by Linda Coles
“I’ll get to that in a moment. My question is what to do about it. They’re blackmailing me—for me to give them better grades. Their last year is coming up.”
“And you’re their year head,” he finished. “May I ask what they’ve seen?”
“It’s very delicate. I’m a wee bit embarrassed. Like I said, it’s extremely personal.”
“I can’t help you if I don’t know all the facts.”
Sylvia had no choice to tell him, clearly, though she didn’t see what difference it would make—apart from embarrassing her even more. “They saw me and a friend of mine down by the river.”
“A friend of yours?” he enquired. Sylvia looked at him with appealing eyes. Need she spell it out to the man?
“Ah, I see,” he said, catching on to what she was trying to avoid actually saying. He looked almost disapproving, though she wasn’t sure why. She was a single woman, after all. Not that her personal life was his business; she was merely explaining her predicament.
“What have they said so far, and how?”
“I’ve had a couple of notes, and today I received another one. They’ve not signed their names, but I think I know who’s behind it.”
“How so?”
“The looks I’ve been getting. Seeing those same boys with other boys, deep in conversation. There’s a handful of them. Maybe more.”
“How do you know they’ve seen you?” he asked.
“The notes said ‘we’ve seen you,’ not ‘I’ve seen you.’ With him. And boys seldom go down to the river on their own. They’re always with their mates.” Tears started to well up in her eyes, threatening to tumble at any moment, and she paused to compose herself before going on. “I’m pretty sure one of the boys is Alistair Crowley. I’ve seen him and a couple of his mates down there before, when I’ve been sat reading. On my own. I know he goes there. And the handwriting on the note looks like his.”
The headmaster rested his chin on his clenched fist and set his elbow on the desk in front of him. He chewed his top lip a while, and Sylvia focused on it, waiting.
“How has it been left currently?” he asked thoughtfully.
“The last note said they’d let me know what I need to do in a couple of days. And if I don’t do it, my friend’s family will find out. About me.” She dipped her chin as she said the last words, her face flushing with embarrassment. The tears streamed down her face uncontrolled now, and she wiped at them with her wrist.
Frederick Browning reached into his drawer, pulled out a box of tissues and offered them to her. She blew her nose quietly and dabbed her eyes dry. More tears sprang free. She dabbed again.
“I see.” He sounded like the headmaster he was as he said it. Two words, not a sentence. I. See. She waited for his opinion and hopefully a solution. It was a long moment before he spoke again.
“Well, you can’t hand out greater marks than have been earned, now, can you? That wouldn’t be fair. And what you do in your personal life is of no interest to the school. The reputation of this establishment is entirely my concern, and I will not have anything taint it.”
Sylvia couldn’t believe her ears. She looked up at the man in front of her, dumbfounded. She knew where this was going: his precious school was more important than her being caught in an uncompromising position. She gathered herself for the final blow of his selfish words.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do, Miss Marsh.”
The formal use of her name was not lost on Sylvia. This was turning out like a bad performance review.
He went on, “Without proof of who it is, there is nothing I can do. I can’t haul the whole school in here and interrogate them one by one. Nor will I allow you to increase the letter-writers’ grades, even if you or I could confirm who they are.”
“But if I don’t do what they want, they’ll destroy me and … and my friend. Please, Mr. Browning: I need to find out who they are and make the adjustment, and then this whole sorry business can be over and done with.” It was almost a scream.
The headmaster delivered a withering look that felt more like a slap across her tear-stained face. “You are not understanding me, Miss Marsh. Whoever is responsible, I will not sanction their marks to be increased. And even if I did, they could still carry out their threat. And then where would we both be?”
Sylvia couldn’t believe his callousness. She stood and ran from the headmaster’s office, sobs catching in her throat as she fled. The door slammed closed behind her and she carried on to the ladies’ toilets in the next block, where she sobbed until she could sob no more.
