by Bruno Noble
Sharon
Mum and I arrived at my school just before Dad. We stood on the highest of the seven concrete steps to what had once been a modern steel and glass school building and watched him park; he was always meticulous to ensure he parked exactly in the middle of a parking bay and that the front wheels were aligned with the back. He got out, locked the car and stood motionless, as though summoning energy and courage. Grey concrete steps, grey parking lot, grey cars, grey sky, grey dad.
The years since he’d left home had not been good to Dad. Sherah and Seamus rarely visited him, pleading homework, tiredness and extra-curricular activities so that what had once been a bland rental apartment gradually declined into a grotty and stuffy lad’s den, reflective of the vicious circle whereby the less his children visited him the less he considered it necessary to tidy it and, so, the less they wanted to visit him. Sitting amid the dross of takeaway food cartons and soft drinks cans and laundry laid out on radiators and feeling sorry for their dad and angry with him too and guilty at feeling angry was not how Sherah and Seamus wanted to spend their weekends.
We would see Dad at school during the week or outdoors on weekends; he became our groupie, cheering us on from the touchline at school sporting events, driving us to and from away matches and applauding us at school plays and concerts. No sooner was I on stage than I would look for him in an audience, squinting against bright stage lights. Identifying him among the many parents’ expectant faces, I could relax, fill my role, a little part of me always, no matter my dedication to the production and immersion in the part, surprised that I, who was nothing, could become something – someone – on stage, and conscious too that I performed at some hidden level just for him, for his approval, despite the fact that he never came to say hello before a performance or goodbye after it. Touchingly, Aunt Wanda never missed a play I was in, and I couldn’t help but feel that Mum turned up to see and chat with her sister as much as to watch and support me. Mum spent what time she had to herself running.
A hole in the car park fenced off by once-white plastic barriers made a mockery of my aspirations to completeness. Dad skirted the dirty plastic barricade and walked to Mum and me where he climbed the steps laboriously. On the step immediately lower than the one Mum and I stood on, he was at the right height for an exchange of kisses on cheeks. As he and Mum stood eye to eye, the contrasting changes in my parents were startling. He looked as though he had found the years and kilos she had lost, and more. She was a sleek young greyhound to his wrinkled-jowl ageing pug. If anyone had not known which of the two had asked for the separation, they would now. Dad’s face against a late afternoon autumn sky was featureless; his unpolished brogues and scruffy corduroy trousers, his ill-matching and tight herringbone tweed jacket over a stained jumper spoke of a battle lost. Mum, with a healthy complexion, elegant in her sharp shoes and sharper knee-length dress suit, tossed her long hair to one side and said, ‘Right then. Let’s go in and see what this is all about.’ When Dad opened the door for us and turned to usher us in, I could see love and a sense of loss expressed conflictingly in his eyes and, for a brief moment, was pleased to have brought Mum and Dad together even if I were to suffer for it.
My co-ed school had only recently appointed its first headmistress, Mrs Baxter, who always wore a rich blue trouser suit and a grey bob that framed rectangular steel spectacles. She stepped out of her study to welcome us.
‘Mrs Truss. Mr Truss. Sharon.’ She shook each one of us by hand in turn.
She held the door open for us and indicated an armchair, on which were some papers and by which was a cup of tea, and a three-seater sofa; there was only one place for us to sit and we took it, my dad to my right and my mum to my left.
While Dad gazed around the imposing study that was decorated with some of the pupils’ better art work and with framed photos of the school’s sports teams, I could sense Mum and Mrs Baxter assessing each other. I hoped that their common ground – their dress, their composure – could form the basis for an affinity that would work in my favour and yet I feared that they might unwittingly compete with each other, and that Mrs Baxter would take it out on me.
Mrs Baxter removed the papers from the armchair and sat down; now she leant forward, legs crossed at the ankles and one elbow on a chair arm, and gave the appearance of studying us above her glasses. I was conscious that I hadn’t sat between my parents on a sofa in years.
