What would Martin say? She had the feeling he was going to laugh and think it daft. Perhaps she'd made a humungous mistake in accept the part. The thought of actually being on stage in front of an audience was terrifying. What if she forgot her lines? What if she missed a cue, or tripped up? Everyone would see. Luckily December was a long time away, so she didn't have to think about that now, but she did have to think about Martin's reaction.
I suppose I could lie and say I was doing some other evening class, she thought. Life drawing perhaps, or Spanish or the Russian Revolution. But that would mean lying to Martin, and I can't do that. Besides, he might get suspicious that I never progressed beyond Ola! or the storming of the gates of the Winter Palace. Perhaps he'll think I have a lover! He'll follow me to the arts centre and sit in the car and wait, drinking coffee from cardboard cups and eating doughnuts like in American detective stories.
The house shook as a door slammed upstairs, and then settled into a steady shake-shake in time with the bass of Lily's music. Becca went into the hall and called up the stairs. 'Lily, Lily. Guess what?' She waited. No response. She yelled again.
A few seconds later the house stopped shaking. 'What is it?'
'I've got a part in a play. I'm going to be Lady Fidget in The Country Wife.' Becca swung round the newel post at the foot of the stairs, waiting expectantly for Lily's response.
Silence. Then, 'What?'
'Oh, never mind,' Becca said, going back into the utility room and hanging up her coat. 'I've got a part in a play. How about that?' she said to the hamster. The hamster's response was as inert as Lily's. 'You could be a bit excited for me, I did clean your cage yesterday,' she said, giving the cage a little prod, but the hamster carried on sleeping. 'I suppose you think I ought to think about supper.' She paused. I've got a part in a play. I'm going to be Lady Fidget. That was all she really wanted to think about, not supper.
She waltzed into the kitchen humming tunelessly. It would have to be a pasta bake. What did people eat before pasta became a staple? She put a pan of water on to boil. The meals she gave her family were so different from the meals she could remember June producing. Pasta had been something exotic and new when she was a child, along with eating in restaurants which only rich people did. Rich people like Lady Fidget. I'm going to be in a play! She gave a little skip. Yesterday morning she'd been lying in bed thinking about how dull her life was, and now here she was, an actress with a part in a play. Not that she and Martin ate out much now. She paused, pasta packet in hand, trying to remember the last time she and Martin had gone out to a restaurant, just the two of them. Light years away.
She poured the pasta into the boiling water. All the women's magazines recommended making special time for your partner, booking a weekly date so you could have 'couple' time together. Ask him questions, like you would on a first date, what are his hopes, his fears. We ought to do that one evening, Becca thought, pushing the pasta with a spoon to check it hadn't stuck together. There are loads of places to eat in Bath. We could try that new gastro pub round the corner - pick a Friday night when Lily wants to be out.
Someone was coming downstairs, and to her surprise it was Martin. 'Hello, love. How was the flint-knapping?'
'I thought you were out - didn't you hear the phone ring?' She wondered if he'd heard what she called up to Lily.
'I was working in the study with my headphones on.' So he hadn't heard. What would he say?
'The flint-knapping was really interesting. I think Lily enjoyed it - though she'd die rather than say so.' She prodded the pasta, thinking of the best way to tell him her news. Perhaps she ought to wait until supper, and then she could tell Martin and Lily at the same time, see both their amazed and delighted faces together.
He gave her a peck on the cheek. 'I'm going to pop out for a run.'
'A run?' It seemed so unlike Martin, whose idea of exercise was more usually traversing an eternal triangle between fridge, sofa and biscuit tin.
'Yeah. Could do with shifting some of this.' He slapped himself on the stomach, which quivered slightly. 'The paintballing was good fun, but I was sweating like a pig. Most of the team are practically half my age. You talk about something that happened in the eighties, and they look at you and say something about only being a toddler then.'
'Perhaps I should come with you.' She had a picture of them together, jogging along, her hair tied up in a ponytail, a sweatband around her forehead.
