Page 17 of Autumn in Sycamore Park
Rick, one hand on the back of Jennifer’s chair, one leg cocked behind the other, chuckled as he took his script from Amy and said, ‘So, of course I’m the lead?’
‘It’s an ensemble cast,’ Amy said.
‘And what does that mean? So we get to pick our parts?’
Amy sighed. ‘It means that no one part is greater than the other. Several parts could be considered the lead.’
‘But I’m more lead than the others?’
‘Just read it,’ Jennifer said, as Amy shrugged.
‘Look who’s itching for the pub,’ Rick said, giving Jennifer a grin. Then, calling out to Amy, he said, ‘Single life is tough, eh, Clair? Never knowing if your last boyfriend will prove your, well, last.’ He grinned again. ‘Or your first.’
Amy pouted and looked about to burst into tears. ‘Leave her alone,’ Jennifer said.
‘I’m just having a joke, eh, Clair? You and me, we’re buddies really, aren’t we?’
Amy just scowled and scurried mouse-like away, handing out scripts to a couple of older teachers who took them with frustrated sighs.
‘I only have one line,’ moaned Mrs. Tellings, the part-time specialist home economics teacher. ‘“Is it bread you want, or eggs?” What the hell is that supposed to mean? Are you taking the—’
‘I didn’t write it,’ Amy said, cheeks red.
‘You can have a few of mine,’ said Old Don Jones, the Year Six teacher. ‘You’re wanting me to memorise all this, Amy? I can barely remember the kid’s names.’
‘It’ll help stave off dementia,’ Rick muttered under his breath, leaning close enough to Jennifer that she waved a hand to swat him away.
‘I didn’t write it,’ Amy said again, a little tremble in her voice that made Jennifer want to go and hold her hand.
The door opened and Greg walked in. An immediate hush fell over the room. Greg, who wasn’t part of the production, glanced at a script sitting on the nearest desk and gave a little chuckle.
‘Easy life, you lot have. Back when I started out we were expected to actually work.’
‘What happened to your meeting?’ Don said. ‘You lose your map, or did your tag go off?’
Greg glared at him as others chuckled. ‘It got moved to Tuesday. I’ll be off home now. You lot remember to turn the kettles and the lights off at five. The council have been on our backs about the budget these last couple of weeks. I’d hate to have to cancel the harvest festival altogether.’
He picked up his bag, and with another chuckle, headed out. As he left, Jennifer turned to Rick.
‘What was that about his tag?’
Rick laughed. ‘The old man got done for stalking his ex-wife last year. She got a restraining order taken out.’
‘And he has a tag?’
Rick winced. ‘Well, unless you want to get close enough to the old lion to pull up his trouser leg and check, we’ll just have to assume. He reckons it was all a misunderstanding.’
Jennifer shook her head. ‘Isn’t there anyone normal around here?’
‘Me!’ Amy said, sticking a hand up in the air like an eager pupil. ‘I’m normal.’
Bonky was scratchingat the door when Jennifer got home, far later than she had intended. After one bad-tempered read through of the script, the teachers had voted to continue in the local pub across the street. Things had got worse rather than better, with Don Jones—playing a knight—squaring off against Colin Triller, the caretaker, who was playing a dragon. As their mock joust got a little exaggerated, Colin accidentally knocked over Don’s pint, at which point Don offered to thump him for real, his comb-over flapping up and down like an excited butterfly. By the time things had calmed down, apologies had grudgingly been offered and pints refilled, it was getting late. Jennifer pretended to go to the toilet and then slipped out without saying goodbye.
Something that was becoming a bit of a habit, she thought with regret, as she led Bonky along Willis Lane to Sycamore Park. Her mother had tried to call a couple more times during the week, but Jennifer had refused to answer, instead sending a message to say she was busy. It hadn’t been a strict lie—she had been working hard to keep up with school, as well as sort out her flat. It was finally beginning to look like a home, even though she still had a couple of boxes to unpack. She would get to those tomorrow, but part of her was dreading it all being done, because then she would have time left to think, and when she had time to think, she began to doubt everything.
Even though she had walked out of Mark’s life without warning, vowing never to return, when she looked at it objectively, she wondered if she had made a big mistake. He hadn’t done anything to hurt her; he hadn’t been abusive or unkind. The old cliché kept popping up like a laughing jack-in-the-box:it’s not you, it’s me.
It was partly true at least.