It hadn’t been the outcome she’d hoped for.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Saturday 15th August, 1987
Gerald had a standing Saturday morning appointment, though it wasn’t where he told his family it was. Saturday mornings were his time with Sylvia, a stolen couple of hours where they spent their time in one another’s arms and talked about their future together. He was supposed to be at the office catching up on paperwork, but of course that never happened. They only ever managed a scant few hours per week together, him trying to squeeze her into his busy schedule without their secret ever being found out.
Most times, they would meet at their spot down by the river. Sylvia would bring a flask of coffee and they would share it, sitting in the sunshine and chatting. When the weather was inclement, they met in a car park nearby and drank the coffee in her car. It was safer that way. If anyone ever recognised his registration plate, they would assume that perhaps Gerald Baker was out walking on his own in the rain somewhere. But two people sitting in Sylvia’s vehicle wouldn’t raise any eyebrows, since Sylvia was a single woman. It seemed the most sensible thing to do.
But this day, thankfully, the sun was shining, though the breeze was cool. Gerald walked towards their meeting place, pulling his light jacket a little tighter to his chest. He could see Sylvia in the distance, already there, her jacket wrapped around her shoulders. The tartan rug was already laid out and she was sipping coffee from the flask. She must’ve heard him behind her, for she turned, smiled and waved lightly as her lover approached. Checking there was nobody around, Gerald sat down beside her and leaned into her neck, giving her a light peck on the cheek and running his hand down her bare arm.
“Mmmm, you smell so good. I’ll never get tired of your perfume,” he said lovingly. Then, once again checking there was nobody walking their dog nearby or ambling down by the river, he turned to her fully and kissed her urgently on the lips.
“Be careful, Gerry—someone might see us,” she said, and, reluctantly, pulled away from him slightly.
“I’ve been thinking about doing that to you all morning, my love. I can’t get enough of you. And I have already checked: there isn’t anybody about.” He leaned in again and pressed his lips to hers, gently caressing them with his own, lovingly though with more urgency. He gently laid her backwards onto the rug, and only then did he slow his kisses, staring down deeply into her eyes as she gazed back up at him.
She groaned lightly at the pleasure of it all. “I want to be in your arms forever, but I know I can’t be,” she said.
Gerald looked at her questioningly. “Whatever is the matter, Sylvia? What’s happened?” It was a moment before Sylvia spoke again; she lay there quietly on the rug with Gerald leaning over her, birds tweeting in the trees nearby and the river flowing not far away. It was the most romantic spot in the world. Gerald sensed her listening to the river and waited for her to include him in what was on her mind. Finally, raising herself up onto her elbows, she sat up fully and looked straight at him. Her eyes were already welling up with tears.
“I’ve got something to tell you, Gerry, and I don’t know what to do.”
“Then tell me what it is, my love, and we will work it out together.” He waited patiently for her to begin. He could see by her pained expression that it was something serious and immediately feared the worst. When she began to speak, he was relieved that it wasn’t
what he thought it might be; nonetheless, he was astounded.
“I’m being blackmailed. They know about us and are threatening me.”
And so, Sylvia poured out everything that had gone on—the anonymous notes, the threats to expose them both if she didn’t do what they wanted, and her visit to the headmaster, Fredrick Browning. Her tears spilled down her cheeks now, and Gerald put his arm lovingly around her shoulder.
“I think that bit hurts the most,” she said. “The fact that he won’t support me, even though my private life is nothing to do with the school. I wasn’t prepared for that reaction. I’m on my own with it. I don’t see any other way out of this, Gerry. We can’t risk our love being found out; you’ll be ruined.”
Their eyes locked while each searched for an answer on the other’s face. Gerald, for his part, knew he could never leave Sylvia; he was besotted with her, and wanted their relationship never to end. Indeed, he wanted to pursue it further. They’d talked long and hard about how they could be together, how he would leave his wife when the children grew up. But now, it looked as though his chance at happiness might well disintegrate. As tears continued to fall down Sylvia’s face, Gerald took her in his arms and stroked the back of her head lovingly as she sobbed into his shoulder; he felt as though his heart had broken into pieces.
