Page 42 of A Class Act

‘Great stuff. Just what I need.’

‘Don’t look at me.’ I gave a laugh, holding up two hands.

‘But you’re qualified?’

‘Qualified to know I’ll never go back within spitting distance of any classroom.’ I attempted levity. ‘Being forced into just one school this morning has been enough to bring me out in hives. But now, coming here and seeing that little performance’ – I nodded back down the corridor – ‘puts me on the verge of a panic attack. I take my hat off to anyone who works in schools, but it is not for me…’ I trailed off, realising this somewhat charismatic head teacher had stopped walking and was standing, arms folded, smiling in my direction.

‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘Bog off, then.’

‘Ibegyour pardon?’ Even Sorrel’s head had come up, if not in shock then in some semblance of surprise that a head teacher should speak such words to the family of a prospective new student.

‘Buy one get one free.’ Mason Donoghue grinned. ‘Youwant somethingIhave, Ms Allen, i.e., a place at my school for Sorrel here?—’

‘I don’t want a place here—’ she started once more.

‘And I want somethingyouhave, Ms Allen.’

The full-of-innuendo smirk and raised eyebrow on Sorrel’s face morphed back into its habitual scowl as Donoghue continued. ‘I’m offering Sorrel a place here at St Mede’s, with immediate effect, with the proviso that you, Ms Allen, not only accompany her every day, but remain at school, taking up the position of temporary dance and drama teacher.’

‘What?’ I stared at the man. Was he mad? ‘Are youmad?’ I finally managed to get out.

‘Obviously.’ Sorrel shook her head sagely, for once apparently on my side.

‘With some English lessons thrown in – oh, and possibly some RE and PSHE as well… How does that sound?’

‘Like blackmail, Mr Donoghue,’ I finally spat. ‘That sounds just likeblackmailto me.’

‘He’s blackmailing you, Robyn,’ Sorrel agreed, in delight. ‘Don’t stand for that.’

‘I’m not,’ I said crossly. ‘Come on, Sorrel.’ I stood, marching as much as one can march on a dicky knee, towards the main entrance. ‘We’re finished here. Looks like it’s the PRU for you.’

15

‘I’m getting out here.’ Sorrel was already unbuckling her seat belt in the back seat of the taxi taking us through the town centre and out towards Beddingfield and Mum’s place.

‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ I ordered, leaning over to prevent her from opening the door. ‘You’re coming back with me: I need to know where you are and what you’re up to. Then I’m going to drive Mum’s car to the hospital and you’ll have to come with me.’

‘No way am I going there,’ Sorrel said coldly. ‘I don’t want to see Mum poorly again with tubes everywhere. And don’t you dare say she’s there because of me.’

‘I wasn’t going to say that,’ I protested.

‘I’m off,’ Sorrel said, opening the door while the Uber had stopped at a red light. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

‘Sorrel? Don’t worry about…?’ But she was off, crossing the dual carriageway and heading into the town centre.

‘You letting her go?’ The driver – he’d introduced himself as Davit from Armenia – looked askance at me through his rear-view mirror. ‘You need to keep eye on young girl like that. Why she not in school?’

‘Without actually keeping her under lock and key, I’m not sure how I can do that,’ I said coldly, stung by his criticism. My head was aching, my knee was aching and I felt physically sick with longing for Fabian. I was going to have to message him, tell him I needed him, ask him to drive up to Yorkshire and help me. He’d do that: he loved me; he was an adult in a way Jayden, my own father, never had been; he’d help me sort things out. Talking to myself like this, reassuring myself with a plan of action, was helping to keep panic at bay.

The house, when I let myself in, was feeling cold and unloved, our unwashed breakfast dishes still on the kitchen table where we’d left them. I moved them to the sink – Mum had never wanted a dishwasher – ran hot water and added the last squirt of Fairy liquid from its bottle before chucking it into the overflowing pedal bin and reaching for the kettle. There didn’t appear to be anything resembling proper coffee, but there was a tin of instant and Jess had put a couple of pints of milk in the fridge. Apart from the milk, there was little to celebrate my homecoming, and I knew I needed to do a massive shop.

I attempted a tentative feel at my knee, wincing as pain beat a steady metronomic tempo up and down my leg. The A&E department at St Thomas’s hospital in London, where Jayden had driven me after my fall, had told me not to drive and said I needed to see my GP to arrange physio. Knowing I was fit, healthy and very rarely ill, I’d never got round to finding a GP during my short time back in London. And I didn’t know if I was still on the books at the doctor’s practice just down the lane from Mum’s. That was something else I was going to have to sort.

I sat down with the – quite disgusting – coffee, desperate for the caffeine hit I hoped would clear the fog that appeared to have settled where my brain had once been. All I wanted to do was shut out the past couple of days as well as the picture of my future without the work I loved, without Fabian. It was verytempting to take more painkillers, expel Roger Rabbit from the sofa where he was guarding his territory and wrap the bright red throw – a constant and comforting feature of my childhood – around myself before finding some relief from this waking nightmare in sleep.

My eyes flew open and, draining the remainder of the coffee, I sat up, Roger gazing at me with some suspicion. I needed to be mobile, knew that if I wasn’t going to be able to walk long distances with this knee, Ihadto drive. Heaving myself up off the sofa with discomfort, I went hunting for the little battered Fiesta’s car keys, immediately finding them in the kitchen drawer where Mum’d always kept them.

Jayden might have insured me to drive Mum’s car, but I didn’t think for one minute the insurance company would pay out if they knew I was driving with a knee injury when I’d expressly been told not to. But I had to see Mum, had to do some shopping. I went outside to where the car was sitting on the drive, remembering with a little prayer of thanks that, because it had taken Mum five attempts at passing her driving test, Jess and I had persuaded her to switch to an automatic car. She’d passed her test on the next attempt and the three of us – Sorrel at that point being just a twinkle in Jayden’s roving eye – had gone down to McDonald’s in town to celebrate our new freedom. Surely, I could drive an automatic, my injured left leg notwithstanding?

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