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‘Amanda, could I have a quick word?’ Stanley said as I let myself into the school with a steaming hot coffee in my hand. I’d been given the combination code. I placed the coffee on the side. He looked at the cup. ‘Back on coffee?’
As part of my plan to be Amanda I’d tried to take up the habit of drinking tea, a small detail but one that could, in the future, be important, like the left-handedness. I admonished myself for buying coffee instead; it was a mistake that later I couldn’t afford to make.
Stanley had noticed. So would Hemmings.
‘You look terrible,’ he continued.
I followed him into the office.
‘What’s the problem?’ I asked.
‘I’ve been doing some thinking, and it’s none of my business but I am worried for you.’ He watched me. ‘I’ve been around this business all my life practically, voice coaching, acting. I can see cosmetic work with one eye closed.’ He placed a hand on my arm. ‘You don’t strike me as the sort of person who would.’
‘So I’ve had a nip and tuck, haven’t most people over a certain age, women anyway?’ I grinned, still feeling the tightness in my face (an irony that wasn’t lost).
‘OK, that’s fine, if you don’t want to talk. I apologise for asking. It’s none of my business.’
‘Thank you for taking an interest, but I’m fine. I’m really enjoying the course, really am, you’re a great teacher.’
‘Thank you! I’ve organised a little play this afternoon, with some of the acting students, I thought you could join in to practise your favourite character’s voice ... the washed up, white trash, no-hoper?’
‘I wouldn’t quite put it like that, but great, looking forwards to it.’
—
Stanley’s idea was that throughout the day we acted out random vignettes of small scenes, concentrating on different character types. I wasn’t an actor, that was clear, but my underlying motivation gave an edge that instilled some ‘tone’. Stanley called it tone. I still wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but got the impression he was pleased with my attempts. The ‘vignette’ of the day was the emotionally disturbed American woman: a drug addict. Too many children and not enough money.
‘Ah, my girl,’ Stanley said. ‘You’re asking all the right questions and seem to be doing so effortlessly, “Who am I?” We see you, your character. “Where am I?” Yes, at thirty years old your character is claustrophobic, deadened by her lot. “Where have I come from?” Perfectly executed, Amanda. Abuse from childhood sometimes leading to a similar pattern in the adult’s behaviour. But your character doesn’t intentionally neglect her children ... what does she do? She looks for excitement somewhere else. We don’t know where, yet. In the last session we’ll go there, that place in the character’s head. But you’re doing well, my girl.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s getting late, time to wrap.’
Stanley walked towards me. ‘What do I want? Yes. We know that. And the most important question you have to ask your character – and you – when you’re within that character is, “Why do I want it?” That’s the question, Amanda.’ His flecked, dark eyes looked into me. ‘Yes, that’s the question. “Why do you want it?” Because this is your true motivation. The reason the action unfolds. The essence of what will make the audience want to continue watching, and listening. The only reason they will believe you. We humans sniff insincerity and subterfuge easily. We know when we’re being duped by the acting, by the voice.’ He turned and opened his arms wide. ‘Call it a day. We’ll have a later start tomorrow. Say eleven. Get your beauty sleep.’
Mrs Xú was cleaning the window of the shop when I returned, but I felt as if she was waiting for me. Since coming here I hadn’t seen anyone visit her.
‘How is everything?’ she asked. Before I had time to answer she went on, ‘How boyfriend?’
I laughed. ‘Stanley’s not my boyfriend.’
She shrugged. ‘I not want see you getting into any trouble.’
‘I won’t get into trouble with Stanley.’ I felt touched that she cared.
I thought about Jonathan. He cared, too; an ache that was nothing to do with Joe spread through my body. ‘Maybe we could drink tea together soon, Mrs Xú?’
‘Would like that.’ She smiled, the corner of her eyes tipping upwards. It was an open and wise smile, drawing a picture of a woman with true insight.
—
I took the stairs and ran up them two at a time, swearing under my breath at the low-grade pain in my thighs.
Once in my room I picked up my notepad and pen, and opened the drawer with Amanda’s letters and other correspondence inside, trying desperately to ignore the emptiness that was spreading from my gut to the whole of my body.
I wrote the next two letters to Joe’s murderer. The last two. I hadn’t received a reply from the first but hoped I would get one, eventually. I told him I was visiting England and looked forwards to meeting him. I found a small photo of myself pushed inside Amanda’s things. Stanley had taken it only a week before; the only one I’d allowed him to take. I folded the letters and put them in separate envelopes, placing the photo in the second letter to be posted. I put these envelopes in a larger one addressed to the company in Ohio that would do the honours of posting. Then I heard a gentle tap on the door.
It was Mrs Xú.
‘You ok?’
‘I’m fine, Mrs Xú, fine.’
‘Do not think you fine. Can see. See from moment saw you. Recognise something in you. I don’t know what happening in your life ...’ again, a gentle halt, ‘but terrible things happen to many people.’
‘Let’s not talk about it,’ I said.
‘Have tea if you like some.’
‘Maybe later?’ I smiled towards her.
She nodded and walked away, disappointed.
She had been gone less than half an hour when I slipped on my shoes, wrapped a thick cardigan around my body and went out to post the envelope.
—
I spent the next few hours organising my few belongings and thinking about Mrs Xú. She’d wanted to talk and I hadn’t given her the time. This saddened me. I had blocked everything out for the last five years, becoming a person I disliked. A selfish person. Liam had alluded to this trait after Joe’s death and I’d been angry with him, angry because I knew he was right. It is what my dad thought too, that I was selfish, that’s what he’d said, so many times. I felt as if I was living up to it.
I would go back to Cambri one more time to say goodbye to everyone. I had to do this thing and then allow Amanda to leave, and I only hoped she would. Afterwards.
