Three

Going back to school a day early was Olivia’s idea – her escape plan. She told Geoffrey that Martin Rutherford liked houseparents to arrive a day before the pupils and it wasn’t an outright lie. Martin preferred houseparents to arrive early but it wasn’t compulsory. Truth was, Olivia couldn’t endure another day of Rowena, or, more worryingly, of Geoffrey.

Like lovers in a French farce, they might have had a bit of fun avoiding Rowena – a quick and quiet exit on hearing the squeak of her sensible shoes, stifling their giggles as they hid from her, their clothes dishevelled – but such behaviour would have been wildly inappropriate. Ronald’s absence bore down on them all. Olivia half expected to see him behind his desk, peering at her over his half-moon glasses. He had always been so happy to see her, so interested in what she had to say. She overheard Rowena tell Edward how proud of him his grandfather had been, before she suddenly became tearful and apologised. Instead of being embarrassed – Olivia was sure that would have been the reaction of most twelve-year-old boys – Edward had given Rowena a hug and then handed her a wodge of tissues.

At moments like that Olivia’s heart did go out to her, but then she would see the cloying way she doted on Geoffrey and feel something akin to contempt. If Rowena had any tact at all she would have understood they needed time alone and absented herself for the occasional afternoon, like Edward had. Instead, she always seemed to be lurking.

Their bedroom should have been their sanctuary, the one place where Rowena couldn’t intrude, but just knowing his mother was asleep in the next room (or not – Geoffrey was convinced she would be awake, listening) was enough to render him impotent. Olivia was understanding at first, coaxing him, teasing him, stroking his ego and his unresponsive manhood, all to no avail.

A lack of sex quickly translated into a lack of intimacy – no handholding, no kissing, no snuggling up in bed. Physical contact entailed the threat of sexual failure, so was diligently avoided. They slept back to back, doing their best to limit movement. A stray foot might find its way on to an unwilling calf, an innocent hand on to a tense thigh. Bed, their natural habitat, had become unnatural.

Olivia wasn’t sure which scenario was more disturbing – that she was unable to arouse her husband or that her husband was so cripplingly cowed by his mother. There were other factors too, of course, although Geoffrey was convinced that his mother and the Rectory were at the root of the problem. But what did it say about the fabric of their marriage that it so easily unravelled under Rowena’s critical gaze? And what did it say about Olivia that a small, vengeful part of her relished Geoffrey’s suffering?

‘Good break, Olivia?’

She spun round, startled. For such a tall man, Martin Rutherford moved quietly, as if apologising for occupying more than his fair share of physical space. When he had learned that his nickname was the BFG, he said he was touched to be viewed as a much-loved figure from children’s literature.

‘Martin – sorry, didn’t see you there.’

‘I would have knocked but the door was open.’

‘Of course. Yes, very good break. You?’

‘The girls kept us busy – day trips, cinema, that sort of thing. Edward not with you?’

‘Geoffrey’s bringing him tomorrow.’

Martin nodded and struck his signature pose: bent index finger on his top lip, chin resting on his thumb. It afforded him a pensive air – complimented his measured, rather deliberate way of speaking.

‘Look, why don’t you join us for supper this evening – get to know Ruth a bit better? Nothing special. Spag bol, I expect. The girls’ favourite, but I’m sure we can rustle up a decent bottle of red.’

Olivia had been looking forward to an evening on her own: time to decompress after the suffocating atmosphere of the Rectory. And once the boarders were back, she wouldn’t have a moment to herself. But Martin seemed keen for her to accept and she hated to disappoint.

‘If you’re sure it’s no trouble.’

‘No trouble at all.’

