Page 35 of A Class Act

‘They’re all tossers,’ she said calmly. ‘And there’s no way you’re taking me into school like a five-year-old.’

‘Absolutely we are. So, get that into your head right now. And—’ I looked at my phone ‘—it’s well after ten. Go up and get ashower, get that make-up off and sort your school uniform for tomorrow. Have you got clean stuff?’

‘I doubt it. Mum wasn’t overly interested in making sure my shoes were polished and my shirt ironed.’

‘Don’t blame Mum,’ I snapped. ‘Mum’s not well, you know that. You’re big enough to sort yourself.’ I relented. ‘Right, I’ll come up with you. Put a wash on, if necessary. Jess tells me you’ve a new head who’s a bit of a stickler.’

‘A stickler?’ Sorrel laughed shortly. ‘You might havesticklersdown in London schools; up here they’re pillocks and tossers, not interested in anything but league tables and the correct footwear.’

She set off up the stairs and I limped up after her. ‘Jesus, Sorrel, youhaveto be joking?’ I stood in the door of her bedroom, my eyes acclimatising to the gloom of the room, which, lit only from the one red bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, not only gave the impression of entering a Soho brothel, but emphasised the utter chaos in there. How on earth could one girl create such a mess? Mugs, some half full, some sporting the beginnings of a green mould, littered any surfaces not bearing the weight of crumb-filled plates, hardened-cereal-coated bowls and discarded takeaway containers. Dirty thongs, cheap plunging and padded bras, scarves and school uniform came together in a kaleidoscopic nightmare of colour and texture.

I took several deep breaths. ‘OK, first job, get every bit of uniform you’re going to need in the morning. Every bit, Sorrel, including clean knickers and tights. I’ll wash and iron them. Then, you get your school bag ready.’

‘School bag?’ She gazed around the room as if I’d asked her to find her last will and testament. Which, if she was intent on carrying on in this manner, she might need sooner than later.

‘Mould is lethal,’ I snapped, picking up the worst of the dirty dishes and mugs and uneaten food. ‘School bag?’ I repeated. ‘Any homework done.’

‘What world do you live in?’ she asked tartly.

‘One a lot different from yours, obviously. Sorrel, you’ve got GCSEs at the end of this year.’

‘Oh, I don’t need those,’ she said airily before yawning widely and loudly. ‘I’m going to be a dancer like you.’

‘You don’t think I did all my exams first? Did years at uni?’

‘You did it the hard way,’ she scoffed. ‘I’ll just turn up at auditions and show them how good I am?—’

She broke off as Jayden stuck his head round the door.

‘Jesus.’ He whistled.

‘My sentiment exactly,’ I said, shaking my head.

‘Hello…Dad.’ Sorrel threw him a look of disdain. ‘Seems Mum has to be ill for you to get in touch with me. See that I’m OK. It was my birthday last week, you know.’

‘Was it?’ Panic appeared on Jayden’s face and he automatically reached for his wallet.

‘Your birthday is in February, Sorrel.’ I tutted.

‘Yes, well,heobviously has no idea.’ She tutted in return. I wanted to move across the room and take her in my arms, gain some comfort for myself as well as for my little sister, but knew her response from old. What an utter waste of space Jayden had turned out to be, particularly over the past few years and particularly as Mum’s health had deteriorated. Mum herself had always tried her very best, bringing us up as a single parent most of the time.

‘Uniform?’ I said again. ‘Come on, Sorrel, Jayden and I are here for you now. School tomorrow.’

It was nearly one in the morning before I was able to go to bed myself. Sorrel’s full uniform was washed, ironed and neatly folded on a chair outside her bedroom door, the polishedblack brogues the school insisted on underneath. The uniform for Beddingfield High – Beddingfield Comprehensive when Jess and I had been pupils there – had changed dramatically since the two of us were kids. Then it had been a disgusting light green polo shirt, darker green sweatshirt and the ubiquitous black polyester trousers or skirt. Trainers on our feet – the laces threaded rather than tied – were de rigueur, and those not conforming to the required fashion of the month were laughed off the school bus. Jayden, having fought his own demons the only way he knew how, with his fists, had always insisted Jess and I have the best possible trainers and, looking now at Sorrel’s footwear, idly tossed into one corner of her room, I assumed he’d continued in the same vein with her.

Sorting, at least for the moment, this one tiny aspect of Sorrel’s dysfunctional life, as well as giving the kitchen a jolly good clean before I went back upstairs for the final time that evening, went some way to shelving my own bomb-shelled previous two days. But once under the thin polyester duvet and accompanying floral cover, I lay, eyes wide open in the dark, and knew my life was over.

13

‘Robyn? Robyn, are you up?’

Fabian was on the other end of the phone, telling me everything was going to be fine. That not only did he know some clever consultant with whom he’d been at Oxford who had the wherewithal to have me up and dancing again within the week, but he’d also been in touch with Carl Farmer, who was desperate to have me back. Fabian went on that I’d been absolutely right, no two ways about it, to object to his defending that monster Henderson-Smith in court. He should have realised he was in the wrong to evenconsidertaking on the case… He was on Mum’s doorstep and when was I going to come down and let him in? His mother and his brother, Julius, were with him to apologise for their lack of warmth in welcoming me into the Carrington family when in fact they totallylovedthe idea of taking a woman of colour, a double murderer’s granddaughter, into their midst. They were all there to help me… to get Mum well again… to get Sorrel through her GCSEs and to make her Beddingfield High’s head girl… I just needed to come down and let them all in…

‘Robyn? Robyn?’ Jayden was shaking me while the knocking on the front door continued.

‘Who’s down there? On the doorstep?’ I asked, my eyes still closed as I desperately tried to cling onto the dream rather than face the reality of an overslept wet Monday morning at 8a.m. in West Yorkshire.

‘Robyn?’ Jess was now yelling up at my bedroom window from down below in the garden. ‘Do you know what bloody time it is? I can’t getin. You’ve left the key in the door.’

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