by Sophie King
Kitty tried to get on with her day but it was difficult especially as she’d been asked to take an extra class – biology – since the usual teacher was ill and she’d done it as an A level. No one knew when their particular class was going to be joined by an inspector. Just as she was about to start biology with year sevens, a tall, rather good-looking man with a moustache appeared at the door, nodded at her and took a seat at the back. Just her luck!
The children had been told to expect a visitor but to behave normally. The trouble was, thought Kitty ruefully, ‘normal’ usually meant rowdy, especially with the sex-education module they were doing.
Holding the chalk as steadily as her shaking hands would permit, Kitty drew a diagram on the blackboard, hoping it was accurate and trying to forget that there was an Ofsted inspector at the back of the classroom. She pointed to it. ‘Now, who can tell me how an egg is fertilised?’
‘I know! I know.’
She turned round to face a sea of hands and eager faces.
‘Yes, Lucy?’
Lucy was one of her favourites, even though Kitty knew she shouldn’t have any. The girl was always so keen to please that she was any teacher’s delight. ‘The sperm swims up and hits the egg and it makes a baby,’ she said.
‘Please, Miss.’ Adam, in the row behind, was straining as though he was going to burst out of his seat. ‘My dad says it’s like cricket. You think of the sperm as the cricket ball and the egg as a wicket. When the ball hits the stumps, it’s all over.’
Kitty’s lips twitched and she couldn’t help looking at the Ofsted inspector at the back. He was grinning broadly. Kitty didn’t normally like moustaches but she had to admit that his was rather attractive. ‘That’s not strictly accurate, Adam, but if it helps you to remember how reproduction takes place, that’s fine with me,’ she said. ‘By the way, what do you think of England’s chance with the West Indies this weekend?’
‘Walkover, Miss. My dad says we’re going to thrash them.’
Kitty smiled. If there was one thing she did know about, it was cricket – from her brothers. ‘Now, moving on, who can tell me how long it takes for a baby to grow in its mother’s womb?’
Silence.
She began to sweat. ‘Come on, someone, I know you only did this last week with Mrs Griffiths. Can’t any of you remember?’
‘Two years and nine months, Miss,’ called a boy from the back. Everyone giggled.
‘Try again,’ said Kitty. ‘Do you think it’s less than that, Joe?’
The boy she had targeted shifted awkwardly in his seat, making a noncommittal noise.
‘Is that a yes-grunt or a no-grunt?’ asked Kitty.
‘Yes, Miss,’ he said reluctantly.
‘Would you care to remember what you’ve learned, then, Joe?’ She indicated the poster on the wall beside her. ‘There’s a clue here to remind you.’
Joe ignored the poster. ‘It’s nine months, Miss.’
The boys around him began to push each other. ‘How do you know, Joe? Got someone into trouble, have you?’
‘That’s quite enough,’ Kitty said firmly. ‘Now, turn to page ninety-three of your workbooks, everyone.’
To her relief, the rest of the class went relatively smoothly. However, as the children filed out, the boys’ shirts hanging out of their trousers, it was difficult to tell what the Ofsted inspector had thought. Apart from the cricket analogy, he hadn’t shown much expression.
‘’Scuse me, Miss, can you tell me something?’
Kitty looked up to see Lucy standing beside her, twiddling her hair nervously. ‘Yes, Lucy?’
‘If a woman has a lump in her – in her breast, does it mean she’s going to die?’ Lucy’s eyes were wide with anxiety.
Kitty felt cold. ‘Not at all, Lucy. Women get lumps in their bodies for all kinds of reasons. Why do you ask?’
Lucy looked down at the ground. ‘Cos my mother has a lump in her breast and I’m scared she’s going to die.’
‘Come here and sit down next to me. Look, I’m sure it will be all right but perhaps I can have a word with your mum to tell her you’re worried.’
‘No, you can’t do that.’ Lucy looked scared. ‘She’s in hospital and Dad says we mustn’t do anything to upset her. That’s why she might be late for sports day. I’ve got a note in my bag about it that I should have given you. Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Kitty wanted to give her a reassuring cuddle, but you had to be so careful nowadays: you couldn’t even put a plaster on a child’s knee without going through all sorts of protocol first. ‘I’m sure everything will be fine.’
