Читать книгу Traces of Her - Amanda Brittany - Страница 18

I stand in the corner of the staffroom gripping the stem of my wine glass, the sun beaming through the small Georgian windows behind me, bringing on the makings of a migraine. I’m exhausted. It’s been a difficult first year at Mandalay Primary School. Some days I feel like running back to my old school and begging them to take me back. I loved being a teacher. I hate being a head.

And secret-gift swapping with staff is far from my idea of fun. In fact, as I said to Aaron when he picked me up for lunch earlier, the whole thing is quite bizarre.

‘It’s like a Secret Santa, but in the summer,’ the school secretary told me a few weeks back, coming into my office brandishing a too-bright smile. She thrust a tartan cap full of pieces of paper towards me. ‘We’ve been doing it for years,’ she went on. ‘It was John’s idea.’ It was an obvious nod to the previous head who I knew she preferred. ‘We normally give gifts around the ten-pound mark.’

It was one of those many moments when I wanted to say, ‘I think some of these silly traditions need changing.’ But instead I pulled out a name and smiled politely.

I’d studied to be a teacher when Becky was young, after Seb left. I was living with Dad and Eleanor at the time, and I know, without their support, I wouldn’t be where I am. I guess that’s why I’m here, in this role, continually trying to prove their faith in me was worth it.

A shriek of laughter brings me out of my daydream, and I stare at the gift collection box in the middle of the room. It has stood outside my office for the last month, with staff dropping parcels off, and children and parents nosing inside. Even Becky, when she met me last week after work, asked who the gifts were for. ‘Sounds cool,’ she said when I explained. But then at fourteen, it probably did.

I sip red wine and wince. Not one for drinking in the day, I put the glass down, deciding not to touch any more. I’ll be driving soon, so shouldn’t anyway, and I know it won’t help a migraine.

Several members of staff are red-cheeked already, enjoying the fact the children have gone home to their families for six weeks, and chatting and laughing together after a long term.

I’m struggling to fit in here, and I try telling myself that being a headteacher isn’t about making friends. I must accept I will be slightly removed from the staff – on the outside looking in.

Ralph Martin, a trainee teacher who looks young enough to be brought to school by his mum, stands up and claps his hands. My heart sinks as the chatter fades. I hate surprises. They make me feel out of control.

‘It’s pressie time,’ he says, sounding upbeat, clearly enjoying the excitement. ‘Do you want to do the honours, Rose?’

‘No!’ The word shoots from my mouth sharper than intended, and everyone looks at me. ‘You go for it, Ralph,’ I say, trying to smooth the edges from my words.

The presents are distributed quickly. Wrappings are ripped off, flying everywhere, and the room fills with laughter and overexcited ‘oohs’. The gifts range from saucy pink, furry handcuffs to sensible silk scarves.

The teaching assistant who receives my gift doesn’t look too thrilled by a book of poetry, but I didn’t know what to get a man I barely know. And he is attached to literacy after all.

‘Rose,’ Ralph says. ‘This one’s for you.’

I take it with a fake smile, and pull free the gold wrapping paper, like I’m ripping off a plaster. Inside is a set of body oils. ‘Thank you,’ I say, flicking my eyes around the room, wondering who sent me such a thoughtful gift.

‘Just one left,’ Ralph says, lifting out another parcel. I see the tag is torn. ‘Another one for you, Rose,’ he says, arching his eyebrow.

‘That can’t be right, can it?’ I look at everyone in turn. ‘Wasn’t it one for each of us?’ I take it from him, feeling too warm in my short-sleeved polo neck top. The room’s too noisy. Too crowded.

In my hand is a green box, tied with a yellow silk ribbon. I feel a slight dizziness, a need for air. ‘Betsy,’ I whisper.

‘Sorry?’ Ralph says.

‘Listen, I’m just going outside for a moment,’ I say, turning to head for the door, unsure what’s wrong with me. Is it the stress of the long term? The worry I’m not cut out for a leadership role? Thoughts of Willow?

‘Aren’t you going to open it first?’ someone says, and an echo of ‘Go on,’ follows.

‘OK,’ I say. My fingers tremble as I run them over the lid. I’m being ridiculous.

Ralph takes the box from me. ‘Shall I open it for you?’

‘OK,’ I say. I have no choice. Everyone’s eyes are on me.

‘Chocolate biscuits,’ he says, lifting the lid, and handing it back to me. ‘They look delicious.’

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. ‘Biscuits,’ I whisper, placing the box on the table next to my barely touched glass of wine. ‘Just biscuits.’ But who sent them? I’ve already received my gift.

I go to leave, and as I head for the door I glance over my shoulder just once. Why did I react so stupidly? Am I on high alert? Fight or flight mode because I’m in a situation I’d rather not be in?

‘Help yourselves, everyone,’ I say, raising my hand and fluttering my fingers. ‘And enjoy the holidays.’

A chorus of goodbyes follow me from the staffroom as I dash down the corridor, the walls stripped of the children’s colourful paintings, making the school feel a little sad.

I fling open the door and breathe in fresh air, before heading for my car. Once inside, with the doors central-locked, I stare through the front window at the school, my mind drifting to the day we buried Betsy.

*

Willow had been five when she gripped my hand and looked up at me with sad eyes. The rain had poured down earlier, and the grass squelched under our feet as we walked down the garden, the moisture still in the air formed tiny bubbles on Willow’s curls.

‘Will Mummy look after Betsy when she gets to heaven?’ she asked me.

I’d known her for two years now, and over that time she had mentioned her mummy being an angel a few times, but it was always put down to her over-active imagination. Willow would make up the most outlandish stories even then. ‘My daddy is a bad man,’ she told me once, and I’d wondered if she was talking about Eleanor’s first husband – she certainly couldn’t have meant my dad.

We’d put Betsy the guinea pig in a green box tied with a yellow ribbon, and now Dad was saying a few words, as Eleanor lowered the little coffin into the ground.

‘We all loved Betsy,’ he said. ‘She lived a long and happy life with Willow caring for her so well.’

I swallowed down tears, as Eleanor sprinkled soil over the box, and Willow squeezed my hand. She looked up at me bewildered, and within moments released my hand and ran into the house. She cried in her room for hours.

I slip the key into the ignition and start the engine. I’m about to put the car into gear when a knock on the window startles me. It’s Ralph dangling a torn gift tag close to the glass.

From Jasmine Year 3 x

I buzz down the window and stare at it for some moments, before taking it from him, and turning it over in my hands. It’s the other half of the tag that was on the biscuits.

‘It was in the bottom of the box,’ he says. ‘Jasmine must have put your end of term gift in there by mistake.’ He pauses. ‘Are you OK, Rose? You seem a little—’

‘I’m fine,’ I cut in, snapping to my senses and smiling. ‘Just glad to be breaking up from school for a while, that’s all. It’s been a long term.’

‘Yes. Yes, it has.’ He scratches his head. ‘It’s just you seemed bothered by the biscuits.’

I shake my head, putting the tag down on the passenger seat. ‘I’m fine,’ I repeat. ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind, that’s all.’

‘Of course, you’re off to Cornwall tomorrow, aren’t you? Have a wonderful time.’ He raises his hand in a wave and steps backwards.

‘Thanks. Enjoy the rest of the afternoon.’ The site manager is locking up later than usual because I want to get home, and don’t want to spoil the end of term fun.

‘Thanks, Rose.’ He takes another step away from the car, as I pull away.