Page 3 of One Step Behind
He nods distractedly, his mind already in the classroom.
Archie’s class starts to move and I step over to Beth and the Year Four line. She sees me coming and gives a small shake of her head. No hug today, then. The realization stings for a moment but I push it away. Beth is growing up and I have to respect that, regardless of how much I want to hold her right now. ‘You didn’t tell me about your spelling test. That’s really great, well done,’ I say, shoving my hands in the pockets of my trousers.
‘I forgot,’ she says with a shrug.
‘Well, I’m proud of you.’ I smile as brightly as I can. ‘Have a good day.’
‘Don’t forget the ribbon, Mum,’ Beth says, eyebrows rising up and head tilting forward in a way that makes her seem older than nine.
‘Ribbon? What ribbon?’
She gives me her trademark sigh and eye roll. ‘I need an egg box, an empty cereal box and some red ribbon for a Father’s Day gift we’re making. I told you about it at the weekend. We need it on Friday.’
I nod. ‘Right. Yes of course.’ There’s a vague memory of a conversation about ribbon. Beth caught me as I was collecting a letter from the doormat, pulseracing, vision blurring, wondering if it had been delivered by the postman or by you.
‘You will get it, won’t you?’ Her face changes and she’s suddenly so small, so nine again.
‘Yes, yes. I haven’t forgotten,’ I lie. ‘Your class is moving. You need to go.’
‘And it’s non-uniform day on Friday,’ she says, ignoring me.
‘I know. You’ve told me ten times this week. You saw me write it on the calendar. Your dad’s taking you to school on Friday and he knows too. Plus, Beth, you’re old enough now to remember yourself, aren’t you?’ I know she’s thinking of the time when Archie was in Reception and she was in Year Two. One of my rare drop-off days long before you, when my only excuse was juggling family and work. I’d missed the letter in the book bags about a non-uniform day, raising money for the hospital of all places. Beth and Archie had been the only kids in dark-green-and-white uniform next to a parade of purples, pinks and blues. They’d both cried as they’d gone into school.
Beth flashes me a quick smile before racing off and joining the end of her class line. I wait until she’s disappeared around the corner and allow the relief to sweep through me. Beth and Archie are safe. You can’t get to them in school. It’s only me now.
I turn away and join the bottleneck of parents trying to get through the gate and look around for Christie or a familiar face to join in the polite ‘How’s things?’ parent chat, but I don’t recognize a single mum.
‘Hi, it’s Jenna, right?’ a voice says from beside me.
I’m already nodding as I turn to face the woman. She’s slim in skinny cut-off jeans and a black vesttop. Her shoulder-length blonde hair is dead straight and shining with health. She’s early forties like me, but looks more youthful somehow. I peer at her forehead, searching for the lines, but her skin is smooth and taut.
‘Yes.’
‘Hi, I’m Rachel Finley, Lacey and Freddie’s mum.’ She must register my blank expression because then she adds, ‘Lacey and Beth are best friends, and Freddie and Archie seem to be heading the same way. I was hoping we might bump into each other.’
‘Oh right, yes of course. It’s nice to meet you at last,’ I reply as though I know what she’s talking about.
‘Look, no pressure, but I’m chair of the PTA and we’re absolutely desperate for new members. I wondered how you felt about joining? You don’t have to decide straight away. But there’s a PTA mums’ night out coming up – you can come along if you want and just have a good time. Here’ – she pulls out some folded pieces of paper from her bag and hands them to me – ‘it’s just some more information and our contact details, in case you want to think about it.’
I can feel myself staring open-mouthed at Rachel, trying to find the nicest way I can to say no, because it is a no. There is no way I have time to bake cakes or organize raffle prizes. ‘Er … it’s just I work a lot so I’m really not sure I have time.’
‘No worries. Just think about it. I’d better run. See you at Lacey’s birthday party on Saturday?’
‘Wouldn’t miss it.’ I stretch my lips into a smile and watch her stride away, wondering who this woman is and what party she’s talking about. Has Beth mentioned a Lacey recently? There was a girl she kepttalking about a few months ago, but I’m sure her name began with a T. Am I that out of touch with my own children?
Too many drop and runs at Christie’s house. Too many assemblies, sports days, parents’ evenings that have clashed with a shift I couldn’t swap, leaving Stuart to do the brunt of the work. But school is the tip of the iceberg when it comes to my absence as a mother.
I missed Archie’s fifth birthday party at the aquarium. I missed Beth’s gymnastics competition and the third-place trophy she received. Twice I’ve worked on Christmas Day and missed seeing their faces as they rushed downstairs to find their presents under the tree. But it’s the little stuff that eats at me the most – the family dinners, the laughter at bath time, the learning to tie shoelaces, games of snap.
Sometimes I kid myself that it won’t always be this way, but it will. It’s one of many sacrifices I’ve made for the job I live and breathe. Stuart and I went into starting a family with our eyes wide open to the juggling act ahead of both of us, but unlike Stuart, it’s me who carries the burden.
The guilt has grown year after year, from the first settling-in session at nursery when I left a screaming, red-faced four-month-old Beth. It’s grotesque and spiky, this guilt I feel inside; a mound like the outer shell of a horse chestnut – hard and sharp – jammed in my stomach.
And all of that is before I consider what you’ve done to me, what you’ve stolen from my life.
As I slide back into my car, I feel my phone vibrate in my bag. A wave of nausea crashes over me but I dig it out anyway. An email alert appears on the screen,then another and another. Five in total. All from different email addresses. All from you.
My eyes dart around the road, looking beyond the parents and the school traffic, searching for you. The fear is as real as if you’re reaching into my car and wrapping your hands around my neck, squeezing tighter and tighter until I can’t breathe.
