Chapter Twelve
Cerrie
It begins during the first song. My kids are diligently enunciating their words and using their best ‘big voices’, when Tom stops playing and holds up his hand.
‘Great, kids. Just take a break for a minute, okay?’
Firstly, it’s my job to direct this production. Secondly, why stop a perfectly good run-through of the song like that?
I keep my smile steady and bright because every eye is watching and I already know which children will be convincing themselves they were responsible for the mistake that stopped the song. ‘It sounds so good. Take some deep breaths because there’s a long note coming up in this chorus, remember?’ Reaching the piano, smile intact, I glance at Tom. ‘What’s up?’
‘Okay, don’t hate me, but I was going over this song last night and I just think it would be good to change the key after chorus two. Really lift that final verse and chorus repeat.’
‘No.’
I hope the cheery expression I wear for the benefit of the kids is sufficiently annoying. Tom stares back. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘No key change. The song is fine. The kids naturally gain volume on the last verse and chorus, which works really well.’
‘Okay, but if we lift it to C we’d get an extra boost. Make it anthemic.’
‘We’re in a school hall, not Wembley Stadium.’
He drops his voice. ‘Cerrie . . . ?’
I’m already walking back to the centre of the hall. ‘Okay, kids, let’s go for the last verse and chorus. Huge voices this time.’ I don’t even look at Tom, but hear the slightest hesitation before the music starts.
It doesn’t end there. In the second song, he plays a different piano line in the bridge section, which throws out the harmony my best singers have learned. I ask him to put it back and he does – but only after a glowering stare. Then he tries to ask Ruby to sing the first verse in the third song with Nessie Dixon, even though Nessie’s voice is strong enough to carry it alone. Again, I have to step in – ever the happy, calm teacher as far as my class is concerned – and firmly restate that it is Nessie’s solo to sing.
By the time the final song has been performed I’m daring him to challenge me again. I take my kids back to class immediately, leaving Tom to clear away chairs. I don’t even go back to check if it’s been done when the bell rings and the children run out to meet their parents. Righteous anger has fuelled me all afternoon. And, for a change, it feels good to assert my authority. I spend my life trying to help other people, often tying myself in knots in the process. But not this time. I don’t care what David told Tom, or what Tom thinks he has licence to do: this is my production. Nobody is going to take it away from me.
In the after-school gloom outside the rain has turned icy. Tiny bullets of cold pepper my face and body as I hurry to my car. There’s no lantern-making at the farm tonight, but there is a large bottle of red wine at home with my name on it. I’m in the mood to celebrate finally having the guts to say no.
Reaching for my car keys, I find they’ve lodged themselves in the lining of my coat pocket and it takes several pulls to yank them free. When I look up, someone is standing by my car.
‘You want to tell me what that was about today?’
‘Hello, Tom.’
‘Did I offend you? Was it because I tried to change your score?’
‘I’m running late. Would you mind moving?’
‘Answer the question. What did I do?’
I don’t like his tone. Or the way he refuses to budge from my driver’s door. ‘Please move. It’s filthy weather and I really don’t want to get pneumonia.’
He doesn’t, so I hit the key remote button, causing a flash of angry amber indicator light and a loud click that temporarily sends him jumping away from my door. Taking the advantage, I skirt round his body, open the door and jump in, slamming it shut as quickly as I can behind me.
But as I’m turning on the engine, the passenger door flies open and Tom claims the seat. The slam of the door seals us inside, the only sounds around us the flurries of iced rain against the windscreen, the low hum of the cold engine and the sharp bursts of his breath.
‘What do you think you’re doing? Get out!’
‘I’m not leaving.’ His toned arms fold across his body. The rain has soaked through his shirt, the wet material clinging to every curve of muscle. If Jo were in my seat now she’d be jumping him.
‘Then I’ll drive to the nearest police station and report you for harassment.’
‘Are you crazy? And the nearest manned police station is Camborne. You going to drive me all the way there?’
I don’t flinch. ‘Get out of my car, please.’
‘Not until you tell me why you went all Bond villain on me today.’
Why should I tell him what I overheard? Let him work it out. ‘I appreciate your help, but the score and the script remain as they have been written. We are less than a week away from the performance and I want the children to have fun with it, not be scared because you’re changing things.’
‘Oh, I get it.’ His hollow laugh fills the car. ‘You’re ragged I changed your music.’
‘Don’t make this about me. I am concerned with the kids having the best time with this production. And I don’t just apportion songs and lines to children on a whim.’
‘Far be it from me to suggest you did . . .’
Okay, that’s it. He’s crossed a line and needs to be told. ‘Do you know Nessie Dixon’s history? She lost her mum, a few months ago. Had to move to this school with her father because they lost their house. The last thing that lovely girl needs is something else being taken from her when she’s lost so much already.’
‘I–I didn’t know . . .’ Some of the fire fades from his expression.
‘And Ruby is great, but if you give her extra lines her mother will crow to other parents like there’s no tomorrow, which will cause hurt and upset – and put Ruby right in the middle of it with her classmates . . .’
‘I didn’t know that, either.’
‘. . . And don’t you ever, even as a joke, suggest that Reuben Giles can’t learn his lines. When he started in Class 4 in September he was so shy he could barely whisper his name during the register. Saying anything out loud, in front of the whole school and all their parents, will be a huge achievement.’
‘Cerrie, I’m sorry.’ His hand reaches for the door handle and I let up a silent prayer of thanks. The sooner I can be free of him, the better.
‘Just play the music how it’s written, please. Support the kids with their lines in the script. And praise every single one of them, no matter what. That’s your job, and mine, too.’
Head bowed, he mumbles goodbye and suddenly I can breathe alone in my car again. My own space. On my terms. I showed him.
So why doesn’t it feel like the victory it should?