face was streaked with the paths of tears that had long since dried, leaving only tracks of salty residue. Slowly Mark’s mouth twisted into a smile and his eyes creased accordingly. He was smiling at her, but she couldn’t even pretend. She couldn’t find her happy face or her happy voice. She felt broken, broken and beyond repair.
Hey, little girl,
Comb your hair, fix your make-up.
Soon he will open the door.
Don’t think because
There’s a ring on your finger,
You needn’t try any more
* * *
Next morning, Kathryn felt surprisingly numb. Each time she closed her eyes, the nightmare of her burnt pegs leapt into focus. She could picture nothing else; the images consumed her every thought. She felt strangely disconnected from her surroundings and stacked the breakfast things into the dishwasher slowly.
‘You okay, Mum?’ Her son’s tone was one of concern.
Kathryn couldn’t find any words of response or her happy smile, so she simply nodded.
The chapel was busy; each boarding house occupied its usual pew. Invited parents in their finery crammed into the narrow seats, each mummy trying to out-yummy the next. Pinstriped dads shook hands and slapped each other’s backs in congratulations at all that they had achieved: a smart suit, flash car, expensive watch and gorgeous wife. Game, set and match.
Governors and staff were dotted among the congregation, wearing their dusty graduation gowns and university colours with pride. The organ music boomed and invigorated, giving everyone who sat staring at the ornate domed ceiling a feeling of self-importance and belonging: our history, our tradition, our money well spent.
Kathryn felt all eyes scan the headmaster and his wife as they settled into their seats. She had to resist the temptation to stand and shout at the appraising eyes, ‘Yes, I know I am wearing the blue jersey and pleated skirt again, but truth be known it’s my “chapel outfit” and you will all be seeing it for at least this year and probably the greater part of next.’ She was wrong; no one at chapel that day would see this outfit again.
Kathryn glanced over at the masters sitting with jutting chins and narrowed eyes in their allocated seats. She knew that at least three of them would be dozing within minutes, using the ruse of deep prayer and concentration with eyes closed to catch up on sleep. They fooled no one, least of all the children, who would point and nudge at the lolling heads.
Kathryn had almost given up on the God to whom they all paid homage, but it was important that she attended nonetheless. Not to do so would be bad manners and she did enjoy the beautiful surroundings, the singing and the sight of her children, whom she watched surreptitiously from across the aisle. She wondered if every mother felt the same swell of love and pride when they studied the perfect faces of the humans they had created.
Unaware that they were being scrutinised, Lydia and Dominic looked relaxed and natural. Dominic twitched his nose involuntarily; a tiny act that transported Kathryn back to when he was a baby. It amazed her that this boy-man was only ever a minor flinch away from the baby she had held in her arms. If she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, she could still invoke his newborn scent, a unique and intoxicating combination of baked bread and new human. Lydia had smelt quite different: fresher, with an almost citrusy tang, like a warm lemon muffin.
Kathryn watched Lydia put the nail of her index finger into her mouth and start nibbling. It made her wince. Lydia had the beautiful hands of an artist: long, tapering fingers and almond-shaped nails. It was a long-standing family joke that if she sat on her hands she would be unable to communicate; she was so expressive with them, using her palms and fingers to illustrate and emphasise every point.
Dominic sat with his fingers interlaced in his lap. His gaze was steady in the direction of the chaplain. A casual observer might think that he was transfixed by the words being dispensed from the lectern, but Kathryn knew different. From her privileged vantage point she could see that Emily Grant was sitting slightly to the right of the chaplain and was busy returning her boyfriend’s gaze with not so subtle nods, gestures and raised eyebrows. Kathryn smiled to herself, feeling like a secret had inadvertently been shared with her.
The chaplain, Tim Cattermole, was warming to his theme. He grasped both sides of the lectern, as if