School Run (25 page)

Pippa was back within ten minutes.

‘What did he say?’ asked Derek, jumping up.

‘She.’ Pippa blew her nose. ‘She wants me to have a mammogram. I have to wait here until I’m called.’

‘But it’s all right?’

‘I don’t know.’ She didn’t mean to snap. They sat, pretending to read magazines for nearly half an hour.

‘Mrs Hallet? We’re ready for you now.’

Derek stiffened. ‘Can I come too?’

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait here. Your wife won’t be long.’

Pippa forced herself to give him a reassuring smile. How did the nurse know he was her husband and not a lover, like Gus?

The nurse was walking briskly ahead, her calves wobbling below her uniform. She drew back the grey curtains in front of a cubicle. ‘Just take off your clothes, dear, down to your undies, then put the blue overall on. Call if you need help.’

Pippa sat in the cubicle to wait. She could hear someone else being escorted down the corridor to the cubicle next to hers, with the same patter about removing clothes. It was hot. Clammy. Pippa loosened her overall. Why were hospitals always so warm if the NHS was short of money?

Ten minutes later the nurse still hadn’t returned. If she didn’t get some air, she’d faint. She opened the curtains and peered out. The woman in the cubicle next to her was doing the same.

‘Are you here for a mammogram?’ Pippa asked shyly.

The woman – who looked older than her – nodded. ‘You too?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your first?’

They might have been talking about babies, thought Pippa, ruefully. ‘Yes,’ she said.

‘This is my fourth. The first two were routine but then I had a lump three years ago. Now another one’s come up.’

Pippa swallowed. ‘The first was all right?’

‘No. But they didn’t have to take the whole breast off. Now I wish they had because I might not be here with this one. I’m going for a radical if there’s any doubt. Safer that way.’

‘But shouldn’t they know what’s best? I mean, why didn’t they do a radical mastectomy to begin with?’

The woman shrugged. She was well built with a rosy, healthy shine on her face; she certainly didn’t look ill. ‘It depends who you get. Some seem to have their own views.’

‘Mrs Hallet.’ The nurse came out of a door and bustled towards her. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Would you like to come through now?’

The woman crossed her fingers. ‘Good luck.’

‘Thanks.’ Heart thumping, Pippa followed the nurse into a small room with a large machine in the centre. It looked like a piece of naval equipment from the Imperial War Museum to which she’d recently taken the girls. Music was coming from a radio in the corner. Bach, guessed Pippa.

Another woman, in a white coat this time, smiled at her welcomingly. ‘I’m Christine, the radiologist. Ever had a mammogram before? Well, it’s quite simple, just a bit uncomfortable.’ She spoke with the kind of no-nonsense attitude that discouraged potential panickers. ‘I want you to slip off your robe and stand with your chin on this ledge. That’s right. Now I’m going to lift your breast up like this – sorry, my hands are cold – and gently bring down a glass plate so we can take an X-ray. Like this. All right?’

Pippa watched, horrified, as Christine picked up her breast and laid it on the slab below. As the glass plate came down, it squashed it out of recognition, so it resembled a hamburger in a glass roll. Horrible and grotesque and not part of her.

‘Lovely, Pippa.’ She was using her first name – presumably to put her at her ease – and talking as though they knew each other. ‘Can you stand a little closer to the machine? Marvellous. Now lift your right breast up and put it flat on the plate. Perfect. This might feel a little uncomfortable but it shouldn’t hurt.’

Pippa watched the glass plate coming down again; this was happening to someone else, not her. It was too much to cope with, the mammogram and Gus in one week. How could she have broken the trust between her and Derek? If he found out, it would be the end of their marriage.

Oh, God, what would the girls say? They would despise her with the self-righteousness of youth that cannot accept infidelity in adults. She could lose her family because of a stupid idea that she had somehow ‘missed out’ by not having had a relationship with Gus.

‘Lovely. Now I want you to stand at a right angle. Perfect. Don’t move.’

Christine went out of the room to press the switch.

