by Sam Hayes
‘I’ll pass,’ Laura said, sending the waiter away. She quickly drank the remainder of her wine. ‘You’ll have to let me in on your secret.’ Laura gave a warped grin and banged down her glass. For the first time ever, Nina detected bitterness. ‘Being so happy and all that. How do you do it? Is it something in the water down your street?’
‘No, I think it’s—’
‘Nina, I wasn’t being serious. But let’s be realistic here. Your perfect marriage is probably as much a burden to you as my shit one is to me.’
‘What do you mean?’ Nina stiffened. Her friend had had too much to drink.
‘Well, think about it. When things turn sour, you’ve got further to fall than me, hon. That’s all I’m saying.’ Laura stood and went to fetch her coat.
The waiter slipped the bill in front of Nina and hovered beside the table until she paid. Shaken, Nina joined her friend in the street. Laura was leaning against a lamp post, smoking a cigarette.
‘I’ve never thought of it like that before,’ Nina said, removing the cigarette from between Laura’s fingers, thinking about how far she had to fall.
CHAPTER 8
A few days into term and a stomach bug sweeps the school. Sick bay is full and first period after break I’m sent to fetch another fallen pupil. ‘Frankie, would you collect Lexi from the IT room? She’s got the wretched cramps.’ Matron jots down a girl’s temperature reading. ‘Another one down.’
I pause a moment, soaking up Matron’s strength and resilience. She is the type of woman to hold fast; to grow older yet stay the same. I imagine she’s been a matron most of her life.
‘No problem.’ I wash my hands. I’ve just changed yet another set of messed bedsheets. ‘Poor little lambs,’ I whisper as I wind along the corridors. I’ve not been to the IT room yet, although I’ve seen where it is.
A brilliant light shines out through the square of netted glass in the door, making me screw up my eyes. I enter and the glow and low-pitched hum and warm dry air of a dozen computer fans swallows me up.
‘Another one,’ I whisper to myself. The pupils turn, shuffle and giggle. ‘Another one ill.’ A scraping chair switches my senses back on. ‘Matron told me that Lexi is unwell,’ I say to the teacher.
He points to a girl sitting in the corner with her head tilted over a metal waste bin. ‘Please, take her.’ He is annoyed that his class has been disrupted.
I weave between the desks. ‘Come on, Lexi.’ I scoop her up under the armpits. ‘Let’s get you into bed.’ Lexi leans on me as I lead her from the class. We’re bathed in an eerie light from the wide crescent of computers.
‘Back to work,’ the teacher says loudly.
The girls quieten down and face their screens. It’s as I’m guiding Lexi behind the bank of monitors that I catch sight of something that makes me freeze for a second; something that makes me study the two girls hunched and giggling over their computer so I can remember their faces for later – blue hairband, dental brace, long blond hair. I guide Lexi back to Matron with the image on the monitor emblazoned in my mind.
My arms are piled with laundry and my face is pressed into the scent of washing detergent. I am exhausted. With luck, he won’t even see who is behind the stack of sheets; with luck he’ll step out of the doorway and let me pass. But when I peer round the side of my load, I see that Adam is fixed firmly inside the doorway, deep in conversation with several of the older girls. He’s clutching his laptop, gesturing with his free hand. He is completely blocking my way.
‘Excuse me,’ I say. My elbows begin to sag under the weight of the sheets. ‘Can I get through?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I hear one of the girls say. ‘Anything you say, sir.’ And then the peal of familiar teenage giggles. ‘Anything for you, sir.’
‘Could I just . . .’ I feel like a character from a comedy movie. Any second my stack of washing will end up on the floor and a stampede of schoolgirls with muddy hockey boots will trample all over it.
‘When, sir? When would you like us to do that for you?’ More giggles. I approach the doorway, eyeing the long length of the corridor beyond. I grit my teeth.
‘That’s enough!’ Adam’s raised voice cuts through the laundry. Then I’m knocked for six, shoved against the wall as he storms off.
‘Hey!’ I cry, but Adam is gone, striding off through the school, clearly angered by whatever has just taken place.
