Another Chance, Another Life

by Another Chance, Another Life (retail) (epub)

  ‘Is it the school?’ Noel asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘Some new crisis?’

  Henrietta looked up, eyes brimming. ‘The worst thing that could have happened,’ she mumbled.

  A smile quirked on Noel’s lips. ‘You could have dropped down dead on us.’

  Henrietta blinked. ‘Worse than that,’ she said.

  ‘There’s nowt worse than that,’ he told her sternly. ‘As long as you’re alive, that old school has its champion still in the saddle. And as long as you’re in the saddle, then your school has a chance.’

  Henrietta sniffed, then looked up at Becky. ‘Liza’s been taken into hospital,’ she said quietly. ‘Appendicitis, maybe. The doc fears for peritonitis, from the pain she’s in. I’m worried sick. Pop’s been telling her for weeks, to go for a check-up. But . . .’ and the tears spilled over, ‘what are we going to do about the school inspection? We can’t cope with paperwork, or owt, without Liza here to do it for us. Nor the teaching either.’

  Becky leaned over the table, her mind racing.

  ‘Pop could come back to teach. . . .’

  ‘His back’s gone. He’s in bed.’

  ‘He’ll crawl in, if he’s needed,’ Becky said. ‘I know the man. If he can do even a bit of teaching, I can visit Liza and find out what she wanted to say in the forms, then do it for her. And. . . .’ She stood up, smacking a fist into the palm of her other hand. ‘And I can maybe get you the best natural teacher I’ve ever known . . . Kathy, if she’ll come. If this works, Henrietta, we’re home and dry. I’ll complete the Self Evaluation Forms, Pop and Kathy can share Liza’s class, and I’ll take over my own class, full-time.’

  ‘But the contracts. . . ?’

  ‘This is an emergency!’ said Becky. ‘We’re all mucking in, to save the school. You keep the vultures away from us, and we’ll do the rest. We can sort out the contracts later – or not at all. Nobody is going to rock the boat for you.’

  Henrietta reached sightlessly for the mug of tea. Drained it in one long swallow, slammed it on the table, and stood up.

  ‘This Kathy of yours,’ she said. ‘How do we know if she can help?’

  ‘One way to find out,’ said Becky, lifting her mobile phone.

  Even in the far-off rehearsal room, the din of cheering and applause could still be heard. The play had been a real blockbuster – the biggest success in everyone’s memory. Which was good. But most satisfying of all, her troupe of performers had played out of their collective skulls, and the songs and dialogue had simply zinged across the audience. The three main songs and two choruses had even been encored, the audience refusing to let the show go on, stamping their feet until Kathy had nodded for a reprise.

  Amid the clutter of bags and coats, she paused, then reached into her shoulder bag and found a sheet of paper and a biro. She hesitated, then wrote: Sally – I told you that you would be our star. At least I got that bit right. Then, before the impulse died in her, she folded the paper and slipped it into the girl’s coat pocket.

  The distant din went on: the bittersweet sound of success. Kathy listened, head to one side, then lifted her coat, opened the door, and stepped out. She zigzagged through the parked cars in the playground and walked steadily down the street towards the bus stop. As the local bus slowed down and stopped, she lifted her head towards the sound of a seagull, calling in the dusk above the town. Seagulls never slept – they had one eye open for food at all times, and could spot a discarded takeaway from the other side of town.

  Sitting alone in the empty bus, her shoulders slowly rounded and her head drooped. Normally, she would have snapped erect and scolded herself. Tonight, worn out by the strain of rehearsals, and with a heart which felt like lead, she couldn’t be bothered. With very little encouragement, tears would flow.

  Not that. She wasn’t turning into a crybaby. Not for anything, or anybody.

  Kathy forced her head up, made herself take an interest in the townscape as it passed. An interest which watched, but didn’t really register the blur of neon lights and shopfronts. In fact she missed her stop, and had to walk back in what was now darkness.

  Hands deep in pockets, she wandered slowly along the pavement, turning dispiritedly into her street and climbing the steps to her door. Still on automatic pilot, she closed it gently behind herself, a dull headache pulsing above her eyes. It didn’t matter. Nothing did, any more. Kathy kicked off her shoes, and threw her bag aside.

