Читать книгу The Secret Letter - Kerry Barrett - Страница 11

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.’