The Classroom Page 6

  Kirsten blows out her cheeks, still regrouping.

  And then, of course, Jess phones her.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t expect you to answer,’ Jess says. ‘I was going to leave a message. Everything OK?’

  ‘Yep, fine,’ Kirsten says, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand.

  ‘Right,’ Jess says. Jess is remembering, Kirsten is sure, how she ran out of the office in a flap, past the patients in the waiting room, shouting that she had to go to her daughter’s school for an emergency. ‘Anyway, that’s good, because people are complaining up a storm here.’ Jess lowers her voice. ‘One patient is refusing to leave. Says she was guaranteed an appointment. They go on holiday tomorrow, and if she doesn’t have her coil fitted today she says she’ll sue us for the inconvenience.’

  ‘Christ’s sake, can’t she just use a condom?’ Kirsten mutters.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t quite catch that – what did you want me to tell her?’ Jess asks.

  ‘Nothing, nothing. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  ‘Good, because I’ve just seen a comment up on the website – someone complaining you’re unreliable. I mean, we’re unreliable – the practice.’

  But of course she means me, Kirsten thinks. I’m unreliable.

  The tears threaten to return.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m coming back.’

  Kirsten gathers up her things. She’ll leave a little note for the headmistress, say she’ll make an appointment – work emergency, very sorry.

  The headmistress walks in just as Kirsten is rummaging round the desk for a Post-it.

  ‘Mrs McGee, I’m going to have to run – everything’s kicking off at work, and …’

  She’s met with a stony stare.

  You don’t get it! Kirsten wants to scream. I’m just trying to be good!

  But instead, Kirsten half sits, half stands, at the chair by Mrs McGee’s desk.

  ‘Ms Robertson had some suggestions to make,’ the head says. The tone is chilly, different somehow to when they last spoke. ‘And I think they might help you out. How does a breakfast club sound to you? And some casual extra after-school lessons – to help Harriet with these behavioural issues?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Kirsten says. She wants to shout that Harriet doesn’t have behavioural issues. But the clock won’t stop ticking.

  ‘Ms Robertson also had one slightly more … controversial … suggestion. A child psychologist? She thinks psychologists can have a really powerful effect – work wonders.’

  Christ, the irony … Kirsten knows full well what wonders they can work. It’s why her sister still won’t speak to her.

  But no. This is going too far.

  ‘Tell Ms Robertson I appreciate her concern, but I don’t think we’re at that stage yet. My daughter just wanted to play with another girl’s toy. And she’s only just five. She doesn’t need a shrink.’

  ‘Research suggests—’

  But Kirsten cuts her off. ‘No, Mrs McGee. I’m sorry. I have to get back to work.’

  You can see the disappointment lines on Mrs McGee’s face – little pinches round the corners of her mouth, a special line amongst the crow’s feet round her eyes.

  Kirsten draws herself up and remembers suddenly the power of being a working mum. She knows how to pull rank.

  ‘I have emergency patients waiting for me. If there are any additional fees for these clubs, over and above what we already pay you, then of course we can pay. Now I really must go.’

  And of course, at the mention of emergency patients, of fees, Kirsten sees Mrs McGee remember Kirsten’s place in society outside these walls. That this matters too.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ the head says. ‘I’ll see you at parents’ evening in a couple of weeks and we can catch up then.’

  Maybe Kirsten actually flinches. She must do something, because the head follows up by saying, ‘There’ll be an email reminder coming out soon.’

  But Kirsten doesn’t acknowledge she’s forgotten about parents’ evening. She just goes. And then, finally, she’s on the way to the clinic. Stress levels rocketing. In the olden days, she’d have called Ian, calmed down that way. Now she relieves her stress by channelling it into anger towards him, practising the argument she knows they’ll have later on. Not just about this.

  Because this is all his fault. If it weren’t for him, they wouldn’t be where they now find themselves. They wouldn’t have to rely on Kirsten trying to be in two places at once. Or on Ms Robertson’s breakfast clubs. But thank God they will now have those. Because they can only be a change for the better.

  Chapter 12

  BECKY, 2 AUGUST 2012

  Becky can’t find Andy at breakfast. She can’t find Caitlin either. So she heads to the audition room, thinking maybe Andy will be there too.

  But no. It’s just the course leader.