'If you want to...' He dragged on an old sweatshirt that he'd last used when painting the sitting room, tousling his hair even more than usual.
Becca's imagination couldn't make the leap into seeing herself running. Who was she kidding? It was difficult enough running a bath let alone running to the end of the street. And as for Martin... She looked at him, seeing him for what he was, a middle-aged, completely unfit man. The idea of him running was ridiculous. But what was the alternative? Vegetating, like Frank? 'Don't overdo it. You don't want to have a heart attack first time out.'
He grinned and blew her a kiss. 'I'll try not to.'
'It's better to do it little and often.' Cripes, I sound just like June, she thought. Don't overdo it, little and often. When did I become so limited? But I'm not limited. I'm an actress. She took a deep breath. 'Martin, I've got something to tell you.'
Martin stared at her. 'Christ, you're not pregnant, are you?'
Becca gave a start. 'No, nothing like that. What a weird thing to say.'
'Sorry. It's just the way you said it.' He shrugged, not meeting her eyes.
Becca felt cold as all those years of trying flashed before them, the ups and downs, the feeling of failure as yet another period turned up, the joy when Lily finally appeared, the mourning when she realised that Lily would be an only child. 'Would you have liked me to be?'
'God no, it would be unbelievably inconvenient, starting over again with a baby after all these years.' Martin fiddled the laces of his trainers.
'Yes, it would.' There was a silence between them. Martin was right, Becca thought, that was all in the past. They had Lily, and their future before them. Becca smiled brightly. 'Anyway, I'm not. Pregnant, that is.'
'Phew!' He wiped imaginary sweat from his brow.
'I'm probably too old now, anyway.'
'Probably,' he agreed. 'So, if you're not pregnant, what did you want to tell me?'
'Oh. I've...' Now the moment had come, Becca hesitated. Would he laugh when she told him? 'I've been offered a part in a play.'
'What?' Martin looked puzzled.
'In a play - it's a Restoration comedy. The Country Wife. I auditioned.' She shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. 'I got a part.'
'You're kidding me,' Martin said, a smile starting to spread on his face. Becca shook her head. Don't laugh, she pleaded inwardly. Don't laugh. 'You're going to be in a play, on a stage? Where? Who with?' Martin scratched his head. He didn't have the amazed and delighted look on his face she'd imagined 'What on earth for?'
'It's an amateur theatre group, they're quite big and well established.' She drained the pasta, feeling her excitement draining along with it. 'They put on three productions a year. Including musicals. They did Guys and Dolls last year.'
'You can't sing,' Martin said. 'You have many talents, but that's not one of them.'
'No, but I can act,' Becca said. She dug out an ovenproof dish from the cupboard and poured the pasta into it, followed by a jar of sauce. She had been going to make her own, but her brain was full of acting, not pasta sauces. Except, according to Martin, obviously it should have been. She glanced over to him.
Martin began to laugh. Not a jolly Green Giant 'ho ho ho' sort of laugh, but a sniggering spluttering laugh as if the idea of Becca acting was utterly ridiculous and preposterous. He shook his head. 'Sorry, darling, I shouldn't laugh. Just that - well, it seems so unlike you. You've never done it since I've known you. You've never shown any signs of wanting to.'
'I do want to. I've been offered Lady Fidget - it's quite a good part actually.' She put the pasta in the oven, then remembered that she'd forgotten the cheese, so took it out again.
'Ah, don't be upset.' He took her in his arms. 'I'm sure you'll be brilliant.'
Becca wasn't mollified by the indulgent tone in his voice. She wriggled out of his arms and went to the fridge to get the cheese. 'I thought you were going running.'
'I am, I am.' He sighed. 'Becca, I'm sorry I laughed.'
'It means a lot to me,' she said, vigorously grating cheese all over the dish and the kitchen side. She hadn't realised quite how much before. It had been just a momentary whim to audition and if she hadn't been cast she'd have accepted that, but now she'd got the part, it did matter. 'It's not just about the acting, it's about getting something more into my life.' She stopped, caught by the echoes. Hadn't June said something similar yesterday?