Mrs Baxter cleared her throat and stretched her lips in facsimile of a smile. Her large, quite uncluttered desk behind her spoke of authority, order and confidence. When she spoke it was quietly but distinctly and determinedly.
‘Thank you for meeting me,’ she began. ‘There are two issues that I’d like to discuss with you. The first is Sharon’s academic performance. As you no doubt know, Sharon once had an exemplary academic record and was at the top of the class or very near it in every subject. Over the last three to four years, however, the quality of her work has declined such that it has failed to keep up, with both that produced by her peer group and her earlier high standards. I assume that none of this is news to you. My concern, now, is to arrest this degradation in performance before Sharon reaches a stage from which there is no return, academically speaking. I should say at this point that Sharon remains in some respects the model pupil she once was – her extracurricular contribution to school life, particularly in the areas of sport and of the performance arts, remains second to none – and that her popularity – well, that is something I will revert to. But we must discuss the question of Sharon’s academic performance with some urgency. We need to either determine a course of action that will get her studying and working hard again, or agree that this school is no longer best suited to her if, for example, she seeks a career in sport or in acting. Sharon, is there anything you’d like to say?’
There was so much I wanted to say. Instead, I said, ‘No,’ before adding meekly, ‘I’m doing okay in maths and English.’
Mrs Baxter looked from Mum, who sat motionless, to Dad, who struggled to extricate himself from the corner of the sofa and then, surrendering to its depths, mumbled, ‘We hear you, we hear you.’
Mrs Baxter placed her folded glasses on the coffee table and asked, ‘May I speak plainly?’
Dad said that of course she could.
‘We don’t want to lose Sharon. But I don’t think the school can do this alone.’ Mrs Baxter inhaled deeply and licked her lips, as though what she was about to say would be said at great cost to her. ‘It is not uncommon for children whose parents have either divorced or separated to suffer a prolonged period of either behavioural problems or academic underperformance at school. In fact, I would say that at least one of these is to be expected and happens in the majority of cases.’
Mum stiffened.
Mrs Baxter softened. ‘I’ve seen it all, you know. Children blaming themselves. Or punishing their parents. Or just wanting attention. Some attention, no matter if it’s a scolding, is better than no attention at all, better than neglect and indifference when a parent’s mind is understandably elsewhere.’ She picked up her glasses and fiddled with them. ‘Sharon sits her O levels next term. It would be useful to know what her ambitions are and what yours for her are.’
With that, she sat back in her armchair and pulled her skirt over her knees; clearly, it was our turn.
Mrs Baxter had been right: my marks had declined steadily and, truth to tell, I hadn’t cared and still didn’t. I had realised, when I was younger, that I did well because I was intelligent, and I knew, now, that intelligence without application would only get me so far; but I didn’t care enough. Besides, good marks in class did little for me other than to produce a brief pulsing glow that was nothing compared to the acclaim of leading a victorious hockey team off the pitch or to the flush of taking a bow, curtain call after curtain call, as my peers clapped and whistled. And then there were boys who, funnily enough, reciprocated by noticing me at around the same time that I had started noticing them. At s
ome point, with no one in my family besides Aunt Wanda realising, I had grown from girl- to womanhood. When Mum wasn’t working, she was running. Sherah was always with her friends. Dad and Seamus were doing their own thing, sometimes together, but, anyway, they were blokes and there were some things I’d never discuss with my father or my younger brother. Wanda, though, was different, in that she noticed everything. ‘Look at you!’ she’d say when I stopped by to visit, and she’d hold her arms to mine or have me stand with my back to hers or against the door jamb so she could measure me and, on one occasion after a school play after she had driven me home and I was having my first period, she hugged me close for longer than usual and, holding me at arms’ length, said, ‘Congratulations!’ mischievously, conspiratorially, as though we were now members of the same club. Over the months that had followed I had looked at my arms and legs and my hips and breasts in wonder as they had grown and acquired tone, shape, delineation; and I had noticed boys looking too and, I had had to admit, I had liked being noticed.
