Sweet Sorrow(61)

They were talking about college. Exam results were due in the last week of rehearsals and if all went to plan – everyone knew that it would – then Fran, Lucy, Colin, Helen and George would all be joining Alex at sixth-form college. Though they liked to pretend differently, I knew that Harper and Fox would be going too, friends old and new at a party I was not invited to. Now conversation was spiralling off further into futures that they pretended were treacherous and uncertain but that we all knew were gilded and assured, because these were the book-token kids, smart and diligent and talented. In two more years they’d leave this town and migrate to cities famous for their nightlife and music and culture, their lively political scene and cafés. In candlelit bedrooms, they’d have meaningful talks, making friends who’d introduce them to more friends, then more and more, loosening the old ties to make way for the new in a branching tree of friendship, of connections and opportunities. The contrived sense of jeopardy was too much to bear. It wasn’t an issue of class and education – or not just of class and education – but of that other, more precious commodity, not unconnected: confidence.

I’d fouled up any chance I might have had to take part in this conversation and now I could hear the voice in my head grow sarcastic and resentful. Was university a safer choice than drama school? wondered Alex. Was a medical degree too much of a commitment? asked Lucy. Envy is corrosive but at least there’s a vigour in envying those you hate, only something sour and lonely in envying those you like, you love. Rather than making the sourness apparent, I stood and walked away, not theatrically but not invisibly. It’s hard to do anything invisibly with a broom handle dangling at your hip.

In the orchard, I lay down beneath the farthest apple tree and closed my eyes, and soon I heard the swish of the long grass.

‘If you don’t come back, your beetroot will go cold,’ said Fran.

‘You can have it all. I mean it.’

A number of hard apples had dropped prematurely from the tree, uncomfortable beneath my back, but I remained where I was, listening as Fran settled cross-legged at my side.

‘I don’t blame you, ducking out of that one,’ she said, tugging at the grass. ‘It’s quite boring, isn’t it? Exam results. Hopes and dreams.’

‘No, it’s fine. I just don’t have anything to say, s’all.’

‘I think everyone just presumes that you’re going to be a professional actor,’ she said, and waited. ‘Does this help, Charlie, or …?’

‘Sort of. I like you here.’

‘I heard you had a bad time.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Lucy, Colin …’

‘Oh, God.’ At that time there was nothing worse, and nothing better, than being talked about.

‘They were nice about it, they weren’t gloating or anything. They just said … People were concerned, that’s all.’

‘Well, I did fuck up.’

‘Maybe you did better than you—’

‘Yeah, people always say that, like I’m just being modest. But no, I mean I really fucked up. Walked out, left whole pages blank. I drew pictures in my history exam. By the end I wasn’t even turning up, so unless, you know, someone sat the Comprehension paper disguised as me …’

She was silent for a while, for which I was grateful.

‘Exams are bullshit though, aren’t they? I mean it’s just a knack, like learning a card trick. Someone like Miles, I tell you now, it’ll be “A”s all down the page, A-A-A, like a fucking … scream, but he’s still … well, he’s not thick, but certainly not any smarter. He’s just been taught the trick. What I mean is, it’s the system that’s fucked up, not you. Besides, it’s good to kick against things. I wish I could. There are definitely times I want to just wipe everything off the desk and walk out, but I’m way too conventional.’

I took this in politely, gratified by the rebellious spin that she’d managed to give to failure. The truth was, I’d not deliberately kicked against anything, had no quarrel with formal education and no clear motive. I’d have been delighted to thrive in that system, and there were definitely circumstances in which I might have done better, might even have done quite well.

‘So what happened?’ she said, eventually.

‘I think I was making a point. It’s just now I’ve got no idea what it was. Aren’t we meant to be going through lines?’

‘Not today. So what happened? Tell me.’

‘I think … I think I went a bit mad.’





Examination


We’d all gone a little mad, each in our different way.

For me, it showed up most markedly at school. The promise I’d once shown had been leaching away for some time but now, with exams looming, that process seemed to accelerate. ‘We’re worried,’ said Mr Hepburn at Mum and Dad’s last joint parents’ evening, ‘that Charlie is on course to fail.’ Dad slumped a little further in his chair. Mum reached for my hand but I pulled it away and returned to rolling my school tie up into a tight little scroll, letting it unroll then rolling it up once again.

‘We don’t understand,’ said my mother. ‘He was doing perfectly well.’

‘He was, and now he’s not, and we’ve tried, we’ve really tried. Haven’t we tried, Charlie? Don’t you think that’s fair?’