scalding water, and tried to lie still, to relax, to let go.
When I closed my eyes, Ralph was there. His face, shocked, eyes wide, as he fell backwards through the open door. The stillness as he lay, his body twisted so awkwardly, at the bottom of the steps. Only hours ago, I’d kissed his lips, slid the tip of my tongue into his mouth. Now his body was drifting, lifeless, under the waves, starting to rot. Those were pearls that were his eyes. He used to quote that. One of his favourite lines.
I put my soapy hands to my face and started to cry, noisy, uncontrolled sobs. I pressed a fist against my mouth to stop myself from screaming. How would I survive this? How would I live without him, with no hope of ever seeing him again? And with the guilt, the horror of what we’d done? I thought about her. Her battle to force herself to set aside her grief and manoeuvre the dinghy out into the blackness, to cover up what her husband had been, for the sake of her daughter.
Her steeliness frightened me. I knew then that I’d do as she’d instructed, somehow, God only knew how. I’d get up the next morning, dress and go to work, as she’d told me I must. At school, I’d try to behave as if everything were normal. If anyone remarked on how pale I looked or saw the way my hands shook, I’d look rueful and say I had a sore throat, I must be coming down with something.
I’d lie and lie and lie, as if my life depended on it.
Seven
For several days, life staggered on. I went through the motions at school, teaching, marking, sitting through meetings in a daze. In the playground, I searched the wheeling clouds of children for Anna but never saw her. Every time I passed by the school library and spied the bent head of a parent volunteer I slowed to look more closely, but it was never Helen.
After school, once home, I locked the door behind me, ate as much as I could force myself to swallow down, then lay, shaking, in bed, wondering if Helen’s shock and grief were as violent as my own.
There were moments that I almost forgot what had happened. Seconds, when, as I first came to consciousness in the morning, I felt normal, free from fear, safe. Then the memories came crashing back.
Then, at school, the gossip started.
Lunchtime. I came in from playground duty and made myself a cup of coffee in the staff kitchen, added a splash of milk from the communal fridge, took out my Tupperware box and headed for the table at the far end of the room.
Elaine Abbott, the Lower School deputy head, Hilary Prior and Olivia Fry were already there.
Elaine, middle-aged and always well-mannered, looked up at me as I joined. ‘We’re just talking about Ralph Wilson,’ she said. ‘Have you heard?’
My stomach tightened. My cup slipped as I set it down and coffee slopped over the edge. I fumbled for a tissue to mop up the ring and wipe off the bottom, then slid into a seat. ‘Heard what?’
Elaine, looking hearty in a sports shirt and tracksuit top, leaned forward. ‘He’s disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’ I fumbled the top off my Tupperware box and stuck a fork into my pasta salad. The flavour of red onion and pepper cloyed in my mouth.
She nodded. Her own lunchbox was empty, already pushed to one side. She nursed a mug of tea between her hands. The mug was her usual staffroom favourite, a present from a class, with a slogan in pink sparkly letters, Teachers are like angels, they make miracles happen.
‘He’s been off for days,’ she said. ‘Not answering his phone. Then the office finally got hold of Mrs Wilson and she’s frantic. He’s gone missing.’
Hilary Prior, an expert on all things marital since her own wedding the previous year, said in a low voice, ‘Makes you wonder about his home life.’ She gave a meaningful nod.
Olivia Fry, doe-eyed and slender, added, ‘He’s always been, you know, a bit of a charmer, hasn’t he?’
What was that supposed to mean? I kept my eyes on my food. The pasta in my mouth seemed as solid as wood. I chewed and chewed and struggled to swallow. My cheeks felt hot.
Elaine drank her tea. ‘The state of his marriage is his business. But it’s not like him to stay off work for no reason. Sarah’s furious.’ Sarah Baldini,