Down Among The Dead Men Part 12

Mr Cartwright-Jones' story ruined the day for me and, I think, for Maddie also. There wasn't much banter the next day either as Peter Gillard did the PM with the radio turned low. The gunshot hadn't severed any major arteries and he died from blood oozing out of a thousand tiny cut veins. Clive reckoned it must have been quite a small calibre weapon because, apart from making a hole in the front of the abdomen, the shot hadn't penetrated deep inside. I couldn't help wondering if he might have survived if the ambulance had got there in decent time and, when I asked Peter Gillard, he shrugged and said, 'Maybe. He had quite bad emphysema and a bad heart, so they wouldn't have helped. Anyway, there'll be in internal investigation at the ambulance service, and the Coroner will want to know what happened as well.'

I tried to take comfort from the fact that he didn't die alone, and I sincerely hope that being with his beloved wife at the end helped him. I think it might have done.

FORTY-SEVEN.

It was at this time that the C word pa.s.sed Clive's lips. 'You ought to think about taking the certificate, Mich.e.l.le,' he said. We were sitting in the office tucking into a fish and chip lunch after a busy morning PMing. I thought, ought I? When I made a face he added, 'Can't get anywhere without qualifications, Mich.e.l.le. Not these days.'

The certificate is actually the Certificate in Anatomical Pathology Technology and it's awarded by what was then called the Royal Inst.i.tute of Public Health, but is now the Royal Public Health Society. To get it you have to travel to an examination centre London is the nearest and sit a two-hour written exam, and then take an oral examination afterwards. Once you've got this piece of paper, you can then go on to sit a harder exam for the Diploma in Anatomical Pathology Technology, and thereby progress to more senior positions, but I hadn't sat any exams for nearly fifteen years and I hadn't been too hot at them even then.

'It's a bit soon, isn't it?'

Clive shook his head. 'Naw. You've made good progress. You'll sail through. You'll see.'

Maddie asked, 'What do you have to know?'

Clive said airily, 'Nothing you don't know from doing the job every day. Procedures in the mortuary, some of the paperwork, health and safety, disinfection, that kind of thing.' When he said this I relaxed a bit. It didn't sound too hard. Then he added, 'Oh, and anatomy and physiology.'

I stared at him, all relaxation a thing of the past. 'What do you mean?'

'You know . . . the structure of the circulatory system, the hormone system, how the eye works, that kind of thing.'

'But I don't know that!' I protested. 'All I do is what you taught me to do, which is take out the organs. I don't know the names or anything, and I certainly don't know how the eye works.'

'You won't have any trouble, Mich.e.l.le. Not a smart girl like you. Seeing what you do every day will mean that the names and suchlike will come easily.'

'But why do we have to know about that kind of stuff? I can do the job just as well without knowing what the spleen does or how the kidneys work.'

'It's background knowledge,' Clive said, although he sounded a bit unsure of himself. 'In any case, it's very, very important that you're up to speed about things like disinfection and all the paperwork we have to deal with. Absolutely vital, that is.'

'I know most of that already.'

'This'll prove it to everyone else.'

I looked across at Maddie, who looked just as sceptical as I felt.

I have to admit that I wasn't keen on the idea of sitting another exam. When I had walked out of school for the last time I had been as high as a proverbial just thinking that I would never have to have study again, at least not in a school-type way. The idea of doing just that and then having to travel all the way to London not only for a written exam but then to be grilled across a desk made my heart sink. What did it matter if I didn't have a piece of paper to show that I knew things? I wasn't planning on moving to another mortuary.

And there was Gramp. Since the news about his illness had come to light, I had seen him grow older, weaker, more delicate by the day. He was fading away before my eyes and I couldn't stop worrying about him. How could I concentrate on anatomy and hygiene in the mortuary when my beloved Gramp was so ill?

Dad had very different ideas, though. 'You've got to do it, Mich.e.l.le,' he said firmly when I mentioned it. 'You'd be a fool not to.'

Dad is a real brain-box and I've always respected his opinion; if he says I ought to do something, then I listen. Yet I was still unconvinced that I wanted to ruin the next few weeks. .h.i.tting the textbooks. I wasn't going to be left alone, though. Mum joined in, and so did Luke.

The final straw was when Clive mentioned it to Ed one morning. He was just finishing an autopsy on a drug addict who had been found in a cleaning cupboard on one of the campuses of the local university. He perked up immediately when Clive asked him loudly and well within my earshot if he agreed that I ought to sit the exam for the certificate. 'Of course she should!' he said at once. He turned to me and, waving the brain knife around as he is wont to do, told me, 'I'll get you through, no mistake.'