Mum and Dad wrestled their ways to the front of the sofa.
Mum said, ‘It would have been very helpful to have received advance notice of what this meeting was going to be about.’
Dad raised his hands and allowed them to flop down, wrists on knees, and said, ‘No, the truth is that we have never discussed Sharon’s future with her. We kind of, well, let our children decide their own futures. Instead of deciding for them,’ he added.
Mum said, ‘If I had known that this was to be a counselling session, I would have come better prepared.’
Mrs Baxter said, ‘Come now, Mrs Truss. Remember, this is about Sharon and what’s best for her; it’s not about us.’
Dad said, ‘Of course, of course. Sharon, any thoughts?’
Mum said, ‘Mrs Baxter, are you saying that Sharon has failed to perform to the best of her ability or that she has lost all ability? Are you saying that she has underperformed because her father and I have separated or because we are – what were the words you used? – neglectful and indifferent to her?’
Mrs Baxter said, ‘No.’
Dad said to Mum, ‘Of course she’s not saying that,’ and, to me, ‘Come on, Sharon, what do you have to say?’
The sun had set on the curtainless study. Dad, Mum and I sat in one pool of yellow light and Mrs Baxter in another while a green Anglepoise desk lamp lit the green baize of Mrs Baxter’s mahogany desk. I thought of spectators at an evening hockey match on an Astroturf pitch, quiet in anticipation of the teams’ appearing. I thought of a play in which the actors have forgotten their lines or their cue for their move into the spotlight. How I preferred sports and theatre to life! I received instruction and knew what my roles and lines were. What I did or said were someone else’s decision and responsibility. If necessary, I could execute a reverse stick pass or ad lib in context. Squeezed between my parents and in the depths of a hideously uncomfortable sofa in a meeting that was all about me, I could think of many things I wanted to say but nothing that I wanted Mrs Baxter and my parents to hear.
Mrs Baxter blinked first: rattled by Mum’s hostility, she raised her cup to her lips and replaced it, embarrassed to have found it empty.
Mum said, ‘You had two issues to discuss with us. I presume the first was my daughter’s work and the second her relationship with her parents. Is there anything else?’
‘That wasn’t the second issue,’ said Mrs Baxter defensively. ‘I am sorry to have been misunderstood. It may have a bearing on the second, though,’ she added hesitantly.
‘Which is?’ asked Mum.
Mrs Baxter cleared her throat. ‘You will have noticed that Sharon’s form tutor is absent, although you might have well expected him to be present given the subject of our discussion just now. The reason is that, well, the subject I’m going to raise next is, well, that little bit more delicate.’ Mrs Baxter tugged at her skirt. I admired her for not shirking what was obviously difficult for her. She continued, ‘I mentioned Sharon’s popularity earlier. Popularity is a good thing. Sharon has friends, which is good, of both sexes, which is even better, and retains her popularity despite not belonging to a clique or a gang, which I consider admirable.’
I could hear Mum and Dad either side of me thinking, ‘Get on with it!’ But not me. I knew what was coming.
As though hearing Mum and Dad too, Mrs Baxter said directly, ‘The second issue for discussion is the one of Sharon’s promiscuity.’
There. It was out there. The temperature either side of me dropped appreciably.
Mrs Baxter recovered the composure Mum and Dad at that moment lost. ‘I must say two things here,’ she said. ‘The first is that we are in no way passing moral judgment on Sharon. We are concerned for her physical and mental wellbeing. That’s all. The second is that we should bear in mind that Sharon’s behaviour is of itself not unusual or abnormal but that the extent of it is, well, let’s say, at the extreme end of observed behaviours.’
‘How exactly does her parents’ separation have a bearing on this?’ asked Mum very, very quietly, at the same time that Dad asked quite loudly, ‘Behaviour? What kind of behaviour exactly? I mean, exactly what are we talking about here?’ And he looked from my headmistress to me and back again to her.
