Page 94 of A Class Act

Jess made just the one phone call to whoever, determined that Blane should have at least one night’s stopover with her before the real interrogations started the following day.

‘I didn’t know what else to do,’ I told Mason the next morning. ‘You didn’t answer your phone. Didn’t get back to me.’

‘The heads’ meeting went on and on,’ Mason said. ‘And then I crashed out. Been a busy term. Sorry. You did well. Thank you.’

It turned out that Blane’s mum had been working the daytime streets as usual and had overdosed and ended up in hospital, totally out of it. No one appeared aware, or even to care, that a thirteen-year-old child had come home to an empty house and a locked door. The upshot of all this was firstly that Blane did have to spend several weeks at one of the local places for looked after children until his mum was back home, supported by social services. But secondly, he and I had established a much better relationship and I’d often look up from my desk at the end of the day to find he’d sidled in wanting to talk. Or just for company. And a bit of affection.

One bitterly cold Friday morning, I was in the studio trying to heat up the place in readiness for a Year 7 session and, shivering, realised the best way to warm myself up was to actually move. I’d been growing in confidence about my knee, extending my movements when teaching my dance classes, and now I decided to see just how much my knee would take. I was stiff, awkward to begin with, but I built up slowly, repeating the exercises and routines I knew my knee could take and then extending myself, pushing myself, going through the less complicated set moves I knew by heart fromDance On.

‘Hey, you’re getting there; you’re nearly back to what you were.’ Sorrel had appeared in the studio without my noticing.

‘Not really.’ I sighed. ‘I’m terribly stiff; really lacking the confidence to jump. Terrified I’m going to fall again. What are you doing here?’ I turned to her. ‘Bell’s gone.’

‘I have to go home.’

‘Aren’t you well?’ She looked fine. Buzzing actually. ‘Need some Tampax?’

‘No! Jess has just texted me.’

‘You shouldn’t have your phone on you.’

‘Jess just texted me.’ She tutted, ignoring the rebuke. ‘Don’t go all teacherish on me. She’s probably texted you as well.’

‘Oh, not Mum?’ I wiped the sweat from my face with a towel. ‘She’s not had another turn, has she?’

‘No!’ Sorrel tutted again. ‘Why d’you have to be so negative? She says the post’s just come.’

‘And?’

‘She says there’s two letters. One for her, and Mum’s been round to say there’s one for me.’

‘And?’

‘She daren’t open them. One’s from Yorkshire Christmas TopChef?—’

‘Oh, blimey?—’

‘And mine’s from the Susan Yates Theatre School.’

‘Oh, Sorrel.’

‘So, can we just bunk off and go home? Come on, drive me, will you? Because Jess says she won’t open hers – and she won’t open mine, though I’ve texted her to open mine and text me back – until we’re all there. And she’s off to work in an hour. Comeon!’

‘Registration, Sorrel?’ Mason popped his head round the studio door. ‘You’re late.’

‘I need to go home.’

‘Youdon’t,’ I butted in. ‘Exercise a little patience.’

‘So, how about I tell youFocus Northis going to come to a rehearsal next week?’ Mason’s face was alight with anticipation. ‘They’ve a feature which looks at the creative arts in local schools. Lucy Bennet’s boyfriend works on the programme, apparently. She had a word with him last night and he’s just messaged her; they’re coming to a rehearsal next Wednesday. It’ll only be five minutes at the most, but it’ll give the kids a buzz.’

‘Oh, that’s great.’ I felt really pleased, but with misgivings. ‘They do know we’ve only just started?’

‘Absolutely. Have you never seen the programme? It tries to feature different activities at different stages of production. If we’re lucky, they’ll come back later on to see how we’re progressing.’ He turned away from Sorrel and, with a lowered voice, said, ‘Sorry, Robyn, can’t make this evening, after all.’ He’d asked me over to his place for the drink and takeaway that had become a bit of a Friday evening routine. ‘Got a really important meeting over in Leeds.’ He turned again in Sorrel’s direction. ‘Right, Sorrel, registration,’ he barked before hurrying out as his phone started.

Sorrel glared at me, but set off in the direction of the door.

‘We’ll sort it all tonight,’ I called after her. ‘If it’s good news, we’ll go out for pizza. Yes?’

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