I felt backed into a corner but for once, instead of being stubborn for the sake of it, I sighed and said, 'OK.' Deep down I knew I had no choice on this one.

When he said he'd get me through it, I didn't really appreciate what Ed had in mind. Over the next few weeks, he kept on at me remorselessly. The first thing he did was to go through the 'red book' this is the mortuary technician's bible, containing as it does all you need to know about the principles of running a mortuary, including the laws that govern us, the paperwork that has to be done, the special arrangements for different faiths and lots, lots more and make me read a chapter every two or three days, then test me on what I had read. I didn't do too badly on that, but then he moved on to the anatomy and physiology.

He got hold of a simple anatomy book and went through each of the organ systems respiratory, cardiovascular, nervous, urinary, genital, etc making revision notes for me. At the same time, I got hold of old exam papers and at least twice a week I would do one of them under exam conditions and he would mark it. He and I then went through them and he tried to teach me on the questions that I got wrong. When we ran out of legitimate papers, he made them up. Because part of the paper is multiple choice and part of it is an essay-type question, he did both types.

There were times when I think he got a bit annoyed with me. Although I know plenty enough anatomy to do my job, I found the more obscure bits and bobs about it the stuff I figured I would never actually need need to know in a million years difficult to hang on to, but then that's me all over; if I don't see the reason for knowing something, then I don't remember it. It's as simple as that. Which, I suppose, was why I didn't have too much trouble with the questions about the stuff that I actually do consider important, such as the paperwork and procedures you have to have in place so that there isn't chaos in the mortuary. to know in a million years difficult to hang on to, but then that's me all over; if I don't see the reason for knowing something, then I don't remember it. It's as simple as that. Which, I suppose, was why I didn't have too much trouble with the questions about the stuff that I actually do consider important, such as the paperwork and procedures you have to have in place so that there isn't chaos in the mortuary.

'But that's not the point,' said Ed, not quite banging his head against the wall, but close to it. 'It's a game you have to play, Mich.e.l.le.'

'It's a stupid game,' I told him, and I meant it.

'Yes,' he agreed tiredly. 'But in order to get that piece of paper and make your CV look good, you have to play.'

So we went on and on. Sometimes I thought I was making good progress, but then I'd make a really dumb mistake and feel very dispirited about how it was going. A few weeks in was a particularly bad time when I answered a question Ed had set about the circulation of blood.

'It's a good answer,' he said as he handed it back to me the next day. I was about to congratulate myself and be all modest about it when he added, 'Unfortunately, it wasn't the answer to the question I asked.'

I stared at him. 'What do you mean? Yes, it was. You asked about the circulation and that's what I've written about.'

'The question asked you to describe the coronary coronary circulation.' circulation.'

'And?'

'You've talked about the circulation of blood in general.' I still didn't quite see, so he explained. 'The coronary coronary circulation is purely the blood supply of the heart. The three arteries and the venous system on the surface of the heart muscle.' circulation is purely the blood supply of the heart. The three arteries and the venous system on the surface of the heart muscle.'

At this, I felt about two inches high. He tried to cheer me up. 'Never mind. At least you've done some revision on an important subject.'

And all the while, I was aware that Gramp was ill. I tried to get to talk to him, if not see him, at least once a week, and every time he seemed just that little bit weaker, slightly more tired. I guess I knew what was coming, but didn't want to think about it too much.

As the day of the exam approached, Ed, who had been gradually increasing the pressure, relented. 'If you don't know it now, then you never will,' he said, which just made me think, Then I certainly never will. 'It's important you relax now. Too much stress and it'll only hinder your performance. Just a bit of light revision, and you'll be fine.'

Which was all very well, but I knew better than he did how much I didn't know, and all the stupid mistakes I'd made kept coming back to me. It got so that I was waking in the small hours of the morning with all this going through my head, plus worries about Gramp's illness mixed in.

FORTY-EIGHT.

Gramp had been admitted to a hospice to die. It was a beautiful building, almost like an old stately home, surrounded by well-tended gardens. He was having trouble walking because of his breathlessness, so the staff had made sure he had a bed by the window. They were fantastic, even down to the cleaners who greeted you by name when you arrived. Gramp was happy to be there, and it was the right time for him, he had asked to go. He had become frail, and the robust, able man I had known had turned into a slow elderly gentleman. He had not lost his sense of humour though. My Gramp was still there inside the frail body he now owned.