‘Thank you, Miss.’ Lucy looked less troubled as she walked out of the classroom, but Kitty felt bad. What right had she to say it would be all right when it might not be?
‘That wasn’t easy.’
She’d forgotten the Ofsted inspector. ‘I shouldn’t have said it would be all right. If it’s not, she won’t trust me.’
The inspector said nothing and Kitty realised, too late, that she had just shot herself in the foot. Now his report would criticise her abilities as a teacher and leader.
‘You did your best.’
He said it so quietly that Kitty almost didn’t hear him. He had a kind face, she thought. Maybe she should tell him about the drugs on the bus. On the other hand, if she did that the head might be livid with her for not telling him first. ‘Actually . . .’ she began. But he was on his way out of the room.
Thoughtfully, she put away her books. Good-looking he might be but it wasn’t his face that she couldn’t get out of her head. It was Lucy’s, creased with worry. Cancer! What must it be like to lose your mother at her age?
BETTY
‘Desperate Dan has just called to say there are hold-ups in Greenwich due to a burst water pipe.’
They didn’t put me through today. Their loss, not mine. If they don’t want a traffic update, they’ll find out the hard way. ’Sides, I’ve got other worries, like those kids this morning. Crossing the road on their own, they were, with those heavy bags. Any decent person would have run out and helped them.
Didn’t get much thanks for it, mind you. Rude little bastards. That’s what Terry says about some of the kids at his school. Tell him off about his language, I do. Reckon he picked it up from that job at Tesco.
They had big bags because it’s sports day today. That’s what the girl told me. I might go along. Terry likes sport, don’t you, duck? And I’ve got a few leaflets left over that I could hand out to the parents.
Josh and Alice, they were called.
‘You shouldn’t talk to strangers, love,’ I said to them. Their parents should have told them, like I told Terry when he was little. Never go up to a car that stops and asks you the way. The driver might drag you in and do awful things.
Terry and I have got some more pictures to put in the new album, haven’t we, duck? When Terry was small, I was so busy looking after him I didn’t have time to do that kind of thing. Now we’ve found all the old photos and we’re getting them sorted.
Here’s Terry on his first bike. He soon got the hang of it without the stabilisers. A natural, Harold used to say. And there he is on his first day at school in his green uniform. Always neat, my boy. And here he is with me at his cousin’s wedding – only fifteen but all the girls had their eyes on him.
‘I’m not interested, Mum,’ he said, when I told him to ask one of them for a dance. ‘I’d rather be here with you.’
What mum could ask for more? Of course, Harold had gone by then so he felt he had to protect me. Just like he does now. Don’t you, love?
PIPPA
Pippa came out of the consulting room and made her way to the corridor where Derek was waiting. Even though that needle had hurt, more than she’d expected, she felt calm – almost peaceful, as though another woman was inside her body. Quiet, soothing music was coming from behind the reception desk. A ruse by the NHS to calm the patients, perhaps.
‘Derek, I’m here.’
She watched him jump up expectantly. ‘You were so long! What did they say?’ He studied her face. ‘It’s all right, isn’t it? I told you it would be.’
Pippa led him back to the chair and sat down beside him. She wanted to kiss his cheek but it seemed hypocritical. Instead, she threaded her arm through his, then withdrew it: the contact of her skin on his made her feel guilty.
She took a deep breath, aware that what she was going to say would take their lives into another stage. ‘They weren’t sure about the lump. They did a mammogram and also drew out fluid with a needle.’
Derek sucked in his breath.
Pippa forced herself to take his hand. ‘I had to wait half an hour for the results – that’s why I was so long – but they were what they call inconclusive. So they’re going to take it out tomorrow, just to be certain. It means I’ve got to stay in overnight.’
His face crumpled like Beth’s when she was upset. ‘When? Today?’
