by Hayley Doyle
Except I am.
Year Ten are preparing for their mocks and all I can do is put them into groups, telling them to devise ‘whatever they like’. I spend the double period going back and forth to the staff toilets trying to pull myself together. Luckily, the kids don’t seem to notice.
At lunchtime, I’m cornered entering the drama hall.
‘Miss, Miss, can I audition for the musical?’ asks the lad, confident. Perhaps Year Eight. He flashes a brace-dressed smile and despite a baby-soft jawline, he reeks of aftershave.
‘What’s your name?’ I ask.
‘Jonah Matthews, Miss.’
‘You know today’s the recalls, Jonah. The main auditions were last week.’
‘Please, Miss. Please?’
‘Fine. Grab your lunch and come back in ten minutes.’
‘AH, FANKS, MISS!’
‘Pronounce your “TH”, Jonah. You can’t be an actor if you don’t work hard on your articulation.’
‘Sure fing, Miss,’ he winks at me. He actually winks at me. ‘Fank you. I mean, TH-ank you. Can I bring my girlfriend, Miss?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘We’ve got too many girls already.’
‘That’s sexist. Give her a chance.’
‘It’s not sexist, Jonah – your girlfriend missed out.’
‘Well, I fink it’s sexist, Miss. Unless you fancy me, Miss. Are you jealous?’
‘Jonah Matthews get your lunch now before I put you on detention.’
God, that’s exhausted me. I ache.
Gathering the recalled students into a circle, I assign Layla Birch to lead a warm-up game of Zip, Zap, Boing. This means I can sit in the corner on a plastic chair drawing doodles, pretending to be doing something important like marking essays or counting names on a register. I let the game go on much longer than necessary, telling myself that it’s cool because I’m still waiting for Si – Mr Sullivan, the music teacher and brainchild behind this musical – to show up.
I say ‘brainchild’; I jest.
He’s written this musical himself, a story of a starlet arriving in the big city without a dime (yep, a dime) in her pocket but a heart full of dreams. I know, I know. The music will be mashups of famous show tunes and obscure songs that only true fans of Broadway will know, mixed in with some current music – you know, to ‘keep it real’.
Layla Birch is politely calling my name.
‘Are we going to start soon?’ she asks.
I look up from my impressively shaded biro drawing of a Venus fly trap and see that Layla has ended the warmup game and got everybody to sit cross-legged in the circle: focused, ready. They even have their eyes closed.
‘It’s the breathing techniques Mr Sullivan teaches,’ Layla assures me. ‘They help with nerves and anxiety.’
She’s brilliant, Layla Birch. I’ve only been at this school a few weeks, covering for a teacher on maternity leave, and admittedly I’m not great with names, but Layla Birch stood out to me from the word go. Attentive, keen and passionate about drama, she’s dyslexic but is determined to excel. And she will. She’s got that spark – one that can’t be taught.
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ Si Sullivan runs into the drama hall, flapping.
He heads straight for the piano, making an absolute meal of laying out his sheet music.
‘Thank goodness the show isn’t until October,’ he reassures us all; but frankly, he lost the room on his first ‘sorry’. Breathing techniques ended with a group sigh, and heightened chatter has since broken out.
I leave it in Si’s flappy hands to regain control. I’m fixating on the word ‘October’. October. Oct …
Thank goodness the show isn’t until …
October.
That’s one, two, three … four months away. Half term.
‘It’ll fly by,’ Jack had said to me, recently. A week ago, maybe. ‘Vietnam. October.’
‘Seems a shame we can’t go this summer though,’ I’d said. ‘I’ve got six weeks off.’
The true crime documentary was on pause while I made a cuppa and Jack laid his wet socks on the radiator in the lounge. The heating wasn’t on – it wasn’t cold enough – but it’s how he hung his washing out to dry regardless, whenever it was raining.
‘I can’t take time off during this project,’ Jack went on. ‘It’s our biggest client and the deadline is end of August. I’ll get bank holiday off, though. We could go camping. Dorset, maybe?’
