‘Hey, you’ll be fine. It’s just nerves. Run on the spot.’
Then the student called her and Ruby went.
Louise fiddled with her phone. She had a voice message on there from Luke: ‘Hey, I’m staying at Declan’s, yeah. See you tomorrow.’ His voice was warmer than she had remembered, in spite of the bland, businesslike content of the message. She had played it to him recently; she’d try anything to reach him. She listened again now. ‘Hey…’ What she’d give to hear him say that now. One word. Hey.
‘Mrs Murray?’
Louise felt a prick of shock, as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. She slid her phone shut, smiled and went through to meet the principal, Vicky Plessey. They’d spoken on the phone before, and Louise had seen her picture on the website: a vivacious, Liverpudlian with long blonde hair. She couldn’t be much older than Louise. Her office was a hymn to art deco – mirrors and statues, velvet curtains, framed posters. She began by telling Louise that Ruby was an impressive applicant, obviously committed to performance. How would she find living away from home?
‘I think she’ll be fine. She’ll make friends, I’m sure, and she’ll be home at weekends.’
‘Is there anything we need to be aware of, anything that’s altered since you sent in the application from?’
Louise didn’t know whether to say anything about Luke. If she went into details, if she identified him as the boy who had been savaged in the press, it might alter Vicky’s view of Ruby. Turn her from a gifted teenager to the sister of a young criminal. But if she said nothing, there might be problems further down the line for Ruby, because no one would know Luke was in hospital.
‘Ruby’s brother is in hospital,’ Louise said. ‘A brain injury.’
Vicky frowned in concern. ‘Oh, I am sorry.’
Louise rushed to speak, keen to deflect any questions. ‘So she may need to visit, depending on how he does.’
‘Of course. The welfare of the students is our first priority.’
Before Vicky could ask anything, Louise said, ‘When will we hear if she’s got a place?’
‘By the end of the week,’ Vicky said.
‘And the bursaries – does that depend on who gets in?’ Louise realized it might be a bit crass homing straight in on the money side of things, but it was crucial Vicky understood their situation.
‘Yes. We only offer two bursaries each intake and demand is increasing year on year. Though we do have a separate expenses fund.’
‘Like I explained on the phone,’ Louise said, ‘Ruby wouldn’t be able to come here if we had to find the fees.’
‘I understand.’
Did she? Louise wondered. Had Vicky Plessey grown up in a home where school trips were out of the question and buying new shoes might mean keeping the heating off for a month. Could she imagine that? Every purchase being weighed, the permanent worry about managing money gnawing inside.
Back in the changing room, Ruby was ready to leave.
‘How did it go?’ Louise asked.
‘Good,’ she grinned, ‘good. I slipped on the last turn but I changed it into a slide and I don’t think they could tell.’
‘How many people were there?’
‘Three!’ she said. ‘And they laughed at the poem.’
‘Hey, well done you. We’ll hear by the end of the week.’
The call came on Thursday. Louise texted Ruby straight away, even though her phone would be off till school ended at three p.m. At 3.03 Ruby rang home, whooping and hollering with joy.
That evening they celebrated and Ruby flung a hundred questions at her mum, none of which Louise could answer. ‘What about my washing? Do I keep the same doctor? If I go on the train will I have to pay full fare? Will there be a public show this term? Do they have teacher training days?’ At bedtime, Ruby lingered in the doorway perched on one leg, practising her balance. She put her foot down. ‘Will you be all right, Mum?’
‘Me? Course I will.’
‘But you’ll be all on your own.’
Louise bit her cheek. Breathed in hard. ‘Hey, I’ll be fine. You’re amazing, you know. I’m so proud of you.’ She hugged her. ‘Now. Bed.’
Ruby went. And Louise kept on breathing steadily, eyes shut tight. Till she was fit again, danger past. Her delicate grasp on life, on self-control, regained.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Andrew
The time until the trial, set for October, stretched out like a barren plain, a place of thin air and stunted grass and dust storms.
Andrew felt as if he and Val were shrivelling up, desiccated, living through a drought. As the time crept on, there were hazards to overcome, earthquakes splitting the ground beneath them, cracking the surface and threatening to suck them into the dark anew. Andrew’s birthday, Mother’s Day, Jason’s birthday in May. Taurus.
‘I’m a bull, Dad, what are you?’ Crunching his toast, jam on his cheek.
‘A fish.’
‘And Mum?’
‘A ram.’
‘Hah! I’m the strongest. I don’t think they should have bullfighting. It’s mean.’
‘It is.’
‘Why are they called star signs?’
‘Because the whole idea is based on the stars. In the ancient world people thought the stars affected everything that happened on the earth. I’ve a map somewhere, a chart.’
‘Get it!’ Jason eyes alight as he puts the last bit of crust in his mouth and clacks his sticky fingers together.
‘Wash your hands, then.’
Val was on sick leave. She’d made it through until the end of February, then had in effect been sent home from work. She couldn’t function properly, she couldn’t concentrate, she was depressed. She started taking antidepressants. He tried to help, to pamper her, to keep her company, but often as not she gave him that blank look that chilled him to the core.
Jason’s birthday loomed, growing closer, denser, darker, a storm on the horizon. Nineteen, Andrew thought. But he wasn’t, wouldn’t ever be. Andrew asked Val what she wanted to do, how they should mark it.
She closed her eyes, shook her head. He couldn’t do this on his own; he felt drained. He expected they would spend time at the grave, but what else? She kept the shrine going. Simplified now, as the original candles had melted, the flowers and cards ruined by the weather. He wondered if this was healthy, but was happy to go along with it.
One bleak, stifling Sunday, he tackled her, head on. ‘Val, we need to talk to someone, get some help.’
‘No.’
‘Why not? We can’t go on like this. You’re so unhappy, not communicating. We never talk, we never make love, we barely exist.’
She covered her eyes. He reined in his temper, lowered his voice. ‘I don’t know how to reach you any more. I don’t know what you want from me.’ He felt cold and tense inside.
She said nothing. He looked up to the ceiling, to the lampshade they had chosen, the paper they’d hung together. ‘I need you,’ he said. ‘I love you, Val, I don’t want to lose you too. But I don’t know how to make things right.’
‘You can’t. You can’t make it right.’
‘I can’t bring Jason back.’ His voice shook, he cleared his throat. ‘But you and me, our marriage, we need to work things out.’
She shook her head.
‘You’re depressed, I know that, but talking to someone, someone who’s experienced, the bereavement service, we could do it together. Or separately if you want.’
She sat there, dull, uninterested. ‘No.’