Page 48 of Second Song

For Rowan, I guess, when he glances at me with his eyebrows raised in question.

His hand hovers, ready to add another damp-sand initial, or one of those lightning bolts he’s so fond of.

I can’t make myself nod even though shaking my head would feel like lying. And it really would after turning around at the base of Whisper Tor to see Liam looking at me like more than lightning had struck him. And after he got on his knees to find my glasses for me? We’d just had sex, but it’s the care he took to rub clean my lenses that has stayed with me.

It was such a small gesture. Tiny but oh so thoughtful. He made sure I could see and I’m still as wobbly as Maisie’s tooth about it. So wobbly, I daren’t score his initial into this wet sand. My hand would shake too much to carve an L there as deeply as I’d want to.

Charles reclaims my attention by speaking softly. To Asa, this time, who has joined us. “Everyone deserves to feel cared for, don’t they, Mr. Wriggles?” He draws some worms in the sand that Asa copies with a finger. “Everyone deserves to feel that they’re a superstar for someone, not an all-around failure.”

I visualise Liam again then, not only thunderstruck, but clapping like I’d filled the Royal Albert Hall with my voice, not croaked out lyrics I wrote for a contest finale but didn’t even get to sing once.

Charles uses the sandy end of his spoon to gently prod my biceps while Asa is busy adding to a worm-count tally. “So here’s something to think about next, Rowan. How can your music incorporate chances for Hadi and Maisie to feel just that—as cared for and successful as Asa does right now? You’ve made such a fabulous start by showing them all how to make their own instruments. Now, for bonus points, add more movement. Like this, maybe?”

He demonstrates for Asa to copy, his next sandy wiggles so big his whole arm gets in on the action. “Let’s see lots of chances for really big physical movements for both of them.”

“Because?”

His gaze flicks to Hadi before he sketches more letters into the sand. This time Charles writes PTSD. He adds a letter C before it, and he speaks quietly. “This C stands for complex. Because one traumatic life event is bad enough. Have several happen one after another?” He shakes his head. “That can do a real number on your synapses. Set up thought patterns that are difficult to rewire, like self-blame and guilt. But here’s what I think that C could stand for.” He scratches the word caring into the sand. “You care about music, and it’s so incredibly healing, but you know that, don’t you?”

I have to nod. I mean, I’m not saying that singing to one soldier has fixed me, but I do feel better.

Charles nods too. “Add in chances for some vigorous physical movement, and all of a sudden, new brain patterns start forming. But I do understand why you might hesitate about getting rowdy. We went to similar schools, didn’t we?”

“Me? Only for a few years.” The worst ones. Although in hindsight, spending all my time in a practice room doesn’t sound anywhere near as harmful as what Charles murmurs.

“I was a full-time boarding student when I was no older than these little lovelies. Imagine if I’d ever had the chance to feel good at something at their age? If I hadn’t been constantly shamed for being an undiagnosed dyslexic?” He aims for joking, I think. “I spent an awful lot of time outside my headmaster’s study, dreading getting called in.”

“Oh, me too.” No one likes facing disappointment.

Charles tilts his head towards Hadi. “He’s already been braver than I’ve ever needed to be in my whole lifetime. Let him keep struggling with that?” Charles shakes his head, and I mirror that firm action, meaning it with every bone in my body, and with every bit of wiring that sometimes makes me doubt my own judgement.

I don’t doubt what he says next.

“Not with us on his side. On all of their sides. So go ahead and plan lots of chances for noise and movement for all of the children. Have some more of this.” He scratches a three-letter word into the sand next to a half-empty heart where my initial still has no partner. “Fun, because I can’t help thinking that might just be your superpower.”

“Mine?”

“Yours.” He nods firmly again. “Because I got you wrong, didn’t I? By calling you Mr. Worried.” He pokes me with the spoon one last time before standing, his arms outstretched as if he might fall from this plank. Each of his wobbles is an exaggerated lesson in perseverance that Hadi watches from a distance. But that sums up everything I’ve witnessed here—Charles role-plays mistakes and how to recover from them. Now he describes another misstep, only this one belongs to me.

“Because I watched that contest livestream from day one, remember? I saw a contestant who had a lot of fun at the start when you were a solo singer. That fun person can’t be hidden too far below this serious face or behind those sexy Clark Kent glasses, and that’s what will help children like ours the most.”

“My sexy glasses?” I touch their frames, fingertip catching on the scuff there.

Charles laughs. “See? You are fun!” He sobers just as quickly. “But, no. What I really mean is that I know you’re holding back.” He taps his lips, thinking. “Maybe because you’re worried about doing something wrong while I’m watching?” He’s sympathetic about that while also cutting to the heart of my real issue. “If you’ve brought any old performance issues to this classroom, you needn’t.” He also has a solution. “Because it isn’t only the children who get to experiment here. You get to as well. Here, not only in the practice rooms every evening.”

“I—”

“Didn’t think everyone’s noticed the difference in Teo’s playing. He’s been listening to your advice?”

This time I can nod right away. Teo might still grunt questions at me, but he’s started to take off his headphones the moment I enter his practice room each evening. “To be honest, I’m out of practice. He’s made as many suggestions as I’ve offered to him.”

“You’ve practised drumming in front of him? You didn’t hold back? Made mistakes where he could hear them?” Charles beams. “Excellent. Now bring that to the classroom, Rowan. Bring all of you, including the part that makes mistakes and fixes them in public. Let the children see you trying, even if it feels like failing.” He touches the plank across the sandpit. “Or like falling. I saw you make a start this morning with Maisie when you spilled your peas. It would have been so much quicker to sweep them up yourself, right?”

I nod.

“You let her solve that problem for you. Let her help you. What a boost for someone who has to be helped so often.” He almost sighs this. “Such good instincts.” He’s firmer next. “I will always step in if I need to, but you’ve got this.”

All those moments of judgement in front of TV cameras? Every assessed teacher-training lesson that chipped away at my soul? They might as well have never happened.

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