He had only been there a couple of days when Dad rang me at work. 'Hi, love,' he said in a soft voice.

'What's up, Pops?' I asked.

'I think you need to come down to the hospice. Gramp is not good and I don't think it will be long now.'

'OK,' I replied, feeling suddenly afraid, like being kicked in the stomach, hard.

Clive had told me that I could go, and that I should go, but I didn't know what to do. I was surrounded by dead bodies, but deep down I was so afraid to go to the hospice because it was steeped in death. I rang Luke who offered to come and get me, but I had to do this on my own. Within half an hour I had left the mortuary and was slowly walking the short distance to the hospice. It was almost as if my legs didn't want to take me there, even though my head and heart wanted to go. The twenty-minute walk from the hospital to the hospice this time took me forty-five minutes, a walk I knew well, but if you had asked me that evening, I couldn't have told you how I got there. It was almost as if autopilot had kicked in good and proper.

I entered the big wooden doors of the hospice just as it started to get dark about four o'clock. There was a huge spray of lilies in the vestibule and the smell was overpowering. One of the domestic a.s.sistants was polishing the wooden chest they stood on. I looked at her and smiled, asked her how she was, then mumbled something about the dark evenings. 'I'm so sorry for your loss, Miss Williams,' was her response.

I was stunned. I was too late. My selfish dawdling and deciding what was best for me meant I had missed my last chance to see my Gramp breathing. Talk about being kicked in the stomach again, although I felt I deserved to be kicked a lot harder at that moment. I suddenly froze: was Dad going to be angry with me? He had rung two or so hours ago asking me to go. I sat down on the nearest chair and took a few deep breaths.

After composing myself for a few minutes, I climbed the wooden stairs up to the area where Gramp's bed was. The curtains were drawn around him, and I could see Mum and Dad's feet behind the gap at the bottom. 'Dad?' I said quietly, not knowing what the reaction would be. I felt as though I had totally let him down. This was about his father; how on earth would I feel in this situation, especially when you knew that your daughter had a fantastic relationship with your dad. My head was doing somersaults. Dad came out from behind the curtain. As he did I glimpsed Gramp. He was sitting up, dressed in his pyjamas, pale and thin, eyes closed but jaw hanging down.

Dad put his arm around me, and I asked him if he was all right. 'Do you want to come in?' Dad asked me, and again I froze. The NO that came out of my mouth shocked me. It was very stern and sure. The slight glimpse I had had of Gramp through the curtain was enough. 'OK, that's fine, love, whatever you want to do; Mum and I will be staying a little longer and Michael is on his way. Luke not with you?'

'No,' I answered, staring at the curtain. 'I'll wait downstairs for you both, Dad. I'm sorry.' Dad tightened his grip on my shoulder then went back to Mum and Gramp.

As I walked down the stairs to find the chair I had sat in earlier, I met Michael who had just arrived. 'Am I too late?' he asked. Heaven knows what happened next, but it was at this point that I began to cry. That uncontrollable sob, the sort I had witnessed so many families experience in my months at the mortuary. Michael got me to my seat, and said gently, 'I guess that I am, then.' He was smiling slightly, in the caring way that you only recognize from the people you most love, and on seeing his smile and his face, I did what people in those families also do; I apologized to him.

I now understand the relief that this can give a person who is bereaved and in shock; the ability to grieve is helpful for most, although the guilt of not sitting with Gramp after his death ten minutes earlier had become a little overwhelming.

I told Michael he should go and let Mum and Dad know he was there, and toyed with the idea of going back up myself, but I didn't feel ready. Michael climbed the stairs, but came back down to me almost immediately. We stayed for a couple of hours while we waited for our parents, drinking far too much dodgy coffee from the vending machine, freezing while out in the cold smoking too much, as the smell of the lilies started to choke us both.

We chatted about times past, mainly how we remembered Gramp when we were just youngsters and how, when we had visited Nan and Gramp, he would tell us that 'a little bird' told him stuff about our progress at school and our achievements. We were always amazed at how he knew this, not thinking for a minute that Mum and Dad would speak to them over the telephone of an evening while we were safely tucked up in bed.

We ended up giggling at some points.

Eventually, we all went on to my parents' house and things were talked over. Luke met us there, but took a back seat and was there for support and to keep the kettle hot. This was the first time I had really been involved in the death of a family member. As I was older, and considering what I did for a living, my parents felt no need to hide me from death.