'I'm sorry if I've offended you.'
'That's OK,' Becca said, feeling confused by her emotional swings - up with acting, then down at the thought of June. She wanted to reach out for Martin and steady herself, but he was edging towards the door. 'Go on, off you go. And don't be long; I want to have supper early, it's the first day of term tomorrow.'
'I'll be quick.' He grinned. 'Actually, I'll be very slow, but I won't go far.'
- ooo -
Becca looked up as Crystal breezed into the staffroom, as usual the last of the teachers to gather. 'Any biscuits? I need about a thousand calories before I can face another Monday staff meeting - oh God, it's so depressing, just thinking we've got a whole term to go before it's Christmas.'
Crystal obviously hadn't changed over the summer holidays. Her capacity for chocolate had, in the eight years Becca had known her, been surpassed only by her unerring ability to whiz through men. They all started off as Mr Right, but were soon revealed to be either wet and pathetic or utter bastards. Becca grabbed the biscuit tin from where it had been left on the side by the other members of staff, who had already settled down for the meeting, and peered inside. 'On the bright side, start of term equals chocolate biscuits.'
'HobNobs?' Crystal had the sort of metabolism that could devour biscuits and chocolate without any apparent side effects. Perhaps it was her height, or maybe her restlessness that twitched away the calories.
Becca shook her head as she helped herself to two biscuits before handing the packet to Crystal. 'Digestives. Plain chocolate though.'
'It's funny, isn't it, how some things are better plain chocolate, while others are better milk. You couldn't have a milk chocolate jaffa cake, now could you?' Crystal folded herself on to a chair, long legs wrapping round each other.
'How was Barcelona? I got your postcard - thanks.'
'Oh, it was brilliant, you and Martin must go. And David was fabulous - he spoke Spanish, and knew all these wonderful places to eat.' She chattered on about a meal she'd had, rice cooked in fish stock and squid until it turned black, absolutely heavenly, just like David.
Becca listened, waiting for an opportunity to tell Crystal her news, although she wasn't sure which she'd start with: June's announcement or the part in the play, or even Martin's decision to start running. She was saved from having to choose by the door crashing open and Bill Malcolm, head teacher and owner, entering.
'All he needs is a cape, and he could double for Dracula,' Becca whispered to Crystal.
'Greetings, greetings, one and all,' Bill boomed. 'I'm surprised you haven't already started the meeting. No need to wait for me.' He shot a quick glance round the room, bushy eyebrows working. Becca knew he could switch from twinkling charmer to frog-eyed bully in seconds if it suited him. 'Let's gather in a circle, my friends, and get this show on the road.' The edge to his voice galvanised the staff, who quickly rearranged themselves into a circle of chairs. Bill waved his hand at the deputy head. 'Proceed, my boy, proceed.'
'Thank you, Bill.' Richard shuffled his papers together, looking more like one of the pupils than a teacher. 'There are just a couple of health and safety issues I'd like to run through with you...'
The Hamilton House Tutorial College had been founded by Bill presumably more than sixty-five million years ago, given that Bill was the last remaining dinosaur in the educational business. He'd started with a large Victorian semi-detached house, bought cheap because the garden had been sliced off to build a main road, and later had expanded into the other half of the building so that Hamilton House had two staircases, two front doors, and one combined driveway with In and Out signs that looked impressive in the brochures. Bills motto for Hamilton House was Esse Quam Videri: 'To be rather than to seem', ironic given that Hamilton House was a good example of seeming. It didn't look nearly as impressive from the back, the main road being busy all day, and beyond it the trains hurtled past along Isambard Kingdom Brunel's viaduct, making the sash windows rattle and dust collect so the light in the classrooms was perpetually filtered through a grimy layer.
The college crammed and coaxed the students through their exams, with a surprising success rate given that almost everybody in the building was a failure of some sort: the pupils because these were usually resits, the staff because no one with the opportunity of working elsewhere could possibly fail to do so. Becca, with her miserable degree and no teaching qualifications (which meant she could only teach in the private sector), fitted right in. The job had originally been a temporary stop-gap when Lily was a baby, but she'd stayed for over ten years teaching English to an assortment of students, who varied from the bright but lazy to the dim and dismal.