As predicted, most of my laundry lies scattered on the floor, but no muddy stampede arrives, and nor does Adam turn back to apologise or help me gather the sheets. When I look up, the girls are gone. It’s all I can do to stop myself curling up in the soft mess and falling into an exhausted sleep.
‘Can’t you just give me a tablet or something?’
I’m pairing socks while pretending not to listen. It’s a thankless task. Tomorrow they’ll all be back in my basket again. But it’s a good way to learn the names of faceless girls, perhaps take a guess at their age by the size of their feet. I imagine their mothers stitching on the name labels.
‘Sorry,’ Matron replies, shaking her head. ‘I’ll need to examine you.’
‘It’s just a sore throat. A bit of stomach ache.’
My eyes flick from my task, across the five metal beds that writhe with ill, sweaty girls, to where Adam towers over Sylvia in the next room. Hours later, he’s still clutching the laptop. And he still hasn’t apologised.
‘Mr Kingsley, there’s a very nasty bug going around this school. The doctor is on his way to examine the sickest girls. If too many of our staff fall ill, then the school may face closure. Now, if you wish to have some medication then please allow me to run a few basic checks.’
I glance up again. Nine odd socks so far. Adam is a tall, strong man. This afternoon his shoulders are angled forward, and his lean neck is struggling to keep his head from wilting. Some of his hair is stuck to his forehead in bronze strips. He doesn’t look at all well as he grudgingly nods defeat to Matron. She leads him into a private room and I return my full attention to the basket of navy blue socks.
Ten minutes later, Sylvia emerges again. She stops at a couple of beds, checking on the patients, before walking by me and my growing pile of balled socks.
‘It’s never-ending,’ she says with a sigh and a smile. She’s the sort of woman who thrives on a crisis.
‘Do you need any help?’
Sylvia rummages in the storeroom. ‘Ah, found it,’ she calls out, not hearing me. She emerges holding a brown bottle. ‘Poor Adam. He won’t like being laid up with this bug, especially not now.’
‘Oh?’ I say.
‘When he’s not teaching, he’s obsessed with his research.’ Sylvia vigorously shakes the bottle. Sludgy liquid turns frothy before separating again. ‘He’s writing a book.’ She squints at the label. ‘I’m not sure how old this is,’ she says. ‘But he’s told me to make him better no matter what.’ She grins. ‘That’s how desperate he is not to fall ill.’ She pulls a face at the medicine, which looks as if it’s from the nineteen seventies. ‘Tough types, these Australians.’ She walks off laughing, shaking the medicine as if it’s a maraca.
Australian, I think. He said he was from the south, like me. Twelve thousand miles further south.
I take another handful of socks from the basket. I am doing my best to appear polite yet reserved with the other staff. No one has dug too deep into my life yet.
‘He’s not at all well.’ Matron glides past me again. This time she is shaking down a thermometer; pursing her lips. Then Adam emerges from the consulting room. He has mushroom-coloured circles under his eyes and his mouth stands out like a bruise on his pale face.
‘Oh dear,’ I say, completely unable to prevent the comment.
‘Oh dear indeed,’ he replies solemnly. ‘I need to call for a sub. I have three history classes this afternoon,’ he says to Sylvia. ‘Can you help?’
‘Leave it to me. Just get back to your room and rest.’ Then there’s a wail from one of the girls in bed and
Matron rushes over with a bucket. ‘Help Adam back to his room, will you, Frankie?’ she calls out. ‘I don’t want him passing out alone.’ Matron strokes the girl’s head. I glance at Adam and then at my pile of socks.
‘Really, there’s no need. Carry on with your . . . socks.’ With his accent, it almost sounds humorous, but when I see his face, I can tell it isn’t. ‘Look, I’m sorry about earlier,’ he continues. ‘I would have stopped to help you pick up but—’
‘It’s fine, honestly. It was just a pile of sheets.’ I wish I hadn’t interrupted him. I am curious to know what was said between him and the girls.
‘I really didn’t mean to be rude,’ he adds, shuffling out of sick bay. As instructed by Matron, I escort him back to his room. ‘You don’t need to . . .’ He stops and stares at me, too weak to argue. ‘This way then.’
‘So you’re an Aussie. Which part are you from?’ I wonder if I should take his arm to help support him.