‘No, Friday. Just as well, as I didn’t want to miss sports day this afternoon.’
‘But you seem so calm.’
‘I know. Weird, isn’t it? Maybe it’s the relief of knowing what’s happened.’
‘But you don’t know.’
‘Not really, but I do know they’re doing something about it. Anything’s better than waiting like I had to at the beginning of the week.’
He put his arm round her and she tried not to flinch. ‘But is it cancer?’
‘I’ve told you, Derek, I don’t know. We’ll have to wait. Come on. I don’t want to talk about it any more until I know the result.’ She patted his hand. ‘I’m coming round to your way of thinking. There isn’t much point in worrying until you know what there is to worry about.’
His eyes were moist. ‘But now I am worried, Pippa.’
An image of Gus peeling off his shirt shot into her head. Go away. ‘Well, don’t. I need you to be calm. Please, Derek, I want to get out of this place. You know how hospitals freak me out. If we get going we’ll be in time for Beth’s race.’
They walked across the car park and Pippa switched on her mobile in case the girls had called. ‘Hang on, I’ve got a message.’
‘Pippa? It’s Jean. I know you said you required a longer deadline but we’ve brought production schedules forward and I need to see what you’ve done so far. Can you e-mail me what you’ve got. It’s urgent now. Thanks.’
Pippa groaned.
‘What?’ said Derek.
‘It’s my editor. I should have handed in some work by now and I’m running late because of all this.’
‘Just tell her you’re ill.’
‘I can’t. She won’t give me any more work.’
Derek laid a hand on hers. Don’t, she wanted to scream. Don’t love me like this – I don’t deserve it. ‘Pippa, love, you might not be able to work for a while. It’s only fair to come clean.’
Would he want her to come clean with him? ‘Maybe you’re right.’
She picked up the mobile again and punched in the numbers. Good, it was the answerphone so she wouldn’t have to listen to the woman’s reaction. ‘Jean, it’s Pippa. I’m afraid I can’t send you that work yet. I need to tell you something . . .’
27
HARRIET
‘And that was the Beach Boys, everyone, just to show your kids that we too, were young once . . .’
The music was so infectious, invoking so many memories, that Harriet couldn’t help humming to it as it blasted out of the Tannoy. If she tried really hard she could almost pretend they were a normal family. Charlie was chatting to other parents over bowls of strawberries (painstakingly hulled by the eager PTA committee from which she had resigned last year) and keeping an eye on the races to see how his children were doing.
How many other couples were putting on an act like this? She glanced around at the groups of animated men and women, who were talking about Ofsted placings, childcare and school run traffic. She thought she could see Simon and Sally Pargeter talking to the head but didn’t want to stare. Still, when a high-profile couple like them chose to put their kids into the state system, it showed their faith in the school.
‘Look at the groupie mums,’ said a blonde woman, with very fine, over-plucked eyebrows.
‘Groupie mums?’ asked Harriet.
The other smiled wryly. ‘It’s what I call the mums who are always cheering their kids on from the sidelines. You know, the kind who go to every match. They’re in their element on sports day, yelling at their kids to win. They’ve been deprived, of course, by this team rule that prevents individual glory but it doesn’t stop them yelling. Even their poor husbands have to perform!’
Harriet and her acquaintance watched a straggly group of fathers, ranging from the youngish to the middle-aged and portly, running to the finishing line. Only one – who wasn’t that young – seemed to do it with ease.
‘But he doesn’t have a pelvic floor to worry about,’ muttered Harriet.
‘Ha, that’s good! I like that. Pretty fit, isn’t he?’
‘Yes.’ Unconsciously Harriet turned her head to check that Charlie hadn’t heard – he’d only misinterpret it. ‘Yes, he is. Gosh, I know him.’
‘You do?’
Harriet watched as a tall beautiful girl with olive skin and black hair ran up and threw her arms round him.
‘That’s a young wife,’ observed her companion, putting on her sunglasses.
‘I believe she’s his daughter.’
‘Really? Come to think of it, I recognise him too. Isn’t he a photographer?’