She looked around the staffroom at the weird and wonderful collection of teachers Bill had amassed, sitting in varying degrees of catatonia, apart from those rhythmically munching biscuits like cows chewing the cud. By tradition no one ever listened to Richard, knowing that power lay with Bill, but in general the staff were well disposed towards him. For most, dropping off quietly while Richard droned on was preferable to teaching. Becca actually enjoyed what she did, although Hamilton House etiquette demanded that she kept that information to herself. According to the staffroom, it was the worst-run, worst-managed, most anachronistic private tutorial college in the world, and it was a wonder that any of the students passed their exams. But they did, and often enough to keep Hamilton House lurching through the educational undergrowth for another year.
'Coffee, must have some coffee.' Bill sprang up from his chair. 'Carry on, carry on. Don't mind me, I'll just potter.'
'As I was saying... Richard continued with his talk and Becca tried to listen, but it was hard to follow the thread while Bill pottered. It seemed to involve a lot of clattering: teacup, saucer, spoon, whooshing water, kettle clicking on and off. She looked around the staffroom and could see that while Richard was holding their attention, most people looked slightly baffled. She put an intent listening expression on her face and leaned forward, chin cupped on one hand.
Bill waited until it looked like Richard had run out of steam then clapped his hands. 'Excellent, excellent. And what a lot of splendid jargon you know, many thanks for sharing it with us. But now I think it's time for something far less interesting, and perhaps a little more -' and he paused for effect, to make sure they were all paying attention '- a little more immediate.' He beamed around the room as Richard's face froze except for one nerve twitching in the side of his jaw. If he'd been a cat his tail would have been twitching.
'I've decided that this year we shall extend the cultural horizons of our students,' Bill continued, apparently oblivious to Richard's surprise.
Crystal rolled her eyes at Becca. 'That probably means he got a bum inspector's report,' she whispered.
'We shall inculcate our wayward charges into the wonders of the Bard, disseminating the glories of the English language at its most muscular and poetic.' Bill's gaze fell on Becca, who felt anything but poetic, let alone muscular. His eyes swept on to seek other victims. 'We shall have workshops, and productions, and visits and speakers. We shall organise trips to art exhibitions, to theatres, to museums. We shall -'
'What about the curriculum?' Crystal piped up.
'Ah, yes, Crystal - as ever, always quick with a positive suggestion.' He gave a sharkish smile in Crystal's direction, who wilted. 'We shall overcome the limitations of our political masters with careful planning and nifty footwork. Now, who would like to help organise this great endeavour?' Bill scanned the room with the expression of a magician who's just asked for a willing volunteer to be sawn in half.
Becca looked round at the staff, who appeared to be auditioning for a production of Night of the Living Dead. Very wise. Like the trenches and World War I, never volunteer for anything. Besides, the spirit of Hamilton House was to do the bare minimum acceptable - now that should have been the college motto. On the other hand, if you didn't volunteer you often got dumped with the worst things. Better to volunteer early and choose. Becca put her hand up. 'I couldn't take on organising the whole thing, but I'd help out, perhaps do a theatre workshop.' It flashed across her brain to tell Bill and the rest of the staff she was acting in a play, but she decided to keep it to herself.
'I'll help Becca with that,' Crystal added quickly.
'Splendid, splendid! And who else?' Bill scanned the room gathering more unwilling suggestions until he'd got enough offers to be satisfied, including Richard being co-opted as the organiser as everyone knew he would be. 'Right, I think that just about rounds off our meeting. If that's agreeable with our estimable deputy head and organiser supreme?' He turned to Richard who nodded, lips tight together. Becca knew he was thinking the stress of dealing with Bill wasn't worth the extra pay. 'Then onwards and upwards, my fellow educators. Onwards and upwards.'
