Czytaj książkę: «The Secret Letter»

To the strong women in my life who are the living embodiment of Deeds Not Words: my fabulous aunts, Pauline and Norma; my godmother, Linda; my second mum, Les; and of course, my amazing actual mum, Dorothy.

Prologue
Esther

December 1910

I picked up the letter I’d written and read it over to myself. I knew he’d never see it, but it made me feel better, just putting my feelings down on paper. Putting everything that had happened behind me.

‘Sometimes the fight is part of the fun,’ I’d written. I smiled sadly. That was exactly how I felt, and why everything had gone so wrong between us; there had just been no fight.

Picking up my pen again, I signed the letter with a flourish and then wafted the paper, waiting for the ink to dry. I wouldn’t send it. There was no need. But I wanted to keep it somewhere safe, somewhere I could find it if I ever needed to remember why I’d done what I’d done.

I glanced round my small bedroom, looking for inspiration, and my eyes fell on my fabric bag, stuffed under the bed. I pulled it out and opened it and found inside the wooden photograph frame holding the only photograph I had of my former love. Perfect. But first I had to change something else. On my bedside table was my journal and tucked inside was a photograph of myself. It had been taken at a recent suffragette rally and vain as it sounded, I loved the way it made me look. I had my chin raised slightly and a flash of fire in my eyes. I looked like a woman to be reckoned with.

Smiling, I opened the back of the picture frame and took out the photograph that was in there. Should I throw it away? No, he was part of my past no matter how horribly things had ended. Instead I put it into the bag and pushed it back under the bed. Then I put the photograph of myself into the frame, folded up the letter and put it in an envelope, carefully tucked that behind the photo and fixed the back on securely. I proudly stood the photograph on my bedside table. I would keep that picture with me, wherever I ended up, and every time I looked at it I would remember that I had been made stronger by everything that had happened.

‘The fight goes on, Esther,’ I said to myself. ‘The fight goes on.’

Chapter 1
Lizzie

August 2019

I stared at the building where I would spend most of my time for the next year, or even two, with a mixture of hope, fear and resentment.

‘Just a few months,’ I whispered to myself. ‘Just a few months, and then you can get back to normal.’

I pushed my sunglasses up on top of my head so I could see better and squinted in the brightness. It was an old-fashioned school building. The sort of building that in London would have been converted into luxury flats years ago. It had black iron railings, a paved area at the front with hopscotch markings and two entrances, over which in the stonework was carved “boys” and “girls”. I knew that at the back was a more modern extension, but staring at the front I felt like I’d gone back in time.

My stomach lurched with nerves and I took a step backwards, lowering my sunglasses again like a shield.

‘Chin up, Lizzie,’ I told myself sternly. ‘You’ve got this.’

But I wasn’t sure I did have it.

It was mid-morning but it was quiet. No one was around and I was glad. School didn’t start for another ten days though I’d come to Elm Heath early so I could move into my new house, get settled in, and generally find my feet a bit. It was very different here from my life in Clapham and I knew it was going to take some getting used to.

I took a deep, slightly shuddery breath as I thought about my ex-husband, Grant, who was – as far as I knew – still living in leafy South-West London. Predictably, he’d managed to emerge from the disaster of the last couple of years smelling of roses despite being asked to leave Broadway Common School before he was pushed. Never had the phrase “men fail up” seemed truer than when I’d discovered he’d walked into a fancy job in some think-tank, advising local councils on education policy and was earning more now than he’d ever done as a head teacher. Which was ironic considering one of the many, many things he’d done wrong was being creative with some of the school budgets.

Under my sunglasses, I felt a tear start to dribble down my nose and I reached up with one finger to wipe it away. I had to stay strong or I would fall apart. And yes, it wasn’t fair that I’d been treated with suspicion too, even though an investigation had proved that I hadn’t been involved in Grant’s misdemeanours whatsoever. But it was harder to prove I didn’t know anything about it, because while he was head of the huge junior school, I was in charge at the infants’ school next door. And as I’d soon discovered, no one really believed that I was innocent, despite what the official reports said. I’d waited for Grant to clear my name – to speak out on my behalf. But I was still waiting. Because as it turned out, Grant telling everyone I knew nothing would have effectively meant admitting he’d done all the things he was accused of. So instead he stayed quiet.

With the trust gone in our marriage, I’d found myself moving back to my mum’s house at the ripe old age of thirty-eight. And with the trust gone in my job, I’d resigned and applied for new posts all over the place – just to get away from London.

‘And here I am,’ I said out loud, still looking at Elm Heath Primary. Elm Heath was an ordinary school. It wasn’t a super, high-performing school; it was just a normal, nice-enough village primary. And that made it the perfect school for me to prove myself.

There was no doubt everything that had happened had left me needing to show the teaching world that I still had it, and I thought Elm Heath would give me that opportunity. As far as I could see, it was just a bit old-fashioned. The last head teacher had been in her job for yonks, and she’d been quite resistant to change. I thought I could drag the school into the twenty-first century, revitalise it, get my mojo back and then go back to London and to normality. Albeit a Grant-free normality.

I forced a small smile. This was just a blip, I thought to myself. Just a small hump in the road of my career. And perhaps a slightly bigger hump in the road of my personal life because despite everything he’d done, I still missed Grant. I missed being part of a team. The Mansfields. Grant and Elizabeth. A double act. A “you two”. Now it was just me.

