Luckily, both Emma and Rosie are very keen to meet up in Ronnie’s in Belsize Village. As we sit down amongst other people’s enthusiastic golden retrievers and genial Cockapoos, I feel resentful that my life is so much worse than everyone else’s. This is a recent phenomenon. Until now, I have been lucky. Emma and Rosie are not my “best friends” and, although I am fond of them, they wouldn’t be my first choice as confidants. They know almost everyone that I know. Neither of them is discreet. Emma orders. None of us drinks anything “normal”. It costs a small fortune but she offers to pay. I say I will pay next time. I have never been a freeloader.
At first, we talk about our children’s respective achievements and plans. Emma’s son, David, has been offered a place to study engineering at Bristol University. I can’t help thinking about its status as a dementia-friendly city. And Rosie’s daughter has opted for Physiotherapy at Bournemouth University. I update them about Olivia and Eddie. We are all committed to Facebook so none of us is actually out of the loop. Our children barely use it. Instagram and Tick Tock are much more in vogue than FB. Politeness prevails, even amongst good friends. But it doesn’t take long for the atmosphere to change from frivolity to gravity. I know that I have to come clean. I start at the beginning. There’s a buzz in the café. Neighbours and friends-of-friends keep coming up to our table. It has been ages. I know. My friends seem to know everyone. I ask if we can go to Emma or Rosie’s house; the café atmosphere isn’t conducive to the conversation that I know we need to have but haven’t. Why not mine? I’m the closest. I realise that they have no understanding of my situation. How can they? I have been so foolish in trying to keep things to myself. The GP’s advice is ringing in my ears: it’s a difficult journey. Confide in your friends. Michael has probably emptied all the drawers by now. I have visions of the house resembling a full-blown burglary. I don’t want to go home. And I don’t want them in my home either.
Rosie’s having her house redecorated so we make our way to Emma’s. She is the furthest away from here but has the loveliest home. Her husband is successful banker and pleasant with it. He has no need to be obnoxious as he has nothing to complain about. He has the perfect job, the perfect wife, the perfect child and the perfect house. Life couldn’t be much better. The only thing that could possibly ruin it for him would be a Labour government.
The house is one of those beautiful tall white villas facing Primrose Hill. They always apologise for living in it. They purchased it during the housing crash in the early 1990s. Even then, it must have cost at least a million and they were too young to have earned much of that themselves. I am not jealous. I love being in Emma and Rupert’s house. As soon as we enter, there is a sense of casual grandeur. The hall way is generous in both its length and width. There’s a beautiful crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling; it has tiny blue flecks of glass hanging in between translucent ones. It has the effect of stalactites and stalagmites which catch the sun as it glints through the persistent rain. We walk straight into the huge Shaker-style kitchen. There’s almost nothing on the surfaces. I am not sure how anyone can be this tidy and cook. None of us needs another coffee but we indulge anyway. I kick my shoes off and make myself comfortable on the squishy blue sofa at the back of the kitchen. Emma and Rosie join me and the three of us talk. I finally surrender myself to life’s new reality and share every last detail with them. We all need tissues. Of course, there is a great deal of sympathy. I learn all about their wretched octogenarian relatives who have suffered from dementia or Alzheimer’s or Pick’s disease or frankly, the whole lot put together. They mean well. Emma suggests dinner – the six of us – and she will host it. I am a bit reticent about this and wonder whether Michael will be treated as a freak or a friend. I think I should accept; after all, if not now, definitely not later. He’s deteriorating so fast. Besides, the offer is genuine. I have good friends.
I’m just about spent – both emotionally and physically – when my mobile buzzes. Neither Emma nor Rosie have even glanced at theirs. They’re so restrained. And I say so. But I can’t ignore mine, much as they goad me into so doing. I never know what catastrophe Michael has got himself into. I can’t pretend that everything is normal because everything is abnormal. And I hate it. I apologise and take the call. I really don’t have a choice.