There was a general movement to gather books, bags and belongings. Becca checked she'd got all the files she needed for her morning sessions, then set off for her classroom.
Just before entering the room she paused. The best tip she'd ever been given when she'd started teaching had come from Bill. 'Remember,' he'd said, eyebrows bristling. 'People are like sheep. They want to be led. And you, as teacher, are the sheep dog. You need to take charge of the space, show them who's boss, and they'll love you for it. Nip their heels if needs be, but above all, never let them see you're scared. If you act like the boss, they'll treat you like the boss. Enter that classroom as if you own it.'
It had been good advice. Now, taking charge of the classroom was like second nature. She took a deep breath, and opened the door. 'Hello, everyone,' she said in a clear voice and purposefully made her way to the teacher's desk at the head of the class. Out of the corner of her eye she checked out the students. A mixed group, perhaps a few more girls than boys. Most were sitting up, as if ready to start the lesson, but a few boys were still lounging around the window.
'If you'd like to take a seat...' Becca said pleasantly, but firmly. Two of the boys at the window were about a foot taller than her, grown men with bum fluff on their chins. Never let them see you're scared. She pointed at a couple of empty seats and they shambled into place. Strange to think that if she'd had a son, he might have been one of these clumsy giants in boys clothing.
Take charge of the space. It was now a habit, although when she'd started the effort of making her body language appear relaxed, open and confident had made her sweat all over so her clothes were damp within two hours. Ten years of teaching later it took no effort at all to appear confident. She waited until they'd settled and were silent, then smiled at the class. 'My name is Mrs Woods, and I'll be taking you for the AS and A-level English Literature resit…'
- ooo -
A week later, Becca sat on the edge of her chair trying to look relaxed and happy to be at her first rehearsal. Paul Fitzwilliam had greeted her with a friendly smile and handed her a copy of the play, which had made her feel welcome, but he was now busy discussing something with the woman with the clipboard at the top of the table as the other actors drifted in. They all appeared to know each other, kissing cheeks with much smacking of lips and cries of 'Darling!' Becca was the only one sitting at the long trestle table. She smiled at everyone, trying to send out friendly 'I'm not feeling horribly self-conscious' vibes.
She glanced at Paul Fitzwilliam. He was wearing a pinstriped jacket and blue jeans, but the jacket was made of smoky-blue velvet and had a deep purple satin lining that flashed as he reached across the table for a piece of paper. Conventional with a twist, Becca supposed you'd call it. She couldn't imagine Martin ever wearing such a thing.
Today Purple Feathers was wearing red and black stripes and a wide buccaneer's belt, dangling necklaces and glittering ruby earrings, not dissimilar to a pirate after a week stuck in Ali Baba's cave. Paul said something to her and she clapped her hands. 'Can we get underway, please?' It was the cue for everyone to come to the long trestle table.
'Hello, I'm Brian, and this is Victoria,' a man said, sitting down next to Becca and holding out his hand. He was wearing short sleeves, but the ghosts of leather patches circled his elbows like wreaths of pipe smoke. 'Sir Jasper, and Old Lady Squeamish.'
'Oh, you're my husband,' Becca said, shaking his hand. His palms were sweaty, despite the short sleeves. 'I'm Lady Fidget. Becca.'
'We thought you must be,' Victoria said, settling down on her other side. She too had a nautical air, wearing a Breton striped top that emphasised a bust suitable for the figurehead on a warship. 'Have you done much theatre before?'
'At school and university,' Becca said. 'But this is my first play for ages. I'm a bit nervous, to be honest.'
'Never mind, we don't bite,' Brian said, despite having the teeth for it.
'I'm so excited to be working with Paul Fitzwilliam - you know he used to be with the Royal Shakespeare Company,' Victoria said.
'Goodness,' Becca said, looking up to where Paul sat at the head of the table. 'I'd no idea.' He suddenly looked up and smiled at her, making fine creases at the corners of his eyes as the skin stretched over high cheekbones. She smiled back, feeling reassured.