Sighing, I picked up my bag. I’d moved into my tiny terraced house yesterday – my whole life reduced to a few boxes of books – but it was still chaotic and I had a lot to do to get sorted before term started. I really should get on with it.

As I turned to walk away from the school a voice shouted from the playground.

‘Ms Armstrong? Yoo-hoo! Ms Armstrong!’

I ignored it for a split second and then looked back over my shoulder as it dawned on me that I was Ms Armstrong. I’d applied for this job in my maiden name – part of my plan to be “me” instead of Grant’s other half.

Across the playground, a short woman – perhaps ten years older than me – came barrelling towards the gate.

‘Wait!’ she called. ‘I’ll let you in!’

I groaned as I recognised her from one of my interviews. It was Paula Paxton, the deputy head. Grant would have said she was the perfect mix of overenthusiastic and underachieving. Though she’d been very nice to me when I met her before, I just wasn’t really in the mood for company.

‘Ms Armstrong,’ she panted as she unlocked the gate. ‘I saw you from my office and thought you would want to come in rather than lurk outside. So I said to myself, I said “Paula, run downstairs and let her in – she doesn’t want to be lurking outside,” and I raced downstairs and then when I saw you pick your bag up, I thought I’d missed you.’

Faced with such jollity, I winced. Despite how nice Paula had seemed at my interview, I wasn’t sure I could deal with her kindness today when I was feeling fragile. She saw my reaction and she paused while opening the iron gate.

‘I’m babbling,’ she said. ‘I always babble when I meet new people. I’m sorry.’

I managed a weak smile. ‘Don’t be,’ I said.

She reached out and took my bag from me.

‘Coffee?’

I smiled more genuinely this time. ‘Coffee would be great.’

I followed her through the echoey corridors of the school. Generally, I disliked schools out of hours. They needed the children to make them feel alive, I always thought. But today, I appreciated the quiet stillness of the building. It was cool inside, no fancy air-conditioning could compete with hundred-year-old thick stone walls.

I was wearing a vest top, cropped jeans and Havaianas that flipped and flopped loudly down the hall. Paula Paxton was dressed for work in a neat wrap dress with court shoes and – I thought – nude tights. It was thirty degrees outside, and it was the summer holidays, so I wondered if she dressed like that all the time. On the beach. At the gym.

‘God, I’m so hot,’ she said, over her shoulder. ‘I’ve been to a funeral.’

Oops.

‘Sorry,’ I muttered, feeling horrible for having had nasty thoughts about her. Paula waved her hand at me.

‘Nah, don’t be. It was some client of my husband’s firm. I only went so I could bring the car home afterwards because I need to go to the supermarket later, and I could have got the bus, but I’ll have a lot of bags …’

I smiled and she stopped.

‘Babbling again,’ she said. ‘Here are the offices.’

She opened a door on her left. It was an original, thick with paint and with a wobbly window on the top half.

Inside was a sort of reception area with seating and two desks for the secretaries I assumed. Beyond it were two more doors, similarly old-fashioned, one marked “head teacher” and one marked “deputy head teacher”.

‘I’m on the left,’ she said. ‘I teach as well, obviously, so I don’t use my office much. But I have the coffee machine. Milk and sugar?’

After suffering in too many staffrooms where the only refreshments on offer were clumpy catering tins of instant, I was pleasantly surprised to hear there was a coffee machine. I smiled.

‘Just milk, please. I’ll just have a look at my own office if that’s okay?’

‘Hold on,’ she said. She opened the top drawer of one of the desks and pulled out a key.

‘This is yours.’

I wondered if there was any point in keeping a key just centimetres away from the door it unlocked but I didn’t say anything. Instead I simply unlocked the door.

‘I’ll fire up the Nespresso,’ Paula said. ‘Well, it’s not a real Nespresso, because they’re so expensive. It’s just the Marks and Sparks version, but I find it’s just as good …’

She trailed off, much to my relief.

‘Just come in when you’re ready.’

I nodded and, taking a deep breath, I went into my new office.

It was pretty bare. There was a big desk by the window, a round table, and two empty bookcases. On one wall there was an old-fashioned black and white photograph of a young woman wearing what I thought was Edwardian dress, and a fierce expression.

‘You’re going to have to go,’ I told her out loud. ‘I can’t have you looking down on me so disapprovingly.’

My voice bounced around the empty room.

Suddenly overwhelmed by everything, I sat down at my new desk and put my face in my hands. This was my last chance to save my career and start again but it just seemed like a huge task. Was this going to be a massive mistake?

Chapter 2
Lizzie

I sat like that for a few minutes, wallowing in my misery over my new life. None of this was my fault, I thought. I was just another one of Grant’s victims, like the parents he fooled, and the kids he let down, and whose SATs results he faked, and the PTA whose funds he siphoned off. Though that bit had never been proved, and like I said, he’d never actually admitted the rest – just insisted it was all a misunderstanding. I took a deep breath and rubbed my eyes, trying to pull myself together. I couldn’t fall apart now, not with Paula Paxton in the next room.

‘Excuse me, Ms Armstrong,’ a voice said, making me realise that Paula Paxton wasn’t in the next room; she was in my room, clutching two mugs of coffee.

I forced my head upright and tried to smile. But my neck felt weak and my smile weaker.

‘Oh dear,’ Paula Paxton said. ‘Oh dear.’

