The Teacher's Secret (11 page)

It was different for Judy. She had her husband, Frank. And once she got her redundancy, the two of them packed up and moved to the country. They'd invited her down to see them several times, but she'd never quite made it. Her mother, she'd explained; she couldn't leave her mother. But that wasn't the reason. It was more the thought of making her way there alone and not knowing what to say to Frank when she arrived.

Joan didn't have a husband and when, on the odd occasion, people asked her why not, all she could say was that she really didn't know. Which was more or less the truth of it.

Of course, there were some things she did know. She knew she was precious: the miracle child of two people who had found each other late; a child blanketed in a love so protective that, for a long
time, it deterred those who might call on her. Later, when such a caller might even have been encouraged, there were none to be found. Especially not in dressmaking. And Joan, a quiet person, was not the type to go looking.

Instead, she had stayed at home with her mother and her father. When her father died, she was grateful to have her confident and gregarious mother still with her. With her mother around, life was vibrant and musical.

Without her, it is quiet and still. Too still.

Once she has dressed, Joan strips the bedclothes and, bundling them up, takes them outside to the laundry, where the rest of the week's washing waits for her. All of it, including the sheets, would fit into a single load, and yet still she separates the items by colour—black, white and mixed—and gives them each a cycle.

She hangs the clothes outside. The clothesline, which has been there since Joan was a child, is a simple affair: a timber post cemented into the ground at either end, with six pieces of coiled wire stretching the length of it. Putting the washing out is a chore Joan likes. She likes to match all the clothes up on the line: shirts pegged under the arms, slacks by the waistband, sheets lined up side by side so that three pegs will do both sheets.

Now a ladybird settles on one of the sheets. Against the white cotton, the tiny bug is vibrant orange. Tentatively, but hopefully, her breath held in, Joan stretches a hand out to the bug, letting the tip of her finger get so close it almost touches the little creature. Slowly, the ladybird moves towards the mountain that is Joan's fingertip, then crawls up and onto it. A smile as she brings her finger, and with it the ladybird, up towards her face. ‘Hello there,' she whispers. ‘Hello there, little one.'

The ladybird stays, poised. But only for a moment, before it flies away.

On one side of the house is a small park with bench seats and a playground. Most days, Joan spends part of the afternoon sitting on one of the benches, pretending to read her book, when in truth she uses the time to watch the children playing. She would have liked a child. She would have liked to have been a mother. Very much so. Instead, she has spent her life as a daughter. And now that she has no mother and no father, she is no longer a daughter either. It is a thought that hits her hard, for if she is neither daughter nor mother, who exactly is she?

On the other side of the house is Mr Edwards' place; although Mr Edwards himself lives in a nursing home now and the house has been empty for over a year. Only one trip it had taken and everything was gone: his kitchen table and chairs; his sofa; his armchairs; his chest of drawers; his bevelled mirror. If she hadn't been so horrified, she'd have marvelled at how a life could disappear in an afternoon.

A couple of times, they'd gone to visit him, she and her mother. It wasn't far, not really, although it had been tricky changing buses. But Mr Edwards had been pleased to see them and that had made it all worthwhile.

He had come to her mother's funeral. And Joan was touched that he had; touched, too, that his daughter, a busy woman with an important job, had taken the time to bring him.

It was a small funeral. Not because her mother hadn't been loved, but because she had managed to outlive most of her family and almost all of her friends. It still makes Joan sad to think about it.

A walk will cheer her up. A walk to the bakery will cheer her up.

She is already halfway down the street when she is startled by a little voice inside her.
Did you turn the stove off?

Yes, she thinks. Yes, she did. And yet the question makes her uncertain, so uncertain she thinks she should go back, just to check.

She wavers, and as she thinks she will head back, another voice rises inside her. A different voice. This time, it is her mother's voice, gently admonishing.
Joanie, my love
, she says,
the stove is off. You know it; I know it. The stove is off and the back door is locked.

But
, the first voice creeps back,
where is your hat?

