The Function to Breathe

Nine

1996

It was the beginning of May, not long until A-levels started, it was hard to believe that almost a year had passed since I arrived in Leeds, that Ricky and I had been a couple for 10 months. It really did feel like I'd known him forever. Even though things at home were still as bad as ever, I was happier than I could remember being for a long, long time.

We'd had a wonderful weekend, both Ricky and I receiving letters on Saturday morning offering us places at Central Saint Martin's on the courses we wanted; fashion design for me and fine art for Ricky. Unconditional offers; the places were ours regardless of our exam results; as long as we did actually pass, we were in. We'd been out on Saturday night to celebrate, and then Ricky had spent Sunday rehearsing with his band while I revised my English Lit. I still wanted to get the best grades I could, even though it didn't matter.

By Monday that excitement seemed a long time ago. On Sunday evening I'd hurt my arm and had been awake most of the night in pain. When morning came I'd struggled to get myself ready to leave the house and I was late for school. Registration was well and truly over and the first classes of the day had started as I crept up the stairs in the art block and tried to slip into the room unnoticed.

Everyone was at the front of the room, crowded round Mr Milner's desk while he presumably talked them through a new project; I wondered if it was something he thought we might be asked to do in the exam. I was relieved, with everyone gathered at the front I was able to hover at the back and pretend I'd been there all along. Wrapping my cardigan tighter round my body I scanned the group, searching out Ricky's red hair. He was near the front, leaning against one of the desks at the side of the room; he hadn't noticed yet that I'd arrived. I almost wanted to leave before he saw me, I felt embarrassed that he'd see me like this, he would ask questions and I knew he wouldn't be happy with my answers, whether I told him the truth or whether I lied.

Finally Mr Milner finished explaining the project and everyone scattered across the room to collect the materials they needed. I hovered midway between his desk and mine... not knowing whether to go and admit I'd come in late or whether to pretend I knew what I was supposed to be doing. I didn't feel well, I'd hardly slept because my arm had been hurting so much and I felt sick and light headed.

I looked a wreck too; unable to use my left hand I hadn't been able to do anything with my hair or put much makeup on and I'd been limited as to what clothes I could get on – anything with buttons or any kind of fastenings had been out of the question. If I couldn't put it on one handed, I couldn't wear it. In place of a bra I'd struggled into a tight fitting black vest top, and then put on a long loose dress and a big cardigan, which I just had shrugged around my shoulders as it hurt too much when I tried to get my arm into the sleeve.

I went and sat down at my desk, I didn't have the energy to do anything else. It wouldn't be long before someone would notice I was there. I didn't care if Mr Milner told me off, although he was so easy going he rarely told anyone off for being late. You were more likely to be told off for leaving a paintbrush bristle end down in a pot of water than you were for being late.

It wasn't long at all before I was noticed. Literally a minute later Mr Milner was towering over me. "Miss Hutton," – he called everyone by their surnames, boys surname only, girls 'Miss' whatever – "it's unlike you to be late."

"I know sir, I'm sorry." I muttered, looking up at him, wishing I hadn't come in at all. Wishing I'd stayed on the bus and gone to the hospital instead. As I moved my cardigan slipped off my shoulders, revealing my arm held protectively against my body. I dropped my gaze to the table as Mr Milner frowned at me and Ricky approached carrying an armful of materials.