My grumpy neighbour, Matt, is calling me. I didn’t think we were on speaking terms anymore. Michael is at his house. He has locked himself out of ours. I ask him if he can “entertain” my husband for an hour. He makes a big hoo-hah out of this but reluctantly agrees. Emma offers to drive me back to Daleham Mews; it’s a kind gesture which I immediately accept. She drops me off right outside our tiny little house; the whole thing would probably fit into her enormous kitchen. She can’t stay. She has too many things to do. I expect they’re agreeable and she says that they are. I am a little jealous but mostly on the verge of despair. It is no one’s fault.
Chapter 18
A Juggling Act
Most working parents are very good at multitasking and delegating or driving themselves insane trying to do everything that is expected of us. We are half way through the GCSE and A Level mock-examinations; these are being held in our school hall; it’s called the Long Hall, for obvious reasons. It has windows on both sides of a long rectangle and a boxed-in glass cubicle for the Examinations Officer. We oversee and supervise the mocks between ourselves (the staff, that is) but we pay professional invigilators for the public examinations. AQA and Edexcel, the two examination boards that we use, both conduct spot checks on key centres. We are particularly keen to remain one and don’t want to lose our current status.
The Long Hall presents its own challenges, partly because it’s on the fifth floor and partly because we’re in central London. In winter, we are plagued by the sirens from desperate ambulances and frantic police cars. The heating is inadequate and our students are encouraged to wear extra layers. In summer, it is the opposite. Not only is the room stuffy and stifling, but we are invariably assaulted by the charming chimes of the ice-cream vans. The students’ responses are so Pavlovian that it takes all their self-restraint not to rush down the five flights of stairs and give chase. Principal Peter has asked Liam to start most of the examinations this year; it is his “right” as the Academic Deputy Head. He has, however, invited me alongside him, by way of appearing to work better together in front of the other staff. Everything is done to replicate what we will do in the summer, when it all counts. Students line up outside the hall; they switch off their mobiles and hand them in; only plastic pencil cases or zip-lock bags are permitted and now even watches are systematically removed. Last year we confiscated two ultraviolet pens; these were being used to expose invisible ink on so-called blank paper. These pens are not to be confused with Wizcom reading pens which help pupils with dyslexia.
Today it’s the GCSE maths, Paper 1 (the non-calculator paper). It’s a ninety-minute examination. We realise that there is a fair bit of scope for cheating but students who have found so doing, have been threatened with suspension at best and exclusion at worst. I pace up and down the room like a foot-soldier. Liam prefers to hang around the back rows. This is the first year that we have installed CCTV cameras so that if we do have an incident, we can conduct a thorough investigation. I am uncomfortable about this as the cameras have been camouflaged as smoke detectors. It’s all probably highly irregular.
In the past, we have distributed plastic water bottles to all the students sitting their exams. We do this regardless of the weather outside. This year, however, students are expected to bring in their own metal water bottles. We are trying to do our bit for the environment. As I walk up and down the aisles, I am surprised to see so many plastic ones. I start to think that our Eco Council Reps are a bunch of sanctimonious hypocrites. I glance over a couple of the students’ shoulders and look at their scrawl. Fran’s strong suit clearly isn’t maths. There’s what looks like quite an easy question asking for
the following triangles to be named. The first example says “equilateral” but the others are all blank. She has put: Bob, John, Mia and Dave! I let out a quiet chuckle but immediately change this into a cough. But strangely, Fran is the only person who seems to be struggling. Everyone else has his or her head down and is completing each page with alarming speed. Even the students who are entitled to extra time don’t look as though they’re going to need it.
I walk over to Liam and he is concerned that I have left the front of the hall vulnerable. I suppose my suspicions can wait. I have no evidence and at least no one is coughing; there is no excessive nose-blowing; no ultraviolet pens in view and no calculators, even on wristwatches. Everything looks totally normal. After about an hour, I am relieved by Benedict (whose shirt is still untucked). We whisper conspiratorially which is probably a bit annoying though the students barely notice. I leave him to it.