Startled, Joan claps a hand to her head. Her hat is not there. And it's not in her dilly-bag either. ‘My hat,' she says out loud.

Forget your hat, Joan Mather
, her mother tells her.
It's early so it doesn't matter.

She is still flustered when she gets to the bakery. The choice in front of her only adds to her confusion so, as usual, she orders a custard slice. The woman who serves her has worked at the bakery for many years now. She knows Joan's name and Joan knows hers: Julia. Since Joan has started to come to the bakery alone, Julia has taken to asking after her mother. Not every time, but often. At first, simply because she couldn't form the words she needed, Joan would say her mother was well. Now, when she could, perhaps, manage to tell her, it is too late; it is like asking the name of a person, who, for years, has been a passing acquaintance. So she finds herself shocked into silence as she waits to see whether this is a day Julia will ask after her mother or one when she will not.

Today Julia just smiles and says, ‘With passionfruit icing?'

That's when Joan sees that there is a new type of custard slice on display: one that is simply dusted with icing sugar. Which makes
it look more European, or Continental. That's the one she'd like to have for morning tea today: a custard slice dusted with icing sugar.

But it is too late because already Julia has put the other one—the one with passionfruit icing—into a paper bag. Swallowing her disappointment, Joan pulls out her purse and pays for it, silently cursing herself for not speaking up.

Turning around to leave, she collides with the customer behind her. When she looks up, she sees in front of her a man who might be her age. Although she doesn't know him, he isn't exactly a stranger to her. Over the years, she has seen him at the shops, so many times now he has started to nod when he sees her. Although she never nods back, sometimes she does tilt her head in his direction. Because she has been so clumsy, today she can barely look at him.

‘I'm sorry,' he says, ‘I must have walked into you.' This is not true. It is clear that Joan is the one who has walked into him. But she is too embarrassed to explain. She is too embarrassed to say anything at all. She can only venture a glance at him. There is something pleasant about him. He is a tall man, but not a giant. He has nice eyes, nice blue eyes, and his hair is straight and carefully parted.

He gives her a smile before he turns his attention to Julia. ‘Hello there,' he says to her, ‘have you got a packet of those beaut chocolate-chip biscuits?'

His question makes Joan feel absurdly happy. She likes chocolate-chip biscuits, too. Only she makes her own.

Rebecca

On waking, Emmanuel's parcel is the first thing she sees, there where she left it, on her bedside table. Sebastian had been at school when it arrived, and although her urge to unwrap it had been strong, still she had waited until he was home. For him, there were two model kits—a fighter jet and a wooden sailing ship; for Rebecca, a smaller package, carefully wrapped. Gently she had tugged at the paper, only to find another wrapping, not paper this time but a length of light cotton folded around something fragile: a glass jar filled with seashells. The card that came with it had a handmade look about it, embossed cardboard with a photograph pasted onto the front. It was a beautiful photograph, of a rock pool, the water blue-green and sparkling, and underneath the handwritten words
Brindle Rock Pool.
Turning it over, she found
Made by Mel
written on the back of the card in the same hand.

Who's Mel? This was the question that immediately sprang into her head. Who was she, this maker of cards from the other side of the world? Her stomach contracted. Were they friends, Mel and
her husband? Was she beautiful, this card-making Mel? Catching her breath, she had opened the card cautiously to find it filled with words in her absent husband's hand. Cascading relief somersaulted through her body, a rush of warmth at the sight of those lines and curves, so clear, so familiar they might almost be the shape of him beside her.

My love
, he had written,
I hope you like this small gift of shells I have collected for you, and the wrap I have chosen for you. Here, they call it a sarong and it is worn only to the beach—which, can you believe it, is at the end of the street. If I have chosen well, perhaps, when you arrive, you too will wear it on the little beach they have here in Brindle—although I am told August can be chilly! As always, you fill my thoughts. Emmanuel xx

Brindle Beach is long and narrow, like a small bay. This is what he has told her. On the far side, over by the headland, people fish. The near side has the rock pool. Mel's rock pool. The university, where Emmanuel is based, is not in Brindle itself, but rather a bus trip away. There, in Brindle, he does not have a driver, nor does he have a car. It is not necessary, he has told her, for the transport is good. There is transport, too, here in Fallondale—but not to have a driver, that would never have occurred to her. Clearly, it doesn't seem to bother Emmanuel; his main concern has always been for his work, which, in the field of mining engineering, is important work. He has been much lauded for his fellowship at the university there.

