The Mistress - Jill Childs Page 0,41

day that a message finally came through.

luv u 2 xxx

Thank God. I could breathe again.

Twenty-Nine

It was a Friday. I’d already presided over a class assembly, taught fractions and then survived making a Viking long-boat.

Now, I was sitting on my own in a corner of the staffroom with a cup of tea, reading, when James Deacon, one of the young sports teachers, came over, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He stopped right in front of me.

I purposefully didn’t look up at first. He was one of the so-called cool crowd – the young, recently qualified teachers who shouted across the staffroom to each other using silly nicknames and even played pranks when the rest of us were trying our best to have a break from childlike behaviour. They went out together socially at the weekends and made sure, from their loud conversations about it, that we all were aware of their antics. Olivia joined them on occasion.

‘Laura?’

I let my eyes slide up from my page, hoping I didn’t flush.

He was smiling at me, all politeness. ‘I’m afraid I’ve stolen your mail again. So sorry.’

‘That’s okay.’ I reached for the white envelope he was offering me. He’d started to tear open the corner by mistake, that was all. We were the only Lower School teachers with a surname beginning with ‘D’ and our post was often wrongly pushed into each other’s pigeonholes, thanks to the fact that our school secretary, Jayne, wasn’t as careful as she should be.

‘Hope it hasn’t been sitting there too long.’ He grinned as he turned away with the rest of his envelopes. ‘I’m a bit behind with all this paperwork. I’d rather be teaching.’

I nodded after him, then slid a fingertip under the seal, ripped open the envelope and drew out the papers inside. A printed form from the photographic company, inviting me to place orders for everything from large mounted prints to coasters and mugs. I shook my head. I didn’t blame them for trying, but still.

I turned over the adverts and flyers and finally reached the sample copy of the full school photograph itself. I never ordered actual pictures, but the proofs were good to keep, just as a souvenir of the passing years. Especially now. Maybe this would be my last here.

I inclined it to catch the light and ran my eye along the glossy surface, covered with the word SAMPLE in giant lettering, just in case I was tempted to run off a few copies of my own and sell them on the side.

I found myself first, standing neatly to one side, close to the end of the year ones, my body angled towards the camera, my hands hidden by Hilary, standing just ahead and to one side of me. I liked the dress I’d chosen. It had a flattering neckline, good for photos, but even at this distance, I could see how tired I looked. There was something in the slump of my shoulders, the tightness of my face that suggested how haunted I was. I wondered if the police had a copy, if they’d be scanning it for signs of stress and guilt.

My eye ran across the very front row and the reception children sitting on the grass, some beaming, some shy, one or two pulling silly faces. Sarah Baldini wouldn’t like that. There she was, sitting neatly in her starched blouse and calf-length skirt, her make-up immaculate, front and centre of it all, a queen ruling over her subjects.

I tipped the photo further into the light to have a better look at the other teachers who were arranged down the sides, rising with each tier of pupils until they formed their own line right along the very back. Then my eyes strayed, rising to the edge of the Upper School building in the background.

My hand shook. My breath stuck in my throat. I pulled the picture closer and stared, feeling my heart bang so hard in my chest that it hurt. My eyes strained. It wasn’t possible. Was that what I thought it was? Were my eyes playing tricks on me?

I looked up sharply, my lips dry, expecting to see someone sniggering from across the staffroom, looking over at me. No one paid me the slightest attention. Fridays always brought a relaxed, anticipatory mood, even here in the staffroom. All I saw were other teachers standing idly around in small groups, chatting, their backs to me. Some sat at tables with cups of tea and coffee, sharing snacks.