  ‘Hey, you made it!’ he says.

  She shrugs, clutching the brand new Music Theatre Compilation book her mother bought her. It’s medium voice because that seemed to Becky to translate into ‘average’. Sopranos were special. Before she grew up and became a boring mum, her eldest sister had been soprano in the choir at school. Voice of an angel. So pretty. Et cetera.

  ‘Where’s the male talent – Andy, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I figured he might be here.’

  ‘OK, well, let’s give him a minute. Are you warmed up yet?’

  She shakes her head.

  The teacher gives her a look of mock disapproval. ‘You must always warm up. Protect those vocal folds.’

  He takes her through some exercises. They have to bend down low, swing their arms around as their heads nearly touch the floor. Becky becomes conscious her bra is on show – not a cleavage enhancer, just one that makes her breasts look flat and squat. She tries to pull her top back into place, unsuccessfully. The teacher seems not to notice. He is just saying, in calm, steady tones: ‘Now, wind yourself back up, vertebrae by vertebrae.’

  She does as she is told.

  ‘Relax your neck. Set it squarely on your shoulders, then rock it gently from side to side.’

  She does as he says.

  ‘Now stretch right up. Come on, hands up, stretch out your fingers!’

  Again, Becky does what he says. This time, it’s her belly that’s exposed, her top riding up. Please let there be no flab hanging over my waistline, she thinks, as she stretches extra hard to make her tummy as taut as it will ever be. The teacher seems to be having the same problem – even his big baggy top isn’t long enough for this exercise. It rides up, revealing the dark grey waistband of some Calvins under his black jeans. She catches a glimpse of tummy flesh too, covered in black hairs. They look soft, masculine. She realises she is staring and looks away.

  That’s when she sees Andy and Caitlin in the doorway. Andy is looking between them both, while Caitlin whispers, giggling, in his ear.

  Becky drops her arms down, and pulls her top back over her midriff, crossing her arms over her waist. She sees the teacher follow her gaze, and he changes his posture too. Except he is relaxed, welcoming.

  ‘Ah, Andy – you made it!’

  ‘Yup,’ Andy says, noncommittal. Where’s the enthusiasm of the previous day?

  ‘We were just warming up,’ Becky says, feeling an explanation is needed.

  ‘Are you warmed up?’ the teacher asks Andy.

  ‘Yeah, I’m good – thanks.’

  ‘I could do with a warm-up,’ Caitlin coos. ‘I just feel really … tight, you know?’

  Becky stares at Caitlin. Is she flirting with the teacher?

  There’s a beat.

  ‘Let’s do some arpeggios and jazz hands, then!’ says the teacher, brightly. ‘Loosen everyone up. Ready?’

  So off they go. No one comments on the fact that Andy and Becky’s audition seems to have become Andy and Caitlin’s personal training session. Becky stands at the back, watching Caitlin show off her hair, her legs, her voice. Andy sings pretty well,
but he’s not a drama queen – just quietly capable. It’s one of the things she likes about him. Liked. She doesn’t understand where she stands this morning.

  The teacher gets them to sing back some song lines to him, as a group, then individually. Becky tries, but her voice is reedy and weak. She peters out on the high notes, and the low ones suddenly come out too strong.

  But it doesn’t mean Caitlin needs to giggle.

  The teacher seems to think so too. He shoots Caitlin a dirty look.

  ‘Everyone’s just trying their best here – it’s not competitive,’ he says.

  Caitlin smirks. ‘Even though some people are better than others.’ She sticks out her chest. Caitlin, Becky notices, is wearing a cleavage-enhancing bra. But the teacher doesn’t look in that direction at all. His gaze remains firmly at eye level.

  ‘Some people may be naturally gifted, but this summer school is for everyone. I’ll let you know later what parts you’ve got, if any.’

  Becky doesn’t know why, but she suspects she might end up with a bigger part than Caitlin. She hopes she doesn’t.

  Andy makes to leave, and Becky quickens her pace to follow him.

  ‘Hey,’ she says.

  But before he can reply, the teacher calls her back.

  ‘Becky, can I have a moment?’

  Reluctantly, Becky holds back. She sees Caitlin and Andy exchange a meaningful glance. Becky doesn’t know the meaning, but Andy looks sad.

  Becky stands in front of the teacher, arms folded round her music.