For the rest of the morning, they’d talked things through, trying to figure out how Sylvia could escape the blackmail, and how they could prevent their affair becoming public knowledge. It wasn’t how they’d chosen to spend their time together, but it was all they had.
As their time came to an end and Gerald kissed Sylvia goodbye, he vowed to come up with a plan to put an end to her worry. He had to find a way around this: he wasn’t about to let a group of spotty teenagers ruin his relationship with the woman he cared so much for.
And if the school wasn’t going to support her, then Gerald Baker would.
He’d find a way.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Saturday August 15th, 1987
I can’t allow Sylvia to fight this alone. It’s not fair. She is worried sick, I can see; she doesn’t want this to come out—our affair, our love for one another. And for that, I love her even more. I’ll figure something out—I have to—and that means finding out who these boys are.
I’m not ready to leave Sandra yet; things are not in place as they should be for my new life. I need to wait a while. I need to pick the right moment if ever there will be one. I worry for my girls. But today, seeing Sylvia so upset, I realise I may need to rethink things. My heart is breaking too. I have to fix this.
Our lovemaking this morning was tender. Lying by the river with the softness of her skin underneath me is all I desire—for our time like that to never end. She is perfection in every way.
Tomorrow, I will learn more and set up a plan. I can’t stand seeing Sylvia so distressed. She doesn’t deserve it. But our love for one another is real, and it will never die. And the sooner we can be together, the better it will be. But not like this. I have to make a plan. I have to put it right.
I can’t live without Sylvia. I won’t live without Sylvia.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Sunday 16th August 1987
You were as I’d imagined in my thoughts and dreams, Sylvia. Every part of you was perfect: every movement, every thought you shared, every . . . everything. You cried out loud; you were as ferocious as the river I’ve named after you and as exquisite. We didn’t need the blanket—the sunshine warmed our bare skin, though I hope not too harshly, my love. I never wanted to leave that spot, never without you, but I had to. I had to come back here, to this house, to my life. To my children. They, and you, my love, are the beings that keep my spirits high. How I hope we can share the future together.
We will ride the coming storm. Fret not, my love. Forget the school: you have me.
Until I see you again, soon, Sylvia my river.
Chapter Sixty
Monday 17th August, 1987
Sylvia Marsh sat at her desk in the empty classroom, her last lesson for the day finished. Piled high on the left side of her desk was her own homework: marking her students’ assignments. She hoped they weren’t too dull. English literature didn’t suit every student, and while some excelled at writing their thoughts about what they were currently reading, others found the task impossible. And she knew exactly who those students were before she’d even looked at the homework they’d turned in. Not everyone enjoyed reading, and she knew she shouldn’t judge people by her own interests. She could never understand, though, why reading fiction didn’t excite some people; it was escapism. Reading a story was something very personal, a form of art that you alone took part in: nobody helped you or guided you or gave their opinions until you’d finished a book and formed your own. It wasn’t like going to the movies; movies were something to be shared with friends or a room full of strangers, or both. No, reading was something far more personal, far more beautiful.
She gathered the assignments up and slipped them into her bag, then opened her drawer to grab a couple of extra pens. As soon as she opened the drawer she froze. An envelope sat on top of the tray that held her pens and pencils.
The others before it at had all looked exactly the same. However, this was the first that had been delivered directly inside her drawer, in her personal space, and that in itself made it feel even more wretched. Tentatively, she reached her hand out as though it might bite, then hurriedly slipped it into her bag along with the assignments for later.
During the short journey back to her home, the envelope felt like it was burning a hole through the cloth of her handbag. But at the same time, she wanted to fling it out of the window, get it out of her car, as if the act itself would help get the nightmare out of her life for good.
