Yesterday, she’d been plagued by something completely different, some stupid thing in the charts, so memorable, she couldn’t remember two notes of it now. The Faure ate into your mind. The sweet little, foul little cousin sang Dona eam requiem… Eam, feminine, meaning ‘to her’, not the usual ‘eis’, to them, because the dead person was Mum. Knowing a bit of Latin helped. Quando coeli movendi sunt was all about the Last Day… Judgement Day. Libera me, Domine, de ore leone… Deliver me, O Lord, from the lion’s jaws… How could Dad bear to listen, ever again? He did, almost every day. Maybe it helped? Maybe not? He mustn’t be sad for ever… The way the staff carried on, you’d think this really was the Last Day, not just the end of term, end of year.

The Faure was still in her head, wouldn’t clear off, and she was still in a flaming temper, with Dad, with Gran, the kids, everybody. And no way should she be in school, not today or any of the days since the last exam. Other schools seemed to get that right. Exams over, you cleared off till September. In her street, Kelly, Jordan, both the Sams and Kwambo had been free since the middle of June, doing absolutely anything they liked.

After she’d refused breakfast, Dad simply frog-marched her out to the car, drove her to school, whether she liked it or not, and they’d argued all the way. Especially at every set of lights, all of them red, so Dad was in a strop too. Which was why he’d started playing the Faure… It had worked, of course, worked so well, she hadn’t wanted the journey to end, let alone at the school gate. Mood-music, soul music, perfect for not having a row with your dad… If only they were both free, they could take off for the day, out of the city, into the hills, talking till they were friends again. Sometimes, listening to the Faure, there might be tears, because it was all about death. It was better not to look. He did cry, sometimes, when he thought no-one could hear. Used to… Not so much, these days… Right now, in the screaming chaos of the classroom, she regretted the temper, longed for time out and the right words. She had this idea, always, that she and Dad might just be on the same wavelength, if only they could talk, find the right time, ever. Mornings were just madness, too much, too early. On this so-called Last Day, why the heck did she have to be in school? The rules had changed, only last year… Until the new Head took over, the school used to be like any other. You signed out after the last exam and that was the last they saw of you till the Sixth Form, thank God, thank any god you care to name. Dad said new heads were like new governments, they had to change everything, just to prove they were the rulers now.

Kate glared at the message on the board, knew that almost Victorian copperplate by heart. Mrs Reid, about a hundred years old, and she would still call them children. As if they were ten… Mrs Reid, at the last School Council, had voted for the removal of Sixth Form privileges. Meaning, they should wear uniform, do detentions, stay in school all day, even if they had no classes. Mrs Reid was outvoted. It hadn’t improved her temper. Copperplate said, in lots of fancy loops: Class Five Alpha… Work quietly until I arrive. Remain at your desks, reading quietly. Fat chance, today of all days… She’d rushed in, late, because of all the red lights, just as the bell was ringing. Nobody was there to care whether she was late or not. The classroom was still only half full, and Mrs Reid, presumably, still down in the staff room, if she was in at all. All right for her to roll in late, waste their time. Half the class wouldn’t turn up. Their parents had more sense. Summer was Florida, Goa, Bali, double shifts at McDonalds… Trust Dad to keep the letter of the law, make her go to school. The idea was, at this Dotheboys Hall, you started A level work, got an idea what it was like… And maybe it just suited him to send her to school, pretend she was a little kid still. Last night, he’d made her search the house for school books, wouldn’t let her stop until the last one turned up. She put them away now, in the right piles, in the stock cupboard, ready for the next class in September. The next Five Alpha… Class, for godsake… As if they were some kind of animal… What kind would it be? Something bonded together like coral, or communal, like an ant’s nest, without even the remote possibility of rebellion. They were nothing to do with each other, they were all different people. The staff went on as if they were some malevolent creature. Five Alpha had a reputation, bad, delinquent, too clever by half. No pleasing some people, you’d think they wanted the school to do OK, top grades, the right uni in league tables. They wanted submission too, took their cue from Sister Miriam. Miriam was a nun. After years of wearing ragbag rubbish, charity shop rejects, Miriam was in a habit again, black and white and powerful, Cruella De Vil with a crucifix.