‘So I’ve got to wait ’til almost the end of the school hols to go camping? In this country?’ I’d glanced towards the garden, to the rain lashing down outside.
‘Not necessarily, darlin’. You can still go abroad if you want, just without me.’
I’d squeezed the teabag against the side of the mug with a spoon, turning the milky tea orange. If this were some other early relationship, I would’ve been cautious of seeming needy; worried about giving off the air that I couldn’t possibly have a life beyond my fella. But not with Jack. We hadn’t played any mind games or stuck to the sweepingly generic rules to keep each other keen. We were keen. And not ashamed to show it.
‘No, I’ll save me money,’ I’d said, tossing the teaspoon into the sink.
‘For Vietnam? In October? Avec moi?’
‘Yes, yes, and oui.’
‘Trust me. It’ll fly by,’ Jack had said again, and I believed him.
‘What did you say, Miss Roscoe?’ Si asks me, lifting his chin above the piano.
The drama hall is in silence and when I look up from my doodles, all eyes are on me.
I smile. We must be ready to start. A few sniggers waft over and some kids give me that look, as if I’ve just started dad-dancing in the nude. My smile remains fixed, but I’m confused.
‘You said something,’ Si says, and he cups his ear with his hand.
‘I didn’t,’ I tell him.
‘You did.’
‘No, I didn’t—’
‘You did, Miss,’ Layla says, her frustration apparent. ‘You said, “It’ll fly by”.’
‘I did?’ I ask.
Layla nods, as do some others.
Oh, God.
I try to wrench myself back to the present, but I can’t stop thinking about Jack. I realise how right he had been. Okay, we weren’t going on a big holiday for four months. But so what? In that time I’d be settling into the flat, exploring London, making dinner, going out for dinner, drinking in pub beer gardens, hitting a few festivals at the weekends, meeting old friends, making new friends, and of course, going to our Kit’s wedding, all with Jack. I think of the fridge. Our plans. Jack wanted to teach me how to ski. Me! Ski! Of course the time would fly by. Everything I’ve just listed sounds like pure heaven – the best four months I could possibly imagine. And fuck me, forgive me for using a big old cliché, but time flies when you’re having fun, doesn’t it?
Si and the students are still looking at me, waiting for an explanation.
‘I was just warning you all,’ I say, forced authority in my voice. ‘Mr Sullivan mentioned that the show isn’t until October, but don’t be fooled. It’ll fly by.’
Layla closes her eyes, dramatically taking my words fully on board. Si slams the piano with his elbow and grabs his throat with one hand, pretending to be strangled.
‘Aggghh! You’ve scared me to death, Miss Roscoe!’ he screeches.
One kid, a little Year Seven girl, finds this funny. But it’s her and her alone, and when she realises, she slaps her hands across her mouth, mortified.
A restless energy has returned.
‘FOCUS,’ I yell, ‘or there won’t be any auditions and I’ll allocate parts willy-nilly.’
Shit. Can’t believe I just said ‘willy-nilly’.
I don’t want to be here. I shouldn’t be here. Why the hell am I here? Why?
I take a deep breath.
When I arrive home, Jack’s smell will hit me. His fat thumbprint on the bathroom mirror will take me by surprise.
His drawer will invite me to choose a t-shirt I can wear to sleep in on the sofa. That’s why I’m here – to have those precious snippets to look forward to.
Jonah Matthews appears with his whole crew. ‘Are we on time, Miss?’
He’s brought his girlfriend regardless of what I said, presuming his girlfriend is the one almost twice his height with an intimidating stare and a lip piercing.
‘Right, let’s get started,’ I say.
Si bashes out a chirpy eight bars of generic cheesy musical theatre. I’m not sure I have the energy to see this through – even walking towards the piano makes my legs ache.
‘Everything okay, Miss Roscoe?’ Si asks, a rhetorical question if ever there was one.
I give one, bold nod.
‘Layla Birch,’ I say, returning to my Venus fly trap doodle. ‘You’re up first.’