*

The path between the main school building and the Rutherfords’ house was poorly lit. No light pollution in rural Somerset, just an ink-velvet sky and a showy dazzle of stars. A thin wet fog hung stubbornly in the cold night air, the only sound gravel crunching under Olivia’s boots. She had no idea what sort of evening she was walking towards. Martin had only been appointed head towards the end of the previous school year, when Teddy Clarke-Bowen was taken ill. Teddy had been head when Geoffrey was at St Bede’s. Olivia thought it sweet that even as a parent himself, Geoffrey had still called him ‘sir’. Olivia was fond of Teddy too, the way he encouraged a shy Edward to shine: praised his achievements, however small, knowing this was the way to nurture greater achievements. The school choir sang so beautifully at Teddy’s funeral, even a few of the male teachers had shed a tear.

After serving as his diligent deputy, everyone expected Sheila Fitzwilliam to step up as head, but the governors wanted a man. They still thought of St Bede’s as a boys’ school, even though girls had been admitted several years before. True, boys were still in the majority but did that mean there couldn’t be a female head? Unofficially, yes, it did. Sheila was spirited away into early retirement and then Martin Rutherford appeared. Much younger than Teddy – mid-forties perhaps – the general consensus was that he lacked his predecessor’s charm and charisma. Olivia felt sorry for anyone who had to step into Teddy Clarke-Bowen’s shoes.

Olivia and Geoffrey’s first encounter with Martin had been at the end of school year celebrations: Sports Day, Speech Day, Leavers’ Tea. He smiled patiently as he shook hands with the throng of curious parents, introduced himself to each set individually, enquired after their child’s name and year. She overheard someone asking about his wife, and his reply that she and his daughters were looking forward to joining him in September. Olivia certainly hadn’t imagined she would be living at St Bede’s by then and on her way to have supper with them.

Alice and Maisie must have been keeping watch because the front door swung open just as Olivia arrived.

‘Hello, Mrs Parry,’ they chimed in unison.

Their first few weeks in Olivia’s dorm, she struggled to tell them apart. Both were long-limbed and fair-skinned, their eyes an extraordinary limpid blue. But as she got to know them better she realised that though Maisie was a year younger than her sister, she was more confident, more inclined to push her chin up when she spoke, tilt her head to one side when she listened. Alice lowered her eyes when asked a question and answered in a whispery voice that you had to strain to hear.

‘Can I take your coat?’ asked Maisie with a toothy grin. Her new front teeth seemed too big for her mouth.

Olivia slipped off her full-length shearling and handed it to her. ‘Thank you, Maisie,’ she said in her jolly, St Bede’s voice, and to Alice, ‘Are you looking forward to going back to school tomorrow?’

Alice stared at her shoes and nodded.

Ruth trundled down the stairs, damp hair loose around her shoulders, not a trace of make-up. The tracksuit and bare feet were rather more casual than Olivia had expected. When their paths crossed at school, Ruth looked considerably more polished.

‘Olivia,’ she said, air-kissing her on each cheek, ‘so nice to see you not up to your elbows in boarders. Martin’s in the kitchen.’ She led the way. ‘I left him in charge of proceedings while I took a quick shower.’

Martin was stooped over the sink, draining spaghetti into a colander. Olivia had never seen him in casual clothes: beige cords, checked shirt, navy jumper. On his feet he wore brown moccasins that could have been either shoes or slippers. As always, his trousers were an inch or so too short and, as always, he sported a pair of brightly coloured socks – on this occasion, red with yellow spots. A constant source of speculation in the staffroom, the consensus was that his quirky socks represented eccentricity, rebellion, an unlikely hint of zaniness lurking beneath the staid suits and conservative ties.

Ruth poured a glass of red wine and handed it to Olivia. There was another one on the table, almost empty.

‘We started without you,’ said Ruth, picking up the glass. She drained it in one gulp and pulled out a chair for Olivia.

‘Top me up, would you?’ she said to Martin.

The bottle was right in front of her. Heat tinged Martin’s sallow complexion. He seemed to be weighing up his options before he responded. ‘I’ll leave it here, shall I?’ he said, moving the bottle an inch closer to Ruth.

Their eyes met for a moment before she refilled her glass and sat down, gesturing to Olivia to do the same. She looked in Martin’s direction, her offer of help batted away by Ruth.

‘Sit, sit.’ She sounded like Rowena commanding Rollo and Dice.

