Chances Read online

  ‘What does it matter what visitors think? Any decent parent would be pleased to know that the school was taking a stand – that we have a strong anti-drugs policy,’ I said. She was usually a stickler for policy and procedure, so why not this one? ‘Who cares about the cost of repainting the walls, if the posters make one student think twice before experimenting with drugs?’

  Jo leant forward, and if I hadn’t already concluded after a week’s acquaintance that she was an efficient machine and incapable of human feeling, I would have sworn she was trying out a sympathetic expression.

  ‘I understand, Eve, why you feel so strongly about this crusade, but you need to pursue it in your own time and not let your obsession …’

  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.
r />   ‘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.’

  It could have been the embarrassed smile, or the reference to the spreadsheet that swung it – or perhaps I recognised in him the same urge to help that drove me. Before I could think better of it, I heard myself giving him an answer.

  ‘I’d love some help,’ I said.

  *

  I definitely seemed to have swapped roles with Caitlyn. Not so long ago, I had been encouraging her to stretch her wings and try new opportunities. She had taken childcare qualifications at a local college after A levels, and then found a job at a nursery in Inglebridge, but it had been obvious to me that she had been restless. She had always loved languages at school, and longed to travel, but I knew she hadn’t looked for jobs abroad, and I knew why. She was worried about leaving me. So I had researched a huge variety of jobs in near and far-flung places that I thought she might enjoy, printed them off, and circled a few that she seemed most qualified for. She had chosen the au pair position in Paris, and I had polished my acting skills to feign delight when she won the job, comforting myself with the reminder that she might have ended up much further away.

  Now she was playing me at my own game. I arrived home from work one day to find a large envelope postmarked from Paris. Inside, I discovered a sheaf of papers, listing a range of volunteering opportunities to work on archaeological digs over the summer, from Peru to Penzance. Caitlyn had circled one in the Cotswolds and added a message: ‘Sounds perfect! Be kind to yourself!’

  Flicking through the details she had sent, I couldn’t deny it: it was perfect. The dig was taking place over two weeks on a site south of Cirencester, carrying on the excavation of a Roman villa. The photographs of what had been discovered so far were tantalising: tiles from a hypocaust system that would have been used to heat the villa, numerous coins and pottery pieces, and an amazing mosaic floor that I longed to see for myself. It was an area I knew relatively well, as I had been brought up in Warwickshire and had volunteered at another dig in the Cotswolds in the summer holiday before I started university.

  And as my gaze roved over the details, soaking it all in, trying to keep a check on my growing excitement, I saw who was in charge of the dig: Christopher Porter, my former university tutor, the man who had taken my raw enthusiasm and polished it. I had learnt so much from him, and my heart fizzed at the prospect of working with him again, even as a humble volunteer. Some might call it a sign, but not me: I was no longer romantic enough to be superstitious or to set any store by fate. Even so, I moved the details to the top of the pile and left it on the kitchen table. I was curious, that was all. I already had a job, one that kept me quite busy enough. I wasn’t going to do anything about it – was I?

  Chapter 7

  It was normally one of the most boring parts of my day – sorting through the post, allocating it into piles for each department, and filling the recycling bin with the junk mail the school inevitably received. I did it on autopilot. The last thing I expected to find was an envelope addressed to me, in the barely legible handwriting that I had once known so well, when I had eagerly pored over every loop and dot and cross of the letters that Paddy had sent me during those never-ending days of university holidays when we had been apart.

  Now I looked at his scruffy scrawl and felt nothing but resentment that he had bothered me here, in a place where there ought to be no reminders of Paddy. Wasn’t it bad enough that he was giving a talk at school tonight, against my wishes? Had I not made it perfectly clear that I wasn’t interested in renewing our acquaintance?

  The envelope sat on the edge of my desk throughout the morning, as I dithered over whether to open it or throw it straight in the recycling bin. In the end, and despite my better judgement, curiosity won. I opened the envelope and pulled out a postcard. The picture side showed Lindisfarne and my heart gave a few uncomfortable thumps, because we had visited there together during the glorious summer we had spent working at Vindolanda in Northumberland. He must remember, surely – so what was the significance of him choosing that card? I turned it over and read the message.

  Dear Eve

  Remember that summer? Happy times, weren’t they?

  I know I screwed up. I’m the biggest idiot going. But can we meet after the talk on Wednesday? There’s something I need to explain – something I should have explained years ago.

  Give me a chance.

  Paddy

  I read it three times, and it still made no sense. What good were explanations now? The moment was long gone, gone seventeen years ago, gone the moment Paddy had chosen not to attend my dad’s funeral. A stubborn streak of love had lingered, to my shame, even after he had walked out on me and Caitlyn, but it couldn’t survive a second rejection. And he really didn’t need to explain his behaviour. I’d figured it out for myself. He cared about no one but Paddy Friel. What more was there to say?

