Sins Out of School

by Jeanne M. Dams

  “Mrs. Doyle’s unexplained absence, you mean? Catherine sounded quite annoyed about it when she called me this morning.”

  “That’s it, you see. Annoyed, not worried. Oh, I do see her point. One can’t have one’s staff vanishing, and Catherine’s first priority has to be the school and the children. But she seems to think Amanda—Mrs. Doyle—has simply done a bunk, and she wouldn’t do that!”

  “Conscientious, then?”

  “To a fault. She’s taught here for five years, and the only time she’s ever not turned up was when she had appendicitis. And then she rang up Catherine at home the night before to say she wasn’t feeling well and might not be in for a few days. She reminded Catherine that the next day would be the children’s turn for the library and computer studies, and never once mentioned the fact that she was in hospital awaiting an emergency appendectomy! So you see …”

  “Yes, I do see,” I said slowly. “I suppose Catherine called her when she didn’t show up today?”

  “No answer. That was when I called the bank where her husband works. They said he’d taken a holiday.”

  “Oh, well. They’ve probably gone someplace together—”

  “If you knew him, you wouldn’t say that.” Her voice was neutral, but her face was not designed to conceal her feelings.

  “You don’t like him.”

  “I can’t imagine that anyone who knows him likes him. Look, Mrs. Martin, Amanda Doyle is my friend. She’s a wonderful person. And if I could get my hands on that husband of hers, I’d strangle him!” She sounded as though she meant every word.

  Intrigued, I was opening my mouth to pursue the matter when the bell rang. It must have been just outside the staffroom door, because the clamor drowned out everything. I jumped, but the rest of the teachers were used to it; they scraped chairs and rose and headed out to their afternoon’s work.

  “Why?” I asked, trailing after Mrs. Beecham. “What’s he done that’s so terrible?”

  “Later,” she said in an undertone, nodding in the direction of the children, who were crowding close to us, intent on confiding the important events of lunchtime.

  “Later” came in the second class period of the afternoon, right after an English lesson in which I failed to distinguish myself. Even after living for several years in England, I still tend to speak and write American. The two languages differ in subtle but important ways. I began in disgrace by leaving the u out of “honor” when I wrote a sentence on the board, and the whole thing deteriorated from there. I was glad when the bell rang and Peter, who had appointed himself my mentor, informed me, with a grimace, that it was time for religious studies and we all had to go to the lunchroom.

  The whole school gathered in there, about four hundred children ranging in age from four to eleven, and all the teachers, and Catherine. The children seated themselves on the floor in age groups. Chairs were apparently considered an unnecessary expense; I wondered what they had done at lunchtime and decided I didn’t want to know. There weren’t any chairs for the teachers, either. We stood near our classes to keep an admonitory eye on them. Supervision was necessary; the children were bored and therefore restless.

  “They don’t like this part, do they?” I murmured to Mrs. Beecham as they were settling.

  “Not much. It’s pretty bland, I have to say. One-size-fits-all religion, you know.”

  “Oh. I thought it would be Church of England.”

  “No, nondenominational. Not even necessarily Christian. A lot of the children are Indian or Pakistani, therefore probably Hindu or Muslim. There’s a fair sprinkling of Buddhists, too, amongst the Chinese. And the Japanese—Masako, turn around and pay attention! Mrs. Woodley is about to begin!”

  The session seemed harmless enough, even fun. With the Christmas holidays drawing near, the children were learning several carols and sang them lustily, if not particularly tunefully. King’s College they weren’t, but at least they worked off some of their excess energy.

  “I don’t see why they don’t enjoy this,” I said to Mrs. Beecham. We had drawn a little away from the children, into a niche where we could talk without disturbing the practice.

  “Only because it’s required, I suspect. And of course most of the time it isn’t music, but watered-down platitudes. Pretty useless, really, and the children know it. You can’t fool them.”

  “I would have thought some genuine comparative religion would be better than vanilla-flavored piety. Or else nothing at all. Of course, as an American, I don’t think a public school—sorry, a state school—is the place to teach religion. The home, the church, yes, or else a denominational school.”

  “And those can be ghastly, believe me.” Mrs. Beecham spoke with passion. I looked at her with surprise.

  She drew a deep breath. “You asked me what was so dreadful about Amanda’s husband? Well, aside from being a bully and all-round nasty piece of work, he’s a religious fanatic, some frightful nonconformist sect. He makes their daughter go to the school run by these raving loonies, and Amanda has to go to the church. Twice on Sundays, and then there’s Wednesday nights, weekend prayer meetings, mission meetings, Bible study meetings—the woman can’t call her soul her own!”

  “It does sound a bit much,” I said mildly. The singing paused. I glanced at my charges and hurried over to have a word with Fiona, who was about to drop a marble down the neck of the rather dim-looking little boy in front of her.

  “Why doesn’t she rebel?” I asked when I rejoined Mrs. Beecham. “Surely she could simply refuse to do some of these things. Maybe she enjoys it.”