‘Have the girls washed their hands?’ Martin asked Ruth.

‘Have you washed your hands, girls?’ Ruth asked Alice and Maisie.

A quick glance at each other and they ran off to the bathroom.

‘Thank you so much for inviting me,’ said Olivia.

Ruth shot Martin a censorious look that Olivia pretended not to see, and she thought of lunch at the Rectory, the first day of half-term. She sipped her wine in silence as Martin seasoned the bolognese sauce. Ruth rummaged noisily in the cutlery draw and dropped a scatter of knives, forks and spoons on the table. The tension only dissipated when the girls reappeared, Maisie chatting excitedly about a trip they had taken to Weston-super-Mare and how Alice had cried when a dog barked at her.

‘Now, now,’ said Martin gently. ‘Don’t be unkind to your sister, Maisie.’

‘It’s not unkind if it’s true, is it, Mummy?’

Ruth was too preoccupied spooning out spaghetti bolognese to bother with a reply. She spilled a splodge of sauce on the tablecloth and rubbed it aggressively with a napkin.

‘Darling, I think you might be making it worse,’ said Martin. ‘I’ll get a cloth.’

‘It was a big dog, wasn’t it, Mummy?’ said Alice shyly.

Ruth didn’t seem to register any of this.

‘I’m sure Mrs Parry doesn’t want to hear about the dog,’ said Martin, dabbing ineffectually at the spreading stain. ‘Now, who would like to say grace? Olivia?’

Even at the Rectory they didn’t say grace, but Olivia put her hands together and closed her eyes. ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.’

On opening her eyes, Olivia caught Ruth refilling her glass, clearly thankful for the wine, at least.

It was a very British evening. Olivia and Martin chatted politely, skilfully avoiding any acknowledgement that Ruth was drunk. They regarded her as one might a difficult relative – talked about nothing more controversial than the weather, school news, parish business. Ruth sat heavy-lidded with boredom, her meal hardly touched, the wine bottle now conspicuously empty. Olivia wondered how much Ruth had had to drink before she arrived. Maybe Martin had suggested a shower in the hope she might sober up.

The girls seemed oblivious, happily twirling spaghetti round their forks, implying that this somewhat disturbing family scene was not at all unfamiliar to them. Olivia recalled one of her first nights as a houseparent, going from bed to bed saying goodnight and God bless. When she had reached Alice’s bed, she found her curled up, crying softly into her teddy. Olivia hesitated. Matron had warned her about homesickness, especially among the younger girls. Olivia remembered how homesick she herself had been when she first moved from her parents’ house in Reading to live in Compton Cross with Geoffrey. How much worse must it be for such a young child? After a moment Olivia had asked Alice why she was sad. At first she said nothing, just sniffed and sucked her thumb. Olivia had been about to walk away when Alice rolled on to her back and looked straight up at her. I don’t like it when Mummy shouts.

Ice cream followed the pasta, with a cheese option for the adults. Olivia declined both, explaining she wasn’t quite ready for tomorrow’s influx of boarders and still had a bit to do. She offered to help clear up but Martin wouldn’t hear of it. Ruth’s ambivalence suggested no strong feelings either way. Martin rummaged around under the sink for a torch and insisted he walk Olivia back to school.

The fog had become dense and eerie, giving Martin and Olivia further scope on the safe topic of weather. It wasn’t until they reached the quad, and Olivia thanked him one last time for supper, that he dropped the pretence. The way he looked down as he spoke reminded Olivia of Alice.

‘I’m sorry about Ruth.’

‘Please, you don’t need to—’

‘It’s been difficult.’ His long, laden sigh hinted at troubles too private to share. ‘Ruth’s finding it difficult.’

Olivia didn’t know what to say. They weren’t equals, strictly speaking. Martin was her boss. Anything she said, however well intentioned, could be held against her. Never get involved in other people’s marriages – her mother’s advice, religiously adhered to.

