawing him back so savagely? How might she defuse Sally’s instinctive hostility and anger?
David had asked her to wait, be patient. But she could wait for months, perhaps years, stranded always on the outside. Waiting wasn’t the answer, and Kathy had never been engineered to wait.
There had to be something positive she could do . . . but what?
Kathy’s heart ached, until she thought it would physically break, the pain was so great. Her dark head bowed forward, resting on her arms. Tears fell on the sandy ground beneath her legs, disappearing instantly, leaving only a series of small dark hollows in the sand.
This was as close as she had come in her life to utter, abject defeat.
The curlew’s call burbled again, from the far edge of the marshes. She scrubbed her face with the back of a sandy hand, and pushed herself heavily back onto her feet. She had stepped back through the boundary wires, before she even checked the busy road. Luckily, it was quiet.
Kathy looked along the training route she normally covered effortlessly; she didn’t have the heart to face it today. She would turn for home, she thought, as a solitary seagull glided across her field of vision, followed by another, and another, circling above her. In any tourist area, people meant food. And nobody learned this quicker than your average seagull. They circled hopefully, as she stood with her hands on her hips, watching.
This must be how it felt, to see the vultures gathering round you in a desert, she thought bleakly. When the only way to chase them was to fight back. The image triggered a thought in her brain, which triggered yet another thought.
The slack runner’s body suddenly straightened. Kathy’s head came up. She moved quickly and easily into her running stride, heading for home. No leaden legs this time: the ground flew beneath her feet. She wanted to get back into town just as fast as she could make it, before she started doubting the idea which had come to her, and slid back into waiting and lethargy.
Kathy was made for action. This was war, for the man she loved and for his daughter’s mind. To banish the shadow which was threatening to blight her life, she must fight back. Must somehow give her invisible opponent substance, learn everything she could about her. With knowledge, comes power . . . and she knew where to find that knowledge.
‘Becky?’
‘Hmmm?’ Becky looked up from a pile of schoolwork.
‘That’s Mike walking along the towpath. He’s wearing a hollow in it.’ Noel’s eyes twinkled, but his face was deadpan.
‘Is he?’ Becky glanced at Jonathon, who was working on the other side of the cabin table. She saw him half-rise, stare eagerly out through the cabin windows, and wave – even if Mike would never see him.
‘We’re wearing that kettle out,’ sighed Noel.
‘No time,’ said Becky, returning to her work.
Noel stared at her, then went to open the cabin doors as Mike stepped aboard. ‘Hi, Mike,’ he said. ‘What brings you here?’
‘Passing through,’ Mike said. ‘Been working in Skipton, and dropped in on my way home. Hi, Jon – how’s that step-over going?’
‘Haven’t tried it yet.’
‘One day you’ll do it – without even thinking,’ Mike said. He ducked through the cabin door, and came stiffly down the steps, holding all his descending weight on his good knee while the bad one found the step below. It was his one concession to the injury. ‘Hi, Becky. Haven’t seen you in days. Have you been busy?’
She nodded towards the pile of exercise books. ‘You’ve no idea how much correction there’s to do, or how much new ground we cover every day. . . . It’s like preparing for four classes, instead of one.’
He pulled a face. ‘My exercise books were more red ink than black.’
‘I doubt that,’ Noel smiled.
‘It’s true. When I was a kid, I used to sit in class with a football between my boots. My teacher always said that if I had my brain in my feet, I would have been a genius.’
‘I’ve got one of these as well,’ Becky sighed. ‘What have you done to my son, Mike Preston? He’s turned into a football obsessive – I have to tie him to his chair, for homework. What chance have I got with other kids, if my own son never gets his homework in on time?’
‘Not true!’ said Jonathon, indignantly.
‘No football tonight, until you’ve finished schoolwork – and don’t scribble faster, that’s not the answer either.’
Mike grinned. ‘Glad my mother wasn’t a teacher,’ he said wryly.
It drew a conspiratorial smile from Jonathon. ‘She’s OK,’ he said. ‘Mostly.’
‘Thanks,’ said Becky. She smiled at Mike. ‘Well, are we feeding you again tonight?’
‘Fair’s fair – you ate my trout.’