‘Right, Pippa, that’s all. You can go back to the cubicle and get dressed now. The doctor will see you shortly.’

Pippa sat in the cubicle, shivering with apprehension. Through the curtains, she watched a door opening opposite as the woman to whom she had been talking earlier came out. Tears were streaming down her face and a nurse had an arm round her shoulder. ‘It’s all right, dear. Try not to worry.’

Pippa felt sick.

‘Mrs Hallet?’ The consultant she’d seen earlier was at her curtain. ‘Hello, again.’ Dr Lincoln glanced down at her files.

‘Would you like to come in now? Do you have anyone with you?’

‘My husband,’ said Pippa, quietly.

‘Would you like him with you?’

‘No.’ She glanced behind her to check that Derek wasn’t listening. She’d go through this alone: after Gus, she deserved the punishment. Derek needed to be protected.

‘Please, sit down.’

Dr Lincoln glanced at her notes. ‘I see you’ve had your mammogram. We’d also like to do what we call a “fine needle aspiration” which means drawing fluid out of the lump. If the results seem suspicious – or inconclusive – we will take it out under general anaesthetic.’

‘When? When can you do the fine needle stuff?’

Dr Lincoln stood up. ‘Right now. The pathologist will be able to give us the results this morning.’ She smiled kindly. ‘Better to get it over and done with, don’t you think?’

26

KITTY

‘Now, for all you kids who can’t wait for the end of term, here’s one for you. It’s a classic – ask your parents.  Yes, it’s “Skool’s Out”.’

Kitty yanked off her headphones as she jumped on to the bus just before the doors closed. ‘Gosh, thanks.’

The driver (he really
did
look like Jonny Wilkinson) grinned. ‘That’s OK. I’d have waited for you anyway – saw you running when I turned the corner.’

Kitty tried to catch her breath, vowing to get fitter in the holidays. There was so little chance to exercise when you were standing up in a classroom all day. ‘I really appreciate it,’ she said, hanging on to the rail as the bus juddered down the road.

‘Got this for you.’ He handed her a book.

Shouldn’t he be keeping his eyes on the road? She glanced at the cover of the Trollope novel they had talked about.

‘Great. I was going to get a copy but I haven’t had time.’

‘I’ve finished it,’ he said. ‘Saves you buying it. I know how skint you teachers are – I was one for a couple of years.’

‘Really? Why did you give it up?’

‘The paperwork got too much and all those Ofsted inspections. Besides, I wasn’t a born teacher, not like some of them. I just fell into it after my degree because I didn’t know what else to do.’

‘And you prefer driving buses?’

‘It’s a no-brainer. I work half the day and spend the other half doing what I like. Bit of fishing, reading and chilling out. Reckon I might as well make the most of it while I haven’t got any commitments.’

‘Aren’t you bored?’

He lowered his voice. ‘Well, to be honest, I’m also writing a novel but I don’t tell many people in case it doesn’t get published. I reckoned if I didn’t do it now I’d get caught up eventually by the responsibilities of the family business my father’s been trying to persuade me into.’ He grinned. ‘I didn’t fancy the stationery world – at least, not yet – so I’m giving myself a belated gap year.’

Kitty wanted to know what the novel was about but people on the bus were staring at them. He seemed refreshingly unaware of this.

‘Well, thanks for the book. I’ll give it back when I’ve finished it but it might be next term now.’

‘No rush. The name’s Clive, by the way.’

‘Er, Kitty.’

‘Nice name.’ Clive pulled into the next stop and glanced into his mirror. ‘Move down the bus, you lot. Give the lady some space.’

Colouring, Kitty elbowed her way through a dense mass of children, all talking at full volume. Her head was ringing and her throat was sore after having to project her voice yesterday at a particularly unruly English class.

‘Want a mint, Miss?’ asked a ginger-haired boy, sitting nearby. Kitty would have liked his seat, but she didn’t fancy the off-white sweet that sat in his grubby palm.

‘No, thanks.’