  Her mobile phone fell out, bouncing across the floor. Listlessly, she picked it up and switched it on. It had been off through the hours of the school performance. While it booted up, she set it on the table-top and went through to the kitchen to pour a glass of wine.

  In the distance, her phone buzzed. A delayed text message coming in. It could wait. She wandered back to the living room, glass in hand, and switched on a television set, which she seldom used. Music was her refuge, not the telly, but tonight she felt too down, too raw, to turn music loose on her emotions.

  As the set droned out its rolling 24-hour newscast, she reached over to the phone and checked it. From Vodafone: a missed phone call and a voicemail message. Kathy scrolled down to voicemail, dialled and listened. She frowned and pressed the repeat key to hear the message again. Then for a third time – and a fourth.

  Slowly, she set the phone aside and lay back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. Becky needed her. Should she go? What was left here, to stay for? The play was over, the supermarket could manage fine without her – a simple message would handle that.

  But, if she went, was she running away? She who prided herself on never running away from anything? To stay true to herself, she should stay and fight her corner – yet how do you fight a ghost? Least of all, when it wasn’t the ghost who was at fault, but the people who were left behind.

  You can’t help people who don’t want help.

  Kathy had faced down every problem in her life – but never one which hurt her half as badly as this one.

  She hated dithering. Leave, or stay? Accept, or refuse? She placed her glass with a click on the table, picking up the phone. Contacts. She scrolled rapidly down to Becky’s number, and pressed the dialling key.

  Away up north, another mobile phone began to ring.

  Chapter 9

  Becky sat in May sunshine on the fence at the bus stop, enjoying the warmth on her face – a face now deeply tanned. In her jeans and almost-best T-shirt, her hair spilling over her shoulders and with the wind blowing through it, she looked like a gypsy at home in the scene. About a mile away, the first grey stone houses of the village showed amid green hedgerows. Behind her, the blue hills of the Dales rose to a sparkling sky of clouds and sunshine.

  She screened her eyes, peering down the dusty road, then pushed herself onto her feet to wait, hands on hips. An indicator flashed, and the Blackburn bus drew up, in a smell of hot oil and rubber tyres. The door swished open, to show Kathy waiting at the steps leading down to the door.

  ‘I’ll take your travel bag,’ Becky said, reaching up.

  The two women embraced, as the bus pulled away.

  ‘Look at you!’ said Kathy. ‘You’re straight out of a holiday poster.’

  Becky noted that her friend’s normally lively face was shadowed. ‘A good trip up?’ she asked.

  ‘I can’t believe how many buses I’ve been on,’ said Kathy. ‘Or how many times I’ve had to ask directions. This place wasn’t easy to find.’

  Becky smiled. ‘Wrong transport mode. If you’d come by narrowboat, there was only one long canal between us. Now we’ve only half a mile to go, down the towpath here.’

  Kathy paused, looking over the fields to the hills beyond.

  ‘Wow!’ she said. ‘What are these?’

  ‘The Yorkshire Dales. We’ve been here so long, I scarcely see them now. Unless I take a trip away from them . . . when I feel there’s a hole in the scenery, until they’re back in place and I’m home.’

  ‘No need to ask if
you like it here.’

  ‘I love it – the place and the people.’

  ‘You’re like a new woman.’ Kathy’s eyes turned shrewd. ‘Sometimes that means a new man?’

  Becky shrugged defensively.

  ‘Who is he?’ Kathy asked. ‘Where is he? More important, when do I get to meet him?’

  Becky coloured. ‘He might drop in tonight – he’s working in Skipton.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Repairing narrowboats. You passed his place, down at Foulridge.’

  ‘Sounds nasty.’

  ‘Anything but. It’s a lovely little village, with a gorgeous common green.’

  ‘Look at these ducklings.’ Kathy pointed, enchanted. Four or five fluffy little brown birds scampered easily over lily leaves at the edge of the canal.

  ‘You see all sorts of birds here,’ said Becky. ‘We’ve even a resident heron, who pretends he’s a sparrow when we’re putting out food.’

