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12

      Ollie, 2017

      A teacher who drinks. Is that what he was turning into? Was that the kind of example he was setting the kids he worked with? Not that they knew. But he knew. And, if he carried on this way, it would only be a matter of time before someone smelt it on his breath or he got caught swigging from a hip flask in the games cupboard, and then what? Career over. Reputation in tatters.

      Ollie peered at his face in the mirror above the bathroom sink. He looked tired. When he bared his teeth they had taken on a dull yellowish tinge, and his tongue was coated in a layer of white gunk that tasted like old socks, or the way he imagined old socks to taste, having never actually tried any. He spent longer than usual scrubbing away with his toothbrush, until he tasted blood and knew it was time to stop. Not only to stop brushing, but to stop drinking too, and feeling sorry for himself, and moping over a woman who was very clearly never coming back.

      His first class of the day was athletics. The field stuff, not the track. Okay, so it was September, but there were only so many more chances to enjoy being outside before the kids were confined to using the shoddy gym equipment in the hall or out battling the elements with their hands and faces turning blue with cold on the hockey field come winter. And it could be fun. Ten and eleven year olds, having their first go at holding the javelin (the school only owned one), learning to carry it, launch it safely, aim it in a graceful arc (some hope of that happening!) through the air with only a small chance of it landing where it was supposed to. Like Cupid’s arrow, he thought, flying wildly about and finding its own spot, no matter how hard you tried to tell it where you wanted it to go. But now he was being fanciful. They were no cherubs, they were just kids, kitted out in baggy shorts and school polo shirts, half of them out for a lark and enjoying the freedom of escaping their desks, and the rest – mainly the girls – wishing they could be somewhere else entirely. And, amongst the lot of them, maybe one, just one if he was lucky, who might have some shred of athletic talent and ambition. He couldn’t help wondering sometimes why he bothered wasting his time, why he hadn’t opted to teach secondary school kids, where he might have at least run into a spark or two of enthusiasm.

      He pulled on his jacket, checked the pockets for stray cans, and threw his finished cereal bowl into the sink to join all the plates and cutlery and pans that had been accumulating there over the weekend. He’d wash up later. But then, that’s what he always said, and later there was usually something else more pressing or enticing, or more than likely liquid, vying for his attention, and that meant he never quite got around to it.

      He closed the door behind him and stood for a few seconds, breathing in big gulps of cool, clean morning air. The school was only a twenty-minute walk away. That’s why they’d chosen this flat, to save on fares and petrol, and if a games teacher wasn’t fit and healthy enough, barring the asthma that had hung around since childhood and still reared its ugly head from time to time, to manage a brisk walk to and from work every day, then, as he’d jokingly said many times, there was something wrong with the world.

      The trouble now was that he was living in the flat all alone, so something very definitely was wrong with the world, or his small part of it at least. Whatever the advantages of its location, Ollie wasn’t good at being alone. From as far back as he could remember, he had never had to be alone. They say that twins have a special bond, having started out side by side from day one, their tiny growing bodies curled together in the cramped space of their mother’s womb, being pushed out into the world within minutes of each other, sharing all of childhood’s little milestones and miracles. But this, this connection he felt with his sisters, was something else. Something bigger, greater and even more infuriating. It was something so few people had, or understood.

      He quickened his pace, glancing at his watch. He was going to be late again, and it was starting to rain. Little rivulets ran over his collar and trickled down his neck. Year six, taking on the javelin in the rain. Was that the only highlight his day had to offer? Oh, what joy!

      For a moment he thought about turning back, going home and hiding under the crumpled duvet cover he hadn’t washed in a while. Or even going back to Mum’s for a few days and letting her look after him, the way she had when he was small and feeling under the weather, smothering him in blankets and sympathy and soup. But it was only the third week of term. Time off mid-term was frowned upon, unless he said he was sick. Lied. The thought of it was certainly appealing, going back to bed, or the sofa, losing himself in sleep, waiting for the rain to stop. Waiting for something, anything, to happen that would shake him out of this hole he’d been sliding into ever since Laura had left. The hole with such slippery sides that escape just got harder and harder to envisage. But they’d find him and pull him back, however deep he fell. His mum and his sisters. They always did. Because they knew. When he was in trouble, when he was in pain, they just knew. And that was exactly why he was avoiding them.

      ***

      ‘I know it seems early to be thinking about Christmas …’

      Ollie stood in front of the head teacher’s vast and surprisingly empty desk. He had half expected his summons might have something to do with his drinking, that he’d been rumbled somehow and was about to be given his marching orders. During the short walk from the staff room, he had been bricking it, his mind whirling about, trying to come up with answers before he even knew what the questions might be. But Christmas?

      ‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ he said, lamely, with no idea what was coming next. It was only the end of September, for heaven’s sake, and they’d hardly seen the back of summer yet. The kids’ holiday memories, in all their poetic and artistic glory, were still pinned to the walls in the library. Christmas remained a distant nightmare he was nowhere near ready to contemplate.

      ‘But if we want to do something well, I do think it’s important to give ourselves plenty of time to plan, don’t you, Oliver?’

      ‘Yes, of course.’

      ‘And now you’re wondering why I’ve asked you here this morning? To be honest, it’s to ask a favour. I would normally have felt able to count on Mrs Carter as usual, but, as you know, she’ll be on maternity leave over the Christmas period, so I need someone else to step in. I was hoping that someone might be you. It’s a job that calls for great enthusiasm, organisational skills, and a certain amount of … well, stamina, for want of a better word.’

      ‘Now I’m intrigued.’

      ‘The nativity play, Oliver. Staff, children, a few willing parents, all working together, you know? We’ve done nativity plays for as long as I can remember. Tea-towel head dresses, the girls squabbling over who’s going to be Mary, the boys desperate to avoid being in it at all, not to mention the plastic baby Jesus. Let’s just say I have visions of something a little different this year. More lively. Costumes, music, perhaps bringing a more modern twist to it. Mrs Carter will be missed, of course, but her absence does give us an opportunity for change, do you see?’

      Ollie nodded, not entirely sure that he did see at all, but it usually paid to agree with the boss. ‘And, er, how do I fit into this exactly?’

      ‘I want you to lead, Oliver. Plan, produce, put a team together, casting, rehearsals, all of that. Organise the whole thing. You know, from a different perspective, the whole thing seen through fresh eyes …’

      ‘Me?’ Ollie pulled a chair over from a corner, deciding this was as good a time as any to sit down. He could be here for some time. ‘But I have absolutely no experience of anything like that. I don’t go to church, so the religious side of a nativity is … well, not really my thing. I can’t act, I can’t sing, and I haven’t been inside a theatre since I was at school myself. Hamlet, I think it was. I can still see him holding that mouldy old skull. Gave me nightmares for weeks afterwards.’

      ‘Hardly the same thing. And I said organise it, Oliver. I’m not asking you to lead a church service, or to get up on stage and perform. Unless you want to, of course. Sometimes you don’t know where your talents lie until you try. Now, take your class earlier this morning, for instance. I was watching through the window, and little Victoria Bennett threw an almost perfect javelin, didn’t she? Never touched

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