Sweet Sorrow(105)

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Let’s both stop that. Giving each other baths.’

He laughed. ‘Okay.’

‘Good.’

‘But no need to tell your mother or sister. Or anyone really.’

‘I won’t.’

‘I’m going back to sleep now, then I’m going to get up.’

‘Okay. I’ll go to school. See you.’

I went out and closed the door. It was a conversation of sorts, I suppose, and it meant that I could leave the house. I wouldn’t be long.

For the sake of speed, I hauled Mum’s rusting, turquoise shopping bike out from the back yard and set off, the basket rattling all the way. Out of term time, the school had the sad, abandoned air of a closed-down factory. All the kids who’d wanted to know their results had been and gone long before. Only Mr Hepburn, Geography, remained, standing at reception, unshaven and tanned in civilian clothes, with the curious glamour of a teacher out of term time. ‘Mr Charlie Lewis! Returning to the scene of the crime!’

‘Hello, Mr Hepburn.’

‘You’re the last one! You know where to go. Have a look.’

For months, I’d had a joke prepared. I’d look at my results and say ‘F, F, F, F, U, U, U, U; it’s like I’ve got a stammer!’ It wasn’t much of a joke, or consolation either, but it might see me through. The actual results didn’t allow for such a neat line, and instead there was a mess of ‘D’s, ‘E’s and ‘F’s and yes, a ‘U’ or two. The work I’d submitted earlier in the year, before my flip-out, had saved me from utter humiliation, but it was still a jumbled, unimpressive haul. I made a quick note of some other marks: a string of ‘A’s for Lucy, the same for Helen. ‘A, A, A, A, A, A, A – like a scream’; that was Fran’s line. In contrast, I had …

‘A good hand at Scrabble.’ Mr Hepburn was standing at my shoulder. ‘I’ve seen worse.’

And in one vital respect, Harper had been wrong. The two ‘B’s he’d mentioned were in fact a ‘B’ and an ‘A’, in Computer Science and Art. ‘You see that?’ said Mr Hepburn, tapping the ‘A’ with his finger. ‘That’s what makes it a good hand.’

‘Must be a typo.’

‘Pack it in, Lewis. These others’ – he scratched at the ‘D’s and ‘E’s and ‘F’s with his thumbnail – ‘these either don’t matter or we can fix them. I promise you, they can be remedied.’

‘I’m all right, thanks, Mr Hepburn.’

‘Are you ever going to call me Adam?’

‘No, never.’

‘Come back if you want to—’

‘Maybe.’

‘Okay, Charlie. Off you go. Good luck. And you know where to find me.’

‘Yes, thanks Mr Hepburn,’ I said, and left school for the last time, for the second time.

A deep sadness overtook me that day, like the first stage of an illness. Not just the sadness of failure confirmed, but the deeper ache of the loss of Fran. We’d not broken up, not yet, but surely that was imminent. The person she’d loved – she’d said the words, just days ago – had gone, the mysterious qualities she’d talked about revealed as stupidity, dishonesty and mediocrity. The phone rang, the doorbell sounded, and each time I wondered – is this it? ‘Charlie, we need to talk …’

Instead came Mum and Billie, holding out a supermarket cake. ‘Yay!’ they shouted. ‘Well Done!’ insisted the writing on the cake, though even the icing seemed to lack conviction. Dad was up and dressed by then, and the four of us perched on stools at the breakfast bar and ate slices in an atmosphere of forced civility.

‘“A” for Art!’ exclaimed Mum every few minutes, clinging to it like a tree trunk in a flood. ‘Imagine. An “A”.’

‘Yeah, think of all those jobs in the art section of the paper.’

‘That’s not the point, Charlie.’

‘“Artist required, immediate start—”’

‘Why aren’t you at rehearsals?’ said Billie, hoping to change the subject.

‘I’m not doing that any more.’

‘No!’

‘What?’

‘Oh, that’s a shame.’

‘But we were coming to see it!’ said Billie.

‘You can still see it. I’m just not in it.’

‘You can’t drop out now!’

‘Mum, it was a boring part. I didn’t do much.’

‘But we bought tickets!’

‘Me too,’ said Dad.

‘So go!’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Mum, ‘we’re not going to go to a play if we don’t have to.’

‘Fine! Leave it then!’ Some time passed. ‘But you should still go. It’ll be good.’

More time passed. ‘An “A” and a “B”. Also, a “D” is technically a pass.’

‘Mum, for Christ’s sake …’

She reached across the bar, took my hand and rubbed at my wrist with her thumb. ‘Charlie, just take the praise, will you? Take the praise.’