  ‘No wonder you like it here. Is that your boat?’

  ‘That’s us. And that threadbare old scarecrow draped over a chair on the roof and reading a book is Noel. Your Ancient Mariner.’

  ‘Has he been. . . ?’

  ‘He’s a tower of strength, a pillar holding up the sky. From the day we set off, he’s quietly come to life again, and been the substitute dad I always knew – for myself and Jon.’

  ‘Where is Jon?’

  ‘Up in the village, playing football.’

  ‘No bullying?’

  ‘Not him. He’s the star of the school team.’

  ‘So your lives have been transformed – and it’s not just this new job in the village school?’

  ‘Absolutely. But wait till you see the school. You’ll fall in love with it, an old-fashioned schoolhouse, with everything but a handbell to bring in its pupils, and real blackboards and chalk inside. It’s like working in a museum – until you find out that the kids are razor sharp. They’re getting the same education they would at a posh private school. It’s something out of a Thomas Armstrong book, the life’s work of a quirky old guy who is in his late seventies, and a head teacher who has dedicated herself to perfection.’

  ‘Stop terrifying me.’

  ‘You’ll love Pop, he’s a gem. But you won’t see Liza for a bit, until she’s recovered from her surgery.’

  ‘Until then, we’ll be bossed around by you?’

  ‘Exactly. A benevolent despot – or I would be, if I could only get a couple of hours more sleep at night. You have no idea of the paperwork for this inspection – bureaucracy gone mad!’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘No. Liza and I have it under control. She dictates from her hospital bed, and I rush back to fill in the next few forms, before I forget. Henrietta is giving you a room in her house – rent free.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  Kathy’s head was down. She had slowed almost to a standstill.

  Becky took her arm gently. ‘What’s up, Kathy?’

  The dark head came up, the brown eyes full of misery.

  ‘You’re so happy,’ Kathy whispered. ‘And I’m glad.’

  ‘You don’t look it. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Everything.’

  Becky waited. ‘I could use a list,’ she prompted gently. ‘Then I can worry with you. What’s happened?’

  The brown eyes filled. ‘Oh, Becky,’ she said brokenly. ‘I’ve made such a hash of everything, and it’s too late to go back and put it right. My life is a total, utter mess. I don’t know where else to turn – so I’ve turned to you. . . .’

  Becky walked along the hospital corridor, stifling a yawn. The relentless pressure of teaching, preparing, and working long past midnight on paperwork for the inspection, was beginning to tell. But they were almost home now, on the self assessment marathon. She paused outside the door of the side ward, for which Henrietta had insisted on paying, gathering her energies.

  The nurse looked up from tidying the bed, and saw the armful of papers. ‘It’s flowers or grapes you’re supposed to be bringing,’ she scolded. ‘Not more work for her to do.’

  ‘She’s doing the work,’ argued Liza. ‘I’m only lying here, and making suggestions. Where are yesterday’s forms, Becky? I’ll run through these, before we start on parent involvement.’

  Becky sidled towards the nurse, as Liza began to read. ‘How is she, really?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘I can hear,’ said Liza. ‘She’s perfectly well, thank you. I like what you’ve done here, Becky – just a change of wording, but it makes it sound more positive.’

  ‘She’s fine,’ the nurse finally managed to reply. ‘But not as fit and well as she would like to think she is. And I wish she’d stop behaving like a schoolmistress, and realize that she’s only a patient, needing rest.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ came from the bed.

  The nurse rolled her eyes. ‘God help her staff!’ she said. ‘I’m off.’

  The ward door closed.

  ‘She means well,’ said Liza. ‘But she’s such a fusspot.’

  ‘She’s also, for the moment, your boss. . . .’

  ‘In her dreams!’ snapped Liza. ‘Did you print out the parent forms for the last inspection from my computer?’

  ‘Yes. I was so tired, I almost forgot your password. Then it came back – MaisieD.’ Becky glanced at Liza, who looked drained and low. On instinct, she asked: ‘Just who is or was MaisieD?’

