by Gemma Fox
‘People brought alarm clocks?’ said Carol incredulously, trying to ignore the nasty taste in her mouth and Diana’s nasty taste in nightwear.
Diana nodded. ‘Absolutely. Well, I’m sure there must be some people who did, people who are well organised. I heard at least two yesterday morning.’
‘People who are anally retentive and much in need of psychiatric help,’ moaned Carol, pulling the bedclothes up over her head to cut out the sunlight. It was so nice to be back in the dark. She rolled over.
‘Very possibly but apparently even the anally retentive couldn’t get it together last night because none of them seems to have gone off.’
Carol didn’t ask whether she meant the people or the clocks.
‘Anyway, if you remember, we’re late.’
‘Late?’
‘That’s right,’ said Diana. ‘The alarm clock didn’t go off.’
‘So you said. Exactly how late are we?’
‘Ten minutes past breakfast and counting. You have to get up. They do this re ally big fryup on a Sunday. It’s a traditional thing. It’s lovely. All freshly cooked and locally grown.’
Carol’s stomach did a nasty little lurching two-step fandango of complaint. ‘I’m not re ally up to breakfast,’ she said, swallowing hard.
‘Oh, of course you are, don’t be so silly. I think you should make the effort. It’s going to be a long day and besides, they do great bacon and eggs here.’
‘Bugger off,’ Carol growled.
Diana laughed. ‘Baked beans, big juicy sausage, fried slice, nice black pudding…’
‘You are a complete and utter cow,’ said Carol, admitting defeat and throwing the bedcovers back. ‘How come you aren’t all horribly hung over and haggard this morning? I feel like shit.’
Diana shrugged. ‘I don’t know why re ally, maybe it’s living a wholesome life and having the constitution of an ox. I feel great, although I have to say you don’t look exactly a hundred per cent,’ she added philosophically.
Carol groaned and crawled to the edge of the bunk. Not looking a hundred per cent was a very loose-knit and benign description for the hangover from hell.
She closed her eyes, lay belly down on the thin mattress and swung her legs over the side. Carol paused, every muscle straining. It was a long drop down to the carpet and one she re ally needed to brace herself for.
The first thing Carol noticed when she was safely on the floor was that the bedroom window was now wide open and that down the grey beary wall and across the nasty yellow carpet was a trail of muddy footprints, which led rather pointedly to Fiona’s bed, alongside which was a pair of grass-covered, earth-spattered slippers. Tucked up in bed, Fiona was still sound asleep under her padded purple blackout mask.
Adie—looking all tousled and lovely in his black silk jim-jams, followed Carol’s gaze. ‘Before you ask, Madam managed to get herself locked out last night somehow, apparently. There she was in the wee small hours wailing like a banshee and banging on the window, all frantic and fussed and damp, said she had one of her heads and couldn’t sleep. I’m surprised that you didn’t hear her. She made enough bloody row to wake the dead.’
Carol made an effort to sift through the rather fragmented memories of the previous night and kept coming up with the same picture. Fiona and a man, meeting in the moonlight. But then again maybe she had imagined it? Maybe she heard Fiona’s voice in her sleep and dreamed the whole thing. It occurred to Carol that she genuinely didn’t know whether it had been a dream or not.
‘Was she on her own?’ Carol asked.
Adie nodded. ‘Well, she was when she was banging on the window, why?’
Carol shook her head and then instantly regretted it. Something that had to be her brain had broken loose and was rolling around inside her skull like a giant spiky stainless-steel marble.
‘Do you think we ought to wake her up? It’s going to be a long day. It would be a shame for Fiona to miss breakfast, although she looks so lovely and peaceful lying there, doesn’t she?’ said Diana, without an iota of sarcasm. By the window Fiona was lying on her back, mask on, curlers in, with her mouth open, snoring softly, a thin trail of drool running down over her cheek, tethering her to the pillow. Carol was glad that she was the one who was awake and not the one being watched. Fiona snorted and rolled over.
