All to Play For (26 page)
Authors: Heather Peace
“You’d hardly believe he was the same child,” mused Jill, remembering the glowing reports Sam used to receive.
“I suppose we got complacent. It’s my fault. I haven’t been giving him a strong enough role model.”
Jill’s silence endorsed this view. They drove home lost in their own thoughts.
*
SCENE 1 / 2 INT. CLASSROOM | |
ABOUT THIRTY FIFTEEN AND SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLDS LAZE AROUND IN THEIR PLACES, GOSSIPING. LUKE AND RICKY SIT TOGETHER BY THE WINDOW. THE DOOR OPENS AND SHARON ENTERS CAREFULLY, BALANCING A LARGE PILE OF BOOKS AND HER BAG, WHICH SHE MANAGES TO PLONK ON HER DESK JUST BEFORE SHE DROPS THEM. | |
SHARON: | It’s alright, thanks, I can manage. |
THEY ALL IGNORE HER. SHE LOOKS UP, EXASPERATED, AND ADDRESSES THE GIRL NEAREST THE DOOR. | |
SHARON: | Shut the door for me, would you Eleanor? |
ELEANOR LEANS FORWARD AND SHOVES THE DOOR SHUT. THE BOYS SITTING BEHIND HER TAKE THE CHANCE TO LOOK UP HER SKIRT: SHE GIVES THEM A FILTHY LOOK. | |
SHARON: | Right. Good morning everyone. |
ABOUT HALF OF THEM RELUCTANTLY MURMUR SOMETHING IN RESPONSE. | |
SHARON: | (AS IF THEY HAD POLITELY ASKED AFTER HER HEALTH) I’m very well, thank you for asking. Right. King Lear. I’ve marked your essays. Not bad, most of you, pretty good, some of you, completely useless, one of you. (SHE HOLDS UP AN A4 PAGE HALF FILLED) What’s this supposed to be, Jack? |
JACK SMIRKS IN THE BACK ROW | |
JACK: | It’s my character study, Miss. |
SHARON: | (WALKING DOWN THE ROW TO JACK) You mean it’s the first two paragraphs of your character study. Do it again please. I want two full pages by Friday. |
JACK ACCEPTS THE PAGE WITH A GRIMACE. SHARON HEADS FOR THE FRONT OF THE CLASS. | |
SHARON: | Next is… Luke Woodward. Nice work, Luke. Carry on like that and you could get a top grade. |
SHARON HANDS LUKE HIS WORK AS A FEW BOYS SAY “OOOHH!” IN FRIENDLY MOCKERY. LUKE SMILES AND GAZES INTO SHARON’S EYES. SHE HESITATES FOR A MOMENT, THINKING HE’S GOING TO SPEAK, BUT HE DOESN’T. HE JUST LOOKS AT HER AS IF HE KNOWS SOMETHING. SHE’S PUZZLED. | |
LUKE: | Thanks Miss. |
RICKY: | It’s your superb teaching skills Miss. He’s hopeless at everything else. |
HE MAKES A FACE AT LUKE, WHO LOOKS PAINED. | |
SHARON: | Shame they don’t work on you, then Ricky. Yours was uninspired. You weren’t watching the football while you wrote it, were you? |
RICKY: | Dunno Miss. Might’ve been. |
SHARON: | Because Lear’s youngest daughter’s name is Cordelia, not Chelsea. |
THE CLASS LAUGHS AT RICKY. LUKE’S EYES FOLLOW SHARON PROUDLY AS SHE CONTINUES WITH THE LESSON. |
The phone rang, interrupting Jill’s flow. She scribbled a note to herself, clicked on
save
, and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Jill? It’s Paul at YTS. Good news!”
It was her agent, she forced herself to focus on him.
“Hello Paul, how are you?”
“Fine thanks, you? – The BBC want to commission a script!”
Jill smiled. Bless him, she thought. “I know, Maggie called me three days ago. I’ve already started.”
“Oh.” He sounded disappointed, as if he had wanted some of the credit for getting her the work. “Great. It’s a pity they won’t commission both episodes at once. Apparently that’s the policy now, take everything one step at a time.”
“I know. Tight bastards, aren’t they?”
“Did the
Casualty
office call you as well?”
“No. What do they want?”
