Kate Field - A Dozen Second Chances

‘But the middle-aged people who need exercise might not use Facebook.’

‘That’s a fair point. I’ll tell Lexy that we need to write out flyers on parchment with our quill pens, and send them off attached to a pigeon …’

‘I didn’t mean you. You’re not middle-aged. Not yet.’

‘Thanks!’ Of course, I spoke too soon.

‘Not until August, when you turn forty and officially go over the hill …’

I clutched the phone more tightly to my ear, staggered by the overwhelming nature of how much I missed her, felt in every fibre and follicle of my being. Her absence was like a physical force, buffeting me from all angles.

‘I can tell you’re not missing me at all,’ Caitlyn said. ‘You’re having too much fun with your running club and nights out with Tina. Where did you go? You didn’t say. I hope it wasn’t just cinema night with Gran Gran and the Chestnuts gang.’

‘No, we went to Yorkshire.’ I realised that probably didn’t sound much of a treat to someone currently living in Paris. ‘We attended an evening lecture.’

Caitlyn’s silence confirmed that the extra detail hadn’t helped elevate the outing in the excitement stakes.

‘You did get the concept of the vouchers, didn’t you?’ she asked. ‘You were supposed to be having fun.’

‘It was fun!’ Or it had been until a certain fake Irishman had barged into my personal space. ‘It was all about Roman Britain and what the archaeological evidence tells us …’

I trailed off. I had deliberately not given Caitlyn any details of the talk when I filled in the voucher. She knew my history, of course, and knew about my degree, but I had tended to play it down as a subject in which I had a passing interest, not one that I had intended to make my career. I had never told her about the plans Paddy and I had made before she came to live with us; the plans to take time out and join archaeological digs across the world. We had both been juggling a variety of part-time jobs to fund our travels; my share of the money had ultimately been used to fund time out with Caitlyn and our travels to Lancashire.

I had never mentioned Paddy to her at all, and as far as I knew she had no memory of him. I hoped not, anyway. But I certainly didn’t want her to think that I’d been desperate for her to leave home all these years, so I could pick up my old life again.

‘It was only …’ I began again, but Caitlyn interrupted.

‘That’s fantastic! I didn’t realise you were still interested in all that old stuff. Are there any more talks you can go to?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’ I conveniently forgot the fact that one was taking place at our school.

‘That’s a shame. What about going on a dig? Is that the sort of thing you used to do? You should definitely have another go. I bet you could volunteer for something over the holidays. Why not?’

‘Well …’ Caitlyn was reminding me of someone again, but it wasn’t Faye this time. It was me. Wasn’t this exactly the same cajoling voice I’d used countless times to encourage her to join in with things she wasn’t keen on? Since when had our roles reversed?

We said our goodbyes, and Caitlyn returned to her busy, delightful French life while I slumped on the sofa in front of the television in my empty house. I had no plans for the rest of the evening, or for Sunday either. Rich was busy with his children, Tina was away, and even Gran had told me to keep clear of The Chestnuts or face the consequences of a nasty gastric bug. I had no plans for the rest of the year. No plans for the rest of my life, whispered an impish voice in my head.

I thought about Caitlyn’s suggestion of volunteering on a dig and the stir of excitement I had felt when she had mentioned it. Could I pick up where I had left off all those years ago? Could I volunteer on a dig over the summer? Why not, Caitlyn had asked. I thought about it all night, and couldn’t think of an answer.

Jo Blair didn’t improve on further acquaintance.

‘Is that business-related post?’ she asked, when she caught me during morning break on Monday, with the parcel containing my new running clothes. I had just finished writing out a voucher to send to Caitlyn.

BE KIND TO YOURSELF

VOUCHER TWO

I, Eve Roberts, have been kind to myself by buying state-of-the-art new running clothes!

I would have denied it if I could, but the bag was covered with the name of the sports shop, making pretence futile.

‘No,’ I admitted. ‘It’s an urgent parcel I need for tomorrow.’

I chose not to elaborate; she looked wiry under her power suits, as if she worked out, and I didn’t want to risk her turning up to join the run.

‘It’s not school policy to allow personal mail to be delivered here. I thought you would have been aware of that. Don’t do it again.’

I was half inclined to think she was making it up – Mrs Armstrong had never mentioned the existence of such a policy, and her gin club parcel used to turn up here every month without anyone batting an eyelid. But I told myself it wasn’t worth fighting over. I had my clothes and wasn’t expecting any other deliveries, so there was no point falling out over it. We had to work together, and though our working relationship had been strained so far, never recovering from our initial chat, I didn’t want to risk making it worse.

That was what I thought at break. My good intentions didn’t last beyond lunchtime, when I returned to my desk and found a pile of posters dumped on it. I picked them up and marched into Jo’s office without knocking.

‘What are these doing here?’ I asked, waving the stack of posters at her. A piece of dried Blu-Tack flew through the air and landed on her desk, in bold defiance of the clear desk policy.

‘I found them scattered around the school, ruining the walls. Have you any idea how much it costs to paint the corridors in this place? Send an email to all staff telling them not to put posters up other than on the official display boards. Blu-Tack is banned with immediate effect.’

My blood, which had been lukewarm already, quickly escalated to boiling point.

‘This has nothing to do with any staff member,’ I said, thumping down the posters onto her clear desk. ‘I put these posters up. Mrs Armstrong gave permission. They are all anti-drug posters. It’s an important message.’

‘Mrs Armstrong is no longer here and I’m withdrawing permission. It’s sending out the wrong message to parents and visitors. We have an important event this week, with Paddy Friel’s talk taking place, and the press will be here. We don’t want to give the impression that we have a drugs problem in school.’

The reference to Paddy did nothing to calm me down.

‘What does it matter what visitors think? Any decent parent would be pleased to know that the school was taking a stand – that we have a strong anti-drugs policy,’ I said. She was usually a stickler for policy and procedure, so why not this one? ‘Who cares about the cost of repainting the walls, if the posters make one student think twice before experimenting with drugs?’

Jo leant forward, and if I hadn’t already concluded after a week’s acquaintance that she was an efficient machine and incapable of human feeling, I would have sworn she was trying out a sympathetic expression.

‘I understand, Eve, why you feel so strongly about this crusade, but you need to pursue it in your own time and not let your obsession …’