*
After school, I pick up a decent bottle of wine from the Sainbury’s Local. The auditions went well. A few dodgy performances and, unexpectedly, Layla Birch messed up her lyrics, but on the whole, I was impressed.
As I open the front door, I stumble upon a package.
It’s soft, small enough to get through the letterbox.
I pick it up and read who it’s addressed to.
Miss Chloe Roscoe (and Jack!)
I recognise the writing.
Fishing out the contents, I feel the soft cotton between my thumb and fingers. It’s the beige gingham cushion covers, two of them, all ready to slip onto plain square cushions and add a bit of home from home. If Jack were here, oh how we’d laugh. I’d insist we didn’t use them, but Jack would disagree. He’d love how much I hate them. He’d make poor Rudolf redundant just to revel in this moment for as long as possible, winding me up to the point of me admitting that, fine, I can learn to like them. I slump against the radiator and squeeze the gingham so hard that I wouldn’t be surprised if it bled. The handwritten note accompanying the package has fallen beside me on the floor.
Congratulations on your new home! We hope you’re both really happy there.
Love Mum and Dad xxx
8
It takes me another two days to ring my mum.
‘Did the parcel arrive?’ she asks, screeching panic.
‘It did. Thanks Mum.’
‘I’m not cramping your style, am I?’
‘No, Mum. I’m not fourteen.’
I’m waiting for the bus home from school after staying behind with Si to compare audition notes from Monday. A handful of pupils meander to the bus stop, either from detention or athletics training. Traffic is bumper-to-bumper on this road, horns honking up by the William Hill. It’s either a seven-minute bus ride (without traffic) or a twenty-five-minute walk. I know, I got lucky landing a job in Lewisham so close to Jack’s flat, relieving me of the dreaded commute.
Lucky.
I think I’ll walk.
‘Been busy then? How’s the new job going?’
‘Yeah, it’s okay.’
‘You don’t like it, do you?’
‘It’s fine.’
‘I’ve never liked my job, Chloe. But that’s life. You just get on with it.’
She works for the Inland Revenue and loves it. Always taking charge of the collection for office birthdays.
‘Chloe, I just saw Pam Gillespie in Matalan. She hasn’t half aged, my God. Told me about how her Jason’s living in Canada now. Remember him? From school? Wouldn’t say boo to a goose, would he? And now he’s living in Canada. God knows what he’s doing there – I didn’t pry. Told her you’re a fully qualified teacher and she thinks that’s marvellous. Told her how you’re living down in London now and she said, “Oh isn’t that fantastic!” She wondered if you’ve been to see The Lion King yet? I told her I wasn’t sure. Have you?’
I take a short cut through a residential street, although it’s not quiet. A woman pushing a pram is dragging a screaming toddler along and a group of workmen are taking a raucous cigarette break outside a grand terraced house top-to-toe in scaffolding.
‘Mum, I need to tell you something,’ I say. ‘Something … sad.’
‘Oh no,’ she starts, and I know she’s taken the landline phone in her hands to sit down on the bottom stair, bracing herself. ‘Oh, God. Please, don’t tell me. Oh no. What is it?’
‘Jack.’ I clear my throat. ‘Died.’
‘What?’ she asks, as if she’s part deaf.
‘Don’t make me say it again, Mum.’
‘He died?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Ah,’ she sighs. Then she repeats this sound in various tones and pitches.
‘Mum? Are you okay?’
‘Ah, love. Ah, I can’t believe it. I’m shocked, I’m really, really shocked. I mean, I thought you were going to say that he left you, or that you had cancer or something. I never expected this, Chloe love. Ah. What was it? Was it suicide?’
‘No, Mum – I’d rather not discuss the det—’
‘Drink driving? Did he have a problem that you weren’t aware of, you know, because let’s face it, you hardly knew the lad, did you?’
‘Mum!’
‘Or was he ill? Oh, God. Had he been ill this whole time and not told you?’
‘Mum, it was an accident. Simple as that.’