‘Yes.’ Harriet noticed that the woman was shivering. ‘Are you all right? You look cold.’
‘I’m fine.’ She pulled her jacket round her. ‘Actually, I’m not. I’ve had a shock today – two, in fact.’ She looked up at Harriet, who was a little taller than her. ‘Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. We don’t even know each other.’
‘Sometimes,’ said Harriet slowly, ‘it helps to tell people we don’t know.’
‘Yes, well, I’m not usually that kind of person. Thanks anyway but I’ve got to go. ’Bye.’
Harriet watched her stride off across the grass, heels sinking into the turf, calling to a pair of girls who looked very similar (twins?) and a small boy. Together they climbed into a turquoise Discovery parked outside the gates. So that was who she was! Funny how you knew the cars better than the owners on a school run. She seemed more vulnerable outside her car, when you remembered her aggressive driving style.
Harriet was just about to go up and claim Charlie, who was talking animatedly to a pair of mothers in high heels (yummy mummies, as she and Pippa laughingly called them), when she felt a light touch on her shoulder.
‘Excuse me. Bruce’s mum, isn’t it?’
Harriet turned to see a pretty auburn-haired girl with a serious but kind face. ‘I’m Kitty Hayling. I take Bruce for English.’
‘He’s mentioned you. You’re fairly new, aren’t you?’
The girl nodded. ‘I hope you don’t mind me mentioning this but I’m a bit worried about Bruce.’
Harriet sighed. Every single one of Bruce’s teachers had told her they were ‘a bit worried’. ‘He’s not playing up again, is he? I know he can be lively but I really don’t know what to do about it. I’ve taken him to the doctor and the health visitor but they say he’s not hyperactive, just challenging.’
‘One of my brothers was the same. Boys can keep you on their toes, can’t they?’
Harriet was mollified that she seemed to understand.
‘Bruce is actually very talented,’ continued Kitty. ‘I’ve been impressed by some of his essays and stories, which have shown real creative flair.’
‘Really?’ Harriet wondered briefly if they were discussing the same child.
‘Yes, but you must have noticed his spelling is a little odd.’
Harriet groaned. ‘His sister’s is the same. It drives me mad.’
‘Have you considered dyslexia?�
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‘But they don’t get the letters the wrong way round. They just find it hard to spell.’
‘That can still be a form of dyslexia. If you don’t mind, I’d like Bruce to be seen by our special-needs co-ordinator. Maybe his sister could be seen as well if she has spelling problems, and it would make Bruce feel better too.’
‘I can see you understand a thing or two about sibling rivalry.’
Kitty smiled. ‘Like I said, I have brothers. Actually, there’s one other thing.’ She hesitated. ‘In Bruce’s last essay, he said he was really looking forward to his dad coming home.’
A chill passed through Harriet. ‘That’s right. My husband has been in Dubai for a couple of months.’
‘Look, I know it’s none of my business but he seemed a bit worried about your husband coming back as well as pleased. If there are any big changes at home, it’s always helpful to know about them.’
How dare this girl interfere? Harriet thought. ‘There are no big changes,’ she said coolly. ‘My husband has been working away, that’s all.’
‘Of course. Well, I hope you didn’t mind me mentioning it. We just need to know if anything’s upsetting the children, that’s all. It helps us do our jobs better.’
Harriet didn’t trust herself to say anything. If she opened her mouth, she would either tell this young teacher where to go or throw herself on her shoulder for comfort.
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Kitty. ‘Enjoy the afternoon.’
Harriet watched her walk off. She was prickling with discomfort. Then, across the track, she spotted Pippa. She ran – faster than she would have done in any mothers’ race. ‘Pippa! How did it go?’
Her friend reached for her hand. ‘Let’s go and get a cup of tea shall we? I’ll tell you on the way.’
MARTINE
‘Now for the past tense. Conjugate the verb “to be”. We’ll do it together. I was, you were, he was . . .’
Martine shifted uncomfortably on the hard park bench and switched off her iPod. She was fed up with learning English. It was a stupid language, full of mistakes, just like the English themselves.