Page 48 of Rewrite the Stars
And then she is off again. The whole morning is basically a repeat of this, and Sophie’s reaction isn’t very different when the news reaches her.
‘My mother just rang me to say you called Miss Jean Brady a witch to her face!’ she howls down the phone. ‘She’s on the board of that school and she is over the moon because she hates her too! High five, Charlotte Taylor Malone! You just said what hundreds of people in Dublin are thinking! But what the hell are you going to do with yourself now?’
I didn’t exactly call her a witch, but Chinese whispers and all that … plus I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to do now but I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. At least I agree for once with Sophie’s mother – now that’s a turn-up for the books.
When I ring her that evening to break the news, my own mother is equally as shocked as Sophie, but much less impressed.
I must admit I actually contemplated telling Matthew first to soften the blow, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to hold back on his daily phone call from Loughisland to Galway (my parents call him religiously every evening after the six o’clock news). But I realized that would be unfair and I should really be a big girl and own up.
‘What on earth did you have to quit for?’ she keeps saying, over and over again, no matter how many times I give her examples of how Miss Jean Brady has been treating me since I first set foot in the school. I tell her about my clothes (big mistake, she agrees), my pronunciation (she’s a bit offended because she couldn’t afford to send me to elocution lessons) and finally about my music (again, she doesn’t see the big deal in that one).
‘I just couldn’t take it any more,’ I say with my eyes closed, getting a flashback to when I was a teenager caught skipping school and knew I had to admit it, hoping when I opened my eyes the whole problem would have disappeared and be forgotten. But no matter how much I try and explain, it doesn’t seem to cut the ice with my mother.
‘Have you lost your whole assertiveness, or have you forgotten how to stand up for yourself without packing a good job like that in?’ she asks me in despair. ‘This reminds me of the time you were suspended by the nuns in second year of grammar school for wearing those silly-looking Doctor Marten boots to school instead of the black patent slip-ons I bought you that cost me the price of a week’s groceries. I just don’t understand how you achieve so much, Charlotte, and then just throw it all away in a whim. Not everything in life is disposable, when will you realize that? Why can’t you just be more like—’
My ears close over at this point and I actually start to hum to myself to block out the noise.
Why can’t you just be more like Emily, is what she’s going to say but I will let her rant and rave until she gets tired of her own voice or realizes she’s only repeating herself.
I’ve disappointed her, I’ve let her down again, just when I’d earned so many brownie points by becoming a teacher in the first place, marrying not onlyadoctor butthedoctor who is credited for making such a difference to Matthew’s mental stability and overall recovery, then bagging a job in a school so far removed from my old life that we didn’t even know it existed until I miraculously landed the job.
I pinch my eyes as old familiar feelings of failure creep over me, reminding me how I’ve always been perceived as the rebel child, always the one who just couldn’t quite keep up with the rest or just keep in line for that matter.
‘I’m sorry, Mam, but I couldn’t stay in a job I hate just to please everyone else,’ I say to her when I eventually get a break in the conversation. ‘Jack is totally behind me on this so I hope you and Dad will be too. It’s not as simple as it sounds. The place was horrendous, please believe me. I didn’t just do this on a whim or to disappoint anyone.’
She goes off again until I hear my father interrupting. Once again it brings me back to my teenage years when I was always the one who caused rows between them, be it because of my grades at school, which my teachers often described as ‘inconsistent’, or my choice of company from friends to boyfriends, or my unique ability to make an absolute mess of everything I turned my hand to, from part-time jobs to whimsical hobbies that got me nowhere.
The only thing I was good at was writing songs, but my parents hadn’t a clue about that as they were so wrapped up in Matthew and his big dreams of being a rock star, and in Emily’s solid and steady progress into accountancy then marriage (and soon babies no doubt) without as much as a whimper from her.
I finish the phone call and go to bed, even though it’s only just five in the evening and Jack will be home soon, starving and probably hoping for a nice dinner ready for him just like he would have ready for me if I wasn’t working.
I’m a shit wife, I’m a shit daughter and I’m a shit teacher. I’m a shit musician too as I haven’t been able to lift my guitar to sing anything more than simple songs (and The Beatles) to eight-year-olds.
I put my pillow over my head in a bid to stop the noise in my mind and will myself to switch off and go to sleep so I can forget about it all.
I’m so exhausted.
‘This is not a crisis,’ says Jack later that evening over dinner, which he made before he woke me up from my pity-party slumber. ‘Please stop beating yourself up, Charlotte. It’s really not a big deal so try not to overreact to other people’s reactions. You have to be yourself and you did what’s best for you, it’s that simple. You can’t live in misery just to please your mother or anyone else.’
I push my food around the plate in front of me, knowing that my husband is talking total sense as usual, but I’m still bubbling from my conversation with my mother and I just can’t shake it off.
‘Why does it always have to bemewho upsets her?’ I ask him, as if he has the answers. Luckily, he didn’t know me when I was the rebel child of the family so he has no idea how many times I casually messed up. More importantly, he doesn’t know that I hold a lot of responsibility for why my brother is in a wheelchair and I hope he never finds out. No one knows that except for me, Matthew and, of course, he who should never be named, Tom Farley.
Speaking of Tom Farley, he never did reply to my email wishing him well on his big hit song, but hey ho, that’s the least of my worries. I need to get my head together and work out what on earth I’m going to do with my future now that I’ve messed up my teaching career.
‘Don’t worry, love, I’m just feeling a bit low in myself, but I’ll get over it. I just feel like I’ve thrown all I worked for away and I’ve let my family down. Again,’ I say to Jack, who I know is worried sick about my state of mind right now.
He clears the table and when I go to help him he pulls me closer for a hug.
‘I’m a big believer in things happening for a reason,’ he says to me, his voice as soothing and comforting as ever. I look up into his stunningly beautiful midnight-blue eyes that manage to make me go weak at the knees even when I’m feeling a bit dead inside like I am now. ‘Yesterday is just part of your history, Char, but it’s not going to stop your future. Take this time to reflect and plan for the next step in your life, whatever direction that will take you. You’ve the world at your feet and any school in the country would be foolish not to give you a chance. Miss Jean Brady and her team of sharks are only big fish in a very small pond.’
I can’t help but giggle, which I think was Jack’s aim with his big speech.
‘You really love throwing in a metaphor or two just to drive your message home, don’t you, Doctor Malone,’ I laugh, and he ruffles my hair playfully.
‘You love my metaphors,’ he says, giving me one of his million-dollar smiles. ‘It works on my patients, so I kind of hope that someday it will work on my beautiful wife.’
He wraps his strong arms around my waist and pulls me closer to him so that I’m touching a part of him that tells me what’s on his mind.
