Three Hours(24)

You worry too much about me, Mum.

Not any more. I don’t care if you flunk your A levels or go to university, none of that matters.

She says after we’ve all traipsed off to St Andrews.

And I don’t mind that you’re not outgoing and not very confident.

Jeez, thanks, Mum.

Sorry.

I’ll phone you when I go off to university.

More than you do at the moment?

I live with you, why should I phone you?

She’s imagining his voice, of course she is, but she’s using old conversations between them, his words and phrases just rejigged to fit.

She remembers how when he was born he simply took up a different place inside her, everyone and everything else making room for him, shifting around him, so that he is always with her, even when he’s physically not here.

Inside the glass doorways of the leisure-centre foyer a group of parents have phones open showing messages from their children, evacuated from New School.

‘In the coach, they were sitting on each other’s laps.’

‘On the floor in the minibuses.’

‘Ten of them were squashed into Mrs Fenwright’s car.’

‘Maddie was in Mr Johnson’s boot, and it’s just a regular boot.’

And the parents who know for sure their child is safe start talking about Matthew Marr, able to feel the horror of it, but she can’t, not yet.

At the far end of the foyer there’s a police officer with a clipboard, a shifting, pressing group of parents around him. Rumours hum through the parents – his clipboard has a list of names that’s been scanned across; if your child has been evacuated, their name is on the list, in their own writing, you can then go and wait for your child to be brought to the basketball court. If your child hasn’t written their name, you go to the cafeteria.

People are shoving to get to the list and Beth is trying too, but is pushed back. Parents who have seen the list are either hurrying through to the basketball court, their footsteps fast and light, their breathing changed, like a long exhalation, or to the cafeteria, not breathing, or breathing very slowly, as if holding your breath could change the reality you’re inhabiting, their footsteps slow and heavy, carrying an unaccustomed weight.

‘Where’s the CDT room?’ she asks a woman in front of her. ‘My son was going to the CDT room.’ But the woman doesn’t turn. She spots a woman she recognizes, a mother who knows everything, chairs the charity committee and is a parent-governor. ‘Do you know where the CDT room is?’ But the woman just shrugs, as if she doesn’t know anything any more. A father in a Mumford & Sons sweatshirt turns to her.

‘The CDT room is in New School,’ he says.

New School has been evacuated. Jamie crouched in a boot or squashed up ten to a car and got out. And soon she will read his name, in his own writing, and she will remember helping him to do cursive writing, the hours and hours they spent on it together, and so she will see ‘Jamie’ with the ‘e’ at the end remaining a little lopsided, a difficult join, and she’ll run through the swing doors to the basketball court and wait for him.

Fear leaves her body, muscles relaxing but skin prickling as if the tension lingers there on the outside of her body before dissipating into the warm air in the foyer.

Told you, Mum, you worry too much.

You’re right.

Do I still have my get-out-of-jail-free card for A levels and university?

Absolutely.

*

In the theatre, Daphne gets up on to the stage and claps her hands. She’s tried not to think about Neil’s WhatsApp message, to concentrate only on the kids; not possible, so she’s been hiding her feelings and wondering how good an actress she really is.

‘Right! Two minutes, everyone! Zac and Luisa, get ready for thunder and lightning; Benny, projection. My three lovely witches, positions, please.’

And for a moment a buzz goes through them all, a moment when ‘two minutes’ to curtain-up generates adrenaline.

The kids’ faces are still in camouflage make-up in case gunmen storm the theatre and they have to hide. Sally-Anne is standing sentinel at the locked security doors that lead to the glass corridor, one hand holding her phone, the other the nail gun, with the forlorn hope that the kids and teachers can still reach them, as if something will change.

She sees Tim, who plays Macbeth, sitting in the wings, dragging on a cigarette, quick deep drags like he can find some magic potion hidden at the bottom. She goes over to him.

‘How’s our leading man?’ she asks.

‘Thing is, shouldn’t be me doing the part,’ Tim says. ‘I knew that but my parents, they’re so proud. Didn’t even tell them about Victor, that he was first choice, and much better than me.’

Tim is worried about his acting! How marvellous is that? She loves these kids. Absolutely adores them.

‘He’s brilliant, isn’t he?’ Tim says, looking at her.

‘He’s very talented,’ she replies.

For a second or two, she remembers her swell of pride in Victor, a raw natural talent like nothing she’d ever seen in all her years teaching. First term in her class she’d give him notes – a bit of vulnerability here, more nuance there – and he’d just do it, perfectly, first time. But he’d had to leave when his parents couldn’t pay the fees.