She put both mugs on the desk and in two strides was next to me. Tentatively, she touched my arm.

‘Feeling a bit overwhelmed?’ she said.

Her kind voice almost made me fall apart. With super-human strength I managed to nod, without looking at her.

‘I know what happened,’ she said. ‘In your last job, I mean. You don’t have to explain.’

Of course she knew. She’d been in my interviews; she must have read my application. Knowing she knew made me feel oddly relieved and embarrassed at the same time. I couldn’t bear her feeling sorry for me. It was the sympathy and the sad faces and the tilty heads asking ‘how ARE you?’ that had made life in London so completely awful.

Paula rubbed my arm gently and then went round the other side of the desk and sat down opposite me. She pushed one of the mugs towards me and picked up the other one.

‘I think I should tell you just how thrilled we are to have you here,’ she said in a conversational tone. ‘I’ve read all the things you’ve written in Teacher magazine. And I was actually at your training day in Brighton.’

This time I did manage to meet her eyes.

‘Really?’

Grant had been the face of our schools. We worked together but he was the driving force. He was the one doing the Tedx talks, and writing for the broadsheet education supplements about his views on education policy, and his approach to helping young children learn. He was outspoken, handsome and funny, and he really knew his stuff, so he was very media friendly. He’d even been on Question Time once. In fact, I thought it was his profile that had led him to make the bad decisions he’d made. Education is a long game and seeing children through their years at school can sometimes feel like an age. Grant couldn’t wait for results, and so he had to fiddle them, because he couldn’t be seen to be failing. Apart from in our marriage, of course. He didn’t care about that going wrong.

But I’d been passionate about what we were doing, too. I’d written a few articles for a teaching mag; I’d done a couple of seminars at training days. And it seemed Paula Paxton knew all about them.

Now she smiled at me. ‘Ms Armstrong …’

‘Lizzie,’ I said. ‘Please call me Lizzie.’

‘Lizzie, Elm Heath Primary needs a boost.’

‘I know.’

‘I’ve worked here for twenty years,’ Paula went on. ‘My daughter came here. It’s such a lovely school. We were just so thrilled when you took the position.’

I smiled at her across the top of my coffee mug. It was nice to hear after so much bad stuff.

‘You’re so inspirational,’ Paula was saying. ‘You have such wonderful ideas about putting the children first in everything.’

I felt a very small flush of pride. ‘Really?’ I said. That had always been my focus.

Paula smiled at me again. ‘I read some of your husband’s articles too.’

‘Ex-husband.’

She bit her lip. ‘He’s more about winning.’

I’d taken a mouthful of the rather good coffee while she was talking and now I swallowed it all, making me cough.

Still spluttering, I laughed for the first time in what seemed like weeks. It sounded slightly strange. ‘That’s Grant in a nutshell.’

Paula grinned at me, then taking advantage of the friendlier atmosphere between us, she leaned forward. ‘Was it awful? Your break-up?’

I shrugged. ‘You know when people say something’s ended not with a bang but with a whimper? It was like that, really. He let me down professionally and then – boom – it all just crumbled.’

‘That’s almost worse,’ Paula said and again I was surprised by her insight. I nodded, feeling another rush of self-pity and, sensing my mood, she smiled again.

‘I’ve organised a barbecue for you to meet all the staff,’ she said. ‘My house, tomorrow evening.’

‘Oh I’m not sure …’ I began. I was still finding my feet in Elm Heath and I wasn’t sure I was quite ready to meet my teachers.

Paula waved her hand. ‘It’s all arranged,’ she said. ‘I’m only round the corner from you – I’ll send someone to collect you on the way so you don’t get lost.’

I blinked at her, astonished. She’d arranged a party for me and she knew where I lived? In London I’d be suspicious of such overly friendly behaviour, but here it just seemed … nice. I thought briefly of boozy staff parties at the Three Crowns in Clapham High Street and then shook my head to clear the memories. My life was different now and I had to get used to it. And if it was totally overwhelming, then I’d stay an hour, make an excuse of doing more unpacking or something, and scarper.

‘Thank you,’ I said, smiling. ‘That’s very kind.’

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Paula said. ‘Could I ask you to rinse out your mug and put it back in my office when you’re done?’

‘Of course.’

She got up and turned to go. ‘Feel free to make the office your own,’ she said as an afterthought. ‘If you need more bookshelves, or chairs just let Jeff the caretaker know.’

‘Thanks,’ I said again. I glanced round. It was a bigger office than the one I’d had in London and I was sure I could make it my own. My eye was caught by the portrait on the wall. ‘Paula, who’s that woman in the picture?’

She smiled. ‘That’s Esther Watkins,’ she said, proudly, as though it needed no further explanation.

I screwed up my face. ‘Sorry, I don’t know who that is.’

‘She founded Elm Heath Primary back in the early twentieth century,’ Paula said, as though she was reading from an information card at a museum. ‘We’re actually one of the oldest schools in the county. Esther Watkins dedicated her life …’

‘Maybe we should move her picture,’ I said hurriedly, interrupting her before I got treated to a lecture about a sour-faced spinster who probably thought children should be seen and not heard.

Paula looked horrified so I backtracked immediately.

‘I mean, maybe she needs to be seen. We could put her in the main office, perhaps. Or in the corridor.’

‘Perhaps.’ Paula sounded doubtful. ‘I’ve always thought it was nice that she’s in here. This would have been her office at one time, you know?’