  ‘Becky, are you OK with being on this course?’ the teacher asks her. ‘I don’t want anyone to feel like they’re being tortured.’

  Becky shrugs.

  ‘Come on, I mean it. I’ll give you a part in the show because, well, everyone’s paid up and it’s meant to be fun. But I don’t want it to stress you out.’

  Becky debates whether to have the long conversation or the short one. She wants to follow Andy, find out where the connection went overnight. She’ll go for the short one.

  ‘I’m fine, honestly,’ she says. ‘See you later.’

  ‘OK, if you’re sure. Take care of yourself, OK?’

  The teacher gives her the briefest of touches on the shoulder. She’s surprised it makes her spine tingle. Suddenly, she wishes she’d gone for the longer conversation. But it’s too late. Already, she’s headed towards the door, Andy in her sights.

  Chapter 13

  KIRSTEN, SEPTEMBER 2018

  Perhaps Ian thinks she’s not watching him, as he gets out of the car. Look at him, he goes so slowly, like he can’t bear getting a moment closer to helping his family. She puffs her cheeks out. Maybe that’s unfair. The inspection is exhausting and stressful; she gets that. But Kirsten left him a voice message earlier, so he knows the deal. He didn’t reply. Didn’t even text to say he was coming home.

  He’s reaching the kerb when Yvette appears. Kirsten watches him hesitate, probably wonder how he can get away, but he’s not quick enough. Yvette trots down the steps of her house. Is she interfering again? Sure, Kirsten’s super grateful for the occasional help with school drop-offs but that doesn’t buy Yvette the right to invade their family time.

  ‘Mummy, can we read this one?’

  Kirsten looks over her shoulder to see Harriet holding up a picture book, one of Kirsten’s favourites.

  ‘In a minute, sweetheart.’

  She looks out of the window again, to Ian and Yvette. They look very serious. Yvette is leaning in close to Ian. Ian isn’t leaning away. Kirsten would have loved to dissect the whole situation with Clare, like they used to, if she hadn’t had to keep her distance.

  ‘Please, Mummy, I want to read it now.’

  Reluctantly, Kirsten tears her eyes away from the scene outside. Then she chides herself for her reluctance. No wonder her child has ‘behavioural’ issues, if Mummy would rather stare out the window at her interfering neighbour than read a book.

  ‘Of course, sweetie,’ Kirsten says, immediately over-bright. ‘We’ll read it on the sofa, shall we?’

  She sits down on the sofa and gives Harriet one hundred per cent of her attention. Well, ninety-seven per cent anyway – the other three per cent of her brain is wondering when Ian will finally come through the door.

  There’s the usual fumbling as the key turns in the lock.

  ‘Hi honey, I’m home,’ Ian shouts.

  Kirsten considers not replying, just continuing to focus (now eighty per cent) on the picture book. But Harriet’s attention has shifted too.

  ‘We’re in here,’ calls Kirsten.

  Ian comes in, gives Kirsten a quick peck on the lips, kneels down in front of Harriet.

  ‘Your mummy tells me you had a tricky day,’ he says to Harriet.

  ‘You got my voice message, then,’ Kirsten says, the criticism for a lack of response only just beneath the surface.

  Meanwhile, Harriet shrugs.

  ‘You were a little bit naughty, though, I hear?’ Ian perseveres.

  ‘Maybe Yvette can solve it. How is the domestic goddess today?’ Kirsten can’t resist.

  ‘Now now, Kirsten,’ Ian says, flicking his eyes meaningfully to Harriet. ‘Yvette’s been kind to us.’

  Whether it’s her parents’ tone, or Ian’s question, Harriet’s eyes go wide. Her lower lip quivers. Then she says, ‘It’s past my bedtime,’ and picks herself up, trooping towards the staircase.

  Kirsten looks at the clock over the mantelpiece: 7.15. Fair enough, it is late for her. Ian should have got home earlier.

  ‘I’ll come and tuck you in,’ Ian calls after their daughter. But it sounds like a threat. Ian stands, as if to follow Harriet, presumably to go straight into his version of night-time routine, whatever that is.

  ‘You need a bath first, Harriet darling!’ Kirsten calls.

  ‘I don’t want a bath!’ Harriet storms, from halfway up the stairs.