I sat, centre stage, the main protagonist of a play in which I had the fewest lines.
Mrs Baxter chose to ignore Mum, if she had indeed heard her, and replied to Dad’s question while meeting his perplexed stare confidently. ‘In the sex education classes we give, we stress not just the mechanics of the reproductive system but the social and emotional consequences of sexual relations. We make it clear that what is done cannot be undone, that reputations once lost cannot be easily regained and that girls and boys have choice; that girls can say, No.’
There was no reaction from Mum or Dad.
‘Look.’ Mrs Baxter leant forward, elbows on knees and hands clutching her glasses. ‘I know it’s not what you want to hear and, I must repeat, this is not a reprimand. It’s just that I felt I had to act,’ she added almost apologetically and, after a moment’s thought, as if by way of explanation, ‘You’ve heard of the euphemism, the village bike?’ She winced as she spoke. ‘There was graffiti in the boys’ toilet about Sharon being the school bike, amongst other things, until we had it removed.’
That was news to me. To my surprise, I found I didn’t mind.
My parents didn’t move.
‘When Sharon turns 16, which she will very soon, it becomes potentially more difficult for us – for you – to have certain conversations with her, the school and doctors – about contraception, for example. I would like the comfort of knowing that these conversations have been had. Again, sexual experimentation is only to be expected in adolescence, but I believe that Sharon is taking it to an extreme that hints at a deeper pathology, or a cry for help, or a need to be noticed.’
‘By her parents? Is that what you mean?’ asked Mum in a small, steely voice.
Mrs Baxter sat back. ‘Mrs Truss, believe me, we are not or should not be enemies. I’ve seen enough children and families to understand the complexities of family relationships, particularly when there are teenagers concerned.’
‘What you’re saying,’ said my deflated and dejected dad, ‘is that my daughter is a –’
‘No,’ interjected Mrs Baxter. ‘I’m not saying that at all. I object to girls who are sexually active being assigned one label – typically, a nefarious, shameful one – while boys who are the same are assigned another typically commendable or estimable one. I am saying that the school has a duty to bring such activity to the parents’ attention, particularly in the case of a minor.’
‘I remember when I was Sharon’s age,’ said Mum. I didn’t think any of us were expecting that from her.
‘So do I,’ said Dad.
‘So do I,’ said Mrs Baxter, and in that moment I sensed a bridge had been built between Mum and her.
Mrs Baxter stood and walked to the light switch by the door.
The cold overhead light came on, converting us from players to spectators instantaneously.
‘Can I say something, please?’ I asked. It bothered me that my voice came out so thin and young when I was suddenly so certain about what I wanted to say. ‘I’m sorry to have been the cause of so much trouble.’
Mrs Baxter came and stood by the coffee table, hands clasped, and Mum and Dad twisted around to better look at me. They looked drawn, tired in the white light.
‘I would like to say I’ll work harder, but I’m not sure that I will. The thing is I like the maths and numbers – I love numbers and I love the plays we do in English, and words on their own I kind of like more than I used to, but everything else, well… None of it really interests me. It’s like all this information is floating by but there’s nothing for it to catch onto. I’d love not to disappoint everyone but the truth is that I’d just rather not be in a classroom.’ I experienced the delicious sensation of discovering what I meant as I said it. It was as though I had to speak in order to discover what I thought. So I continued, ‘About the other thing. What can I say? I mean, like you said,’ I said, looking at Mrs Baxter, ‘it can’t be one rule for them and one rule for us. The thing is, I don’t like saying no.’ I lowered my eyes. ‘I mean, I don’t say yes to everyone and everything,’ I added hurriedly. I paused to reflect. ‘The thing is, I like to please. But now I haven’t pleased you and I hope… I hope you’re not ashamed of me.’ Shame only crossed my mind as I spoke and I saw myself through others’ eyes and not just as a friendly girl who liked to please. I buried my face in Mum’s armpit. She placed her free hand on my shoulder and Dad patted me on the arm and stood.