Paul knocked on the table to get the cast's attention. 'Thank you everyone for coming. We're rehearsing mainly Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday evenings from now until December - Angela has the schedule, but this may vary depending on how the production goes, illness and so on, so please make sure she has your contact details in case we need to change your call.' He looked around the table. 'And now, before we do our read-through, perhaps we can do a name check.' He put his hand to his chest. 'Paul Fitzwilliam, Director.' He turned to Purple Feathers.
'I'm Angela Sinclair, Stage Manager.' How funny, Becca thought. She didn't look like an Angela at all, more like an Esmeralda or an Anastasia. Even an Angie. Angela turned to the young blonde girl to her left.
'Rosie Justin, Margery Pinchwife.' The leading lady, Becca thought.
'Michael Hendon, Horner.' And the leading man. Becca could only assume he was an excellent actor because she couldn't imagine him as a serial seducer, not with that greasy hair.
It took quite a long time to go round the table, as there were nearly twenty people gathered round, roughly half male and half female. Most were either students or in their fifties onwards, although the man playing Horner looked as if he was in his thirties.
And then came the read-through. Becca felt nervous to begin with, but soon relaxed into her role. Brian, as her husband, was a bit creaky and pompous - no wonder Lady Fidget cuckolded him. There was quite a lot of teasing among the cast as they went through the script; she realised that most of them had known each other for some time.
At the end of the read-through there was mention of going to the pub, but Becca thought she ought to get home. 'Next time,' she called to them as she left the church hall.
Angela went down the steps at the same time as Becca. 'Which way are you going?'
'Manvers Street car park.' Becca smiled, hopeful of her company on the walk through Bath.
'Me too. What did you think of it?' Angela said as they turned right towards the abbey. 'Most of us have been doing it for ages, we're old hands, but did you enjoy it?'
'Oh yes,' Becca said. 'I wasn't sure I was going to - it's years since I've done any acting, and I was a bit worried to be honest - but it was fun this evening.'
'Paul's very good, isn't he?' Angela said.
'He seems to know what he's doing. Is he your usual director?'
'I wish!' Angela gave a rueful laugh. 'No, one of us usually directs, we can't afford a professional director, but he got in touch with us, and hell's bells we weren't going to turn Paul Fitzwilliam down, even if he'd said he wanted to do an avant garde version of Noddy meets Godzilla. Victoria says his wife's some sort of legal hotshot who's moved job to Bristol, so that's why they've moved here. How he's ended up with us instead of somewhere like the Tobacco Factory, or the Old Vic, I don't know. We got lucky, I guess.'
'Is he well known, then?'
'Victoria says he used to run a repertory theatre up in the north, then went freelance. He's directed all over the world, the US, Japan, Australia. Shakespeare mainly - he uses this incredible theory about how Shakespeare should be acted, it sounds absolutely brilliant. Cue scripts, they're called. Victoria's trying to lean on him to do a production here.'
'Directing in Japan sounds impressive,' Becca said, thinking that anyone leaned on by Victoria would be flattened fairly quickly. 'I think I'm out of my league.'
'Don't worry about that - he cast you, didn't he? So he must think you're up to it. He's the expert!' She giggled. 'It's a bit like being given a Ferrari to drive instead of an old banger, having to work with him instead of one of us. He's quite demanding, knows exactly what he wants. But then, I suppose he's used to working with the best.'
They'd reached the car park. It had been practically full when Becca had parked, but now her car was one of a handful left marooned in the sea of concrete. 'This is mine.'
'I'm just over there.' Angela indicated with a nod of her head a small hatchback painted with multi-coloured stripes all over. 'See you next week.'
Becca got into the car and put her seat belt on, and as she did, her attention was caught by something white. It was a couple entwined in an embrace over the far side of the car park. Eating face, as Lily called it. She started the car and slipped the handbrake off. She and Martin hadn't snogged like that since... when? Had they ever? Perhaps snogging wasn't something married people did, it was a teenage thing. She glanced sideways at the couple as she drove past, vaguely thinking how sweet, then her mind abruptly switched into focus.
It was Lily.