I return to my office on the ground floor. I have one free period. I make a detour to the staff room and find Abbas reading the instruction manual for our new coffee machine. Peter has donated it. I gather he received two for Christmas. I have banned myself from touching it, given how reckless I was with the Nespresso appliance. Finally, I have Abbas to myself. Despite his cuddly appearance, I realise that he would have made a very good barrister. He is utterly charming and sweet but within thirty minutes, has extracted my darkest secrets. I don’t want to hear his advice though. He thinks I should report Michael’s violence to Social Services. I can’t and I won’t.
After break, I teach some of the younger pupils (7 and 8) who don’t have mocks or exams; this is relief from the tension elsewhere in the school. I also take the opportunity to send out a reminder email to all the parents of the forthcoming 11 Plus examinees. The 11 Plus is on Friday. Year 11 are delighted, as they will have a three-day weekend. Their parents are apoplectic, as they will have a four-day week.
I finally realise that my mobile has been switched off since the maths GCSE. There are seven missed calls from Michael’s old actuarial firm, Dayton Hardwick & Chase. I think I know what’s happened. I hurry back to my office and close the door. It transpires that my husband has returned to his former place of employment and picked an argument with the receptionist who has refused to let him go any further. She wants me, or someone else, to collect him as he’s refusing to leave. I look at my A4 planner to see whether there’s a gap anywhere in today’s schedule. There isn’t. My day is jam-packed. The English GCSE mock is this afternoon – which I am supposed to start alongside Liam – and I am should be getting things ready for the 11 Plus Consortium day this Friday. There is so much to do. And by 6 pm this evening, I will also have a pile of examinations to mark.
I apologise to Principal Peter. I apologise to Liam. I say sorry to the staff that have to cover for me at such notice. I promise to return later and catch up. I will stay until midnight if necessary. I call Matt (the grumpy neighbour) to see if he can help out so that I don’t have to babysit Michael. Amazingly he agrees. I wonder if he is lonely. When I arrive at Dayton Hardwick & Chase, Michael is eating biscuits and drinking water in the lavish and modern reception. He is not reading despite the plethora of magazines and newspapers on the large glass table in front of him. He looks untidy, unkempt and unlike his old self. I feel an overwhelming sense of sadness when I greet him. Less than a year ago, he was booted and suited, confident and strident. Now he is a lost soul, wandering around London with no purpose and no direction. He makes a bit of a fuss when I try to escort him out of his old territory. I don’t blame him. I wonder whether to visit his old boss and ask him to find something Michael could do. But I don’t.
We take two buses to get home. It is not easy. His Oyster card has no money left on it. Everything is a hassle. I have been meaning to apply for a Freedom Pass for him, on the grounds of his new “disability”. I add this to my things-to-list when we get home. I ring Matt’s doorbell and he immediately gathers up his things, including two bottles of beer from the fridge, and joins Michael on the sofa. I have completely underestimated Matt. He is so kind and sympathetic. He isn’t the judgemental irritable man that I had him pegged to be. I will lose the parenthesis (grumpy) from here on in!
Satisfied that Michael is in safe hands, I return to school. This whole travesty has taken up four hours. It is not the first time and it won’t be the last. I pop to the school’s swanky canteen to pick up something to eat. It is officially closed but the door is unlocked. The only food on view is a steel bowl of green and red apples. Everything else is inaccessible. Even the fridge is padlocked. There is a lingering smell of lasagne or pasta (which was evidently on today’s menu); this makes me even more ravenous. I don’t have time to go to the Sainsbury’s Local. I can’t survive off one Diet Coke for the duration of what will be a very long day. I gingerly take one red and one green apple from the bowl; at least there is an even amount of fruit left.