I knew when I was beaten. I’d move grumpy Ms Watkins when I was settled in and had a quiet moment to myself.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ I said to Paula.

She grinned at me, obviously pleased she’d convinced me to leave Esther Watkins where she was.

‘I’ll send someone round to get you about sixish.’

‘Sounds great,’ I said, forcing away the nerves I was feeling at being “presented” to all the staff at once. ‘Lovely.’

Chapter 3
Lizzie

What did one wear to a village barbecue? I wondered, looking at my small selection of clothes later. When my life had fallen apart, I’d put most of my belongings into storage while I holed up at my mum’s house. And then, when I’d moved down to Elm Heath in the middle of deepest, darkest Kent, I’d realised I didn’t need all the stuff I’d accumulated over the years – it just reminded me of better times – so I sold it all, except for a few boxes of books.

Now I had what might be called a capsule wardrobe. A very small capsule wardrobe. I decided to go casual, so I pulled on the pair of cropped jeans I’d been wearing at school yesterday and a floaty vest with little flowers on it, and put a cardigan in my bag in case it got chilly later.

I was, I discovered when I was trying to draw a straight line with eyeliner, ridiculously and shakily nervous. What if everyone knew what had happened in London and they all thought I’d been involved? What if none of them wanted to work with me? What if – I gasped aloud and jabbed myself in the eye with the eyeliner pencil – they’d all wanted Paula to be the new head and were resentful that I’d got the job?

With one eye watering, I wiped off the mess I’d made of my make-up and instead just dabbed on some lip balm. They’d have to take me as I was. I brushed my hair, then went downstairs to my tiny kitchen and took the bottle of Prosecco I’d bought out of the fridge. If all else failed, I’d bribe them with bubbles.

I was ready and waiting when the doorbell rang, but it still made me jump because I was so edgy. I took a deep breath, plastered a smile on my face and opened the door to find a woman maybe five years younger than me on the doorstep. She had bright blonde hair in a high ponytail and freckles and looked like a cheerleader in an American teen film.

‘Hello, I’m Lizzie,’ I said, then I paused. ‘Lizzie Armstrong.’

She grinned at me, showing neat, white teeth. ‘I’d worry if you weren’t,’ she said. ‘Paula sent me to fetch you. I’m Pippa Davis. I teach years one and two.’

I relaxed, slightly, in the face of such friendliness. ‘Nice to meet you Pippa,’ I said. I picked up my bag and the bottle. ‘Shall we go?’

Paula was right, she did live just round the corner. I wondered if it was going to be odd living on top of all my colleagues and – more importantly – my pupils. Though we’d lived fairly close to our school in London, catchment areas were so small we didn’t have students as neighbours. This was going to be totally different.

‘Everyone’s so excited to meet you,’ Pippa said as she bounced down the side of Paula’s large detached house – I remembered what she’d said about her husband having clients and wondered briefly what he did – and into the big garden, me trailing behind like a sulky teenager.

‘She’s here!’ she sang. ‘Lizzie’s here!’

The garden was full of people, chatting and laughing, but as Pippa made her announcement, they all fell silent and as one they turned and stared at me. I felt sick. I’d not wanted to arrive with a huge fanfare, like this.

‘Hello,’ I squeaked. ‘Hi.’

Everyone chorused hellos and Paula rushed up to us and gave me a hug that surprised me.

‘So pleased you could make it,’ she said. ‘Come and meet everyone. Pippa, can you get Lizzie a drink?’

My head spinning, I took the glass Pippa handed me and drained it without even looking at the contents.

‘So, Pippa you’ve met,’ Paula said. ‘And her best friend is Emma, who’s our school secretary. She keeps us all organised. They both went to Elm Heath Primary together – isn’t that lovely?’

‘Lovely,’ I echoed.

I could hear Grant’s mocking voice in my head. He’d roll his eyes at the thought of people growing up here, marrying their childhood sweetheart, and staying put. ‘It’s so English,’ he’d say with a sort of superior chuckle. ‘So white, straight … vanilla.’

I thought of Broadway Common School where we had kids speaking more than thirty languages, celebrated every festival going, worked hard to include the kids with two dads in Mother’s Day and the ones with two mums in Father’s Day, and I wondered if I’d miss that diversity.

‘This is Nate – Mr Welsh – who teaches years five and six,’ she said introducing a man about the same age as Pippa and Emma, who’d no doubt gone to school with them too.

I shook his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said.

Nate stifled a yawn. ‘God, I’m sorry,’ he said in horror. ‘That was so rude.’

Paula looked at him with genuine affection. ‘Nate’s a new dad,’ she said.

‘Congratulations.’ I smiled at him. ‘Is your wife here?’

Nate looked at me with a hint of mischief in his eyes. ‘My husband Marc is over there with our baby, Leia,’ he said.

I turned to see an athletic man, a bit older than Nate, expertly bouncing a baby on his knee, while holding a bottle of beer and chatting to another man.

I screwed my face up. ‘Sorry,’ I whispered, feeling a tiny flush of triumph. Ha, Grant! I thought. Village life is interesting.

Nate chuckled. ‘Don’t be. It must be hard for you coming from London where people aren’t as liberal.’

He was joking, I thought. But I blushed anyway.

