But I’m really hoping I have a chance.
I’ve always loved working with children but I had no choice but to shelve my career.
We found out Mum was ill by mistake eighteenth months ago when she was invited to an old school-friend’s wedding. She’d felt so miffed because she had no choice but to buy a new outfit for Doreen’s big day and yet, unusually for her, she really did seem to want to go.
I’d helped her sift through her wardrobe, including the stuff she hadn’t worn in years and even I had to admit she had nothing in there that was remotely suitable.
So we went shopping. We selected a couple of dresses and matching jackets from the rails and Mum disappeared into the changing room. Within a couple of minutes, she called me in.
‘I’m getting all tangled up while you stand out there looking at your phone,’ she snapped, twisting and turning as she tried in vain to adjust the mint green dress. ‘It’s so hot in here. Why is the heating turned up so high?’
It was warm but not excessively so, I felt, but I didn’t comment. It was the safest way when she was in one of her moods.
‘You’ve got yourself all flustered. Let’s start again,’ I said, helping her slip the dress back over her head. ‘This colour looks lovely on you, Mum.’
‘It’s a bit insipid if you ask me. I don’t want to look all washed out next to Doreen’s Benidorm tan.’ She scowled. ‘I shouldn’t have taken your advice on the shade.’
It was when she lifted up her arms so I could pull the dress back over her head that I saw it. A bumpy red, inflamed patch of skin under her arm.
‘That looks sore,’ I said, shaking the dress out before we tried again. ‘Is it a boil?’
Mum followed my eyes and, looking in the mirror, she gingerly ran her fingers over the visible lump.
‘It’s bigger than it looks.’ She pressed two fingertips on to the small lump. ‘It feels hard here, under my skin.’
I felt the colour drain from my face.
Two days later we were in the doctor’s surgery and he told Mum she’d have to undergo a biopsy. Within a week she’d been diagnosed with Stage 4 Hodgkin lymphoma with a life expectancy between one and two years. It was that brutal.
Outside the consultant’s office, in the carpeted corridor that blunted the sound of our footsteps, I threw my arms around her and told her I loved her and that I would give up work and look after her.
But she pushed me away. ‘I deserve to die alone,’ she whispered.
Fourteen
Outside, the sky is already a picture-perfect blue without any cloud although there’s still a slight chill in the air.
I dress warmly but leave my fine light brown hair down and use a bit of mascara and lipstick and a sweep of bronzer to lift my sallow complexion.
Rowan sits at the breakfast bar, swirling his spoon around in his cereal but not eating anything.
‘I know it’s hard when you’re the newbie, sweetie. But it will get better, honestly.’
He scowls. ‘But nobody even wants talk to me.’
‘What about your class buddy, Aisha? She’s nice to you, isn’t she?’
He shrugs but says nothing.
‘I could have a word with Miss Packton if you like, about getting you a trial for the football team, and then you’d meet the other—’
‘No!’ He puts his spoon down with a clatter. ‘I don’t want to play football… not at that stupid school.’
My stomach cramps at his words. Back at the old house, he’d spend all his free time watching it on television, poring over his sticker books, or kicking a ball around the garden with his mates. But of course, he left his mates behind when we moved, and with them, it seems, his passion for the beautiful game.
Despite his protests, I make my mind up to try and get a quick word with Miss Packton without him knowing. Playing football would be such a brilliant way for him to make some new friends. I feel cheered at my little plan and wonder why I haven’t thought of it before.
Then, five minutes before we’re due to leave the house, Rowan manages to tip half a bowl of cornflakes and milk into his lap. He’s obviously still terribly nervous about the new school, so I swallow my irritation.
‘Don’t worry, let’s pop back upstairs and get you changed,’ I say, glancing at the clock and wondering what Miss Packton will make of him being late just a few days into his time at Lady Bridge. But if we get a move on, we might still make it.
I strip off his milk-soaked school trousers, which arrived with the rest of his uniform yesterday, and manage to get him changed in record time. We half walk, half run all the way down Buckingham Crescent. As we pass Polly’s gate, I see she’s in the front garden. I wave but I can see she looks upset.
‘You OK Polly?’ I call, slowing down to stop despite Rowan impatiently pulling at my hand to get a move on.
‘Not really.’ She indicates the ground around her. Canes snapped and tossed aside and sweet peas, just like the ones she brought for me, scattered strewn across the front lawn.
‘Mum, come on!’ Rowan urges me.
‘Sorry, Polly, we’re late. I’m coming straight home so I’ll stop by on my way back.’
She nods, her mouth slack with dismay as she looks over the garden damage.
We’ve got seven minutes to make the bell – a journey that’s usually a ten- to twelve-minute walk. It’s not impossible, but it’s definitely tight.
When the school gates finally come into sight, we only have two minutes to go.
‘We can do it, Rowan, keep running!’ I urge him.
He’s exaggerating his panting and gasping for air, but his face is ruddy and bright and I can see he’s treating our mad dash as quite the little adventure. It’s nice to see a bit of his old energy back again.
As we approach the gate, the burly uniformed figure of a traffic warden appears. She makes a beeline for the oversized white Range Rover that’s parked on double yellows in the same place it has been every day this week. As we whizz past, she looks up from her handheld device with a smug expression.
The bell sounds as we dash around the back of the building. I kiss Rowan on the top of his head and he skips past Miss Packton just before she closes the classroom doors.
I jut out my bottom lip and puff cool air up into my face, blowing wisps of hair from my sticky forehead. We made it! I turn around to withering looks of disapproval from some of the designer mothers, no doubt appalled that anyone who lives on Buckingham Crescent could be so terribly disorganised. I smile, but get flared nostrils and sweeping lashes in return. If looks could kill!
As I walk past them, I pause.
‘Does the big white Range Rover at the gates belong to one of you?’
‘Why, who wants to know?’ A willowy blonde woman with cheekbones you could sharpen a knife on looks down on me snootily like I’ve just crawled out from under a rock. It’s the same woman I saw Edie standing next to on Rowan’s first day, the one who always seems to be holding court amongst the other women.
‘There’s a traffic warden out there about to issue it with a ticket. Thought you might like to know.’ I turn to walk away.
‘Jeez!’ The woman flies past me, wailing, heading around the building towards the main gate. No sign now of her ice-cool demeanour. ‘That’ll be the third fine in two weeks… Tristan will kill me!’