I telephone Matt, rather than my husband, to get a progress report. I have permission to work late so I do. They’re going to watch a film. I can hear Michael chortling in the background. I don’t need to know what they’re watching; they’re not children. The English Language papers are delivered to my office; there’s a huge pile of them. I am only marking questions 1, 2. 3 and 4. Harry-the-Harrovian is marking question 5 which is worth as much as all the others put together. I print off the mark scheme directly from the AQA website and go through the paper meticulously, ensuring that I have added in all the variants. The bells eventually stop ringing. I have completely lost track of the time but at least I have finished marking. I enter the marks onto the spreadsheet and tidy up my office.
I am just about to leave when two emails pop up onto my screen. Firstly, why haven’t I updated our Twitter feed? And secondly, there’s a problem with the GCSE mock maths’ results. I address the Twitter problem first and post various pictures and messages that should have been uploaded earlier in the week. I re-read the email about the maths’ results. The department have been efficient in marking the papers, for which I congratulate them, but soon realise that the whole process has been a farce. Virtually the whole of Year 11 has achieved 99% or even 100%. Very few of our pupils are capable of achieving these scores. Fran is the only person who has failed. This is ridiculous.
Liam is still in his office. Principal Peter is still in his. The whole of the maths department is in theirs. We meet in Liam’s though there aren’t enough chairs in there for all of us. It’s now 9 pm but it feels much later. It is pitch dark outside. We sit in a cramped circle and take it in turns to analyse the answer papers. We know that 99% of the students have cheated. The question is: how?
Liam turns his screen monitor around so that we can all see it. He plays back the CCTV footage of Year 11 entering the Long Hall. They all look remarkably calm and collected. Once the students are seated, he pauses the monitor so that we can really look at their hands, arms and any visible flesh. Nothing suspicious. I feel a bit embarrassed when the footage shows Benedict and I having a private conversation which lasts much longer than I realised. We forward the footage a little further on until we all realise the scam: the water bottles! We zoom in on one of our weakest Year 11 boys. His name is Jamie. He has never achieved more than about 35% in maths and no more than 55% in any other subject since he was in Year 7. He appears to be holding his water bottle with his left hand whilst copying the ingredients with his right hand. We zoom in on other pupils too. They’re all at it. Everyone with a plastic water bottle has all the answers inscribed on the inside of the label; it’s ingenious. Fran is the only person who has refrained from cheating; perhaps she feels indebted to us or maybe she was absent when this trick was conceived.
The maths department decide to set another mock; this time it will date back at least three years and the students will not be told about it until an hour before the exam. Principal Peter, Liam and the entire maths department head for the pub. I head home.
Chapter 19
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The 11 Plus
The 11 Plus is a stressful day for everyone. The schedule is much more complex than prospective parents can possibly imagine. It’s a masterclass in admission and omission.
The building (though smart) is fundamentally too small to accommodate all the existing pupils alongside all the hopeful ones. Unlike some schools, we don’t have spare blocks or classrooms; in fact, we don’t have any spare space. Instead, we have the whole of London at our disposal. Entire year groups are sent out on unnecessary but educational outings. We have got this down to a fine art. Years 8 and 9 will visit the Globe Theatre on the South Bank; there’s a suitably physical workshop centred on Romeo and Juliet followed up by a condensed version of the tragedy afterwards. This is ideal. Year 9 are studying the play this year and Year 8 will be in the future. Year 10 will be sketching and painting some of the famous paintings at the Wallace Collection with Annie-the-Art teacher (and a few other colleagues) until lunch time. The only pupils in the school will be Year 7 and the Sixth Form; each of them will be ambassadors. Prefect-style badges are distributed to the younger children; these are immediately pinned to the lapels on their smart blazers. Sashes in the school’s colours are dispersed to the Sixth Form; there is a little resistance to these but eventually everyone puts one on.
Imprisoned by Love Page 13