‘You might have caught other ones.’
‘Too busy. The season’s picking up. Everybody wants their boats serviced, as of yesterday.’ Mike shook his head. ‘Why can’t they bring them to me over the winter, when they’re not being used?’
‘What about that cup of tea?’ Noel asked patiently.
Mike tilted his head enquiringly at Becky.
‘I’m honestly run off my feet,’ she said.
‘That’s my homework done,’ said Jonathon. ‘Can we kick a ball about?’
‘Half an hour,’ said Mike. ‘I have to get back myself – a rush job to do for tomorrow. But if your mum says your homework is OK, then I can kick a ball about with you for a bit.’
Becky sighed at the hastily scrawled work. ‘Oh, go on. We can tidy up that mess, after supper. Mike, you’re staying for the meal. . . . I’ll start cooking, once I finish these.’ She was deep in her correction work by the time the two of them had reached the towpath.
‘Word of advice, which you’re free to ignore,’ Noel said quietly.
‘Uhuh?’ Becky wrote a comment in the margin of a book.
Silence. A silence which ultimately brought up her head.
‘All work and no play isn’t good,’ said Noel.
‘But I have mountains of preparation to do after this….’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Been there, done that. And discovered too late that there’s a cost involved – a price that you might not want to pay.’
‘Cost? Price?’ Becky slowly resurfaced.
‘Everything you do carries a cost – which is what else you might have done, with the same time. Making space for people who are important to you. When you look back, you see how often you got it wrong and you wish with all your heart that you had done it differently. By then, it’s too late. . . .’
He was talking about Ella, Becky knew.
‘Good times don’t last forever,’ Noel said gently. ‘They stop, without any warning. Then you’ve all the time in the world for work, because there’s nothing else for you to do. That lad out there is run off his feet, but he took time off, to come and see you. When he gets home, he’ll be working until long after midnight, to catch up. So can you.’
Becky coloured.
‘Go on,’ said Noel. ‘You can overtake them before they reach the park. I’ll do the supper early, and let you both get back to work.’
Becky hesitated, glancing at the pile of exercise books. Then she stood up and swept them together. ‘Noel. . . .’ she said.
‘I know. I’m an angel.’
‘No. What I was going to say was more along the lines of nosey, interfering old whatsits. . . .’
‘Same thing,’ he said, complacently.
The chair on which Kathy was sitting wasn’t made f
or comfort. She shuffled unhappily, flicking through the newspaper articles and glossy still photos spread in front of her. She had searched systematically through the archive boxes for an hour. It was cold – and a little bit creepy – under the Philharmonic Hall. Total silence, whereas the rest of the huge building was full of music from rehearsals, classes, and the noise of school groups touring. Down here, there was nothing but dead history, and herself.
Kathy wriggled on the wooden seat. She had come here, driven by emotion and instinct, feeling that she must find out anything she could about the woman whose shadow kept falling over everything. But this was awful: she felt like a burglar, prowling through someone’s empty house. A thief, looking for something, anything, to steal. She shivered, leafing through the reports again.
She had no idea that the Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra were such regular travellers, performing routinely all over Britain, and to high praise. The press cuttings were full of reports of tours, of virtuosi who were performing with the orchestra, and of concerts played to a standing ovation.
Not a word about her shadow, in any of them.
In stark contrast to the photographs. She picked up one of the orchestra, in jeans and T-shirts, unloading their instruments from a bus and parked truck. As if drawn by magnets, her eyes found the long blonde hair and slim figure among the rest, violin case tucked under one arm, her head thrown back in laughter at something one of the other players had said. The whole group interacting with the comfortable body language of an extended family.
Behind her, the archive door creaked open, bringing the distant hubbub of the different rehearsals and classes, which had been this blonde woman’s life.
‘Found what you were looking for?’ It was the curator, who had studied her for a few long minutes, before taking her down to the basement archive.
‘Yes, thanks,’ Kathy said.
The man ambled over. ‘Which one . . . ah, she was nice. A real lady, always spoke to you, always a smile. Shame, wasn’t it? Such a tragedy for her family. The best ones go first. . . .’
Another Chance, Another Life Page 11