  Liza smiled, leaning back on her pillows. ‘A beloved old spinster aunt we all adored. When our mums died, she took over as their substitute and watched over us. If we got into trouble, she was fighting like a sister, at our sides. She lived until she was ninety-four, and held our family together. There are times when I miss her still.’ She glanced up. ‘That Mike of yours – he seems a nice lad?’

  Becky blinked. ‘He is. I am very fond of him.’

  ‘And?’

  Becky coloured. ‘With one failed marriage behind me – even if it started with the best of intentions – I’m not rushing into anything. I couldn’t go through all that heartbreak again – nor would I want to bring more misery on Jon. Now, what about these forms?’

  Liza ignored her. ‘That old aunt of mine,’ she smiled. ‘She was always warning me not to do what she’d done – telling me I should let my heart rule my head when it mattered, not the other way round. She said I was so busy looking out for bowler hats in the crowd, that I was letting all the bonnets go past. It wasn’t true, of course. I simply never met a man who swept me off my feet. But maybe her advice has some value – about listening to your heart, as well as your head?’

  She picked up the forms, skimming through the content. ‘We can use most of this. Just freshen up the words a little, as you’ve been doing . . . these three sections we must update, because we’ve changed how we bring parents into project-work design. . . .’

  The visiting hour sped past; while Liza dictated, Becky scribbled and came up with counter suggestions. When the bell sounded to mark the ending of the visiting hour, Becky sat back and wriggled cramped fingers.

  ‘That’s only the final summary forms to complete,’ Liza said wearily. ‘I want to use your words and thinking as much as possible there, to give a totally fresh feel to the submission. I couldn’t have done this without you, Becky. Pop is excellent, but has his limitations.’

  ‘And we couldn’t have done it without you. Pop’s been guiding the teaching side, helping Kathy to take your class. That’s left me free, to work on this. So it’s been a real team effort.’

  ‘How is Kathy coping?’

  ‘Brilliantly. She’s taken to multi-group teaching like a duck to water.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Liza hesitated. ‘Well, thanks for coming. It’s nice to see a face I know – Henrietta means well, but the privacy of a side ward is balanced by lying here for hours on my own, staring at the four walls.’

  ‘A couple of days, and you’ll be home.’ Becky suspected that Liza would have been home already, if the
re had been anyone to look after her.

  ‘I’m looking forward to that – now, don’t miss your bus.’

  ‘No, Miss.’

  ‘Stop – what do you call teasing nowadays? – winding me up.’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  ‘Stop it! And, Becky. . . .’ The older woman coloured again. ‘I just want you to know . . . I feel privileged. Privileged to have been working with my successor. You were born to do this job. With me to coach you, Henrietta’s school will pass into safe hands, when I retire. Which is a huge weight off my mind.’

  Becky stared at her, unable to reply.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said finally. ‘And Liza, get well again – for all of us.’

  The wind rattled the letter box outside the flat. David juggled the car keys in his hand, waiting while Sally struggled into her coat. There was a frown of irritation on his normally patient face, so symptomatic of recent weeks that it made Sally clumsier still.

  At last the coat was on. Uncomfortable across her shoulders, but she’d wriggled long enough. She hastily buttoned it up. ‘Ready, Daddy,’ she said.

  She had to say it twice, before it registered.

  ‘Oh, right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

  Sally stuck her hands deep into her pockets and tried discreetly to pull the coat into a more comfortable fit. It didn’t work. She stopped, frowning, in the open doorway and looking at the crumpled piece of paper in her hand.

  ‘Oh, do hurry!’ snapped David. ‘We’re late.’

  Sally barely heard him: she was reading Kathy’s note.

  She looked up, holding it out dumbly to her father.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. Then his eyes picked up the writing: Sally – I told you that you would be our star. At least I got that bit right. Kathy.

  His car keys dropped to the floor.

  ‘Where did you find this?’ he asked hoarsely.

  ‘In my pocket. She must have slipped it there, when she disappeared after the performance. And wasn’t back home, when we went round to see her.’

  David stared at the note, smoothing its crushed edges.

  ‘You love her, don’t you?’ Sally asked.

  He looked up, then what he was going to say to fudge the situation died on his tongue. He nodded silently.