—
The next day I arrived at the school early. Stanley was sitting drinking herbal tea in the small recreational room.
‘I’ve come to say goodbye.’
‘You’re leaving? Still a few days to go,’ he said.
‘I have to leave.’
‘I’m sad to hear that.’ He sipped the strong-smelling liquid. ‘But you’ll be here all day today?’
‘I leave after lunch. I can stay for the morning; that was my plan.’
‘Then we’ll do this morning what I’d planned for this afternoon.’
I lifted an eyebrow in question.
‘The last character you played. I think we should go through that one more time. Thinking, “Why do I want it?” Go through the scene, where the abused woman kills the abuser.’ He looked at me and Albert Einstein the philosopher, not the scientist, came to mind. Stanley thought I’d been abused. Did Mrs Xú think the same? I’d changed the way I looked and behaved, but could not change what was written into the fabric of my soul, and what was obvious behind my weary eyes. A memory of scalding hot water flitted through my brain.
‘OK, Stanley. Let’s do that.’
‘Half an hour in the big room,’ he said, gulping down the tea and swilling the mug in the sink. He smiled and was gone.
—
The persona and voice of the woman I played became a part of me that morning. I felt her pain, thought her thoughts. Grief can destroy you, or focus you...
The scene took only ten minutes; it felt like ten hours. I hardly noticed the other students.
Stanley clapped. ‘Bravo, Amanda. You have it.’
—
Outside, the sky was heavy with slate clouds; it had been drizzling all day and was threatening to turn into a less benign rain. I pulled my coat collar around my neck and began making my way to Regent’s Park. I wanted to think, although I’d been thinking non-stop about Joe all morning, only distracted with Stanley’s piece. Joe was stuck inside my mind, in limbo. Was it me who was holding him back?
As I walked aimlessly around the park, around the still lake, the rain beginning to pour; I convinced myself that Joe could leave when I had taken my revenge on his murderer. Then he would be free.
I love you, Mum...
‘And I love you Joe,’ I said to the wet air surrounding me.
More than the universe, more than infinity.
—
Almost without thinking, I found myself at the post office near King’s Cross where I picked up correspondence. Two letters waited for me. One from Charlotte. Small talk about Jacob, about her work (she had begun writing TV scripts and had recently found success in finding an agent for them). Then she mentioned Liam. Something she had to tell me about Liam, and I felt myself stiffen.
Coldness that was about more than about being soaked through by London rain raged through me. She didn’t say what it was; she had to speak to me in person. When are you returning? She’d asked. I think it’s time to come home from wherever you are. I reread the words. She believed I’d return. I would not and had no intention of doing so. That was never part of the plan.
What did she have to tell me about Liam?
The other letter was from Michael Hemmings. I pushed that into the bottom of my bag, unable deal with it now.
Leaving behind the warmth of the post office I took a step onto the pavement, deciding I didn’t care what Charlotte had to say about Liam.
The rain had finally stopped and I walked back to Mrs Xú’s. I planned to have tea with her at last, and tell her that soon I would be gone.
I found her sitting behind the counter but I suspected the shop door was locked.
‘You come for tea, before you leave?’
How did she know? I’d said nothing, only making up my mind that morning. But I had the strongest urge to recount everything to Mrs Xú. Not only about Joe, but about my mother, Hemmings and my dad. About my life and what I didn’t know, about the memories I was constantly pushing away, but which now were jamming in on me like people crowding through an inadequately sized gate. Jostling to enter.
The desire to share with Mrs Xú brimmed with an intensity that took me by surprise.
I sat on the stool next to her behind the counter.
‘It’s a long story,’ I said finally. ‘We will need a lot of tea.’
‘Thought might be.’ She looked at me, really looked.
‘You’re perceptive,’ I said.
‘Come with age, attempting not to become bitter. To comprehend others is to maintain own personal compassion for world. Compassion for others, real compassion, is what saves all us.’
She unpinned her long dark hair streaked with salt and pepper, and folded both arms underneath her tiny bust.
‘Tell me about your son,’ I said.
The Xús had moved from Beijing thirty years before. Set up their shop, and had their son. A son who had won a scholarship to Cambridge University and gone on to work at the biggest investment bank in New York. How proud of him they’d been; how perfect was the marriage between her and her husband. How everything had been so, so perfect. Until someone hatched a premeditated plan to slaughter so many. Mrs Xú and her husband had left China to escape oppression and potential bloodshed.
‘But you cannot lose your destiny. And this was ours,’ she said.
I allowed her to talk and said nothing about Joe. I decided that Mrs Xú had enough to deal with without taking on board the madness of my unravelled life.
She did not pursue; she had done enough.
—
I packed away my things; it didn’t take me long as I had so little. I placed everything in my suitcase and checked inside the lining for my passports. Still there. I pushed my hand further down into the corner and felt at the glossy finish of a photograph; I pulled out the picture of Joe. This should have been in the safe deposit box too, but I couldn’t leave it.
I looked and the breath caught deep inside my lungs, the strange hunger surfaced, and the never-ending fatigue overcame me. Joe in bright red swimming trunks on a holiday in Spain, the year before he died. Blond hair caught flowing in a freak Spanish beach wind, a big smile. A white T-shirt, with his name emblazoned across the front. So naff, Liam had said. ‘Joe’s in España’.
—
As I sat on a coach at Victoria Station, ready to leave for Birmingham, I tried to gather myself and shake off the feeling that Mrs Xú, Stanley, Joe, even part of myself, had left me with, that what I was doing was wrong. I had to focus. Sitting in the cocoon of the bus I was determined to become more the person I needed to be: more like Amanda.