Page 77 of Second Chances at the Board Game Café

‘Well, on a stage. The stage of your new primary school, in fact.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Nah, forget it, Max. Bad idea.’

‘I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘On one condition. Make a grown-up version for Harry. If he’ll model his at the fashion show, I’ll model mine with him.’

40

If she’d been on an old-fashioned landline rather than her mobile, Taylor would have slammed the phone down. As it was, all she could do was jab at the red ‘end call’ button with venom.

She was standing on the pavement outside Hebbleswick Primary, and Tarquin had just told her that the structural engineer would be inspecting the house in three weeks’ time. In other words, she wouldn’t be able to retrieve the garments in time for the show. He’d also informed her that due to the state of the house, she wouldn’t be getting her deposit back.

‘Don’t make a fuss, Taylor,’ he’d said. ‘I’m doing all I can for you. The landlord could take you to court for all the damage you’ve caused.’

She was so shocked that she almost dropped the phone. ‘Court? But it wasn’t my fault.’

‘You let the bath overrun.’

‘I didn’t. I’d only turned it on a few minutes before.’ Since the ceiling had collapsed, she’d gone over it again and again in her mind, and was certain that this was the case. ‘And three weeks? I need my stuff. Couldn’t you talk to him? Please. Tarquin. Get him to come sooner. Or isn’t there another engineer you could call?’

‘You do sound rather desperate. Maybe you and I can come to some sort of arrangement.’

He’d said the word arrangement in the same sleazy tone of voice that he’d used a few weeks ago, when he’d suggested he might be persuaded to turn a blind eye to the fact she was running a business from home. It had made her flesh crawl – she didn’t want to consider what he meant – so she’d hung up the call, and put Tarquin to the back of her mind for now. Her top priority today had to be Max. She’d left him with Sylvia, and had arranged with Jo, the school manager, to visit Hebbleswick Primary.

She fought the urge to thump the stone wall of the school – she’d have to wait to vent her anger towards Tarquin – and pressed the button on the intercom beside the metal gate, and waited to be let in. The building looked very much like its counterpart in Essendale, but peering over the wall, Taylor could see a nature zone and an allotment where vegetables were growing. This instantly made her feel that the school might be a more nurturing environment for Max, but, of course, appearances could be deceptive.

The intercom buzzed and she pushed the gate open.

‘Please let them have a place, please let them have a place,’ she chanted under her breath as she walked up the path towards the entrance.

The automatic glass doors slid open, revealing a woman of around Taylor’s own age, perhaps a little older, with bright red hair waiting for her in the reception area. This had to be Jo; Taylor had heard much about her from Kate.

‘Good morning, Taylor,’ said the woman.

‘Hi, Jo.’ Taylor held out her hand. ‘Or should I say Miss Knox with you being at work?’

‘Jo is fine,’ said the woman. ‘You didn’t say when you phoned, but I’m guessing you’d like to see the hall? Ahead of the fashion show?’ Jo said.

‘No, that wasn’t it. Although yes, it would be good to see the hall, but I really came to ask if you’ve any places? In Year 4? My son Max…’

Tears began to roll down Taylor’s cheeks.

Jo seemed to take this sudden outburst in her stride. She took a packet of Kleenex from her pocket and handed it to Taylor. ‘Let’s go to the staff room. There’ll be no-one in there until playtime, and you can tell me all about him.’

Over a mug of Yorkshire tea, Taylor told Jo about Max, about how he’d never fitted in at Essendale Primary and about all the recent incidents of bullying. As she spoke, she kept her eyes firmly fixed on her mug, almost afraid to look at Jo, focusing only on getting the words out. When she finally finished, she was surprised to see that the school manager now had tears in her own eyes.

‘Oh, Taylor,’ she said. ‘Your poor little boy. None of that would happen here. I’m not saying we never have the occasional teasing incident – you know what kids are like – but we work hard on encouraging the children to celebrate differences and include everyone. I was bullied at school myself. In fact, I used to swear I’d never set foot in a school again. I couldn’t work here if it wasn’t a special place. Now why don’t I go and check my spreadsheets and make sure I’ve got a place for Max in Year 4, whilst you finish your cuppa. And then I’ll show you round.’

A few minutes later, Jo confirmed that there was a place for Max. Taylor wanted to cry all over again, with relief this time. She felt her shoulders drop two inches and realised how much tension she had been carrying around. Almost in a daze, she followed Jo along the corridors, peeping into classrooms along the way. In the Reception class, the children were sitting in a circle eating pieces of fruit and listening to a story. They looked cute in their little uniforms: sky-blue jumpers with sunshine yellow ties, Taylor noticed. So much better than the drab grey of the Essendale school. Year 1 were practising writing their letters and in Year 2, some sort of science experiment with toy cars, elastic bands and rulers was causing a great deal of excitement.

As they reached the Year 4 classroom, she crossed her fingers, hoping the teacher was going to be lovely and not the type who’d greet her at quarter past three with the words: ‘There’s been an incident.’

Jo tapped on the classroom door, then opened it. She poked her head around and said, ‘May we come in, Mrs Woods? This is Ms Sweet. Her son Max will be joining your class.’

Mrs Woods was around forty, with a short spiky haircut, a tie-dyed skirt and Doc Marten boots.

Taylor looked at the string of chunky multi-coloured beads around the woman’s neck. Max’s new teacher. You shouldn’t judge by appearances, but if this woman’s warm eyes and broad smile were anything to go by, Taylor was right to harbour hopes that her son might be happier here.

‘You’re not Taylor Sweet, by any chance? The one who’s doing the fashion show at the weekend?’ said Mrs Woods.

‘I am, yes.’