‘Who says I’m Australian?’ A diluted version of the grin that I’m becoming familiar with appears on his ill-looking face.
‘Sylvia did.’ I swear the corridors in this place tangle and change overnight to confuse me. One dark passage gives way to another. One knotted with the next. ‘Which way?’ I ask when we are faced with a fork. Adam nods towards the left.
‘I’m as English as you are,’ he says. His voice is flat, as if all his concentration is being used just to stand up. I feel sorry for him. He doesn’t look well at all. We go up another staircase and he leans on the rail, sucking in breath as if it’s his last.
‘You don’t sound English,’ I add.
He puffs syllables between gasps. ‘We don’t all necessarily sound like what we really are,’ he replies. Sweat beads on his face. He takes a bunch of keys from his pocket. ‘This is my room.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I guess we don’t.’ I turn to go. ‘I hope you feel better soon.’ I walk off down the corridor.
‘Murwillumbah, if you’re that interested,’ he calls out after me. ‘I lived there long enough to get a twang.’
‘Mur-what?’ I don’t turn round. I force myself to consider the danger of making friends, the slip-ups, the gradual leakage of information, the jigsaw puzzle that is me. I can’t allow myself to get drawn in.
‘Some place in Australia that grows bananas,’ he says. Then I hear the click of his door and Adam is gone. I hurry away, once again lost in the maze of corridors.
CHAPTER 9
Nina had never been good with heights. The ladder wobbled. She grabbed the wooden rail and a splinter pierced her finger. ‘Ouch! I can’t quite . . .’ She sucked away the blood. ‘. . . reach,’ she said, trying to slide the dusty box off the shelf.
‘You haven’t climbed high enough. Get down and let me have a go.’ The stagehand standing below, a pleasant girl not long out of college, reminded Nina of herself a couple of decades or so ago – reckless and determined to succeed.
Nina’s legs shook as she slowly climbed down each of the rungs. She felt giddy as she stepped back on to the floor. ‘Sorry,’ she said, shrugging away her obvious fear. ‘I thought I’d overcome my phobia.’ Nina swallowed, and choked trying to laugh away her embarrassment. ‘But in actual fact, it’s got worse . . .’
‘Hey, stand aside.’ Petra grinned. Spritely and lithe, she shinned up the ladder like a teenage boy. Her hair was cropped short and her skin was clear and free from makeup. Nina had wanted to try out a new blusher between scene rehearsals and asked Petra to be a model. She’d flatly refused, claiming the only thing ever to go on her skin was water and organic olive oil.
‘Be careful,’ Nina said, staring up at the girl’s trainers balanced on the thin rung. ‘I can’t afford for you to hurt yourself. I need you to help me with the chorus change. That soot’s a nightmare to get off between scenes.’ Nina was trying to joke but couldn’t help trembling as Petra leaned over to reach the box.
‘Got it,’ Petra announced and was swiftly on the floor again beside Nina. Nina let out the breath she’d been unconsciously holding. ‘You really do have a problem, don’t you?’
Nina shrugged, suddenly feeling rather old in the girl’s company. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I’ve been up higher than that before.’ She pulled a silly face.
Petra smiled and tapped the lid of the box. Dust rose and swirled in the shaft of light that entered the small storeroom through the tiny window at the back. The Victorian theatre was familiar territory for Nina – she’d worked on many productions there over the years – hence everyone asking her where various props were stored. And in a couple of weeks’ time, Josie would begin rehearsals there for the youth group’s production of Chicago. She’d landed the lead role of Roxie Hart, beating dozens of other hopefuls in the auditions – a dream come true for Josie. Nina was so proud of her daughter. She came alive on stage, as if stepping into character relieved her of all her teenage troubles.
‘Perfect,’ Petra said, after peering inside the box. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think you deserve one for fetching them down from up there.’ Nina smiled and held up a couple of the tarnished medals. ‘They’re just what our soldiers need. How’s your sewing?’
‘About as good as your fondness for heights.’ Petra patted Nina’s shoulder playfully, and the two women left the storeroom.