The funeral arrangements were made the next day with a local undertaker, for a week later, and I knew they would treat Gramp to the level we expected, and with the respect he demanded. This was one of the bonuses about my job. As I've said, I had come to know a lot of undertakers and found out what they think of the job they are doing. Some of them just want to pay the bills and, I suppose, to have a quiet life, because the one definite thing with the dead is that they will never answer back, but there are a few who genuinely care. When they arrive to collect a body, they are gentle, they talk to the deceased and the respect is there. Some of the others will just pull the body over from our trolley onto their stretcher as if it's a lump of meat, strap it in then wheel it away. I was not having that, no way. Also, another thing I had learnt was that it was important for us that the funeral director was an independent trader; a lot of companies are owned by American chains, and they work by sales figures. I decided that I wanted us to use the same people that dealt with little Lizzie last year Tony, from Phelps & Stayton. I told my family about his compa.s.sion and commitment, and all agreed.

I arranged with Tony that they would collect Gramp as soon as possible, and spoke to the consultant at the hospice, using my position to lay it on thick, and he kindly pushed through the paperwork that accompanies a death. I also knew that it was important that I see Gramp at the funeral parlour I don't know why, maybe the guilt of not being able to look at him straight after his death, or maybe to see if they had got everything to my expected standards at the funeral parlour; not that I doubted Tony, but just needing rea.s.surance, I suppose. Mum also wanted to check that Gramp was correctly dressed for his send-off, so we decided to go and see him together.

It was a cold March evening, and we had an appointment at Phelps & Stayton for four o'clock. It was only up the road from the hospital so I met Mum there. With her she had a packet of playing cards, twenty cigarettes ('just in case he fancies one,' although he had given up when Nan got ill after twenty-five years of smoking) and a lighter. These were going in the coffin with Gramp. 'I'm not putting any photos in with Gramp, Mich.e.l.le; he won't be forgetting us,' Mum said to me before we went in.

When we entered, Tony treated me as bereaved family, and not like his colleague from the hospital that was with her mum. He took us into the chapel of rest and said he would leave us and to take as long as we wanted. I was amazed by the chapel. Soft lighting, soft music being pumped in the background, that scent of lilies again, but this time serving a purpose by taking away the smell of embalming fluid, as well as heavy, clean carpets and plush office-type chairs.

In the middle of the room was Gramp, laid out in his coffin. The lining of the coffin was pure white satin. When we had been to Phelps & Stayton to meet with Tony to arrange the funeral, we had a choice of three colours for the lining, baby blue, baby pink or white, all of them being in a strange-looking so-called 'satin' material. I had asked Tony if there were any other options available, like possibly cotton padded lining, but no.

So there was Gramp, looking very smart in his favourite suit, which was now too big for him. I knew that Tony would have pinned it at the back to make it a better fit, and was sure that Mum must have figured this out too, but it was left unspoken, although Mum did check to see if he had his underwear on. I understood this fully, and her reasons why.

Before Gramp went into the hospice, Mum and Dad had taken on his care. He had a home help a couple of times a week, but my parents decided this was nowhere near enough. So, Mum would go to see Gramp before her shift started at nine in the morning. She would take him the daily national paper, any groceries he needed, daily stuff like bread and milk, make him a cup of tea, help him with any personal necessities, ensure his bed was clean which had been moved into his living room for the heat and the TV then she would go off to work only to return at two thirty to do it all again, but this time bringing the local paper. Dad would also go up every evening at six and sort out his mail, make more tea, compose a shopping list for the 'big' weekly shop day by day, and ensure Gramp was settled for the evening with good access to the telephone if he needed it. Dad did curse himself for this action one evening though, when Gramp had rung the police to ask them for a cup of tea, as he did not want to disturb Dad.

So, as in life, Mum needed everything to be right for Gramp, because this made her settled.

Thank G.o.d, he was wearing the underwear that Mum had so meticulously folded and placed into Gramp's overnight bag for Tony. I had thought at one point that Mum was going to request that she dress Gramp, but no. I was pleased that I had gone to see him. He looked so peaceful. No heavy make-up to hide the imperfections that death brings, just carefully adjusted lighting to present him in the best way. Dressed to perfection, thanks to Tony, and his suit had definitely not been cut up the back and placed over him and tucked under (another trick that some undertakers pull), which I had checked while Mum was faffing with her handbag; as I knew he would, Tony had taken time to dress Gramp properly. Mum placed the packet of playing cards in Gramp's top pocket, and his cigarettes and lighter on the inside pocket. We were both fully aware that these were going to end up in the fire with Gramp at the crematorium, but it was comforting for us and we needed to do it.