‘Yeah, you’re right. I think we should wake her up. It wouldn’t be the same without her, would it?’ Adie said, in an almost identical tone.
Carol thought about it for a moment or two. What would Snow White be without the evil stepmother, or Cinderella without an ugly sister or two? Grudgingly Carol realised that he was right. Fiona did add a certain indefinable something to the proceedings.
And then Adie grinned. ‘Mind you, I’m not waking her up. She was a complete cow yesterday when she came to and found no one had laid on a tray with a pot of Earl Grey and hot buttered toast for her. Apparently Mummy would have been horrified.’ And with that he got up, picked up his wash bag and robe and headed out towards the boys’ dormitory.
‘Well, thanks a bunch,’ Diana called after his retreating back, rolling up her sleeves manfully.
He grinned. ‘You already owe me one.’ Adie tapped the side of his nose. ‘Don’t ask any questions, just grab a woman and follow me, remember?’
Diana reddened furiously.
Carol stared at her. ‘What was that about?’
‘Nothing important. It’s a conga thing,’ said Diana, sounding huffy.
Carol shook her head. ‘Sorry I asked.’
Adie had no sooner gone than Jan appeared from the girls’ bathroom, all washed and dressed, her hair brushed, makeup done, all buffed, puffed and ready for the off. She looked great—better than great; she looked stunning.
Carol groaned. ‘What is it with you lot? Did you take some sort of magic potion first thing or was I the only one drinking last night?’
Jan smiled beatifically. ‘No, not at all,’ she said. ‘I got totally hammered.’
Carol stared at her; something had changed. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes, of course I’m OK. I just said I was,’ she snapped. ‘There’s just no pleasing some people. You’re awful, Carol. You were horrible to me when I felt down in the dumps and now you’re doing the same thing when I’m feeling better.’
‘No, no, I’m not,’ Carol protested, and then she hesitated for an instant. ‘Oh, all right, so maybe I am, but I’m glad that you’re happier. You seemed so sad last night.’ There was no easy way to say this. ‘I’m just surprised, that’s all. It seemed kind of insoluble—you know, the thing we were talking about.’ She hedged around, waiting to see Jan’s reaction.
Jan’s happy face didn’t falter for an instant. ‘Well, there’s no need to be surprised. Adie and I had a re ally long talk last night. We sorted lots of things out. It’s stuff we’ve talked about before—but never quite came to any firm decision. Until now.’ The smile still held. Carol stared at her while trying to figure out what the hell Adie could have said that had cured goodness only knew how many years of pain, rejection and love without hope.
‘That’s nice, I’m glad,’ she said cautiously.
Jan carried on smiling. ‘Yes, me too. And relieved as well, and we’ve made some concrete plans for the future. Finally.’
Carol stared at her. ‘Finally? The future? Your future?’
Jan nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘But he’s gay, Jan,’ Carol protested in a low voice. ‘You’re not going to convert him.’
Jan laughed. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, I do know that; I don’t need to be told. But I love him very much and I think I always will. And I realised—well, we both realised—that we’ve always loved each other, it’s just not in the usual boy-girl sort of way. The Greeks probably had a word for it.’
Carol stared at her, trying not to let her brain go galloping off to try to work out what sort of way that might mean. ‘Which leaves you and Adie where exactly?’
Jan waved her away. ‘I’ll tell you later. Go and have a shower. You look absolutely terrible.’
‘How kind of you to notice,’ Carol growled, dragging on her dressing gown.
She tiptoed past the still sleeping Fiona and headed into the bathroom. Dog-eared and bleary-eyed she stared grimly into the mirror above the sink; Jan was bang on. It was going to take a lot of heavy-duty moisturising and concealer stick to make those bags come good.
When Carol finally got downstairs most of the frying was over; just the smell lingered like a great greasy veil, taking her backwards and forwards between nausea and hunger.
Gareth wasn’t at breakfast, which was a blessing. Hopefully her face would have decrinkled after a couple of glasses of water, a few mugs of tea and a slice or two of cold bald bare toast, which was all her stomach was prepared to agree to.