  “She hates it. She tells me that, but she can’t tell him. She’s a submissive sort of woman, always has been, I’d say, and he’s worked on that, beaten her down until she doesn’t dare defy him.”

  “You don’t mean he abuses her?”

  “Not physically, but words can hurt. And attitudes. He’s a harsh, cruel man, and why she ever married him, I can’t imagine. He wouldn’t even let her work if they didn’t need the money so badly.”

  “Doesn’t he have a job?”

  “Bank clerk. Terribly respectable and all that, but there’s not much money in it.”

  “I’d think she’d leave him. She’d have only a little money, but it would surely be better than living under such oppression.”

  “There’s some reason why she doesn’t. I’ve never been able to get her to tell me what, she just sidesteps the issue, but it’s almost as if he has some sort of hold over her.”

  “Well, maybe. But abused women often refuse to leave their abusers, and what she’s suffering is certainly abuse, even if it’s not physical.”

  “But Amanda’s not that type. Besides, from what I’ve read about abused women, they also defend their men, say he really loves them, all that rot. Amanda never defends John. Quite the opposite, she—whoops!”

  Mrs. Beecham rushed over to intervene in a pushing match, and by the time she’d separated the combatants and persuaded them to repent of their deeds, the carol singing was over and we shepherded the children back to the classrooms for the final lessons of the day. In my case that was supposed to be art, but as my art capabilities are limited to rudimentary stick figures, I gave up the battle and read to them from a Harry Potter book that had somehow found its way into the rather elderly classroom collection. I’d been dying to read it anyway, so we all enjoyed ourselves.

  “Please, miss, will Mrs. Doyle be back tomorrow?” asked Peter as the children tidied up the room for the end of the day.

  “I don’t know. Probably.”

  “If she isn’t, I hope you come back, miss. I like you, and we had fun today!”

  Oh, dear. It was delightful that Peter liked me, but fun was not exactly what school was supposed to accomplish. I probably hadn’t done my job, and Mrs. Doyle, when she eventually returned, would have extra work to do. Well, blast it all, the woman should know better than to absent herself with no warning.

  That was funny, actually. As I said somethin
g noncommittal to Peter, I wondered idly if Ruth Beecham’s worries might not have some foundation. A conscientious teacher wouldn’t just go away, let alone one with a stern, self-righteous husband. Surely he couldn’t have harmed her here. Or spirited her away? My imagination, nourished by hundreds of mystery novels, could come up with all sorts of possibilities.

  Oh, well. Mrs. Beecham was probably wrong. Maybe Mr. Doyle was just a little too rigid in his views for her taste, and she’d blown the thing up out of all proportion.

  Wearily I erased the chalkboard, found my purse, and went in search of my coat and hat.

  I found them in the staff room, where Catherine was waiting for me with a cup of tea. “Sit down, Dorothy. You look absolutely frazzled.”

  “Wiped out,” I admitted, dropping onto the sagging couch with a groan. “Oh, that feels good. But I’ll never be able to get up again.” I took the tea and sipped it gratefully.

  “How did you get on?”

  “Not too badly, considering. I can’t spell, at least not in English, as the children gleefully pointed out to me. And I’m a total loss as an art instructor. But they learned something in arithmetic—sorry, in maths—and in history, though not what was scheduled. And they taught me quite a bit of English geography. So it was a good enough day, all in all. Mrs. Doyle has prepared them well. Have you heard from her?”

  “No, actually, and I’ve rung several times. There’s no one at home, and apparently they haven’t an answer phone, or they forgot to turn it on. So I was working myself up to ask if you could possibly consider coming again tomorrow?”

  I groaned. “Catherine, you have no idea how tired I am! I’m too old for this, really I am. And I have a house to clean and a festive meal to prepare and a hundred things to do first—”

  “I’ll send you my cleaning woman,” said Catherine. “It’s the least I can do. I can’t pay you from my budget, since you’re not a qualified teacher, but I can pay her out of my own pocket and buy you some time. She’s very competent. Do please say yes! You’re good with the children, and truly there’s no one else, unless everyone in town suddenly recovers from flu. And you’d have my undying gratitude.”

  I sighed, the memory of Peter’s words clouding my judgment. The affection of a child, like that of a cat, cannot be coerced, and winning it always goes to my head. “Oh, very well. But only tomorrow, positively.”

  “Agreed. I’ll have Mrs. Finch there for you first thing in the morning.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Finch! I know her well, as it happens. She’s a gem. I can relax about the housework, then. When should I be here?”

  We settled the details, Catherine helped me out of the clutches of the couch, and I went to call Alan. I had planned to walk home, but I felt as though I’d been digging ditches all day. He could jolly well pick me up, and in fact stop by a pub and buy me a drink on the way home. I’d earned it.