  ‘Personal mail again, Eve?’

  Jo Blair lurked in the doorway of her office, staring pointedly at the postcard in my hand. My hand was trembling; I hoped she couldn’t see that from where she stood.

  ‘Junk mail,’ I replied, and without a second’s hesitation I crossed to the recycling bin and dropped in the postcard. ‘Nothing important.’

  ‘About the event tonight,’ she said, with an unexpected degree of awkwardness. ‘It would be helpful if you could be on hand for the Year 10 presentation, to set up the screen and the PowerPoint slides. I haven’t had a chance to familiarise myself with the system yet.’

  ‘Why me?’ I asked, my head still too full of Paddy’s message to make a show of good grace. ‘Can’t one of the IT technicians do it?’

  ‘They both have other plans. And I’m told that you are the expert on such things.’

  That was true, but I wasn’t going to be won over by a titbit of flattery, especially when she hadn’t scrupled to let me know that I was her last choice.

  ‘I have plans too,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’

  Of course I didn’t. That sceptical inflection in Jo’s question was infuriatingly justified. Rich was working away, Tina would be at school drooling over Paddy … My plans consisted of nothing more than a run and a night in front of the TV – an identical night to every other. Jo sniffed my weakness.

  ‘It will all be over by seven o’clock. It will hardly eat into your night at all. I’m sure you will be keen to support school events. It’s exactly the sort of thing I’ll be looking at in the annual Performance Management at the end of the year. And I wouldn’t be surprised to find that it’s in your job description to help out.’

  She smiled and retreated to her office, no doubt pleased with herself for that parting shot – because wasn’t I the one who had relied on my job description when she had suggested I spy for her? How could I refuse now? Especially if our annual reviews were coming up. Reviews with Mrs Armstrong had been an opportunity to ignore the phone and have a natter for half an hour. I suspected Jo Blair would take it more seriously. And what if she appraised me and found me wanting? Did she have the power to sack me, as an interim head? What would I do without my job?

  Determined to show my commitment, however much it pained me, I behaved as the model assistant at the Year 10 talk that evening, keeping my face neutral as Jo baffled the parents with talk of SPaG and cohorts as she tried to explain the exam system. Everything went so well that she even managed a ‘thank you’ as she wandered off to prepare for the next event of the night – Paddy’s talk – leaving me to tidy up and make sure the hall was ready. I didn’t mind. I glanced at my watch. One good thing about Jo’s love of efficiency was that she had finished bang on time. I had forty-five minutes to make my escape before Paddy’s arrival. He had never wasted time in the past by turning up a minute before he needed to, and I didn’t expect he had changed.
There was no danger of seeing him.

  With thirty minutes to spare, I was about to grab my bag and leave when running footsteps echoed through the hall. I looked up, expecting to see a Paddy fan dashing for a seat on the front row – she or he would be disappointed to find they were already reserved for governors and members of staff. I was half right – it was Tina, and she was dashing my way wearing an anxious expression that immediately worried me.

  ‘Have you finished?’ she asked, grabbing the back of the nearest chair as she gasped for breath.

  ‘Yes. He’s not here already, is he? He’s never usually early.’ I pulled my bag from under my chair, assuming she had come to give me a warning, and touched by this evidence of Tina’s friendship. I hadn’t thought she understood my aversion to Paddy. ‘Where have you put him? Is it safe to use the main doors?’

  ‘Put who? Oh, Paddy. No, he’s not here yet.’ Tina glanced at the clock on the wall, and her anxious expression deepened. ‘I asked him to be here for seven so we could chat through the arrangements. He’s cutting it fine. Is he not good at punctuality?’

  He wasn’t good full stop – I thought I’d already made that clear. But I simply shrugged in response, accepting no responsibility for his faults.

  ‘What did you want me for, if it wasn’t about Paddy?’ I asked.

  ‘We have another crisis brewing – or more accurately, not brewing,’ Tina said, with a rueful grin. ‘Bev has had to go home because one of the kids is ill, so …’

  ‘No.’ I knew where this was going, and I didn’t like it. ‘I’m not doing the teas. No way.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask if there was anyone else. But you know what Jo Blair is like. She’s expecting to make some money tonight, even if it’s only a tenner. It will be on one of her spreadsheets. And she’ll want to put on a good show as the press are supposed to be coming.’

  That job had left a nasty taste in my mouth – having to ring up the local paper and invite them to the event, gushing about what a coup it was to have the renowned celebrity archaeologist Paddy Friel visiting our school. Part of me had hoped they would say, ‘Who?’ Unfortunately, I had spoken to a female journalist who had hardly let me finish my patter before she had begged to come.