Kate looked for a pen, to mark on the list that she’d returned every book, wouldn’t be fined. Someone had ticked her name already. Nice of them. Or had no-one noticed they were missing?

What next, now she was here? People drifted in until eleven. In the end, about two thirds of the class turned up, evil Five Alpha, obeying orders. The reckless didn’t bother to wear uniform, not for this Last Day. Tall, blonde, brilliant, Krystina Mazak arrived in noisy triumph on the back of a motor bike. She wore tight leathers, bright with shiny slogans, sauntered into class carrying a Barbie -pink crash helmet. She was expecting straight A’s in eleven subjects, twelve, if you counted Polish, prizes for everything. She said, almost shrieking over the noise,

‘Hi everyone! I’m not staying. Flying visit… Come to the wedding. August 8th, Register Office, the one in town…’

She scattered a handful of packet invitations across the front desks. Kate picked one up and read the lie. Any minute now, Krystina’s maddening, witchy laugh would break the shocked silence. Krystina’s future was all arranged, had been for years, almost from birth. Five A levels, at least, straight A’s as usual, and a Cambridge scholarship. Krystina, when they were both quite little, had decided to be a doctor, in Africa. They used to do operations on their toys. The insides wouldn’t go back again.

Kate went on trying to read an Agatha Christie, seen at least twice on TV. It was the doctor all the time, not much point reading it. Then Krystina was crying, sobbing her heart out, slumped over the desk, still clutching the crash helmet strap. Outside in the staff car park, the motor bike boy revved up, faceless under his huge helmet, Krystina’s knight in shining armour. He was at the Grammar School, he could act too, they all knew who he was. People were huddled round Krystina and it was all true, because she was sobbing harder than ever, ugly, gulping sobs. Then the words came out, almost in her ordinary voice:

‘You guessed right… I’m pregnant. Up the spout, in the club, bun in the oven… So we’re getting married. Anyway, we want to.’

She began to giggle, and somehow, this was worse than the tears.

‘I confess to Almighty God, to Blessed Mary, ever a virgin. Listen to this… I have sinned exceedingly, in thought, word, and deed. Especially the latter. Blessed Mary never knew what she was missing.’

Then she was crying again. This was horrible… Appalled and silent, no-one came near. It couldn’t possibly be true. Krystina was far too smart to get pregnant, and when she did, meaning when she was old enough, it would be after a Nuptial Mass, incense and altar boys, a dozen bridesmaids and a blessing from the Pope. The works… Her family wouldn’t want any of this for at least ten years, until Krystina was a doctor.

Kate had read the same page three times over. She abandoned pompous little Poirot at last, stood up, moved over to where Krystina sobbed. She said, low and very angry,

‘Come outside… Now… You can’t stay here, making this row. Someone will hear…’

Krystina looked up. She was still choking, her world all tears, her face puffy, hideous. The redness was blotchy lumps, all over her face. Krystina was always so pale, so serene, you imagined talent scouts, picking her out of a bus queue. She looked ugly, but she looked as if she couldn’t even see them.

Kate took her by the arm, led her out into the shiny corridor, and then, swiftly, out through the little side door, the one that led straight into the convent garden. The nuns couldn’t afford a gardener now, only five of them left, so they did all the work themselves. It was beautiful, in a way that ordinary gardens rarely are. Kate thought it was the secret garden high walls, the bacchanalian dark ivy, and the ancient weathered pots of white lilies, at their best just now. The oldest sister had explained once that the lilies grew in pots, so they could come indoors during hard winters. Whatever, it was the right place to be just now, whether they were allowed or not.

She felt in her pocket for her handkerchief. If she had a cold, it would be tissues, but Gran, being so old, still insisted on ironed hankies, embroidered with your initials or someone else’s. Today’s hanky said E, for Elizabeth, meaning Libby, embroidered with roses too. Hankies were for tears, not snot. Sometimes, they came in useful. Dad agreed… He’d said once, in one of his teasing moods, that a hanky kept tears in order. When it was wet through, you had to stop, whereas a box of tissues just encouraged things…

Krystina had accepted the offered hanky, wiped her eyes, scrubbing at them fiercely in case any more tears dared. Then she blew her nose. Even in her present state, Krystina, the doctor to be, would remember that, wouldn’t rub a snotty mess into her eyes. She gulped a bit, and looked up to face Kate. Before Krystina discovered sex, they’d been friends… All their lives, really, since they were four years old in the nursery class, Kate so dark, Krystina so fair, Snow White, Rose Red, little girls from a fairy story. Two years ago, Krystina had discovered several different things all at once; that there was no God, that she was beautiful, that she could have any boy or even any man she wanted. In that order? She’d been on the pill all that time, she knew all about everything, condoms, morning-after, how on earth had it happened?