‘Don’t give it a second thought,’ was the best she could come up with, but hated to end the evening on the subject of marital discord. ‘The girls are delightful – a credit to you both.’

Martin looked relieved at the implied promise of her discretion. ‘You’re very kind,’ he said, nodding to underscore the point, and despite her own marital discord, Olivia couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity.

She made her way into the main building and up the stairs to her quarters, weary but grateful for a bit of time to herself. After a quick wash she got into bed wearing her fleecy winter dressing gown and a thick pair of socks. She tried to read but found herself drifting off and without Geoffrey’s lugubrious presence, Olivia managed a surprisingly good night’s sleep.

She rose early and went for a brisk run round the grounds. What a contrast to the Reading comprehensive she had attended: grey concrete playground, intersecting white lines for netball, football and hockey; all very confusing. Shared playing fields were over a mile away and littered with dog mess. She still recalled the misery of those long, rain-soaked trudges and then, when she was older, the usual excuses to avoid games altogether. Shame really. Olivia had been good at games.

A circuit of the cricket pitch and rugby field, twice along the driveway, then she was done. She stretched out before a quick shower – hot as she could stand – and felt ready for the day ahead.

*

The dorm hummed with returning boarders and their families. Parents greeted Olivia warmly, their daughters polite but apprehensive until they spotted their friends and then skipped off, chatting excitedly, the way children do.

Ruth Rutherford arrived late with Alice and Maisie, hair tied back in a neat ponytail, make-up discreet but effective, casually smart in a crisp white shirt and black jeans. If she had a hangover, it didn’t show. She greeted Olivia with a peck on both cheeks and set about making up the girls’ beds. Olivia felt she should thank her for supper but wasn’t sure she would want to be reminded of it. She was mulling it over when Ruth jumped in.

‘Sorry about last night.’

OK, they were going to talk about it; clear the air. Having endured years of Rowena’s carefully camouflaged put-downs, Olivia welcomed the candour.

‘Martin can be such a bore,’ said Ruth, rolling her eyes. ‘Going on and on like that.’ She grabbed Alice’s duvet and gave it a good shake. ‘He means well,’ Ruth concluded, now making hospital corners with Alice’s pink and yellow striped sheet. For a second Olivia was stumped.

‘I had a lovely evening,’ she said pleasantly, once she had regrouped. ‘It was kind of you to invite me.’

Ruth waved a dismissive hand. ‘Come on, girls,’ she said, tossing their bags on their beds. ‘Let’s get you unpacked.’

Maisie and Alice meekly complied, Ruth assuming a supervisory capacity rather than actually helping them. One by one the other mothers approached her, eager to befriend the headmaster’s wife. Before long Ruth was completely surrounded, the main topic of conversation the Alpha meetings she was supposed to host but which were yet to materialise. Next week, she promised. I’ll get the school secretary to email the details. Her foot tapped impatiently as she fielded the host of questions being thrown at her, but her smile never faltered. Olivia was helping one of the older girls with her trunk when some latecomers arrived with animated accounts of roadworks and endless motorway tailbacks.

‘Are you lost?’ said Ruth, and Olivia turned to see Geoffrey loitering by the door wearing his charm-offensive smile.

‘Geoffrey Parry – Olivia’s husband.’ He toned down the smile when he looked at Olivia. ‘Just dropped Edward off. Thought I’d come and say hello.’

‘Come in,’ said Ruth, excusing herself from the gaggle of mothers.

She introduced herself and offered Geoffrey her hand. Olivia was surprised to see him in a suit and wondered if he had a meeting; something about the factory or another telling off at the bank. He took a long look around.

‘This was a boys’ dorm in my day,’ he said.

‘Oh, were you a pupil here?’ asked Ruth.

‘For my sins,’ he replied. ‘Although I never rose to Edward’s stellar heights. The most I could manage was milk monitor.’

Ruth’s giggle was both girlish and flirtatious.

‘Any chance you could spare Olivia for five minutes?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Just to walk me to the car.’

‘Of course,’ said Ruth, clearly won over. ‘I’ll hold the fort here.’

