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44
AVERY
My first termas a teacher is over, apart from the end-of-term Christmas performance. I threw myself into helping organise, partly to embed myself in the school community and partly to use up the hours I once spent with Bryn attending rehearsals instead.
I don't want to spend days alone at Bryn's apartment; I need to find my own place soon anyway. A couple of weeks going downhill, after ending each call confused and hurt further, I woke one morning and decided enough was enough. I had to let go.
The images of Bryn and Hannah in bed as I lay alone at night intensify, the leaden sickness in my stomach following me to work. At least, with the exhaustion of wrangling several dozen primary school kids into some semblance of an in tune, co-ordinated performance, I don't have time to dwell in the day; the grief eats me at night instead. Weekdays I’m too exhausted to socialise, trapped in my merry-go-round of work and sleep.
We haven’t spoken for a week. To begin with, Bryn left me messages, insisting we needed to talk. He sent me flowers, emails, joking threats he’d come and get me, but I ignored them all. The only thing I want to hear is that he’s planning to come back. This doesn’t have to be next week, but I need to hear that he will. A date he’ll return to me.
He’s still in Australia after almost two months; that speaks louder than anything else.
There were some pictures recently of Bryn and Hannah and a question mark over where I was. The photos are taken near a hospital. Connor must be in treatment. Guilt creeps in—the reason he hasn’t returned is because Connor is in hospital now. The press would always twist something like this, but how can I let go ofallmy doubts? Kathleen, a school colleague, broaches the subject but I smile through my pain and refuse to speak about it.
The school hall is filled with plastic chairs, the walls decorated in tinsel and years-old Christmas garlands, a tall decorated tree in one corner. As the chairs fill with chattering parents, I hover backstage as nervous as the kids. Some mums help with costumes and make-up, while I repeatedly check the music tracks are lined up properly, so the correct children have the correct song to sing when it’s their class’s turn.
When I attended school, our class would perform a nativity which may’ve been easier to organise. Or not. I have childhood recollections of the doll baby Jesus dropped on his head or carried around by one leg, of Mary and Joseph refusing to hold hands in case of girl germs, next to the angels jostling for centre stage. Nope. Plus, I was always the bloody donkey or assorted farmyard animal and I wouldn’t want to watch the kids arguing who plays the angels. Like I once did.
“Miss Paige, will you stand by me?”
Dean, a boy from the Year Four class looks up at me, pale faced, ridiculous in his half-sewn Christmas tree costume, a red bauble hanging to almost touches his nose.
“What do you mean, Dean?” I ask.
“I don't want to do this, but my dad came ‘specially.”
I push the bauble from his face. “You don't need to sing if you don't want to. Just stand on stage.”
His bottom lip trembles and from the corner of my eye, I see two of his classmates giggling. I scowl at the two girls and they look away with fear at being told off.
“Will you stand with me?” he repeats. “I don't see my dad much but he came tonight.”
His words delve into my subconscious, to the part of my mind Bryn still lives in, and I can't say no.
“Okay, I'll stand at the edge of the stage where you can see me but you have to sing if I do.”
“Will you sing?”
I've listened to the songs on repeat for eight weeks. I know every word of every verse. “Which is your class’s song?”
“Merry Christmas Everybody.”
I cringe at memories of singing the Slade song on drunken Christmas Eves—and bad headaches the next day.
“Sure. That's the last song, right?” I ask.
Dean nods, anxious face transformed into a beaming smile, filling my heart with a contentment I've missed. I make a difference to these children’s lives.
Following the longest hour and a half of my life, with minor disasters of children fighting at the back of the stage and refusing to co-operate, the music stopping mid-track for the Year Two class, and pieces of costume littering the floor, I step on stage with Dean and his classmates. For a horrible moment, I think he’ll attempt to hold my hand, which would increase the snickering and teasing from kids behind, but he doesn't. Following a stern look to Jared and Luke, I wait for the song to start.
As I stare down at the parents in the shadows, on their plastic chairs in the school hall, my own nerves kick in. I totally forgot I hate performing or being in the spotlight and here I am with tinsel wrapped around my neck, wearing a Santa hat in front of a hall full of adults. The music starts and I freeze, convinced every member of the audience is staring at me, which is silly as they're here to see their kids.
One verse in, and Dean pokes me. “Miss, why aren't you singing?”
“Oh. Right.” I grit my teeth and join in as everybody launches into the chorus.
And there, on stage, with the children I've spent the last few months with, who I've touched the lives of, I see my future. I may be inept socially, or lack decent co-ordination. I may give my heart to rock stars who screw it up and throw it back, but I'm doing what I wanted.
My fear of a future disconnected from my home, my old friends and family, and the resentment that my friends had moved on before I did passes. I'm where I should be, doing what I want, because what I do matters to these kids. The Year Two teacher, Ross repeatedly asked me on dates and I've refused while I pine for Bryn. Next time he asks, I’ll say yes. No, I’ll find Ross tonight and ask him. I will move on.
With the applause from the parents, the excitement of children who are one step closer to Christmas Day, and I'm dragged into the magic of the world I helped create. I love Christmas, from decorating the tree to shopping for gifts. Now I’m beginning my Christmas with over a hundred people, proud of my achievement.
Dazed by the noise and lights, stressed but happy, I step off the low wooden stage and head to the school kitchens, hoping the parents organising refreshments remembered wine. Sneaking down the side aisle, past the standing, cheering parents, I reach the double doors at the rear of the hall.
And stop.
A tall man in a leather jacket rests against the cream painted breeze-blocks near the doorway, arms crossed as he smiles an all too familiar smile.
“Giving me a run for my money,cariad,” he says.