Krystina said, quite calmly now, as if they were still close…

‘I know… You don’t need to say it, me of all people. I think I know how. I had this ear infection and they gave me antibiotics. They can stop it working, the pill, I mean. I do love him, you know. Simon Brown.’

‘I know.’

‘He can afford the bike, because he’s been in that series. We’ll work something out… It’s all settled, he’s not going to Bristol now, he’s got an audition for a part on the Street. He wanted Bristol, of course, but the baby… OK, I know, get rid of it, no-one would know, it’s hardly there, won’t show for ages yet. We can’t. It’s our baby. I’m not into church or God or any of that, but the baby is. It is what it is, already. Fourteen weeks. We both want it…’

Kate wasn’t sure she believed this. Why would Simon Brown want a baby? It was the ultimate catastrophe, mucking their lives up forever… Krystina should be a doctor. Why lose everything, for a baby nobody wanted? Why not get rid of it?

Krystina said, steadily,

‘You wouldn’t understand, would you, baby? Only fifteen, never kissed anyone. Mum and Dad cry or shout about the register office. Tough… We want to get married, living together’s just tacky, and I’m not going to church to be a fallen woman, priests and nuns and bitchy old women praying for me… Register Office, August 8th, come if you like, no skin off my nose, but don’t buy us a toast rack.’

Kate said:

‘There’s a toast rack in one of the kitchen cupboards, still in its box. We butter toast while it’s hot, straight from the toaster. One of Mum and Dad’s wedding presents. I expect that’s why it didn’t go to Oxfam. I’ll come, if you like. I’ve only been to cousins’ weddings. But you could change your mind… Have the baby, but maybe have it adopted?’

She stopped, because there was no point in going on. Krystina was crying again and there weren’t any tissues. Within the high walls, you couldn’t hear the world outside, hard to believe they were almost in the heart of the city. Krystina said, gruffly, to keep the tears in.

‘See you, some time. Simon’s in a hurry, we’ve got to see his mates too. If he carries on revving the bike, they’ll come out and have a go at us. See you sometime.’

Kate held open the door, as if Krystina were already a woman, heavily pregnant. The baby would be no bigger than her little finger. Better not to think about it… She should never have said those things. Unborn babies had tiny little feet. They looked exactly like real feet, but smaller than your little finger nail. Tiny feet would ruin Krystina’s life.

Krystina slipped away, down the corridor, out into the forecourt, where Simon Brown waited on his huge noisy bike. Two years older, at least he’d had the chance to take A levels… Krystina was crazy, giving up everything, crazy even to think of getting married. The Mazaks must have agreed. Sixteen, she’d need their permission. Krystina was an idiot and Simon Brown was a right plonker. Getting a part in a soap didn’t mean they had to do it for real, the teenage pregnancy, the runaway romance, closely followed by the teenage divorce… Then Krystina could join all the other single mothers, all those girls who hung about in McDonald’s, feeding their babies on burgers and fries, the best food they’d see all day. Feeling exactly a hundred years old, Kate went back to class, where Mrs Reid had just arrived. Cue for an explosion of rage, Kate in the doghouse, late for school, late for registration, and where exactly had she been?

Kate slid into her seat, tried to adjust her eyes to the approved angle. Look Mrs Reid in the face, you were insolent, look down, you were sly, deceitful… No hope of winning a pointless game, so why bother trying? She loathed the woman, loathed the screaming rages, the bullying, the holier than thou take on everything. What if Reid knew about Krystina? People did get pregnant of course, you mostly got to hear about it afterwards, when it was all over. Krystina was an idiot. Nobody marries at sixteen, not now. The holidays had been stretching ahead, empty and more or less carefree. Now they had that hideous date, slap in the middle. On August 8th, Krystina would be married.