“Availability check for next month. What do you think?”
Jill sighed. If she said yes, she would have too much on. If she said no, she might find herself without anything at all in three months’ time. She wanted to say no, she was sick of it, but continuous financial insecurity was hard to live with.
Paul tried to help, “After this there won’t be any more
Casualties
until next season, you know.”
“But I won’t be able to give
Lover Boy
enough attention, and it’s my big break. I’d better say no, Paul.”
“Sure?”
“Yes. Thanks.”
He rang off, disappointed again. Jill felt a sense of power mixed with anxiety. She had never turned work down before, it was a new experience. I could get used to this, she thought. Then she got back to work.
The script flowed easily until she reached the parents’ evening where Luke’s mum and dad discussed his future career with Sharon. This presented difficulties as last night’s experience was fresh in her mind, and she had not yet talked to Sam about it. She found herself identifying more closely with Luke’s mother than she wanted to. She had intended Linda Woodward to be an annoying, old-fashioned woman with narrow-minded views. Instead she had a hard time giving Sharon a convincing argument.
SCENE 1 / 4 INT. SHARON’S SCHOOL HALL | |
MANY PARENTS MILL AROUND AND QUEUE TO SEE STAFF. IAN AND LINDA WOODWARD SIT TOGETHER IN FRONT OF SHARON’S DESK. THEY LOOK CONCERNED. | |
LINDA: | Luke’s always been good at English, hasn’t he? It’s a valuable subject. If he took a degree in English there are all kinds of jobs he could go in for, aren’t there? |
SHARON: | Yes there are. But I thought he didn’t want to carry on with it? |
IAN: | He likes his handicrafts, but he’s very bright. A-level Art’s fair enough, but we want him to go as far as he can with proper studies. Qualifications are the most important thing these days, aren’t they? |
SHARON: | (SMILING) Absolutely, Mr Woodward. Especially if you’re not sure what you want to do in life, university gives you more time to make up your mind. But I thought Luke had made up his mind – Ceramics and Woodwork? |
IAN: | He thinks he has, but he’s only sixteen. What does he know? He doesn’t want to wind up in some dead-end carpentry job, or making pots. Pots, I ask you! |
SHARON: | How times have changed. Ten years ago parents were telling me they wanted their sons to learn an honest trade, not stay on at school. You’re saying the opposite. |
LINDA: | There you are you see. There aren’t the jobs for skilled craftsmen any more. Ian knows, look at Ford: there’s nowhere near the need for skilled labour there used to be, is there Ian? |
IAN: | That’s right. Will you talk to him, Mrs Morrison? He’ll listen to you. Tell him an English degree’s the thing. |
SHARON: | I’ll try, but I can’t promise he’ll change his mind. It’s his life, in the end, isn’t it? |
LINDA: | Tell him it’s about keeping his options open. He’s too young to leave school. |
Jill heard the front door slam. Sam was home.
“Hi Sam,” she called, receiving an inarticulate response. She followed the sound into Sam’s bedroom and sat on his bed; Sam was switching on his computer.
“How was school?” she asked.
“Okay”.
“I thought we might go to the Music Café for tea.”
“I’d rather get fish and chips.”
Jill paused. She much preferred the Music Café. “Okay darling. Fish and chips.” Sam said nothing as he logged on to the internet, so Jill answered herself: “Great. Thank you mother dear.”
Sam grunted, concentrating on his search.
“How’s Tom? You haven’t brought him home for ages.”
“Alright.”
“You haven’t fallen out with him, have you?”
“No.”
“Have you got some new friends?” No reply. Jill persevered, cautiously. “If you have, why don’t you ask them back for tea?”
Sam sighed an
it’s hopeless expecting you to understand
sigh. “I don’t think so, Mum.” He ran his hand through his gelled hair. “Mum?”
“Yes?”
“Is it okay if I get my ear pierced?”
“Don’t be silly, you’re much too young.”
“Loads of kids my age have pierced ears. And that’s not all – ”
“I don’t want to know.”
Jill didn’t see why Sam should get his own way with everything, the least he could do was open up a bit and talk to her. Sam turned and looked at her, wearing the incredulous expression of a boy who has just been told he will have to marry a rich but ghastly old lady.
“I’m not a kid anymore, you know,” he said.