The car park was full: lots of Range Rovers and hybrids and the odd Volvo estate. Geoffrey’s Mercedes looked pristine, as though just driven from the showroom. Olivia knew how much that car meant to him; how much it would mean to lose it. He opened the passenger door for her and then walked round to the driver’s side.

‘Are you going to kidnap me?’ she said lightly.

‘Wish I could,’ said Geoffrey.

He squeezed her hand. ‘I’m sorry about everything. I know I haven’t been much of a husband lately.’

Olivia had neither the time nor the appetite for a heart-to-heart about their marriage. ‘I had dinner at the Rutherfords’ last night,’ she said sunnily. ‘Ruth was actually quite drunk.’

‘Really? That must have been a fun evening.’

‘Hardly. I felt sorry for Martin.’

‘How much did she have?’

‘I think she was drunk when I got there. She polished off the best part of a bottle over dinner.’

‘Is she a happy drunk?’

‘She seemed more bored than anything.’ Olivia thought for a moment before adding, ‘Marriage is hard sometimes.’

They left it at that. After the briefest of kisses, she got out of the car and hurried back to the dorm. It was the closest she had felt to Geoffrey in a while.

*

Olivia was still learning the protocols. Teaching staff should be addressed by their surnames when pupils were present, Christian names when they were not, but Martin was always ‘Headmaster’. Ancillary staff formed something of a grey area. Dinner ladies seemed to like being called Mrs, the caretaker was Mr Hill and the groundsmen were young Tom and old Tom. Old Tom wasn’t old at all, just older than young Tom, who was barely out of his teens. He caused quite a stir at the beginning of term when he took off his T-shirt to mow the cricket pitch.

Early September had been searingly hot and the sight of his lean, muscled torso didn’t go unnoticed by a group of top-form girls, en route to play tennis. They quickly forgot all about tennis and formed an excited huddle in the pavilion where they could spy on him as he worked. It was like that Diet Coke ad on the telly, Lisa Pearce had said in the staffroom later. Olivia was sorry she’d missed it, although she did hear about it in great detail in the dorm: the eagle tattoo across his back, the fashionable absence of chest hair. Olivia wondered about young Tom’s motives. Was it really so hot he had to discard a flimsy bit of cotton, or was he showing off, preening and posturing for girls too young to understand the power of their allure? Either way, she felt for the Tom fan club. How could anyone forget the intensity of those first crushes, the agony of unrequited love, the heartbreak when the object of your desire was oblivious to your existence. Who would want to be a teenager?

Soon it would be Edward’s turn, his thirteenth birthday just a few months away. Olivia was sad to think of her sweet boy succumbing to the unruly surge of hormones. Lorna said it had already happened with Lily: periods, a proper bra, mood swings, the lot. Olivia’s reply probably hadn’t helped. It’ll be boys next.

They had gone window-shopping in Bath, its cobbled streets teeming with tourists, performance artists, homeless people with dogs. There was no money for actual shopping as Rowena had so considerately pointed out. When they stopped for coffee Lorna paid for the cappuccinos, Olivia for the carrot cake. She wanted to dissect the disturbing phenomena of Geoffrey’s impotence, compare notes, ask if it had ever happened to Johnny, but couldn’t risk going where that might lead.

They had headed towards the new Southgate development, an area they used to avoid because it was rough and ugly; a blight on an otherwise glorious Georgian city. Olivia loved coming to Bath. Lorna said she could take it or leave it. The city’s obsession with Jane Austen was something that particularly irritated Lorna. If anyone in the book club chose a Jane Austen novel, Lorna would groan and put her head in her hands. They stopped to watch a clown on a unicycle fire-juggling outside the Pump Rooms and threw a pound coin into his upturned top hat on the pavement.

Nearer the abbey, an old man singing ‘What a Wonderful World’ had sounded just like Louis Armstrong. Olivia gave him a pound coin too because the song reminded her of her grandparents dancing together, her grandmother’s head resting on her grandfather’s shoulder.