Nate introduced me to another teacher – Celeste – who was a dead ringer for a young Michelle Obama, right down to the enviable upper arms. I slid my own bingo wings into my cardie as I spoke to her, feeling self-conscious and not just about letting myself believe that everyone in Elm Heath was a boring stereotype.

Paula’s husband Chris was on the barbecue and their daughter Chloe, who was in sixth form, handed out drinks. It was all very pleasant, just a bit – overwhelming. Trying to make a good impression on so many new people was hard work.

Needing a moment to myself, I slunk across the garden to an empty deckchair and sat down. To my left, Paula’s husband Chris was flipping burgers. He was engaged in what seemed to me to be a fairly heated discussion with the man who’d been talking to Nate’s handsome husband. The other man was shorter, stockier, and more dishevelled than Marc, but also very attractive in his own way.

Both Chris and the other man looked quite cross and I was intrigued. I leaned slightly to the side and tried to eavesdrop on their conversation.

‘I think you’re being unrealistic,’ Chris was saying. ‘Idealistic.’

The other man frowned. He looked worried. ‘I thought perhaps, I could just see it as business …’

‘Are you the new headmistress?’ a voice at my elbow said, interrupting my earwigging. I turned to see a small girl – year three, I guessed with my expert eye – with a gap-toothed smile and wonky bunches.

‘I am,’ I said.

She fixed me with a serious stare. ‘Are you a nice headmistress or a strict headmistress?’

I thought about it. ‘Could I be both?’

‘S’pose.’

‘Then I will be both.’

‘You don’t look like a headmistress.’

‘Why not?’

‘You look like a mummy.’

I smiled, a genuine, not-nervous smile. ‘Do I look like your mummy?’

‘My mummy is dead.’

I stopped smiling. ‘I’m sorry.’

The little girl grinned at me. ‘I have a daddy.’

‘That’s nice.’

I shifted awkwardly in my seat. Obviously, I considered myself to be good with kids, but I was off my game this evening and this small child was unsettling me.

‘What is your name?’ she asked.

‘Ms Armstrong. What’s yours?’

‘Cara,’ she said, frowning. ‘What is Mizzzzzzz?’

‘It’s a title, like Mrs or Miss.’

Cara shook her head, her lopsided bunches bouncing. ‘I think you’re getting muddled,’ she said kindly, patting my hand. ‘Miss means you haven’t got a husband or a wife, and Mrs means you have. Mizzzzzz is just pretend. Do you have a husband or a wife?’

I swallowed. ‘No, I don’t have a husband.’

‘Do you have a wife?’

‘No.’

She nodded. ‘Then you are a Miss,’ she said, speaking clearly like I was elderly and hard of hearing. ‘MISS.’

‘Cara, are you being a nuisance?’

The attractive man who’d been talking to Chris was standing in front of us. He flashed me a smile and for a split second I felt a flicker of interest and not just in his conversation. He was wearing a rumpled T-shirt and jeans and his hair was sticking up, but there was something about him that I liked.

‘I’m chatting to MISS Armstrong,’ Cara said. ‘She is the new headmistress and she is nice and also strict and she doesn’t have a husband or a wife.’

I felt myself flush as the man raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Strict, eh?’

Urgh. ‘I have my moments,’ I said. Where on earth did that come from? Was I flirting?

The man put his hand on Cara’s head. ‘We need to go, angel,’ he said. ‘It’s late.’

‘But Daddy, it’s a party.’

‘And now it’s finished.’

Cara rolled her eyes and I couldn’t help but chuckle.

‘Nice to meet you, MISS Armstrong,’ the man said. ‘I’m Danny Kinsella, by the way.’

‘Are you a teacher?’ I said, running through the list of names Pippa had bombarded me with in my head.

‘God no. Just a friend of Paula and Chris.’

‘And a daddy,’ Cara said.

He smiled down at her. ‘And a daddy.’

‘See you at school then, Miss Armstrong.’

He waved at me, and he and Cara wandered off down the side of the house and out on to the road. I stared after them feeling slightly off-balance. There was definitely more to life in Elm Heath than I’d imagined.

Chapter 4
Lizzie

I was at school at the crack of dawn on the first day of term. I had always been an early riser, and when I was nervous I could never sleep.

I thought I’d be the only person there, but Emma was already in the office.

‘Morning,’ she sang. ‘Ready for action?’

I grimaced. ‘As I’ll ever be.’

She put a hand on my arm. ‘You’ll be great. Cup of tea?’

‘Yes please.’

Emma headed to the corner of the reception area where there was a sink, a little fridge and a kettle and busied herself finding mugs.

‘I’ll let you get on,’ she said over her shoulder as she filled the kettle. ‘Some things arrived for you. I’ve put them all on your desk.’

I thanked her and headed into my office. I’d come in every day for a couple of hours and made it more homely. I’d put books on the shelves, and brought in my stationery. But Esther Watkins still glowered down at me and the whole room was still pretty bare. At least it had been. Now there was a stack of post on my desk, a huge bouquet of flowers, a box of chocolates and two bottles in shiny presentation bags.

‘Oh my God,’ I breathed. ‘What’s all this?’

Emma had come up behind me, holding my tea. ‘Everyone’s very pleased you’re here,’ she said. ‘The big card and the chocolates are from the staff, but I think all the other bits are from parents.’

She handed me the mug. ‘I’m going to go and check all the classrooms,’ she said. ‘See you in a little while.’

