Читать книгу Coming Home - Annabel Kantaria - Страница 21

‘And how do you feel?’ Miss Dawson asked. ‘Are there times when you forget that Graham’s no longer here?’

How did she know? The headmistress must have told her about the day of the school photos. I wished the earth would swallow me up when I thought about that day.

My teacher had been stressed. I could tell by the way she was rubbing her forehead and circling her fingers around her temples as she tried to mark our maths tests. Every now and then, her head would pop up. ‘Quiet!’ she’d say, but it was more of an exasperated sigh than an instruction.

It had been a rainy morning and the class, like the weather, had been particularly disruptive—aside from the novelty of arriving at school in wellington boots for the first time that autumn, we’d all been excited because it was school-photo day, and that meant a break in routine; something different to working on our never-ending history projects.

At 10 a.m., I’d asked my teacher if I could go for my photo.

‘Sure,’ she’d said and there’d been a micro-pause as she’d struggled to remember my name. She was new and she always got me mixed up with Emma. Then Adam had howled in pain and her attention had flipped to him and Jason, locked in a battle.

I’d slipped quietly out of the classroom and headed for the main hall, my plimsolls squeaking with every step on the polished parquet flooring. I loved school-photo day. As we sat in the queue waiting our turn, I loved watching the smiles people put on for their minute in the spotlight; seeing how their faces changed for the camera.

Outside the toilets, I’d hesitated then ducked in at the last minute. Although there wasn’t a lot of point in me trying to comb my wild hair—any contact between it and a brush generally earned me the nickname ‘Basil Brush’—I’d dampened my fingers and smoothed down the sides as best I could before heading to the hall. Mum would have never forgiven me for having messy hair in the school photo.

The queue wound away from the main stage, the children waiting patiently on the floor in twos and threes. But I was alone. Something wasn’t right.

Mrs Hopkins, the headmistress, had bustled towards me, her face creased with concern. ‘Evie, dear,’ she’d said, putting her hand on my arm. ‘Your class photo’s not till this afternoon.’ I stopped as it dawned on me what I’d done. ‘Let me take you back to your classroom,’ she’d said, gently taking my hand.

Three months after my brother died, I’d turned up for the sibling photos. A week later, I’d been referred to Miss Dawson.

‘There was only that one time at school,’ I told Miss Dawson. ‘And sometimes first thing in the morning when I wake up I forget for a minute and then it all comes back. That’s when I miss him the most.’