Even though it was October, some of the shops already had Christmas trees. God knows where they would find the money for presents this year. Edward wouldn’t go without; that was the most important thing. Olivia and Lorna headed back to the car empty-handed as the afternoon sky had begun to darken. At the entrance to the multi-storey a young woman sang opera. Lorna gave Olivia her ‘what did I tell you?’ look. Even the buskers are posh.

When Olivia dropped her off, Lorna had invited her in for a glass of wine. The battered Land Rover she and Johnny shared was parked outside. ‘Best not go back smelling of booze’, was the excuse Olivia had offered.

*

Life can turn on a sixpence; that’s what Olivia’s grandmother used to say. She had a saying for most occasions; pithy aphorisms that warned what might happen if you dared to get too comfortable, like ‘when money flies out the window, love goes out the door’. Was that what was happening with Geoffrey? Olivia had been too busy to dwell on it but now the boarders were asleep and she was alone in her flat, it preyed on her mind. Clips of the last months kept flashing into her head. A montage of difficult times in a healthy marriage, or the final gasps of a dying marriage?

She longed to sit down with her mum and have one of their heart-to-hearts over a pot of tea and a packet of Hobnobs. One of the reasons Olivia could so readily empathise with Alice Rutherford was because she missed her mum too. At Manor Farm, their night-time routine had been that Geoffrey would take Rollo and Dice for a walk before bed and Olivia would give her mum a quick ring that usually lasted half an hour. It wasn’t the same on Skype. With the eleven-hour time difference between the UK and Sydney, and unpredictable Wi-Fi in her flat, conversation felt a bit like dancing out of sync to music. Olivia always pretended to be chattier, happier, more positive than she was because if her mum suspected how she really felt she would have been on the next plane home.

Her parents hadn’t been sure about leaving in the first place, what with the factory closing down and then Ronald dying so suddenly. It took a lot for Olivia to persuade them it was too good an opportunity to miss. They had worked hard all their lives and six months visiting Sam in Sydney would be a terrific adventure. Olivia said she was worried about her little brother, all alone on the other side of the world. She wasn’t. Whenever she managed to log on to Facebook it was clear Sam was having a blast, but Olivia didn’t want her troubles to rob her parents of a once-in-a-lifetime trip.

She checked her watch: eight thirty in the morning in Sydney. As she opened her laptop, she pushed her hair behind her ears and practised her happy smile. When the Wi-Fi kicked in and Skype connected, it lasted just long enough for Olivia to see her mum’s suntanned face, before it was gone again. Two more attempts and Olivia gave up. Even if she did manage to get a good connection, she wasn’t sure she could have kept faking her happy smile.

*

Olivia had jumped at the chance to escape to St Bede’s. Rowena was helping pack up Manor Farm when she mentioned that a houseparent had been asked to leave quite out of the blue and the new headmaster was in a bit of a bind. Claire Heather said it was a clash of personalities with the head’s wife, but that’s just between you and me. Goodness knows how they’ll find someone now term has started.

Claire Heather: the font of all school gossip. Not only the headmaster’s secretary and close friend of Rowena, but her husband had been a bookkeeper at Downings. The interconnecting tendrils of life in a rural community. Olivia had stopped packing books into a cardboard box and gave Rowena her full attention. The houseparent looked after the girls’ dorm; only twelve boarders. That was all she had gleaned before Rowena set about wrapping a stack of dinner plates, noting that one or two were chipped.

Olivia had phoned the school the following morning, went in for a chat that afternoon and had the job by the time she got home. Martin’s email had been waiting in her in-box. As she read it, heart pumping uncomfortably hard, she began to understand the enormity of what she would be committing to. Not just taking responsibility for the pastoral care of a dozen young girls, but living apart from Geoffrey. Shards of resentment stabbed at her when she thought about the mess he had made of everything. They were all condemned to live with the consequences of his decisions – decisions she was never consulted about. If taking the job at St Bede’s upset him, then too bad. She had trusted him with their future and nowhere in that future did she imagine living with her mother-in-law. At least she would be spared that at St Bede’s. Olivia wrote a two-line acceptance and pressed Send. So her grandmother had been right. Life really can turn on a sixpence.