We stayed for half an hour, sitting either side of the coffin; occasionally, we spoke to Gramp and chatted between ourselves over him. All the time I was there, at the funeral parlour, it had been making things better for me. Although I knew that this was not about me in the slightest, I had been struggling with what to feel and how to react. I needed to come to terms with Gramp's death and accept it, and had thought I would know how. For G.o.d's sake, I worked with the dead after all, and had done so for quite a while now; I had thought that I was becoming the expert, the expected expert, and that was how I had felt.

But how wrong I had been.

When it came to the point that it was happening to me and well and truly happening I had no idea what to do, and this frightened and confused me. I couldn't understand it. I had spent the last few months surrounded by dead people, dealing with them and dealing with their grieving kin. I knew how it worked and knew what to expect because I had seen it on so many people's faces and heard it in their voices. But it turned out to be quite different. Nothing I had seen or done or learnt in the mortuary prepared me for not being the detached professional who shut up shop and went home in the evening still surrounded by all the family that I knew. There was no getting away from this, no popping down the pub for a few beers and a laugh; Gramp was dead and would remain so for ever.

So did I put on the front that I thought everyone would expect, that I was not fazed by it and understood that these things happen to us all, the one thing guaranteed in life is death? Or did I show how I truly felt? How I wanted it all to go away and to have him back again? Neither seemed quite right, somehow. I didn't want to be too cold, but also I thought that the family were relying on me to help them through this terrible time.

Of course I was starting to understand the whys and hows of death, but that was other people, other people's relations, not my Gramp.

FORTY-NINE.

It was about a three-hour trip from where I live to the examination hall in London. The examination was due to start at two in the afternoon and, although the Trust would have paid to put me up in a hotel in London the night before, I decided to travel up that morning. Mum volunteered to keep me company so that I wouldn't be lonely. We got the nine o'clock train and I spent the journey leafing through the 'red book' doing a bit of last-minute cramming while Mum chatted randomly and, I know, tried to take my mind off what was to come. Bless her, she had no effect whatsoever; my stomach was churning and I was having so many hot flushes I thought I was going through the change. I drank so much black coffee I had to make three trips to the toilet, the last time just leaning against the mirror after I'd washed my hands, breathing deeply.

When we got off the train at Paddington, my legs felt as though someone had taken the bones for organ donation they were so rubbery. I felt sick and, what with the crowds and the smell of the diesel, ready to faint. Mum asked if I was all right, so I smiled and said, Yes, feeling anything but. The Tube ride was even worse how do people cope with that every day? so that by the time we got to the exam hall I felt hot and dirty and ready to collapse.

As we still had well over an hour to go, I suggested to Mum that we stop for a coffee; not that I wanted another one, only to sit down and try to regain some normality. Mum had a sandwich but I just sat and stared at another b.l.o.o.d.y cup of coffee. All that morning I had been receiving texts wishing me good luck and now that the time for the exam actually approached, they got more and more frequent. At quarter to two I received a text from Ed telling me that I had nothing to worry about, which was nice but a long way from the truth. Before I switched the phone off, the last text I received was from Luke. We left the cafe and walked the two hundred yards to the examination hall. I couldn't believe I was having to sit an exam again. It felt like a dream, and not a nice one at that.

The building was huge, and the room we were shown to was also ma.s.sive. High ceilings and big windows. There were about twelve of us in total, and we were each shown to a small individual desk that had a sheet of plain paper and a name tag with a number on it, our own personal candidate number. There was a man walking around, and he asked us all to put our bags and coats into the corner of the room. I thought I was going faint, but luckily we all had a gla.s.s and a small jug of water on our desks, which I do believe saved me. We sat quietly and scanned each other. What I noticed most was the age gap. Although there were three people who looked about the same age as me, there was no one younger. And, without sounding rude, all the others looked forty plus. The males in the room were big. Tall men with big arms, very burly-looking but with gentle faces and nothing like Graham and Clive in the muscles or stature department. You could feel the tension in the room, but I was pleased I could sense that everyone was in the same boat and feeling the same pressure. The large door to the room opened and in walked a portly, smartly dressed lady in high heels carrying a large brown sealed envelope. The exam papers had arrived.

