Page 3 of Lessons in Life

‘Oh, I thought you must be turning yourself in up there.’ I laughed, reaching for my car keys and school bag.

‘Robyn, I’m fifty-four years old.’ Mum sniffed. ‘I’m ready for a bit of life after spending all these years bringing you three up while waiting for your dad to show his face.’

‘Not sure you’re going to find any life in God’s Waiting Room,’ I chortled. ‘And,’ I added, ‘you’re getting very bolshie these days, you know.’ It was rare for Mum to criticise Jayden, our Jamaican-heritage reggae-singing dad with whom she’d run off, leaving her adoptive parents somewhere in Sheffield, intent on no return. Somewhere in Sheffieldwas about all we knew of these grandparents of ours because that was all we’d ever been told about the couple who’d adopted Mum as a tiny baby. It had been only very recently that Jayden, with his morbid fear of educational establishments brought about after being excluded from the many he’d been sent to, had let on that Mum had actually attended St Mark’s just outside Sheffield, one of the top public schools in the country. Jess and I had grilled Mum after this revelation, but all she’d say was that it was all in the past and that was where it was going to stay.

‘So, good, you’re doing a bit of volunteering. Get you out and about. A chance to meet new people rather than always waiting in, hoping Jayden’s going to drop by.’

Mum snorted derisively. ‘You’ll have me doing armchair aerobics next and getting excited when I throw a one in a game of Beetle.’

‘Bit ageist that, Mum. Listen, if you’ve so much time on your hands, you can always come and help the wardrobe department with this production ofGreasewe’re putting on at Easter.’

Mum’s eyes lit up. ‘Ooh, yes, I’ll do that. I’m not bad with a needle.’

‘Except we don’t actually have a wardrobe yet. And certainly, no props or outfits to go in it.’

* * *

‘You’re late, Ms Allen.’ Mason Donoghue was obviously in one of his moods. Probably his wife, to whom he’d recently returned after a fairly lengthy separation, giving him earache again. ‘Right,’ he went on as I slid into the vacant seat next to Petra Waters, the deputy head sitting to Mason’s left. ‘Can we crack on? We’ve a lot to discuss and, I’m afraid, it’s not all pleasant.’

Petra shifted her feet, appearing unsure where to put them next.

‘Unpleasant?’ I whispered, pulling a face. ‘What’s that all about?’ Then, as Petra massaged her six-months-pregnant abdomen, I asked, ‘You OK?’

Mason broke off from speaking, glaring over his spectacles in our direction.

‘Wind,’ she reassured me, moving slightly once more. ‘One big burp and I’d be fine, but don’t think that would go down too well, do you?’

‘Why’s Mason glaring at us? Doesn’t he understand pregnant women have special needs?’

‘You shouldn’t be sitting there. That chair’s for Melanie Potter. You’ll have to shift once she arrives.’

‘Who?’

‘Shh…’

‘Any relation to Harry? Is she a wizard?’

Petra tittered. ‘No, chair of governors. Once Mason’s given us the third degree, she’s coming into the meeting to talk to us.’

‘What about?’

Petra raised her eyebrows in my direction but said nothing more, settling back while Mason went through the usual litany of directives: timetabling, staff lateness, staff dress – he didn’t want to see anyone without a tie…

‘I don’t own a tie,’ I whispered and Petra laughed, turning it into a cough as Mason glanced our way once more.

‘So,’ Mason went on, ‘I’m planning a series of team breakfasts in my office: I want each subject department, the administration team, the caretakers and kitchen staff to join me in turn…’

‘He’s not asking us to share our Rice Krispies with Caretaker Ken?’ I pulled a face in Petra’s direction.

‘Now,’ Mason said, obviously back in his stride, ‘since September I’ve observed at least one of all of your lessons and I’ll be starting the cycle once again from next week. I’m not there to judge…’

I found myself switching off from Mason’s pep talk, conjuring up, instead, lovely pictures of Fabian in his tux and black tie at Jemima’s do the previous evening. The mere thought of ever losing him again, as I had when we’d fallen out over his unpleasant family and Fabian’s decision to defend the Soho Slasher, was enough to have my pulse race in anguish.

‘Excuse me…’

‘Robyn…’ Petra was nudging me none too gently and I looked up from my lovely reverie to find the entire staff staring at me and a tall, raw-boned woman, perhaps in her fifties, hovering meaningfully at my side.

‘Oh, sorry, sorry.’ I jumped up, removing myself, overflowing bag and files to the vacant chair at the back of the staffroom in order that Melanie Potter could claim her rightful place at the front with the senior leadership team.

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