Her dad sat opposite her, while her mum hovered awkwardly behind, leaning on the work surface.
‘No one cares about exams, not really! There’s plenty of people who’ve succeeded without exams,’ her lovely dad piped up, ‘and as your mum says, they can’t have been that bad!’
‘So come on, Bessie, just tell us what you got?’ Her mum bit her bottom lip and gripped the sink behind her, as if bracing herself for the news.
Bessie coughed, her voice quiet, entirely different from when she had yelled upon waking to let everyone know it was her birthday.
‘I failed nearly everything – I got ungraded on most subjects and then a couple of E’s.’ She folded her hands into her lap and her shoulders drooped.
Her parents stared at her with their mouths slightly open, seemingly at a loss as to what to say. She quite understood – she was at a loss as to what to say, what to do . . .
‘What exactly does “ungraded” mean?’ her mum asked, with her hand at her throat. Of course, she didn’t know. Her only experience of O level exams to date was with Philip, who would never have used the word – why would he, with his clutch of A’s and a shiny gold star for every piece of work he had ever handed in? Having to explain only added to Bessie’s mortification, cloaking her in a veil of stupidity that her results only confirmed.
‘It means I failed so badly they couldn’t even give me an E or an F, so they gave me a U for no grade at all, which is worse than not turning up, because at least if I hadn’t turned up I could use that as an excuse, but to have sat the exam and got U is . . . it’s horrible.’
‘What did you get for maths?’ her dad asked, with a nervous twinkle in his eye.
‘Ungraded.’ She noted his efforts to keep his smile in place, but under duress and with his eyes watering a little, it looked more like a grimace.
‘So how did you do in English?’ Her mum held her breath.
‘Ungraded.’
Her mum nodded and her mouth moved, as if she had plenty to say, although no actual words came out.
‘Biology?’ her dad ventured, his expression pained.
‘Ungraded.’
She watched her parents exchange a hurried, horrified look before beaming back at her.
‘Home Economics?’ Her mum stared, wide-eyed and intense, as if her encouragement could nudge the grade up a place or two.
‘I got a D.’
‘Oh marvellous!’ her mum smiled, exhaling with obvious relief.
‘Well done! You love to cook!’ her dad chimed.
She did?
‘You could become a chef!’ her mum said, clapping her hands. ‘We need to celebrate – you could be the next Delia Smith!’
‘Who could be the next Delia Smith?’ Philip asked as he sauntered into the kitchen. His chest was still bare but he had put on pyjama bottoms. Thankfully.
‘Your sister!’ Her dad pointed at her, lest there be any doubt as to whom he was referring. ‘She’s a smashing little cook!’
Philip snorted his laughter and reached into the carousel cupboard in the corner to grab a mint Club from the Tupperware box where the snacks lived.
‘Are you joking? She can just about manage beans on toast. I don’t think Delia should be fearful for her crown,’ Philip scoffed.
‘You never know!’ Her mum gave her brother a hard stare, to which he was oblivious as he peeled the foiled paper from his biscuit.
‘So how did you do?’ he asked, standing alongside their mum. ‘Where did you come in the year? What’s your number?’
All three stared at her as the dastardly digits danced on her tongue and gummed up her mouth.
‘Philip, I am literally one of the most stupid people in the year!’ she yelled.
‘Surely not – come on, what’s your number?’
‘Three hundred and sixty-one,’ she whispered, staring at the bitten fingernails on her stubby fingers, which had left a sweaty print on the tabletop.
‘Ha!’ Philip shook his head, so his long fringe fell over his face. He flicked it back and deposited the rest of the Club sideways in his mouth. Everyone was too distracted to comment that his biscuit was covered with a thin coating of chocolate made predominantly from cow juice. ‘Good one! But really’ – he straightened, lifting his chin and speaking through his mouthful – ‘where did you come?’
This time she looked her brother straight in the eye.
‘I came three hundred and sixty-first out of three hundred and sixty-two. I came second last in the whole year. That means only one person did worse than me. Happy now?’ She felt the slip of fresh tears on her cheeks. She knew it didn’t matter how many times she had to repeat the number; the shame of her ranking would not lessen. Not ever.
‘Oh my God! You literally weren’t joking.’ He stared at her. ‘How the fuck did that happen?’ Philip, seemingly unmoved by her tears, asked the question that the lack of response from her parents at their son’s swearing told her they were desperate to ask also.
She swallowed and took a deep breath, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘I thought I’d revised enough. I did read all the books.’ But then I kind of got distracted. This boy I like fills my head!
‘Did you make notes?’ he asked.
‘Sometimes,’ she confessed. ‘I thought I could remember most of it.’
‘And did you?’ her mum joined in.
‘I’d say not, Mother.’ Philip rolled his eyes in his mum’s direction and swallowed the last of his snack.
‘I remembered some of it,’ she explained, ‘and if I didn’t fully understand the question or felt flustered, I just wrote down all the things I did remember – quotes, anything! I wrote pages and pages and pages.’ Her bottom lip quivered at the memory of her post-exam hand ache.
‘But that’s the thing, Bessie, you can write a whole essay on Greek mythology, reams and reams of it, word perfect, but if the subject is Chemistry, then it won’t get you very far.’ Her brother’s tone was surprisingly conciliatory, and she was grateful for it. ‘Being smart and passing exams are two completely different things.’
‘There you go!’ their dad smiled. ‘Philip knows about these things!’
Of course, he does. Mr Forty-Seven.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t feel very smart.’ She wiped her tears; her breath lost its rhythm and stuttered in her throat. ‘They won’t let me go into the sixth form; they have a minimum requirement and I am way off.’
‘I’m sure we can sort something out – don’t you worry about that,’ her mum asserted, going into solution mode. ‘Daddy or I will talk to Miss Carter.’
‘Bessie’s right, I’m afraid, Mum,’ Philip said slowly and calmly. ‘They don’t have enough spaces in the sixth form for everyone, and it’s how they weed out the numbers. Plus, the work at A level goes up such a gear that if you struggle at O level it might be too much to cope with, and that would just make Bessie’s life miserable.’
Bessie sniffed.
‘Well, see! All’s not lost,’ her dad chirped, as if he just wasn’t listening.
‘Michelle got in. Just.’ The thought of her friend turning up in September for the first day of term without her only made her tears fall harder.