Across the seas where he is now, he is often asked where he is from. In answer to the question, he says he is from Africa, no more than that. This, he has told her, seems to satisfy most people. Only the more curious ask for more. To these people, he speaks of the beauty of the country, and especially their part of it. Of the
country's politics he says little—partly because he silently despairs of the regime; partly because they themselves have never had any problems.

It is hard to believe that in a day, February will be over and March will have begun. By then Emmanuel will have been gone two months. Long weeks they have been, for this is the first time they have been apart for so long, and she is still becoming accustomed to the emptiness beside her in bed. Rolling over now, she picks up the phone to check the time. It is already seven o'clock and there are noises coming from the kitchen. Laetitia will be preparing breakfast.

She should get up, she thinks. And get Sebastian up, as well. She isn't due at the studio until eleven—the shoot is a short one today—so she will have time for a walk once Sebastian has left for school. She has taken to walking with her neighbour, Grace, who is new to the area and who, to Rebecca's surprise, is becoming a friend.

Out of bed now, Rebecca looks for something to wear. A sense of order is one of Laety's great strengths, and in the robing room each T-shirt is neatly folded, each pair of socks paired and placed in rows, each dress, each skirt arranged by colour. The shorts she chooses are knee-length. Anything shorter will court attention, which is not what she wants. There is a full-length mirror in the robing room and she ventures a quick look at herself, just enough to confirm that she is still beautiful. This is not a boastful thought. It is simply a fact. She has always been beautiful; indeed, it is for this that she is known. She is Rebecca Vera, actress, model, media personality. And mother to a child who will be late to school if she doesn't rouse him soon.

The door to his room is open and although she has come to wake him, still she steps softly. The curtains are drawn, keeping it
night-time dark. Now, when Rebecca opens them, light hurtles in. It will be a hot day, already Rebecca can feel it. From Sebastian's room, there is a view out onto the gardens, which are not only extensive, but also well maintained. Mosy has done a good job, she thinks, and she congratulates herself on having chosen such a diligent and capable gardener. Finding good staff is not always easy.

Slowly, Sebastian is stirring. Although his limbs keep lengthening, still his is the face of a little boy, eyes gently closed, long dark eyelashes curving upwards. Softly, softly, she strokes the side of his face.

‘Time to wake up,' she whispers. ‘It's well time to be up.'

Eyes still closed, he starts to stretch: legs pushing down under the sheet, stiff arms reaching out to the side.

‘Up, up,' she says, ‘and perhaps Laety will make you pancakes.'

Hearing this, his eyes open a fraction.

‘But you'll need to get up right away,' she says.

Still silent, he blinks and blinks until finally his eyes manage to stay open.

‘Get yourself dressed,' she tells him, ‘and I'll see if Laety can make a start on the pancakes.'

‘Thank you, Mama,' he says, his voice husky with sleep.

In the kitchen, Laety is laying the table. She looks up when Rebecca comes in. ‘Good morning, ma'am,' she says.

There is orange juice ready for her and as Rebecca slips into her seat, she takes a quick sip. ‘Lovely, Laety,' she says. ‘Thank you.'

Laety smiles. She is making the coffee now and Rebecca leans back to savour the smell of it. ‘I told Sebastian you'd make pancakes if he's quick.'

Laety gives a snort. ‘That boy, he'd do just about anything for pancakes now, wouldn't he?'

‘You make great pancakes,' Rebecca tells her.

‘I'll make a double batch then, shall I?' It is an offer she makes half in jest, half in earnest. There was a time when Rebecca would eat anything on offer; a time when whatever she ate, still her body stayed pencil-thin. Now she has to be more careful, almost vigilant. So pancakes are out.