Upstairs Callista Haze woke with a start, wondering where on earth she was. Morning sun was streaming in through the window and she had the most terrible headache. She winced and closed her eyes, trying to think back to the night before. And then Callista heard a noise. It was the noise of someone whistling cheerily, followed by sounds of someone making tea.
Making tea? Callista stiffened; she knew exactly where she was now and what that sound was. It was George Bearman making tea, and he was making it for both of them.
Callista groaned and buried her head in the pillow. It was important that she kept her eyes shut and aped sleep for as long as possible. Maybe George would take the hint, do the gentlemanly thing and head downstairs for breakfast whilst she made a discreet exit.
This was not how things were supposed to have turned out. A little nightcap—that’s what George had said as they had climbed the bloody wooden hill to Bedfordshire. Just a nip or two of brandy, a toast to things past and his glorious untried future, and out there on the landing she had finally agreed, suckered in by his hangdog expression and some last remnants of guilt.
After all, it was their last night together. Had he said that or had she? The likelihood was that they would never ever see each other again. Bloody man. She should have known better.
Once they were in his room, George had switched on the electric fire and the bedside lamp, suggested she would be more comfortable on the narrow bed, sitting with her back against the wall. While she got cosy he had found her a glass and poured them a hefty measure of brandy each.
Callista vaguely recalled George moving a little closer and then closer still, remembered him slipping his arm around her shoulders, and then all of a sudden she had looked up at him and wondered why it was exactly that she was resisting him all weekend.
She screwed her eyes tight shut against the memory. Not that it did much good. It was all there in her mind.
They went back a long way after all—was what he had said. Her and George. Oh God, yes, a long long way—and then he had kissed her. And when she hadn’t protested he had kissed her some more and with that her resolve had vanished, not—it had to be said, all at once. But over quite a lot more brandy and considerably more conversation—the gist of which now escaped her—Callista began to remember why it was she had been so attracted to George Bearman in the first place. She winced as the images flooded back in glorious Technicolor. Oh yes, they were all there, not terribly pretty but very graphic.
Damn, damn, damn.
‘Here we are, my dear,’ George said.
She peered at him over the rim of the duvet.
‘Tea, milk, no sugar—strong, warm but not bitter. Rather like you, eh?’ George said with a wry grin.
Callista smiled weakly at his joke, for once her demeanour at odds with her tea. She sat up, making sure that their eyes didn’t quite meet and ensuring that she pulled the bedclothes right up to her neck. He had pale blue paisley pyjama bottoms on and a baggy grey T-shirt that, oddly enough, was quite sexy. Damn him.
‘George,’ Callista began hastily, in case he thought a rematch might be in order. ‘About last night—’
George waved her into silence. ‘It’s all right, I know,’ he said, slipping back alongside her in the narrow institutional single bed. Never was a bed more constructed to dissuade a body from lewd thoughts. It was almost perverse in its austerity. Callista tried very hard not to let any part of her sleep-warmed body touch his, but it was impossible.
He handed her a cup of tea. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’ she said quizzically.
‘Yes, sorry. I realise now that I should have listened to you. You were absolutely right. All those years I’ve clung on to a dream, an unreality. It was quite obviously ridiculous and last night proved it to me.’
Callista reddened with embarrassment and indignation. ‘George, that re ally is the most horrible thing to say,’ she hissed through gritted teeth.
He shook his head. ‘Oh, no, no, please don’t take offence, my dear. It isn’t meant to sound in the least ungallant—quite the reverse, in fact. You truly are an extraordinarily beautiful woman and you always were, but you’re not my woman, are you? You were, however, my fantasy. At first, thinking about you and what it might be like if circumstances had turned out differently was something that sustained me in a bad marriage. And then later, as things got worse between Judy and me, that fantasy was what kept me from facing up to what was re ally going on in my life and the things that were wrong. Thoughts of you kept me sane but they also kept me where I was.