‘Oh, love. Oh, Chloe love. My heart breaks for you, it does. It really does.’ She sounds like she’s in pain, her voice thin, sliding along ice. ‘Just devastating, isn’t it? His poor mother, oh she must be in pieces. And you thought this was it, didn’t you? Our Kit said as much, said you thought you’d found The One. And after all these years, there’s me thinking you never believed in The One—’
‘Mum, please don’t cry.’
‘We never even met him, Chloe.’
‘I know.’
‘Oh, my God, who will you bring to our Kit’s wedding now? You can’t come on your own.’
‘Yeah. God forbid.’
‘I mean, you’re thirty-six, Chloe. I thought you’d—’
‘Mum, I know what you thought.’
‘Don’t snap at me, love. I’m very upset for you, I am. I really am.’
‘I’m gonna be fine,’ I say, convincingly, although not at all convinced.
She sighs loudly down the phone. I come to the end of the residential street and walk along the main road, passing a pub, a pharmacy, a florist, another pub. She’s still sighing, I think; a fire engine’s siren is drowning her out.
Once it passes, I realise she’s talking to someone, not me, relaying this new information about Jack in a loud whisper, as if I can’t hear her.
‘Is Dad home from work?’ I ask.
‘What’s that, Chloe love?’
‘I can hear you talking to Dad.’
‘Oh, no. Your dad’s still out; had to take someone all the way to Manchester today. Carol’s here. Her daughter’s pregnant again, you know. What’s that, Carol? Oh, a girl? She’s having a girl, is she? Ah, one of each. Oh, isn’t that just perfect. I bet you’re over the moon, Carol. Did you hear that, Chloe?’
‘That’s nice, Mum.’
‘Yeah. It’s nice to hear nice things at a time like this …’
I can picture her sitting on the stairs, catching a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror and using her fingertips to create a temporary facelift.
‘You sure you’re alright, Mum?’
‘I’m fine, love. I am. I just thank God that you barely knew the lad. Thank. God. He really does work in mysterious ways, doesn’t He?’
‘This wasn’t an act of God, Mum.’
‘Oh, Chloe. Imagine if you’d been with Jack for years. Imagine if you were married, had children. This would be an absolute tragedy. Christmas doesn’t seem like five minutes ago and you didn’t even know he was walking on God’s green earth. You were still knocking about with that fella you went to youth theatre with.’
‘Mum, this is a tragedy.’
‘Yes. I know. It is for all who knew him, but Chloe my love, you didn’t. I mean, y
ou never really know someone until you’ve lived with them.’
‘I DO live with Jack. DID live with him.’
‘Oh, love. Your suitcase isn’t even unpacked yet.’
‘How do you know?!’
‘Because I know you!’
I want to hang up, but I know better than to hang up on my mum. I did that once. Twenty years ago, from a phone box outside Central Station in Liverpool. I can’t even begin to explain the guilt ingrained within me that’s lingered ever since, all stemming from her deep hurt at being hung up on by her own flesh and blood. For a whole week, she laid the table for three instead of four, refusing to feed me. My dad took pity once and saved me half of his cottage pie, but I survived the rest of the week on cereal, going to the chippy on my way home from sixth form or eating at Beth’s, although her family was experimenting with vegetarianism in the nineties. My taste buds weren’t accustomed to couscous and hummus back then.
‘Hold on a sec, Chloe … What was that, Carol?’
I hear Carol’s raspy rattle in the background. She’s still on forty a day.
‘Chloe,’ my mum comes back to me. ‘Carol’s asking when you’re coming home.’
‘Dunno.’
‘What do you mean, you “dunno”?’
‘I haven’t made any plans.’
‘Well, you better hurry up.’
‘Why?’
I’m walking through a park now, along the footpath, dodging small kids on scooters. All hints of sadness have evaporated from my mum’s voice and she’s annoyed. Plain annoyed.
‘Chloe, I’ve got a wedding to organise,’ she reminds me.
‘Well, Kit has a wedding to—’
‘Don’t talk about something you don’t know anything about, love. You’ve never come close to organising a wedding in your life. There’s so much to do, and I’m gonna need to know when you’re coming home so I can get your room ready.’
‘I’m not coming home.’