*

Olivia shivered in the few square feet of quad where you could get a phone signal. Two bars, three if the wind blew in the right direction. She wanted to catch Geoffrey before the staff meeting, ostensibly to remind him about Edward’s rugby game, but really just to talk to him – be normal, whatever the heck that was these days. With each unanswered ring she felt her muscles tighten. The easy rapport she and Geoffrey once shared was already frayed round the edges, but the strain of half-term had pulled at all manner of loose threads. Olivia felt a flicker of relief when the call went to voicemail and signed off her bright and breezy message with a quick ‘love you’. She slipped the phone in her coat pocket and hurried back inside.

*

Mornings and evenings were her busiest times, when the girls were in the dorm, vying for her attention. They were so different from boys: inclined to talk rather than play, form cliques and alliances, easily crushed by any perceived slight. Edward and his friends were refreshingly straightforward. Give them a bit of space to run around, a ball to kick, a tree to climb, and they amused themselves for hours.

Olivia was the only houseparent who didn’t have teaching duties as well, so was called upon in a variety of ways: to listen to the younger children read, stand in for absent teachers, help out with plays and concerts. She found it made the day go faster, all this extra-curricular activity. And if her willingness to muck in improved Edward’s chance of a scholarship, then it was well worth the effort. As an existing pupil he had been awarded a bursary for reasons of ‘financial distress’, but he would lose that at the end of the year when he went up to the senior school. If he went up to the senior school – without a full scholarship, they had no hope of paying the fees. That thought was all the motivation Olivia needed to be as helpful as she possibly could.

*

Martin had called a staff meeting and would have looked quite smart if the trousers of his dark grey suit had been just a tad longer, and the diamond-patterned socks just a tad less colourful. Brown lace-ups weren’t the best choice either, but eight out of ten for effort. Olivia got the impression he tried a bit too hard, that if he relaxed and was more himself, he might emerge from the long shadow cast by Teddy Clarke-Bowen.

The main piece of news was that the French student from the Sorbonne would be leaving at the end of term but a replacement would follow in January. I’d like to thank Monsieur Dubois for all his hard work and wish him the very best in his future endeavours. Hugo Dubois ran a hand through his well-groomed hair and offered a quick nod in Martin’s direction.

Olivia hoped his replacement would take an interest in Edward the way Hugo had. French was Edward’s worst subject – lack of interest the probable cause – but he’d been doing better under Hugo’s tutelage. It helped that Hugo coached rugby too, so he and Edward had something in common. Olivia would ask him to set extra French for Edward over the holidays – something to do with rugby perhaps, so he wouldn’t get too bored.

Lisa Pearce tapped Olivia on the shoulder as they filed out of the staffroom.

‘Well that’s a blow,’ she said under her breath. ‘Do you think the next one will have Hugo’s dashing good looks?’

Olivia smiled. ‘You’re old enough to be his mother.’

Lisa affected grievous hurt. ‘I most certainly am not.’

She stood a little taller and pulled her shoulders back, which only accentuated her fulsome bosom and apple-shaped figure. ‘Age shall not wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.’

Lisa’s fondness for quoting Shakespeare rather baffled Olivia. She taught history, not English. Edward complained that she dished out too much homework but he said that about all his teachers.

Lisa had made a big fuss of Olivia when she started at St Bede’s, always seeking her out in the staffroom and sitting down next to her during lunch. Olivia, desperate to make a friend, suppressed the suspicion that Lisa’s interest had a prurient quality and decided to take it on face value. Drawn in by Lisa’s natural exuberance, she confided the occasional snippet about her and Geoffrey’s situation. Where was the harm? Then three weeks into the term, Olivia overheard Lisa telling one of the other teachers something she had told her in confidence, and realised how gullible she had been. She didn’t let on she knew – she might not have made an ally but she certainly didn’t want to make an enemy – and was still friendly towards Lisa, but now knew better than to trust her. If Lisa sensed that Olivia was less forthcoming than before, she never mentioned it. And she was certainly right about Hugo – the place would seem a little duller without him.

