Chapter Eight
Cerrie
When I arrive at school on Monday morning, I feel stronger. Decorating my home yesterday made all the difference. By the time I’d finished, every room sparkled with white fairy lights. I don’t have a tree yet, but I’ve made space for one – a real one this year; yet another change in a David-free flat. He is a confirmed artificial tree devotee – the kind that is packed away and shoved in a cupboard or a loft every year, then dragged out the next, a little stragglier and less treelike than before. In the four years we were together, it was always the Christmas tree smell I missed the most. This morning, my whole house was filled with the scent of cinnamon and cloves, oranges and peppermint. When the smell of a spruce tree joins them, it will be the perfect mix.
Last night I sat in the armchair by my twinkling, rainbow-spine shelves and started to reread an old favourite book. Entering another world surrounded by the sparkling Christmas version of my home made me feel alive again. I’ve missed that peace.
All through the morning at school I can still feel that sense of calm, glowing like an ember in my heart. But as lunchtime arrives and the afternoon’s rehearsal looms, nervous butterflies start to appear. This will be the first time I talk to Tom.
It will be good, I tell myself, collecting my folder of sheet music and waiting for my class to line up by the door. I can do this. I just wish my stomach-butterflies agreed with my head . . .
What I’m not expecting is the new teacher already waiting in the hall when I arrive with my class – or my ex being there, too, chatting amiably with him. The sympathetic smile David gives me as they rise from their perch on the edge of the stage doesn’t help things. He doesn’t mean it, I remind myself. He just hates losing. He was expecting me to be angry when I heard about his affair. But he wasn’t expecting me to throw him out. That’s David all over: do exactly what he wants and then be surprised if the people he hurts object. If the kids weren’t here I might be more tempted to say what I think of him, but I can’t be seen to have any hard feelings. Seven-year-olds miss nothing.
‘Ah, there you are,’ David says, glancing at his watch as though I’m late. I’m not late, of course. They are both earlier than I am, that’s all. ‘I was just telling Tom how much of a struggle this has been for you over the years. We’re lucky to have his help this year, aren’t we?’
Aware my kids are taking in every detail, I mumble, ‘Mmm,’ with a smile I hope sounds positive enough.
David gives an appreciative nod and I wonder if he even heard me. ‘Oh and did you know our Mr Keller was an actor before he retrained in education?’
Tom offers a self-conscious smile. ‘Only a few professional productions back in Oz, then bit parts on TV when I moved to the UK.’
‘And Broadway . . .’ I can’t work out what he’s trying so hard to do. Is this meant to rub it in so that he can be the one to offer comfort in private? It would be amusing if this didn’t feel like an ambush.
‘Off-Broadway, actually. And it bombed after a week.’
‘But he is professionally trained in musical theatre.’
‘Oh. Great.’ It’s a battle to remain calm as I force my brightest smile back. My class are gathered around me, agog at the new teacher. I mentioned he would be helping when I was taking the register this morning and they’ve been like coiled springs since then. ‘Class 4, this is Mr Keller. He’s going to be helping us with our Christmas play.’
As the children buzz about Tom Keller, I offer a firm nod to David. ‘Thanks for bringing Mr Keller over, Mr Myers. But don’t let us keep you. I expect you have lots to do this afternoon?’
Like applying for another job so you can go as far away as possible from me . . .
David hesitates for just a moment and I almost see a flicker of hurt in his eyes. But then his smile returns and he walks away. I exhale at last, try to gain a little perspective as he slips from view. I can’t let him get to me, and I have to stop thinking he’s out to score brownie points. I have to see him as just another teacher, with motivations and actions a world away from my own.
It doesn’t make it any less painful though.
Tom is high-fiving my delighted children, so I set out benches on the stage and arrange the sheets of music across the top of the piano. When he is released long enough to notice me again, I raise my hand to summon the children’s attention. One by one, their hands rise in reply, the level of noise diminishing steadily, until we’re all holding the same pose and the school hall falls silent. Tom Keller cottons on last, causing giggles from some of my kids as he comically lifts his own hand over his head.
‘Excellent, superstars. Hands down. Now, let’s get you up on the stage in the positions you’re going to have for the play. Make sure you remember the person you’re sitting next to, so you’ll know where you have to be.’
‘Hi,’ Tom says, suddenly beside me, as I shout out pairs of children and usher them to their places for the opening song. ‘I didn’t get to say hello before we started. Sorry.’
‘It’s fine, don’t worry . . . Joshua Levens, don’t sit on Flo’s lap! You should be over there by Nessie. Thank you. Edie and Jessica, squidge up a little to let Harry sit down, please. Great.’
I risk a sideward glance. Now he’s standing next to me, Jo’s gushing about the hue of Tom’s eyes appears justified. They really are blue . . .
