The Mistress - Jill Childs Page 0,19

from time to time.

When Olivia finally finished, the teaching assistant leaned forward earnestly and said, ‘I agree. Such a lovely man. I mean, I didn’t know him well, of course. I went along to meetings too, when I could – not to read my own work, I don’t have the gift, but just to enjoy. And just listening to him read his poetry, well, you could see he was a tender soul.’

I tried not to snort. A tender soul? Something else to make Ralph laugh.

The detective shifted her attention to me. Her eyes, meeting mine, froze me to the core. They were exactly as I’d feared, after all, just not in the body I’d imagined. They saw everything. They knew.

‘Miss Dixon? What exactly was your relationship with Mr Wilson?’

I stared, transfixed, unable to speak. The constable’s pen stopped scratching and she lifted her head to look at me. Everyone looked at me. My legs, planted squarely on the carpet, started to tremble.

‘Miss Dixon?’

I opened and closed my mouth, but nothing came out. I was stricken. All I could see was Ralph’s body, crumpled at the bottom of the steps. And Helen, crouched beside him in the gloom, her face pressed into his side, her sobs echoing round the bare, cold cellar.

Fourteen

I licked my lips and tried to clear my throat. ‘I hardly knew him. Really.’

My voice squeaked in my ears. She would know, if she didn’t already. My thin little voice oozed guilt. She must smell it coming off me, as rancid as sour cream.

‘I went to a few meetings, that’s all. He was very friendly. He made everyone welcome.’

The detective didn’t blink. Silence. The room seemed suddenly airless.

The teaching assistant jumped forward just as I reached out a hand and started to sway. She grabbed hold of my arm and threaded her other arm around my shoulders, sturdy and comforting.

‘You’re not well, are you?’ She appealed to the detective. ‘She’s very hot.’

She lowered me to the floor and poured me a glass of water, then fanned me with one of the trauma counsellor’s leaflets. Yellow letters on a blue background flashed in front of my face, back and forth as she flapped. Having trouble sleeping? Feeling sad or depressed?

‘I’ll be fine.’ I sipped the cool water, focussed on the swirly carpet and concentrated on breathing. In, out. In, out. Gradually, I managed to recover myself. I scrambled back onto my chair, hoisted in part by the stout teaching assistant. ‘I’m so sorry. I think I must be coming down with something.’ I paused, gathered myself together. ‘It’s just so sad, wondering what’s happened to him. And his poor little girl. Anna. I can’t imagine—’

The detective nodded to the constable and she jumped up and handed round small printed cards. Detective Inspector Eileen Johns. Investigating officer. A list of phone numbers to call, including a hotline, a police email address.

‘If anything else occurs to you, anything at all.’

The detective got to her feet and nodded, her eyes weary.

Outside, a young man was waiting, a new Upper School teaching assistant. He looked up, face anxious, as we came out of the office.

Cool air in the corridor found my clammy neck, face, hands.

Once we’d turned the corner and were out of earshot, the teaching assistant blew out her cheeks and said, ‘Well! There we are then!’

I didn’t answer. I wanted to quicken my pace and get away from them, to recover on my own, but my legs didn’t have the strength to hurry.

The three of us walked down the corridor in step.

The teaching assistant said, ‘You ought to have a sit down before you go back to class.’ Her eyes were concerned. ‘I’ve got aspirin, if you need some.’

Beyond her, Olivia was watching me, her eyes sharp.

Fifteen

Eventually, after an extended absence, Anna came back to school.

Hilary was full of it.

‘I told the class she might be feeling a bit S-A-D.’ She did a good job of looking stricken, but I sensed how pleased she was to have a leading role in this tragedy. ‘I’m not sure how much they really understand, you see. About grief. I mean, they’re only seven.’

Olivia nodded. ‘One or two may have lost grandparents.’

‘Or family pets,’ put in Elaine. ‘The loss of an animal can be deeply traumatic for a young child.’

I tried not to roll my eyes. I could imagine how Ralph would feel about his loss being compared to a dead gerbil.

‘John called her into his office this morning for a little chat,’ Hilary went on.