He appeared to have usurped young Tom as the school heart-throb, the onset of winter necessitating Tom hide his light under the proverbial bushel, or rather an oversized hoody and grubby wax jacket.

Hugo exuded Parisian style: hair just long enough to suggest youth and virility, athletic build hugged by well-tailored jackets and slim-legged trousers. Waistcoats made the occasional appearance, as did a mocha turtleneck that Olivia felt sure must be cashmere. A casually draped scarf added the final touch of panache. It’s Somerset, not bloody Paris, commented Rudd Lender, the testy maths teacher Edward often moaned about. He had a point, though. Compared to the young Frenchman, the other teachers looked a shabby old bunch.

During morning break Olivia tried to call Geoffrey again. Hard enough living apart without the added strain of not being able to talk to each other. She got her coat and headed towards the cricket pitch, eyes fixed on her phone, willing those elusive bars to appear. She almost fell over Hugo, sneaking a cigarette by the cluster of horse-chestnut trees between the school and the pitch. His phone was in his hand too.

‘Have you got a signal?’ asked Olivia hopefully.

He shook his head and showed Olivia the dark-haired beauty that filled the screen. ‘My girlfriend.’

‘You must miss her.’

He threw his cigarette on the ground and mashed it with the sole of his highly polished shoe. ‘Désolé,’ he said, pushing his hands deep into his trouser pockets. ‘I try to give up.’

He looked frozen, his tweed jacket clearly more for fashion than for the British winter. A flaying wind hit Olivia face on. She pulled her collar up as high as it would go and turned her back to it.

‘Actually, I wanted to talk to you about setting some holiday work for Edward.’ She pointed to the shelter of the cricket pavilion. ‘Do you have a minute?’

They jogged across the spongy grass, the far-off smell of burning wood stirring memories of log fires and Christmas.

A wooden veranda bordered the pavilion, five shallow steps leading up to the door. Olivia followed Hugo inside but he stopped so abruptly she almost fell into him again. He smelled of damp wool, cigarettes, musky cologne. It took a second for her to see what he had seen: what had, quite literally, stopped him in his tracks. Young Tom was on his back, jeans around his ankles, a half-naked Ruth Rutherford astride him, skirt bunched up, breasts free and ample. For the second time in her short St Bede’s career, Olivia could not believe her eyes. Nobody moved – the scene immortalised in freeze-frame. It was Hugo who took the initiative and excused himself with another curt ‘Désolé’. Tom was on his elbows now, looking rather pleased with himself. Ruth turned towards Olivia, her face flushed and shiny.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

Olivia stumbled down the steps and bolted towards Hugo, who stood quite calmly on the grass, holding a pack of Gauloises. He fished a lighter from his trouser pocket, lit a cigarette and then offered one to Olivia. Despite her hatred of the habit, if she had thought it would relieve the mortifying embarrassment that consumed her, she would have taken one.

‘We shouldn’t say anything,’ she managed when she caught her breath. ‘It’s a private matter – nothing to do with us.’

Hugo shrugged. ‘Of course.’

Olivia realised how provincial she must have sounded. Hugo was clearly far too sophisticated to be troubled by the adulterous inclinations of consenting adults. He took one last long drag before discarding his cigarette into the hedge. Olivia watched him walk away, apparently unfazed. She, on the other hand, was gut-wrenchingly fazed. And shaking. She forced herself to take long, slow breaths that pulled winter deep inside of her.

The sound of the bell made her stomach flip. How could she go back and face everyone? How could she face Martin? She had promised to help him with the Christmas newsletter. He would be waiting for her in his office. She was already carrying one ugly secret and now she was burdened with another. The weight of silence didn’t ease with time; it became heavier and harder to bear. She felt it already, with each step she took back towards the school.