I glance at Mum. I haven’t told her my idea of maybe staying at the school for the whole of sixth form.
“We’ll see” is all she says. “I’m sure there are plenty of other ways that she can work on catching up with the others, aren’t there?”
“Indeed there are. Emma would always be very welcome to ask me for advice.”
“Then I’m sure she will.”
Why am I even here? The two of them are talking about me like I’m not in the room. Mum isn’t usually like this. I’m on the verge of saying something when Mr.Ward starts talking about the next set of exams. He seems different from normal. Slower. It’s weird. I don’t know if I’m imagining it. Maybe he didn’t get enough sleep. Mum makes the occasional note, and I nod, as if in a trance. My thoughts keep wandering. It’s these little moments when their eyes meet and Mum’s expression hardens. When she looks at Mr.Ward’s stick, which is leaning against the edge of the desk, her eyes go kind of faraway.
I find myself thinking about the yearbook photos. About the fact that Mr.Ward suddenly wasn’t there. About what Mr.Ringlingsaid in the garden. What happened back then, and is it possible that my parents had anything to do with it? I wish I could just ask. Right now. While I’m here with them. But I don’t dare.
I have no idea what else Mr.Ward said. Mum seems strangely composed as we walk to the next room. It’s not until we talk to Ms.Ventura and Mr.Ringling that I start to relax. Unlike Mr.Ward, they’re practically heaping praise on me; it’s almost embarrassing. All the same, as Mum and I step outside again, I can think about only one thing.
“Phew, we made it.” Mum smiles. “Mr.Ringling is still as nice as ever.”
“I didn’t know you knew Mr.Ward so well.” It’s a lie: Of course I knew it. But Mum doesn’t know that.
Maybe I’m imagining things, but her smile is more strained now. “He was in our year.”
“Didn’t you get on?”
Mum hesitates, and I know she’s not going to tell me the truth. “Things were a bit complicated,” she says. “There was no love lost between him and your father.”
“Why?”
“Oh, Emmi-Mouse, it was all so long ago. I can’t even remember exactly.”
Mum turns away and lets her eyes wander over the ancient walls.
“I met him,” I say. She turns back to me. “Dad.”
“You did what?” she blurts.
“Yes.”
“When? Did he come here?”
“No. I went to see him.” Suddenly I feel guilty. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you but I didn’t want you to worry. And I had to do it alone. You wouldn’t have approved.” Mum opens her mouth, but I don’t let her speak. “You totally wouldn’t, believe me.”
She sighs quietly. “No, you’re right. Maybe I really wouldn’t have approved.”
“You see.”
“OK, so you met him. And how was it?”
“It was... difficult. He was drunk. Maybe it wasn’t the best time.”
“He waswhat?” Mum’s eyes bore through me. “Where did you meet him?”
“In Glasgow,” I tell her. “He was doing a concert in a pub.”
“In Glasgow? Emma Charlotte Wiley, I hope you’re not telling me that you went to Glasgow on your own to meet your father in some pub?”
“I wasn’t on my own,” I say hastily. “Henry came with me. He was there the whole time.”
Well... almost the whole time.
“I can’t believe it.” Mum rubs her temples. “But fine. So you met him. Maybe that was important.”