Mrs Reid cleared her gritty throat several times, began her end of year address. Later, in the Hall, there would be the real End of Year assembly with Sister Miriam, prayers and hymns and speeches. The works. This was their own personal pep talk. Reid never thought much of any of them, sneered and bullied and crushed them…Maybe she just thought like that about anyone under forty? Under fifty? How old was she? Delia was whispering, sniggering,

‘Ignore the old bat. It’s her age… My mother’s the same. Think about it. She’s ratty with us, the whole time because we’re young and beautiful. Menopausal, that’s her problem. Teaching us all about Sex.’

Remembering too well, Kate squirmed inside at the thought of it. The husband and grown-up daughters couldn’t exist, were figments of the Reid imagination. Now Mrs Reid was giving her lecture on the Meaning of Life. She always did, every term, no need to listen.

‘Katherine!’

Kate shuddered. No escape now… If stonewalled, refused to answer, she’d land in the doghouse again. She said, calm and clear,

‘You were talking about a new life ahead. Adult choices. You’d just begun to explain how difficult choices can be. I’m sorry if you thought I wasn’t paying attention.’

Mrs Reid was far too clever to lose face. She said, with acid:

‘What a strange girl you are, Katherine. Anyone with real brains would master the art of looking attentive while dreaming, not the other way round.’

Kate knew all kinds of answers to this one. It had been easy enough to give the right answer. Since the exams finished and they were forced to stay at school, Reid had been on and on, day after day, about choices and decisions, as if they’d be allowed to make either. In silence, she gave a different answer.

‘This is the news, Mrs Reid. News you definitely won’t want to hear. Krystina’s pregnant. Krystina Mazak, ten As, or even a dozen. Cambridge cert, Dr Krystina… Professor…Dame… Strings of letters after her name. Fellow of the Royal Society and almost everything else… None of this will happen. Fallen for one… Tripped over the Angel Gabriel? And I told her to get rid of it. Have an abortion, it’s only an embryo, not a real baby. One little embryo, ruining her whole life. I said it to test her. Krystina’s not getting rid of it, because, after all, guess what, she’s a good little Catholic. Her life, for the baby’s. What do you say to that?’

Mrs Reid couldn’t hear thoughts, even subversive ones. Kate sat down. Mrs Reid was talking again, enjoying herself in her own peculiar way. The timetable called this lesson ‘Current Affairs’ As Krystina would say, depends what you mean by affairs Mrs Reid ignored the mere present. The subject she chose was all too familiar. It evolved from Kate’s silent thoughts. When one option is against all morality, is there any real choice? Extreme example, someone’s ruining your life, you hate them. Can you kill them? Life would be so much easier, happier? Around the room, people looked at each other. Most people had sisters. Only one girl liked hers. Three weeks old, she didn’t count.

One of the set books for Eng.Lit had been ‘Murder in the Cathedral’. Delia Murphy, crawler, put up her hand like a five year old, quoted, solemnly,

‘The last temptation is the greatest treason

To do the right deed, for the wrong reason.’

Kate switched off, sick of all this soul-scouring. If they must have Eliot, why not The Waste Land, or, better still, Cats… Becket was a pain in the neck, worse than Hamlet, whingeing on, scene after scene, to do or not to do. In the end, Becket was a saint, died for his faith, but what did that mean? Priests in control, to put it crudely, instead of the king… The Pope, ultimately, making Henry II pay for his sins. Priests getting away with murder and everything else, just because they were priests. They’d done all that in History. Terrorists died for what they believed in? IRA? Sinn Fein? Nelson Mandela? When is a terrorist a martyr? End of term Cats might be fun. Not Becket and his stinking lousy hair shirt.

The bell rang. Anyone else would let them go. Mrs Reid ignored it, raising her strong voice above the clamour, still ranting on about choice. Abortion now… Coincidence, or did she know? She was quoting something, almost talking to herself. Better appear to listen. Even on the Last Day, she’d hand out detentions.

I am not yet born, O fill me

with strength against those who would freeze my

humanity, would dragoon me into a lethal automaton

would make me a cog in a machine…