The Last Day of January
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It's August 2019 and Sarah, a 50-year-old divorcee, takes up a one-year teaching position in her home county of Suffolk, after teaching in London for thirty years. She moves back to her mother's house as Joan, 83, has growing dementia. Being a carer is tougher than she had anticipated. Added to this, Sarah, a staunch Remainer, is still fuming over Brexit and a lack of political responsibility as she sees it. She loved cosmopolitan London and is unsure about living and working in a Brexit strong environment. Sarah's sister Rachel and family live in Berlin and they compare UK and German mentalities, cultures and lifestyles. There are tensions between them, however, as they come to terms with their mother's condition. On the upside, Sarah enjoys the new school and develops feelings for a fellow teacher, James, whose own mother has recently passed away. He also has issues at school, e.g. being wrongly accused of being too pally towards a boy in his class, with social media escalating the situation. Additionally, Sarah becomes involved when the sister – Izabela – of a young pupil – Zofia – runs away from home to London and then to her native Poland. Following investigation, much of it through Zofia and with another colleague, Sarah is able to find out, ironically with Joan's help, who has aggravated Izabela's troubles. Over the five months leading up to Brexit Day, Sarah's life increases in complexity with issues from the minute to the global: relationships; interactions; belonging; acceptance; cyberbullying, homophobia and politics. This climaxes when she and James clash over Brexit, leading her to take positive actions to reconcile her feelings.
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This book is dedicated to my family and friends who encouraged and helped me, to my mum, who inspired me, and to all carers who give lovingly every day.
It had made such an impression on me as a ten-year-old. That early summer day in 1979, my family and I had taken the two-hour journey by train into a vast, scintillating world. My nose pressed up against the window, I gazed at the rows of brick houses that lined the rail tracks for those last miles of the journey to Liverpool Street Station, some seemed virtually within my reach. I remember the dirt but also the colour, and sighting a small playground, bursting with life. A rainbow roundabout was spinning the children giddy. Later at Covent Garden, I stared at street artists and punks, one gave me a peace sign. After seeing some of the sights, we ate out at a proper Italian restaurant in the West End. London captured me that day and I wanted to be part of it.
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That day, a young and broad-chested man had brought our food. Mum had chosen the pork chops; I had the fish. On his way back to the kitchen, he spoke to Izabela, who was wiping the tables on the other side of the restaurant. The looks indicated that the mood between them was not particularly good. The chips were delicious. I asked mum if she remembered the Polish girl from the last time we’d spoken to her in June. She said yes, she used to do her hair. She was probably mistaking her with Dorota, who used to do mum’s hair at the salon on the market square in town some years back and also came from Poland.
Mum struggled to eat her meal and didn’t want any afters. There’d been a time when she’d managed a huge portion of dessert. As she put her knife and fork down – I’d long finished – a couple walked past our table. I didn’t see the man but the tall and glamorous looking lady in an outfit rather too fancy for a farm shop caught my attention. Mum noticed them too, as they sat down two tables along. I had my back to them. Mum had the better view. Izabela reappeared to clear our plates away and glanced towards them, froze and went pale. She turned quickly and rushed back towards the kitchen with our plates, then out of a side door into the garden. Another waitress, also relatively young, followed her out. I could see them through the window, talking.
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