Overwhelmed, again, I sat down on the chair and stared at the pile of gifts. I couldn’t believe how welcoming everyone was being. It was not what I’d expected and I almost felt guilty that they were being so nice when I was seeing this job as a step on my road back to normal life. A means to an end, rather than an end in itself.

I took a deep breath and a swig of tea and started opening the cards. They were all full of lovely good luck messages.

‘Wishing you and Elm Heath Primary lots of luck for the future,’ one said. ‘Love Sarah, Gary, Olivia (y6) and Rosie (y4).’

‘Let’s hope this is an exciting new chapter for Elm Heath Primary,’ read another. While another said, in a child’s handwriting: ‘Hello Mrs Armstrong! From William, Luke, Charlie and Emily.’ The kids had all signed their names individually and drawn little pictures of themselves and it was so adorable I could forgive them calling me “Mrs Armstrong”.

There was even one from Danny and Cara Kinsella. ‘Good luck, MISS Armstrong,’ Danny had written, which made me smile even while I prickled with irritation. ‘See you soon.’

I arranged the cards on the shelves, put the wine to one side to keep for drinks with the staff on Friday – I thought we’d probably need them – and opened the big card from the staff.

They’d all written personal messages to me, telling me how much they were looking forward to working with me, and how they thought this was the start of good times for Elm Heath Primary. I felt guilty all over again as I read them, given that I was approaching this job as a sort of gap year. A sabbatical. A way of pressing the reset button after a blip in an otherwise high-flying teaching career, no matter how many sweet pictures the kids drew, or how many messages of support the staff shared.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ I said to Esther Watkins as she stared down at me.

I drained my mug of tea and turned my attention to the flowers. They were peonies – my absolute favourite and very hard to come by in early September.

With a slight sense of misgiving, I pulled out the envelope that was tucked inside the cellophane wrapping and slid my finger under the flap to open it.

‘Queenie,’ the card read. I winced at the stupid nickname that I’d not heard in a long while. ‘Missing you fiercely but wishing you lots of luck. Gx’

My stomach twisted. How could he do this? I was just getting to the point where I didn’t think about him every hour of every day and now he’d wormed his way in again.

‘Sod off, Grant,’ I said out loud. I screwed up the card and threw it in the bin, then reached in and took it out again.

It had been such a shock when I’d discovered the extent Grant had gone to in his career. The risks he’d taken and the questionable practices he’d employed and not even for the good of the kids, simply to make himself look better – for his own gains. I’d been shocked by his deception, and by the fact that he’d not been the person I’d thought he was.

And then I’d been shocked all over again at how easily he’d sacrificed our marriage. His only concern was looking after himself; I didn’t seem to count for anything. It had been a long, hard year for me, living with Mum, coming to terms with what had happened, applying for jobs and having to explain why I’d left London over and over again. But it looked like Grant didn’t appreciate that at all.

‘Sod. Off,’ I said again. This time I ripped the card up into tiny pieces, shredding it on my desk like ironic confetti.

A knock on my door made me jump and I swept the bits into the bin, just as Paula stuck her head round.

‘Morning! The kids are about to arrive,’ she said. ‘Thought you might like to stand in the playground with me while they come in?’

I didn’t really. I wanted to hide in my office and pretend I wasn’t there, but I knew the sight of all the children would boost my spirits. I glanced at the cards on my shelf – I also knew the parents would be expecting to see me.

‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’

* * *

When the kids were all safely in their classrooms, I felt much happier. They’d all been so excited, skipping into school, shouting greetings to their friends. Cara had arrived, gripping the hand of an older woman I assumed was her grandmother, and gave me a cheery wave.

‘They’re a good bunch, by and large,’ Paula said as we strolled back to the office together. She taught reception and the littlest children weren’t starting until next week, so she was donning her deputy-head hat today.

‘I’m looking forward to seeing them all together in assembly later.’ I paused. ‘There aren’t many of them,’ I said carefully. ‘I knew the school was small, but …’

Paula bit her lip. ‘I noticed that too. I knew numbers were dwindling but …’

‘More so than you expected?’

Emma looked up as we entered but didn’t interrupt, obviously sensing the tone of the conversation.

‘I think so. It’s hard to tell in the playground.’

‘I’ll have a look,’ I said. ‘I should have admissions from the county by now. Come with me.’

Paula followed as I went into my office, sat down, and opened my emails. I was used to lots of movement in the days before term started; London had a population that was always changing with people arriving and leaving often, so getting final admission numbers at the last minute didn’t faze me in the slightest.

I found the right email and clicked on it. It was automatically generated by the council and had a list of pupils who had been withdrawn before the start of term. I scanned the names – there were about twenty of them. I turned my screen round so Paula could see.

‘Oh bugger,’ she said. ‘That’s four year sixes, a handful of year fours and fives, and lots of year threes.’

‘And you have eight starting in reception next week?’

Paula nodded.

‘How many do you normally have?’

‘About twelve,’ she said. ‘Sometimes as many as fifteen.’

‘Is there a waiting list?’ I said, knowing the answer. Paula just laughed without humour.

‘Where are they all going?’

She shrugged. ‘The big primary in Blyton, I imagine.’ Blyton was the nearest town and had a newly built primary school.

‘It’s quite a distance.’

‘It is, but it’s a good school. It’s a modern school with lots of bells and whistles. Some parents obviously think the journey is worth it.’

I picked up a pen and tapped out a rhythm on the desk, thinking. ‘What went wrong here, Paula?’