  Kirsten rolls her eyes at Ian. A shared moment. Whatever is going on outside the house, for one instant they have a common cause – tame the child. She puts her head gently on his shoulder.

  ‘Seriously, how can she not want a bath right now? Can you imagine how nice that would be? Bubbles, a long hot soak.’ She groans.

  ‘Yup, I’m with you,’ Ian responds.

  Upstairs, there’s the sound of a slamming door.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Ian says.

  ‘It’s not her fault. She’s overtired,’ Kirsten sighs, choosing the same side to support as always. She takes her head off Ian’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m overtired,’ he says.

  ‘Sure you are,’ says Kirsten, in a way that means she wants to say so much more. Then, she’s off, running up the stairs after their daughter. ‘Harriet, how about I run you a nice hot bubble bath, OK? Then I can jump in it after you?’

  She hears Ian trailing up behind her.

  No response from Harriet. When they get upstairs, Harriet is curled up on her bed, fully clothed. The curtains are open, and there’s a grey, unlit gloom in the room. Her eyes are obstinately closed.

  We aren’t doing our bit, thinks Kirsten.

  She sits on the edge of the bed. Ian moves to the window, hands out to shut the curtains. They see Yvette on the street. She looks up, waves. Ian waves back. Kirsten bats his hand down.

  ‘Don’t encourage her!’ she says. ‘She’s always watching us. It’s weird.’

  ‘Shh,’ he says. ‘You’ll wake Harriet.’

  Downstairs, they continue the conversation.

  ‘Don’t get het up about Yvette. Just accept her help – she can take Harriet to school, look after her occasionally. A safe pair of hands, just what we need.’

  Kirsten exhales. ‘Sure, you’re right. It’s just, I’m not sure she’ll draw the line there, you know? Soon we’ll find her weeding our flowerbeds or washing our cars.’

  ‘She can be my guest!’ Ian says, with such vigour that Kirsten laughs. ‘Come on, have a glass of wine with me,’ he says.


  She should really work on her accounts, check Harriet’s schoolbag for hidden homework or consent forms, and plan everyone’s meals for tomorrow. And Ian should work on his Ofsted stuff. But just once, they deserve a bit of down time, don’t they? Harriet is safe; it’s twelve hours until the start of another working day. They can relax and be lazy – for once.

  Chapter 14

  MIRIAM, SEPTEMBER 2018

  Miriam would be the last person to willingly label anyone. Labels hurt. They’re destructive, demeaning, designed to force people to comply with one perfect ideal. Does anyone truly fit them? No. Neither does she. But some people feel they are qualified to administer them. Whatever the human price. The recovery from that label, stamped over your life, can take longer than any underlying issue.

  The toast she’s buttering for breakfast club is reduced to crumbs in her hands. Damn. She’ll have to throw that piece away too.

  Sometimes, though, there is a compulsion to label people. For their own benefit.

  And here is how she would label Harriet:

  1. An unhappy child.

  2. Ought to be looked after by someone who truly loves her.

  Here is how she would label Kirsten:

  1. The worst type of mother.

  2. Not someone who truly loves Harriet.

  Miriam doesn’t use those terms lightly. By unhappy child she doesn’t mean that Harriet is on a downer because there aren’t as many muddy puddle-jumping opportunities as Peppa Pig would have you believe. She means in the textbook sense. The unhappy child they teach you to look out for in teacher training college. Those telltale signs. Withdrawn. Violent behaviour. Turning up at school unkempt. Odd socks – one of those cases of children murdered by their fathers had the little girl turning up at school in odd socks and with bruises. A warning sign that went unheeded.

  There they are, then. Classic signs of neglect. Or something worse.

  And so to Kirsten. The worst sort of mother? Yes. Really. Unremittingly selfish. Putting her needs far beyond the needs of Harriet. Because what does a child need more than her mother? Why would anyone withhold that vital, vital bond? OK, OK, Miriam knows there are worse. She’s read the cases. The sex offenders. The murderers. The unwarranted home-schoolers. And she gets that some families have to separate – the parents of little Maya, perhaps, left behind in Syria. But putting aside those non-normal limits – what is the worst thing you can do to your daughter? Teach her she doesn’t matter. That her human relationships matter less than work. Making her a non-person. It’s like making her dead, a zombie child.