‘See you at lunchtime,’ Nina said. She headed off back to the dressing rooms, knowing they’d be empty. The cast had been called by the production team for a meeting on stage, giving Nina the ideal opportunity to experiment with a new type of quick-preparation wound for the war scene. During the play, she had exactly twelve minutes to massacre the faces and arms of three lead characters and wasn’t sure exactly how she would pull it off. Live theatre was always a challenge, but she loved the buzz and the pressure.
Nina went back to the smaller dressing room, and, just as she was about to enter, she thought she saw someone disappear down the passage leading up to the stage. ‘Hello?’ she called out, wondering if one of the cast needed her. She shrugged when there was no reply.
She went on into the room where she’d left her holdall and make-up cases. She always packed up and took them home at night, having learned the hard way over the years that absent-minded actors often helped themselves to her stock and usually forgot to return it. The products were too expensive to keep replacing.
‘Odd,’ Nina said, feeling for the light switch along the wall. It was pitch black in the windowless room. ‘No one ever turns lights off around here.’ She assumed the production manager was having a clampdown on expenses. Running a company was a tough business these days and making a profit was hard. ‘Probably what the meeting’s about,’ she said to herself.
Her fingers found the switch and she clicked it on. At first, Nina didn’t notice the mess. Actors weren’t known for their tidiness and with quick changes between scenes, they relied on the assistants to sort out the costumes. Clearly the meeting had been called in a rush because not much of the floor was visible. Hanging rails bore empty hangers and most surfaces were strewn with clothing. Nina sighed.
‘Well, I’m not tidying—’
Then she saw her special effects case on the shelf below the spotlit mirror. She frowned. ‘What the hell . . .’ Anger swept over her. ‘I just don’t believe this.’ Foundation, pots of fake blood, packets of scabs and wound wax – everything had been tipped out of her bag.
This stuff is expensive, she thought. I can’t have anyone just helping themselves. She froze again. Reflected behind her, Nina saw the contents of her other make-up cases tipped out all over the floor. Her usually neat and organised corner of the dressing room had been upturned into mayhem. ‘Oh no,’ she cried. ‘Who’s done this?’
Nina crouched down amongst the tubes and tubs of theatrical make-up and brushes. She began to scoop them up but stopped. She wondered, fleetingly, if someone had broken in. She continued shovelling her belongings back into the bag. Thankfully, nothing seemed to be missing. Why would an
yone make such a mess of her stuff? Did someone in the theatre have a grudge against her?
She thought hard, suddenly recalling the temper tantrum that Rosalind had let rip last week when the director insisted she wear the grey wig – a suggestion made by Nina earlier during rehearsal. Vain Rosalind, not known for her quiet temperament, had gone out of her way to make the entire day miserable for Nina.
Rosalind. Nina shook her head at the woman’s childish behaviour. She would have a word with the producer later.
‘I just wanted to ask you if you knew where . . . Good heavens, what a mess.’ Petra stood in the doorway.
‘It must have happened while we were in the storeroom. What a nightmare.’ Nina’s voice shook and her mind raced. She was angry. ‘Someone here clearly doesn’t like me.’ She didn’t name names.
‘Are you sure the mess was deliberate?’ Petra winked. ‘You know what these thespian types are like. Just plain messy buggers.’
‘No. No, I clearly remember it being tidy when I left.’ She bent down and picked up a nineteen-forties dress. ‘How can anyone be so thoughtless?’ Nina stood, wondering what she would say to Rosalind next time she saw her.
Then, distracted by the predicted stampede off stage, Nina returned to her work. During the course of the day, she gradually tidied up. It was only as she was packing up for the night that vague thoughts began to stir.
‘What would you do,’ Nina began, ‘if Tom found out that you . . .’ She trailed off, unsure how to explain exactly what she meant. ‘Well, if Tom discovered that . . .’ Again, words failed her. She sighed and sloshed boiling water on to coffee granules. After the day she’d had, what she really wanted was a stiff drink.
‘For heaven’s sake, Nina, spit it out.’ Laura opened the refrigerator and took out the milk. Something was up. Nina never usually called round on the way home from work. ‘So? If Tom found out what?’ Laura snorted out a half laugh. ‘Tom wouldn’t notice if I was nailed naked to the kitchen table with another man sprawled on top of me.’