There was a lot of shuffling in seats and the portly lady must have felt everyone's eyes following her to the front of the room. She positioned herself behind a large desk and turned to face us all, and welcomed us. It was at this point that I wanted to curl up and die. This was it. No going back. My main thought was that I was going to flunk this completely. I was going to be given this exam paper and not know a single answer. Panic had well and truly set in, and as I looked around the room, it was obvious that I was not the only one feeling that emotion.

The portly lady introduced herself as Miss Rayne, the examinations officer. She informed us that we would have two hours, starting at 2 p.m., to complete the paper. We should attempt to answer every question, but under no circ.u.mstances write on the exam sheet that was about to be handed out. She walked around the room placing on every desk a thin exercise book with a cover that had s.p.a.ce to fill in all our details and contained several A4 lined pages with a margin on each. She made it clear that we were to number the questions we were answering in correspondence with the exam paper.

Once she had handed out the exercise books, she opened the brown envelope and did the same lap of the room, placing an exam sheet face down on everyone's desk with the instruction that it should not be turned over until we were told to do so. I was glad I was sitting down. I think if I had been standing I would have fallen over by now. My cheeks were glowing and, although it was not a particularly hot building, my body temperature was certainly above average. As Miss Rayne placed the green examination sheet on my desk, I saw there were two questions on the back. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to look at them, but being the sort of person that if placed in front of a big red b.u.t.ton and told not to press it . . . well, I just had to.

The two questions both asked me to pick one of the three choices given, and answer in essay style. The relief was so ma.s.sive that I could have cried. I was actually confident I could answer at least one on both after quickly scanning them, which was all I needed. I knew that this was at least 50 per cent of the exam paper and, although it had different levels of awards, 50 per cent was a pa.s.s, and that was all I wanted. I wasn't worried about honours or merits; just a pa.s.s would be fine by me, and that was all my family, Luke and work would want.

We were (again) informed by Miss Rayne that we could answer the questions in any order we felt comfortable, as long as they were numbered. This was obviously very important. The second hand on the large clock on the wall reached the hour and we were given the command to begin. I started with the back of the paper, almost fearing the front, and answered one question on admitting bodies to the mortuary and the relevant paperwork. This was a doddle and repet.i.tion played a big part as I ran through in my mind what Maddie and I did every morning, then just put it on paper.

The second of the essay questions I chose to answer was on how you would take extra precautions when performing a high-risk autopsy, which means one on someone who has died from a highly infectious disease such as hepat.i.tis or HIV. Clive began to speak loudly in my mind.

All your PPE as you would anyway, Mich.e.l.le, but wear a chain-mail glove on the hand you retract the organs with . . .Not your knife hand, the hand that is in the body, because that is the one you will most likely cut . . .Do not leave the post-mortem room under any circ.u.mstances . . .Keep your table free of blood splashes and make sure you keep the floor clean, and don't think twice about wrapping the mop around the pathologist's ankles if they spill blood on the floor, they can be messy b.u.g.g.e.rs, mind, up the walls, ceiling and everywhere, keep it clean . . .The infections are in the blood, Mich.e.l.le, and it only takes a drop, NO needle stick injuries either, under any circ.u.mstances, and continue to disinfect as you go along . . .But most importantly, you cover yourself up, keep yourself protected as you are important, don't do anything you feel is a risk to yourself or others, and take your time. Always ask a senior if you're not sure, they like that in the exam as well if you mention it . . .

As I came out of my thoughts, if Clive had been there I would have kissed him. The question was answered and half of the task done. Then, the fear came back and I took a couple of minutes before I turned the page. This was 'fill in the gaps' time. Written on the paper were twenty-five answers with blanks in the sentences; some had one blank, some had two. All we had to do was write down the answers in the exercise book. Luckily I knew about seventeen of these answers and had a random guess at the rest. By the time I had finished and read through, it was three thirty. Half an hour to waste. I placed my pen down and just sat there. Miss Rayne picked up on this and came over to me and whispered that I could leave if I was finished. I was out like a shot.

The fresh air hit me like never before when I came out of the building, and the relief that it was over was surreal, but within minutes I began to feel I needed to go back in and tweak my answers, because I was seriously starting to doubt myself. There was no way this was going to happen though, and my chance was over. I switched my phone back on and, between the late text messages coming through, rang Mum, who was in a cafe just down the street. When I met her, she had an empty coffee cup and I insisted that we headed for the nearest pub for some food and something to calm my nerves.

There was nothing I could do now apart from wait and try to forget all about it.

FIFTY.