‘Last night, being with you made me realise just how very much I have missed. All those years wasted—not just for me but for Judy too. We could both have had half a lifetime with someone who loved us and who we re ally loved, if only I had been brave enough, bold enough to take that first step. I envy you your wonderful Laurence and your daughters and your dog and your little place in France, Callista, I re ally, truly do. And what makes it worse is that it could have been me you had it with.’
Callista stared up at him, tears in her eyes.
He leaned forward and kissed her very gently on the forehead. ‘You re ally are a most extraordinary woman, Callista, and that man of yours should be very proud of you.’ He smiled. ‘I was a fool to ever let you go.’
Too slow to hold it back, Callista felt a single tear roll down her cheek. ‘Oh, George,’ she said gently, ‘you re ally must get yourself sorted out and find someone to love.’
He nodded. ‘I know. Now drink your tea before it gets cold. I think we may have already missed breakfast. We’ve got so much to get through this morning. Would you like the first shower?’
Callista shook her head. ‘It’s very kind but I think it would be far better if I went back to my room.’
He nodded. ‘Would you like me to check that it’s all clear?’
She smiled. ‘Yes, I would, but first of all I’d like you to pass me my clothes.’
George smiled. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘and I promise not to look.’
‘OK, everybody, that was great. Shall we move on to the final scenes on the battlefield?’ said Mr Bearman, clapping his hands to get everyone’s attention. ‘And see if we can work the sword fight in around the dialogue. Gareth, you’ve come out through the gates of Dunsinane Castle to meet your fate. Remember part of you still believes that you are invincible—even if other things have fallen apart, surely that part of the prophecy cannot be messed with. So if you and Adrian would like to take it from where Macduff comes across Macbeth?’ He shifted to the side of the stage to make way for the two of them.
Gareth nodded. Both he and Adie were wearing cloaks and carrying swords, and they truly looked the part. Gareth was all together heavier-set, dark and swarthy. Carol noticed that he hadn’t shaved. It suited him. Meanwhile, Adie was all blond and heroic.
At the back of the stage Adie was still practising the routine he and Gareth had worked out on the lawn during tea on the previous day, cutting and thrusting and swinging, counting under his breath as he did so.
‘If I could have your attention, Adrian, please…’ said Mr B
earman. Adie nodded and headed down stage. ‘Right. If you’re ready, can we go from Macduff’s speech, “I have no words—/My voice is in my sword:”?’
There was a nod of consensus and a fraction of a second later Adie lifted his sword for the first great thrust.
‘God, this is going to be good,’ said Netty under her breath.
Carol watched them from the back of the hall, watched the two of them lunge and parry, swords swinging back and forth. It must be hard to fight and read but it seemed as if the words were still all in there, still fresh, still remembered after all these years.
Netty was right. It looked stunning. Adie pressed forward, Gareth defended and then pushed back against him. And then there was the big, big speech. Macbeth believed he was invulnerable because he had been told by the witches that he could not be killed, by anyone born of woman. There was a silent, meaty pause, a fantastic theatrical moment and then Macduff, triumphant, tells Macbeth that he, Macduff—wasn’t born but was from his mother’s womb untimely ripped.
Even after all these years Carol shivered as Adie began to speak. It was such a powerful speech and Adie was brilliant as the avenging angel. Finally Macbeth, knowing that he faces certain death, strides forward to meet his fate. Magnificent. No one could fail to be moved by the lines, the sentiment of the flawed king or Gareth’s bleak but passionate delivery. It looked and sounded amazing. In fact, so good that as the scene ended there was a great surge of spontaneous applause.
‘That was wonderful. Although I hate to try and improve the damned good, there are just one or two points. Adrian, just make sure you haven’t got your back to the audience and Gareth, if you could make sure you don’t step too far across. I want the fight to be centre stage. Let’s just run through it one more time,’ said Mr Bearman, waving them into action.
Carol sighed. Once was maybe enough for such stirring stuff. Adie stepped back to take up his starting position and as he did, stepped back onto the hem of his cloak, and just as he had done on the lawn the previous afternoon, fell over, but this time lurched sideways.
