Chapter Ten
Cerrie
‘Right, Darcy, really big voice this time.’
The small girl nods at me from the front of the stage, script shaking as much as the rainbow-coloured hair bobbles on the top of her cornrowed bunches.
‘And then it was time for . . . Jimbob . . . to see The . . . Boss. All the big angels watched . . . as he . . . walked-through-the-Great-Hall.’ The last five words are said as one, Darcy’s chin dropping to her chest and voice retreating to a whisper.
I clap and Tom joins me, giving a whoop that makes Darcy’s head snap upright, her eyes shining with surprise.
‘Darcy, that was so much better! Well done. Class 4, let’s give Darcy a big clap for that.’
My lovely class enthusiastically obliges. Darcy positively glows. But her brightest smile is reserved for Tom. In the week we’ve been working together, I’ve noticed how every child in Class 4 seeks his approval. I don’t mind, really. Someone new in the class is always a big draw. When my newest student Nessie Dixon started last month, my classroom assistant Jen and I had to draw up a rota of who could sit next to her at story-time and registration, such was the clamour for the space beside the new girl on the floor.
But there’s something else, too: the children know already that Tom is on their side. He’s very quickly established himself as their cheerleader. Kids always respond to that – and they would be the first to spot if his encouragement was false or forced. They see the excellence he brings to the production and they respect it.
And why not? He is brilliant. I didn’t want to admit it, not least because David is still trying to use it as an excuse to start conversations with me. But as much as I wanted to resent Tom Keller’s involvement, I can’t deny his positive effect on the children.
I just wish it wasn’t happening in plain sight of my ex.
As the home-time bell sounds, I usher the children back to the classroom to collect their coats and bags. We’ve overrun a little, but nobody seems to mind. The usual rush to the door hasn’t happened on the days when the Christmas play rehearsal has been the last session of the day. I stand by the door and say goodbye to each one, my classroom assistant Jen leaving with them on her way to her second job working at a restaurant overlooking the harbour in Newlyn. I don’t know how she does it, but so many people who live here accept you have to do whatever work you can while it’s there. Winter can be especially tough, with most of the tourists gone and many businesses closing for a few months.
I’m collecting my things together when I realise I’ve left my folder with the play script in the hall. Laughing at myself, I take my coat, bag and scarf and retrace my steps past the two other open-plan classrooms towards the hall. My colleagues have been busy in the run-up to Christmas – the display boards on the walls are filled with wintry scenes, snowflakes made out of folded and cut paper, or drinking straws forming asterisk-shape stars covered in white cotton wool and drenched in silver glitter. Jo’s classroom has taken the subject of ‘Christmas Around the World’, with brightly painted figures in national dress and a display of Christmas items from Scandinavia, Russia, Germany, France and Spain. An enormous Happy Christmas in ice-blue foiled paper on one display board is surrounded by the same phrase in ten other languages, each one written in bubble-letters and enthusiastically decorated by her class of nine-year-olds.
The door to the school hall now bears an army of hat-and-scarf-clad polar bears and the hall itself looks like an explosion in a tinsel factory. Our caretaker Maureen, who has been here since some of the teachers were at St Piran’s as children, does it every year. She ropes her poor long-suffering husband Sidney into it, too, relying upon him to pin the lengths of sparkly tinsel to each side of the ceiling. The kids adore it and many an almost-Christmas lunch is eaten with their eyes fixed on the glittery spectacle above their heads.
I love the traditions people uphold year after year. My next-door neighbour Val always brings me a handful of ‘festive pomanders’ – oranges studded with cloves tied with berry-red ribbon – to hang around my home. David used to hide them in the kitchen drawer, but this Christmas they hang proudly from the window in each room.
I see my folder where I left it, on the edge of the piano. Smiling to myself, I pick it up and am halfway to the staffroom when I hear David’s voice. I’ve had such a good day today – I don’t want to spoil it just before I leave. I jump up onto the stage and duck behind the ancient curtains, their faded red backgrounds and proud grey knights on horseback swaying as I flatten myself against the wall. I’m struck by an almost overwhelming urge to giggle, but I manage to stop myself in time.
‘. . . and if we can put ourselves on the map, who knows what we can do.’ David’s in the hall now, the soles of his polished brown shoes click-clacking across the wooden floor. I hear a second set of footsteps too, lighter than David’s but a beat behind his.
‘Sounds like you have big plans, David.’
Tom Keller couldn’t hide his accent even if he wanted to. I smile behind the charging knights. During this week, I’ve developed a respect for the sonorous voice with its characteristic lifts at the end of each sentence. When he talks, I can hear music in his tone, a shadow of the instrument present in every word.
‘I do, Tom. So, how’s our epic festive production coming on?’
‘Good. Great, actually.’
Thank you, Tom.
‘And Cerrie’s been okay?’
‘She’s great, too.’
‘I just thought, what with her protectiveness over the whole thing you might have encountered some resistance.’
Tom’s laugh echoes warmly around the hall and it’s a wordless dismissal of David’s question. Good. How dare David try to stir up ill feeling between us?
‘Have you heard the music Cerrie’s written? It’s awesome. No, I mean it: simple for the kids to learn but the musicality of it is as good as any commercial stuff.’
‘I expect you’ve had a lot to do with that.’
I pull a face at my ex from the safety of my hiding place.
‘I changed some chords a little here and there, but it’s good stuff.’
‘So, would you be up for taking over next year?’
There’s a definite pause. I don’t want there to be any space between David’s question and Tom’s answer. I hear the creak of the piano lid being lifted and a chair scraping along the floor.
That’s too long, Tom. Tell David where to go!
‘I mean I wouldn’t want to step on any toes, you know. Cerrie –’
‘– would be more than happy not to have this responsibility forever. Trust me, Tom. I know her better than you do. Fact is, St Piran’s is going places. Cerrie’s part of that, too, and she’s a brilliant teacher. But with your professional experience we could establish the school as the best for drama productions in the area. Maybe the whole of south-west Cornwall. This is the best Cerrie can manage. I’m sure you can see things she could improve on.’
I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. Notes on the piano begin to play – an unfamiliar melody that is beautiful and ugly at the same time. Is Tom actually considering taking this from me after all?
‘I mean, sure, there are other things we could do.’
‘Make some changes if you like. I’m sure Cerrie won’t mind.’
‘Maybe I’ll run some ideas past her tomorrow.’
‘Good idea. In the meantime, thanks for everything you’re doing, Tom . . .’
The music ends. I wait, my heart thudding so loudly I’m sure it will cause an echo, until I hear the piano lid close and Tom and David’s voices fade from earshot. Only when I’m certain they aren’t returning do I dare to step out from the curtain folds and climb down from the stage. As I pass the upright piano I run my hand across the closed pale beech lid. It feels like a barrier.
I hold it together until I’m inside my car, tears falling like the flurry of snowflakes hitting my windscreen as I start the engine and screech out of the empty car park. I let myself trust Tom, let myself like him, and I allowed myself to believe he was as in love with the production as I am.
How wrong was I?
One thing I know for certain: I won’t make that mistake again. If Tom Keller thinks he can take my Christmas production from me he can think again. I’ve worked too hard and for too long to lose it now.
I don’t hide from the hurt that evening as I sob in the sparkling brightness of my home. Tonight, I’ll allow myself to feel it all. But starting tomorrow morning, I’m coming back fighting . . .