Kate Field - A Dozen Second Chances

I froze. She was giving me a pointed look – a look that suggested she knew things about me, about my background, that I certainly hadn’t told her.

‘My obsession?’ I repeated. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. She clearly didn’t understand at all. This wasn’t an obsession. It wasn’t a crusade. I wasn’t charging into battle for my own glory, far from it. But what did this woman, with her own obsession for policies and efficiencies, know about the things that were really worth anything in life? ‘Call it what you like. This is a million times more important than exam results and budgets. This is a chance to save lives. I can’t think of any better way to spend my time.’

I was still shaking when I reached the staffroom, and Tina took one look at my face and shepherded me into the nearest empty classroom.

‘What’s up?’ she asked, pushing me down onto a chair. ‘Is it Phyllis? Caitlyn? Your mum?’

‘No, everyone is fine. It’s Jo …’

‘Oh crikey, what’s she done now? The staffroom is still up in arms about her decree that we need permission to photocopy more than ten sheets of paper. What has she planned next? We can’t cope with another of her bright ideas yet.’

‘She’s taken down all the anti-drugs posters.’

I didn’t need to say more. Tina understood, more than Jo ever could, and immediately leant forward to give me a hug.

‘Oh, love. What’s she done that for?’

‘Because posters might damage the school walls. And she doesn’t want parents to think there might be a drugs problem here …’ I stopped. Jo’s concerns were so trivial, when compared to what was at stake. How could she think any of that mattered?

‘So what, we ignore the issue, and keep our fingers crossed that nothing like that happens here?’ Tina said. ‘She’s more of an idiot than we realised.’

‘She called it my crusade.’ I looked at Tina. ‘How does she know?’

Again, Tina needed no more explanation about what I was asking. She shrugged.

‘I suppose it must be on your personnel record somewhere. Mrs Armstrong knew all about it, didn’t she? About Faye, and how you came to have Caitlyn …’

So Jo Blair had been snooping, grubbing round in our private lives – for what reason? Looking for the weak links, who she could then remove in a round of budget cuts? Perhaps I wouldn’t have minded if it were my secrets she was raking over. But not Faye’s. I didn’t want her to know anything about Faye, didn’t want someone like her to judge my sister. There had been enough judgement already. And what had Jo found out? The truth about Faye, and how she had died, presumably. Because Faye had died unexpectedly, but not from an accident or a freak illness. She had died from taking a pill – a drug – that had turned out to be a bad one, and that had killed her.

But that wasn’t the real truth about Faye. It wasn’t how she deserved to be remembered. She had been so much more than the tawdry tale of her death that had featured in the local and national newspapers for days afterwards; sleazy journalists hadn’t been able to resist front-page photographs and stories about the beautiful young woman who had thrown her life away because of drugs. She had been vibrant and funny, a wicked impressionist, a talented artist, and the most wonderful sister I could have wished for. Hardly a day went by without me regretting what I had lost, and even more, what Caitlyn had lost. I had done my best for Caitlyn, but it could only ever be second best to what she should have had.

I stared out of the window, nails digging into my palms as I forced my thoughts to stop there, not to prod at the memories of that time, at the bruise that would never heal. Tina took hold of my hands and uncurled my fingers.

‘Sod Jo Blair,’ she said. ‘Print me out one of your posters and I’ll put it up on the history display board. She doesn’t have a key to open it, so it will be safe there. I’m sure I can convince some of the other teachers to do the same. A bit of rebellion will boost staff morale no end.’

*

By the time Tuesday evening arrived, I was in the mood for a fast and furious run, so it was disappointing to see a motley collection of people arrive for the inaugural running club event. Lexy’s advertising on Facebook and in The White Hart had paid off in the end, and ten people turned up, ranging from a veteran of half-marathons to a lady who admitted with a cheerful grin that she hadn’t run since her baby was born eighteen months ago, but she was keen to get back in shape.

One of the fitter runners, Winston, was vaguely familiar and after an extensive guessing game as we jogged along at an infuriatingly slow pace, we established that we had crossed paths at The Chestnuts, where his grandmother was also a resident.

‘You’re Phyllis’s granddaughter?’ he said, when we paused on the crest of the drover’s bridge that spanned the river to the south of the town centre, to allow the others to catch up. I wouldn’t have stopped if I’d been alone, but I couldn’t deny the charm of the scene, or how peaceful it was to watch the water meander below us.

‘Yes. Do you know her?’

Winston laughed. ‘Everyone knows Phyllis. She’s the Queen of The Chestnuts, isn’t she? Nothing goes on there without her knowing, and no one comes and goes without her noticing.’

‘Noticing or interfering?’

‘Maybe both,’ Winston acknowledged with a grin, as we set off again. ‘I hear you’re organising a sponsored walk to raise money for a new minibus.’

‘Am I? I did suggest it, but I hadn’t realised it was definitely going ahead.’ I hadn’t raised the subject again with Gran, in case she dropped any more hints about a celebrity endorsement. I wanted to help The Chestnuts, but there were limits.

‘It’s definitely happening. Phyllis has even decided on the date. The third Sunday in May. She had wanted it to be the Bank Holiday weekend, but then she decided that people might be going away for half-term, so she brought it forward.’

‘But that’s only seven weeks away! How am I supposed to sort it out in that time?’

‘I did hear her mention that the Easter break was coming up, and you would have nothing else to do.’ Winston laughed as he repeated what was undoubtedly one of Gran’s bon mots. ‘Tell you what, why don’t I give you a hand? I’m on paternity leave for a couple of months. It will be good to keep my brain active. Only if you need the help,’ he added, as I slowed to let him go first where the riverside path narrowed to single file. ‘I don’t want to butt in.’

Did I need the help? Probably, if I only had seven weeks. But I wasn’t used to accepting it. I was the one who offered help, not took it. I had many acquaintances around Inglebridge, people who I would happily pass time chatting to, but in the seventeen years I had lived here, only Tina had slipped through my barriers and become a true friend. My Christmas card list was extensive, my Christmas present list short. It was the way I had chosen it to be. I prided myself on being independent, and on not relying on anyone else. My history had made me cautious; if I didn’t get too close to people, I wouldn’t go through the pain of losing them. But a sudden thought struck me, as I ran along the uneven path. I might be spared the pain – but was I losing out on happiness too? And why had a simple question about a sponsored walk turned the spotlight on my whole way of life?

The path widened again, and Winston slowed until I caught him up.

‘Sorry,’ he said, as we carried on running. ‘I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. Have a think about it. If you need some help, I’m here. Strictly speaking, me and a seven-month-old are here, but I’m probably better with a spreadsheet than she is.’