‘I’ve – um – put the sheet music on the piano, if you want to have a look? It’ll take me a while to sort out the stage positions.’
‘Sure, no worries. Crowd control, hey?’
I smile back. ‘Essential part of the job.’
He grins and strolls over to the piano. Jo might have been right about his eyes but she’s wrong about him being Thor. Tom is far too laid back and relaxed to be an Asgardian warrior. I make myself focus on the stage.
‘Miss Austin? My mum says can I sing a song just by myself, please?’ Ruby Jarvis asks, her hand stuck in the air with so much effort it’s practically pulling her arm from its socket. I love Ruby, but it’s well known in the school that she and her two sisters, Summer-Rose and Jasmine, are destined for stardom if their mother has anything to do with it. They are all undoubtedly talented and, thankfully, at the stage where performing is still fun. But I wonder how excited they will still be about it at sixteen. In my experience, intense pressure from someone else rarely fosters a deep love of something in you.
‘Actually, I have a song I would like you to start,’ I reply, having already foreseen this situation. I might not like Ruby’s mum’s blatant attempt to push her daughter forwards in my play, but Ruby has a lovely singing voice and is a sweet child. I see the flush of excitement claim her face and push away the suspicion that a fair amount of relief might be responsible as well as excitement. ‘Right then, so we’re all in our starting positions. We’re going to begin with our first song, ‘Let’s Find a Job for Jimbob’, so let’s ask Mr Keller to—’
Behind me the music I spent last month writing suddenly starts to play. I momentarily forget where I am, arrested by the beautiful sound coming from the piano. The kids look over, too, aghast. I’m proud of the music I’ve written, but I’ve never heard it played like this.
‘Lovely . . .’ breathes Joshua Levens, snuggled up between Nessie and Edie, and I have to resist the urge to hug him. He might be the cheekiest chap in Class 4, but I love that he’s connected with the music so immediately.
‘You want me to sing it, Miss Austin?’ Tom asks from behind the piano.
‘I – um – yes, if you can.’
That’s the daftest thing I’ve said all year. Of course he can. I watch with my captivated class as he flawlessly performs the first song, sight-reading it from my handwritten sheet music. And suddenly I feel very small. Completely inadequate, in fact. With skill like his, performed so effortlessly, why should I even bother being here? I push the thought away. I came to work determined to see the best side of this situation: it’s going to take more effort than I’d anticipated, but I have to ignore feelings that might derail this. It’s a good thing – the kids love Tom Keller and his contribution is going to be far greater to the production than I could have foreseen. It means the school will benefit, the children will be part of something wonderful and this year’s Christmas production will be the best yet. That’s the challenge I set myself each year, so it means I’ve already achieved it.
I just didn’t think I’d need Tom Keller to make it happen, that’s all.
An hour and a half later my classroom assistant Jen takes the children back to the classroom for reading time, while I finish stacking away the chairs. For a first rehearsal we’ve made amazing progress: four songs learned out of six and a lot of the stage business sorted. Usually, it takes a week to get this far.
‘The music is great,’ Tom says, carrying a stack of four chairs from the stage. ‘Who wrote it?’
‘I did.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Oh – wow. I didn’t know.’
A little taken aback by his surprise, I shrug. ‘I write it every year.’
‘How do you find the time? Sorry, that’s a rude question. You’re obviously great at this. Did you write the play, too?’
‘Yes.’ The last chair is stacked and I turn to him. ‘Thanks for your help. I think you’re a hit with Class 4.’
‘I hope so. You know, my mum was shocked when I said I wanted to teach primary, but I get a far better response from six- and seven-year-olds than I ever got from theatre critics.’ His grin pulls a little to the right when it appears, I notice. It makes one eye crinkle up at the corner more than the other. And when he talks, he looks me straight in the eye. With eyes as blue as his, it’s startling . . .
What are you doing? Stop it, Cerrie!
He moves to hand back the folder of sheet music, but I stop him. ‘You can keep it, if you like. In case you want to play through it at home?’
‘I don’t have a piano, yet. Coming here and getting this job all kinda happened in a blur.’
‘Oh . . .’
‘Hey, no worries, though. My crazy Latvian neighbour, Dragan, has one. He’s convinced he’s the reincarnation of Liberace. I’m serious. He collects his newspaper from the corner shop in the morning wearing full-on rhinestones.’ He laughs, then hugs the music folder to that chest that Jo can’t stop going on about. ‘I’ll look after this, Miss Austin. I promise. It’ll be safe with me.’
It’s a small action, but I’m surprisingly touched by it. ‘Cerrie, please.’
‘Cerrie, then.’
For a moment we fall silent, standing with mirrored smiles in the middle of the school hall. Then I remember where I am and hurry back to my classroom.
As I watch my kids reading their books, the room seems to fade behind a haze.
What just happened back there?