“I know, darling. But you’re not grown up either.”
“You don’t
want
me to grow up!”
“Of course I do.”
“Not really. Not deep down.” Sam stood up, still wearing his jacket. “Give us a tenner, then.”
“No, Sam.”
“Don’t you want fish and chips?”
The phone started ringing again, disconcerting Jill who felt suddenly wrong-footed. She pulled some money out of her pocket and gave it to Sam.
“Skate and chips and mushy peas, please.”
“Okay.” Hands in pockets, he walked out of the flat whistling.
Jill shook her head quickly to clear her confusion while she answered the phone. “Hello?”
“Hi Jill, is this a bad moment?”
“Oh Carmen, hi. No, it’s fine. I was just having a slight altercation with Sam.”
“Oh dear.”
“He wants to have his ear pierced, for God’s sake.”
“Is that a problem?”
“He’s twelve!”
“Twelve already. Amazing, isn’t it?”
Carmen was missing the point, so Jill changed the subject. “How are you, anyway?”
“Fine, great. I got an invite to the BBC writers’ party today – did you?”
“Oh yes, I did actually. Are you going?”
“Course I am, I wouldn’t miss a chance like that. It’s the first time they’ve asked me. I’ve arrived!”
“It’s only standing about with a glass of cheap wine, you know.”
“Sure, but standing about
with whom
?”
Jill smiled out loud. Carmen would have a whale of a time, she was a party animal, able to approach anyone and chat comfortably.
“I wish I wasn’t such a wallflower,” said Jill.
“Stick with me girl, I’ll show you a good time! I better let you sort out the family stuff. Call me sometime.”
“I will,” promised Jill. “Take care.”
When Sam came back with the fish and chips they sat down to watch the news. Jill noticed Sam’s new shoes.
“Nice trainers. Did Dad buy them for you?”
“Uh huh.”
“They look very expensive.”
Sam shrugged.
“Are you happy at school, Sam?”
He shrugged again.
“You don’t seem as happy as you were at Shepherd’s. And, er, Mr Speed seems to think you’re not doing as well as you could.”
Sam ate with intense concentration.
“I wish you’d talk about it, Sam. You used to tell me everything.”
“That was then. This is now,” said Sam enigmatically.
“So what’s changed?”
He shrugged. Jill decided to quit before the conversation became a confrontation. She told herself not to get uptight about it, it was probably just his hormones, and made a mental resolution not to talk to him as if he were a child. “Fruit salad or cinnamon cheesecake for pudding?”
“Yuk. Got any Fab lollies?”
Jill gave up.
Chapter Twelve
The BBC Writers’ Party is an annual tradition, intended as a thank-you to acknowledge the vital contribution they make. Generally very badly paid and frequently messed around, writers work alone with no security of any kind; they have agents to look after their interests but they pay them a high price. You won’t find many writers enjoying the same standard of living as the average agent. Apart from the few who hit the big time writers tend to be nervous and introverted – and who could blame them – they’re powerless until the public cries out for them, and how often does that happen? So they like to be noticed by their employers once a year, and to come and enjoy some free plonk and a good gossip with the outside chance of making new contacts and picking up more work.
I was there, along with a few senior script editors and most of the drama producers, to be nice to them. That year it took place in a large art gallery in The Mall which was deeply trendy but not especially smart, so there was little to fear from clumsy revellers in the way of damage. On the walls hung a series of large unattractive canvases which no-one paid any attention to. I was looking out for writers I knew, and hoping to avoid Jonathan, as I’d succeeded in doing for a couple of weeks since my faux pas in the canteen. The room was filling up quickly as people entered through a security cordon at the top of a short flight of stairs. I saw Jonathan arrive with his girlfriend Selina, Chris Briggs’ assistant. They looked like a pair of film stars on holiday, casually elegant and entirely relaxed, in contrast to the neurotically tense demeanour of the guests. I found them horribly fascinating. It’s not that I wanted to be tall and slim and blonde and socially adept – I’ve always been happy with who I am, honest – I just resented the pecking order, that’s all. Looking back it seems pathetically small-minded. I pretended to look at the art until they had been safely absorbed by the crowd. My avoidance strategy didn’t work; two minutes later Jonathan approached me and I had to say hello.