‘Sure?’

‘Shove off, Callum! She said she doesn’t want one.’ An older boy – gosh, they came big nowadays – stood up and put his face too close to hers for comfort. He stared at her challengingly with hard black eyes, and for the first time in her teaching career Kitty felt threatened. She moved backwards, treading on someone’s toe.

‘Ouch, Miss! That hurt.’

‘Sorry.’

The boy moved closer, smiling. ‘How about a fag instead, Miss?’ He took out a cigarette and struck a match.

‘You’re not allowed to smoke in here,’ said Kitty, firmly.

The boy smirked. ‘Is that right, Miss? Sure you don’t want one? They’re home-made, you know. I can sell you some if you like it.’

Kitty glanced back at Clive, whom she couldn’t see through the crowd of kids. ‘Someone’s smoking down here,’ she called.

‘Bitch,’ muttered the boy, and stubbed out the cigarette on the floor.

‘
What’s that?
’

Clive’s roar took Kitty by surprise. ‘Who’s smoking?’

The bus ground to a halt and some of the kids moved sideways as Clive got out of his seat and strode down the aisle. He took the boy by his jacket. ‘You, out! You should know better than to smoke that stuff in front of the younger ones.’

That stuff, wondered Kitty. She had never taken drugs but, come to think of it, that sweet smell was familiar from her uni days.

‘Out,’ Clive repeated, pushing the boy down the exit steps.

He almost stumbled, then picked himself up. His hard dark eyes stared up at Kitty through the open door. ‘You’ll be sorry, Miss,’ he shouted. ‘You’ll see.’

Kitty shivered.

‘All right?’ asked Clive, gently.

‘I think so.’ She dropped her voice. ‘Was he smoking what I think he was?’

‘Smelt like it.’

‘I’d better tell someone.’

Clive sighed. ‘Well, be careful. Some of these kids are big – and they can hurt.’

When Kitty arrived, she went to see the headmaster but his office was empty. Nor was he in the staffroom, which was stiff with panic at the impending Ofsted visit. She couldn’t even find the deputy.

‘You look worried,’ said Susy. ‘Don’t panic. Everyone gets so worked up about these things.’

‘It’s not the Ofsted visit,’ said Kitty. ‘It’s something else.’

She told her about the bus incident and Susy frowned. ‘That’s bad. There is a bit of a drug problem in the senior school but any school that says it doesn’t have one is lying. If I were you, I’d wait until tomorrow when things will have calmed down after the Ofsted visit. Then you can see the head. And don’t worry about that boy. They all like to look tough but they’re not that bad underneath. We haven’t reached the stage they have in America, thank goodness. Or Russia, God help them.’

Kitty tried to get on with her day but it was difficult especially as she’d been asked to take an extra class – biology – since the usual teacher was ill and she’d done it as an A level. No one knew when their particular class was going to be joined by an inspector. Just as she was about to start biology with year sevens, a tall, rather good-looking man with a moustache appeared at the door, nodded at her and took a seat at the back. Just her luck!

The children had been told to expect a visitor but to behave normally. The trouble was, thought Kitty ruefully, ‘normal’ usually meant rowdy, especially with the sex-education module they were doing.

Holding the chalk as steadily as her shaking hands would permit, Kitty drew a diagram on the blackboard, hoping it was accurate and trying to forget that there was an Ofsted inspector at the back of the classroom. She pointed to it. ‘Now, who can tell me how an egg is fertilised?’

‘I know! I know.’

She turned round to face a sea of hands and eager faces.

‘Yes, Lucy?’

Lucy was one of her favourites, even though Kitty knew she shouldn’t have any. The girl was always so keen to please that she was any teacher’s delight. ‘The sperm swims up and hits the egg and it makes a baby,’ she said.

‘Please, Miss.’ Adam, in the row behind, was straining as though he was going to burst out of his seat. ‘My dad says it’s like cricket. You think of the sperm as the cricket ball and the egg as a wicket. When the ball hits the stumps, it’s all over.’