She sighed. ‘I think we all got a bit set in our ways.’

I met her eye. ‘All?’

‘As you know, the old head was quite old-fashioned,’ she said diplomatically. ‘We’re looking forward to you shaking things up.’

I smiled, even though I had that knot of anxiety and guilt in my stomach again. I didn’t mind shaking things up, but I hadn’t had any idea that pupil numbers were falling so fast. It didn’t sound good, to me. ‘Any ideas about what we should do?’

‘Lots,’ Paula began, then paused as Emma knocked on the door.

‘There’s a phone call for you, Paula,’ she said. ‘Lily Johnson’s mum. She says Lily’s been having nightmares about starting school and she wonders if you can pop in and see her?’

Paula smiled. ‘Bless her,’ she said. ‘I’ll sort it out. Sorry, Lizzie.’

She went off to take the call, leaving me marvelling at the thought of a teacher popping into to see a nervous four-year-old before she started school. It was a privilege, I thought, to be able to look after the kids like that. This was a lovely school.

Above my desk, Esther Watkins looked down at me, her expression unreadable.

‘Oh, shut up,’ I said.

Chapter 5
Esther

April 1910

I flinched as the huge metal gate clanged shut behind me. After everything that had happened, I was jumpy and nervous. Would that stay with me? I wondered. I thought it probably would. I was changed forever now.

Beside me, was my friend Minnie, looking shrunken and pale. She stumbled and I caught her arm.

‘Easy, there,’ I said.

‘Anyone coming for you?’

She shook her head.

‘Me neither. I’ll walk with you.’

We were both unsteady on our feet. Both feeling the effects of a few weeks in prison. We’d been on hunger strike and had suffered the horrors of being force-fed shortly before we were told we were being released early. But Minnie had been inside longer than me. She was feeling it more. I looked at her in concern, hoisted my bag on to my back and offered her my arm. She hung on to me in a fashion very unlike my independent friend. I thought about just how long the Holloway Road was. I wasn’t sure she would make it.

We took a few steps forward and I looked back over my shoulder at the prison behind us. It was a huge, grey stone building, squatting like a giant slug on the side of the road.

‘Where are you going?’

She shrugged. ‘Dunno. I lost my digs. You?’

‘Home,’ I said, though the word felt strange in my mouth. ‘Back to my mother.’

‘You never talk about her,’ Minnie said. ‘She a suffragette, is she?’

I laughed out loud for the first time in weeks. ‘No,’ I said. ‘She’s … disapproving.’

We shuffled along a bit further and then paused as a hansom cab drew up next to us.

‘Minnie Gantry and Esther Watkins?’ the cabbie asked, leaning out of the window. His horse stamped its foot, eager to get going.

‘Yes?’ I said, cautious. I had no money and I doubted Minnie had any either.

‘Mrs Pankhurst sent me to see you home,’ he said. ‘Jump in.’

I was still wary. ‘We have no means to pay you.’

‘All done.’

I exchanged a glance with Minnie. ‘Minnie has nowhere to go.’

‘I got an address here, from Mrs P,’ he said. ‘Are you getting in or not?’

I helped Minnie inside then followed. She slumped in the corner and I thanked our lucky stars – and Mrs Pankhurst – that the cab had shown up when it did.

I’d only been inside Holloway for a few weeks, but as soon as my cell door had clanged shut on that first awful night, I’d put pen to paper and started writing about my experiences. I’d always written letters, since I was a child. I never sent them, just wrote them – to school friends who’d wronged me or who’d helped me, to my mother when she annoyed me, to the king, to teachers I liked, to characters in the books I read. And even to my father when he died. So when I went to jail, it seemed obvious to start writing about it. And this time I sent the letters and Mrs Pankhurst wrote back, asking for more. I’d only met her once or twice but I felt like I knew her – and perhaps she felt the same because she was obviously looking out for us.

I must have dozed off myself because it felt like just a couple of minutes before we were pulling up outside my mother’s terraced home in Wandsworth. I didn’t even remember crossing the river.

Bleary-eyed, I sat up. ‘Good luck, Minnie,’ I said. ‘I hope we meet again.’

She gave me a sleepy smile, without opening her eyes. ‘And you, Esther. Our paths are bound to cross soon.’

I thanked the driver and slid out of the cab, clutching the bag that contained my meagre belongings. At the front door, I took a deep breath, bracing myself, before I knocked.

It took an age – or perhaps it just felt that way – before my mother answered.

‘You’re back are you?’ she said.

‘I am.’

She left the door open and walked away back to the lounge, I supposed.

‘There’s no food,’ she said over her shoulder.

‘Not hungry.’ I paused. ‘Can I have a bath?’ I felt grubby and dusty, covered in prison muck.

Mother looked round at me, her mouth a pinched knot of disappointment. ‘Do what you like,’ she said. ‘You always do.’

I went up the steep steps to my bedroom. It was tucked under the eaves in the roof of the house, cramped and uncomfortable. My narrow bed was neatly made with clean sheets and a blanket and I managed a tiny smile; it seemed Mother hadn’t completely given up on me.

Looking at my bed, I was suddenly overwhelmed with tiredness. It wasn’t easy to have a proper night’s sleep in prison. Sharing a cell with other women, the cries and sobs and shouts that carried on long into the wee small hours, and the discomfort of the hard beds all made for an unpleasant experience. Which was the point, I supposed.