She pulled up outside her small cottage, turned off the engine and sat inside the car; the sun warmed the interior in the cooling afternoon. She sat a while longer, gathering her courage. Finally, she pulled out the envelope and stared at it; it was like an unwelcome Christmas present. She wanted to rip into it and find its contents, but the same time wanted to destroy it. But if she didn’t open it, she’d never know what it contained for sure, so she slid her finger into the small opening and ripped along the top edge.
The message inside had been handwritten once again. She was conscious something had fallen into her lap, but was busy concentrating on the note. It described in great detail what the writer had seen only a couple of days ago down by the river. But this time there was a photograph—she reached down and retrieved it from her lap. It was a cheap Polaroid taken from a distance, but it was obvious who was in the picture and what they were doing. She gave an agonised cry and then clamped her hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her face.
Chapter Sixty-One
Monday 17th August, 1987
Gerald had thought of little else but Sylvia. She was on his mind a great deal anyway, of course, but now she was so distressed, he could focus on nothing else. He picked at his evening meal with his fork, conscious that his wife was babbling on about nothing in particular. He wasn’t paying her the slightest notice. Suddenly he became aware that something had changed in the room: dismayed, he realised she had raised her voice, and he looked up from his plate to see her glaring down at him like he was a naughty schoolboy himself.
Maybe if he was a schoolboy, he could do something about the culprits that were causing Sylvia so much distress. He’d be in the perfect position.
But as a grown adult he didn’t have that luxury.
“I’m sorry, dear,” he said. “I was miles away.”
“I can see that,” Sandra said caustically. Her eyes seemed to drill into his face; her stiff, lacquered hair made her seem even more severe than usual.
Sandra Baxter was not the woman he’d married all those years ago. She’d hardened somewhere along the way, though he couldn’t be sure when it was. She’d been a good mother to their two girls; she’d kept the family together
when Gerald was busy at work. About that, he had no complaints. But her softness had gone; something had hardened her soul, and she had become a bitter, ageing woman. He tried hard not to compare her to the woman he was so in love with, a woman who was filling his mind every waking moment.
“What did you say, dear?”
“I asked if there was a problem with your meal. Only you haven’t touched it.”
“I don’t feel very hungry, that’s all. I’m sorry. I’m terribly tired. Perhaps I’ll go and have a lie down. I hope I’m not coming down with something.” He pushed his chair back noisily from the table, and his wife glared at him once again. This time he chose to ignore her; he really couldn’t care less, he realised sadly. He paid her no attention as he left the dining room and headed for his den, where he locked the door behind him.
In front of the large bay window was a leather chaise longue, a place where Gerald often lay to think. And to dream. And where he invariably filled out his diary. Finding the small key on his keyring, he opened the old wooden cupboard and pulled out the relevant notebook. On a small oak table nearby, he kept a decanter of whiskey and a couple of crystal tumblers. He poured a couple of fingers into a glass and took it and his diary back to his spot in the bay window. He took a refreshing mouthful of the golden liquid and let its welcoming warmth burn the insides of his throat. Refreshed and fortified, he began to write his thoughts and feelings from the day before it ended.
Monday 17th August 1987
I’m scared. So very scared. My world will tumble without you in it, Sylvia, though my world is tumbling around me anyhow. I’ve had a note, you see, a note telling me they know about us, about our river—your river, Sylvia. They watched us on that soft blanket. They saw us together, enjoying one another’s bodies, and now they want to be silenced with money. How crude. Is that what our love has come down to? Vulgar money for their silence? Our love was destined to grow like the sweet peas, to bloom strong and tall, dazzling the world with its beauty. But now it will be stunted, stunted by silence. Could I be strong and leave my children for my river, Sylvia? Let the rogues tell the world and not care? That man is not me; I am the weak one. That’s why I love being in your arms. I am undoubtedly the weak one.