I pulled off the dress I was wearing, which still smelled of Holloway, and balled it up. I knew I wouldn’t throw it away – I didn’t have the luxury of having so many clothes that I could afford to discard them on a whim – but I didn’t want to wear it for a long while. I couldn’t sleep while I was so filthy, though, so I plodded back downstairs and heated some water for the bath, my arms aching with fatigue as I filled it.

It was chilly in the back room and I didn’t linger in the tepid water. I washed my body and my hair, which had got long while I was away. There was no sign of my mother. I guessed she was reading, either in her own room or in the lounge. She obviously didn’t want to speak to me, and I couldn’t blame her really. This was hard for her. Everything was hard for her.

Until my father had died, we’d had a good life. Not affluent, not by any means. But we’d lived well enough. He was a clerk, working for a firm of solicitors, and my mother had been a tailoress and after I came along she took in mending and made dresses from home. They were so proud of me when I got my job as a schoolteacher. I thought my father would burst.

But just two years later, he was gone and so was all our money – thanks to his gambling habit. A habit he’d kept secret from my mother and me, but which had left us with debts to pay. Faced with poverty, we’d had to move to this house – I looked round as I dried myself off with a thin towel – this cramped two-up, two-down, where we could hear everything the neighbours said and did, and which my mother hated. It was our lack of options, as two women with no man providing for us, while clearing up the mess that he’d left behind, and my rage over that helplessness, that had led me to the women’s suffrage movement. And the friends I’d made there had become my family while my mother grew ever more distant.

With heavy legs, I climbed the stairs to my room. Mother’s door was firmly shut, so I didn’t call goodnight. Instead I simply pulled my nightgown on over my head and slid beneath my sheets, ready for sleep.

Tomorrow, I thought, I would speak to Mother and clear the air. I would explain what Mrs Pankhurst and the other women were trying to do and make her understand how important it was. How vital it was that women like me and Mother had some agency over our own lives, and how allowing us to vote was just the start of that.

I reached down into my bag and felt about for the battered old notebook I wrote in. I would start by writing her a letter, I thought. I just needed to get her to listen …

* * *

I woke with a start a clear twelve hours later, my notebook still on my lap with just “Dear Mother” written at the top of the page, to the sound of the front door closing and the murmur of voices.

Sitting up in bed, I strained my ears to hear. It sounded like Mrs Williams, the headmistress of the school I taught in. But it was Saturday, and I’d been planning to visit her myself later to explain I was back and ask her for my job back.

Why was she here?

Quickly, I threw on a dress and shawl and twisted my plaited hair up on the back of my head, then as quietly as I could, I tiptoed down the stairs and sat at the bottom, to hear what was being said.

‘I’ll wake her,’ Mother said. ‘We can’t leave you waiting.’

‘She must be very tired after her …’ Mrs Williams tailed off.

‘Well, yes,’ said Mother awkwardly.

I felt like shouting: ‘Prison! I am tired because I have been in prison for six weeks and I couldn’t sleep.’ But I resisted. An outburst like that would hardly help the situation. And I feared it needed help because the only reason I could imagine for Mrs Williams arriving on our doorstep on a Saturday morning was not good.

Slowly, I stood up and made my way into the lounge.

‘Good morning, Mother,’ I said. ‘Mrs Williams.’

Mother stood up. She was twisting a handkerchief in her hands, winding it round her prominent knuckles. ‘I will make tea.’

Alone with Mrs Williams, I sat down on the edge of a chair. ‘What brings you here so early?’

Mrs Williams gave me a disbelieving glance. ‘You don’t know?’

‘I was hoping I might be mistaken.’

She shook her head. ‘I came to tell you we can no longer employ you at Trinity School,’ she said.

I closed my eyes. ‘Mrs Williams,’ I began. ‘Could I just explain …’

‘I’m afraid not.’ She stood up. ‘We cannot employ criminals at our school.’

‘I’m not a criminal,’ I said. ‘I was a political prisoner.’

She looked at me in disdain. ‘You engaged in a criminal act.’

‘I smashed a window.’

‘And that is illegal.’

‘Yes, but …’

‘Your employment is terminated,’ she said. ‘And I feel I must tell you that you will be similarly unwelcome at every school in London.’

‘Surely not every school?’ I said, sulky like one of my pupils.

‘Every school,’ Mrs Williams said. ‘Every one.’ She picked up her shawl and glared at me. ‘Please thank your mother for the tea but I have to be on my way.’

She spun round and stalked out of the room as I sank back against the chair. Why did I cheek her? Why didn’t I throw myself on her mercy, apologise, and beg for my job?

A creaky floorboard made me look up. Mother was standing there, her face drawn. She had dark circles under her eyes and I felt a flash of guilt that I’d caused her more pain.

‘You have to leave,’ she said.

I stared at her.

‘Now,’ she continued. ‘I can let your room out if you go. I can’t afford for you to be here. Not now you have no job.’

‘I’ll get another job.’

‘Not soon enough. No one will take a chance on you. Not now. Not after this. It could take months before you’re earning again.’

My eyes were hot with tears. ‘Mother, no.’

‘Esther,’ she said. ‘I’ve found a lodger already.’

‘Where will I go?’

She looked down at me and suddenly her sad face seemed full of menace. ‘I don’t know, Esther,’ she said. ‘And I don’t much care.’