  3

  THE next morning I dragged myself out of bed long before the sun and stomped around snarling over every detail of the situation. My knees ached. My head ached. I’d slept badly, with assorted children running through my dreams shouting unreasonable demands. Not only that, it was positively uncivilized to get up before sunrise, and the sun rose ridiculously late in England at this time of year, and I was too old to be teaching, and I wasn’t even getting paid, and some people really did take advantage of one’s friendship, and for heaven’s sake, Emmy, move!

  Emmy, the senior of our two cats, looked at me, stretched, and sauntered away from her position in the exact center of the top step. She made it very clear that she moved only because she wished to do so, not in response to my burst of temper.

  Alan, patient with my grumbles, brewed coffee and plied me with it until I felt almost human. He fixed me a bowl of cereal and even made a couple of sandwiches for my lunch; I had waxed eloquent the night before on the subject of school meals. Then he drove me to St. Stephen’s and promised to pick me up right after school.

  I stuck my head in the door of Catherine’s office to say good morning and found her in conference with a pale, thin woman in a beige sweater and skirt. The skirt drooped at the back and the sweater in front, probably because there was so little to hold them up. They were obviously designed for decency rather than style, as was her severely restrained hairdo. She was the epitome of the drab, washed-out librarian type, and I was surprised to hear Catherine address her as “Amanda.” Surely this mousy female couldn’t be the competent teacher I had replaced yesterday.

  She was, though. I was about to back away when Catherine looked up and beckoned me in.

  “Mrs. Martin,” she said formally, annoyance inherent in every crisp syllable, “this is Mrs. Doyle. I tried just now to phone to tell you she had come in, but you’d already left. I’m so sorry you were inconvenienced.”

  She looked pointedly at Mrs. Doyle, whose cheeks took on a faint tinge of color. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Martin,” she said almost inaudibly. “I would have phoned you myself, earlier, but I didn’t know who took my place yesterday. And I hadn’t Mrs. Woodley’s home telephone number. I’m really sorry. I hope you have a way home, I don’t drive and I must get to the classroom, but I have bus fare …” Her voice trailed off as she reached into her purse.

  “No, it’s all right, I’ll walk home.” It wasn’t all right. I felt very much put upon, but Amanda Doyle looked as tightly strung as piano wire. One harsh word might snap something and create a really ugly discord.

  “Very well, Amanda,” said Catherine, still crisp. “We’ll talk about this later.” She dismissed her with a nod, gesturing with her eyes for me to stay.

  “Well!” I said when I thought Mrs. Doyle was out of earshot.

  “Indeed.” Catherine’s voice was dry enough to crackle. “Walks into my office, says she’s very sorry she wasn’t here yesterday, but it was unavoidable, and starts to walk out again! Not a word of explanation, no worry about what went on with her class in her absence, nothing! Would you believe she refused, actually refused, to tell me why she neither turned up yesterday nor let me know? Just kept repeating that something came up suddenly, and she was sorry. She’d be sorry if I weren’t so short of qualified teachers, I can tell you that. But I can’t spare her.”

  “But how—extraordinary! If some sort of emergency kept her from getting in touch with you right away, surely she would have called, or had someone call, later in the day, or even last night.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? She is a capable teacher, and so reliable in the past that one might have set the school clocks by her. Now this!”

  “Do you suppose there’s some family crisis? Something wrong with her daughter, maybe? She looks tired to death, and terribly worried. Mrs.—oh, that other teacher I met yesterday—”

  “Beecham?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Beecham. I think she said Mrs. Doyle has a little girl.”

  “Miriam, yes. Nine years old, I believe. She goes to another school, which is odd, because the Doyles haven’t too much money, and faculty children can attend St. Stephen’s free of tuition. I can’t imagine what might be wrong with the child that would cause Amanda to abandon her duties in that cavalier fashion, or that she couldn’t talk about. Miriam’s had the usual childhood illnesses from time to time, and Amanda has always coped. She also always told us about them, in case we thought she might bring illness into the school.”

  “Hmm. Well, it’s a mystery.”

  “And will have to remain one, I suppose, unless Amanda decides to confide in me. I intend to have a stern talk with her later, but I doubt I’ll get anywhere. She can be terribly stubborn, for all she seems so submissive. Dorothy, I truly am sorry—”

  “Now don’t start apologizing again. It isn’t your fault.”

  “Well, I’m still sending Mrs. Finch. It’ll make up for a little of your trouble.” The phone began to ring.

  “I’ll take you up on that, and I’ll get out of your hair. I hope everyone recovers from the flu soon.”

  I waved
a casual farewell and left the office, but I didn’t turn toward the front door. Call me a snoop, but I felt I had the right to talk to Amanda Doyle myself, and with the children not yet in school, there was plenty of time.

  Once, long ago, when I lived in Indiana, I adopted a family of stray cats. The mother had plainly once had a home. She adapted herself easily to life with humans. But the three kittens were feral, and before they began to accept the idea that I wasn’t a mortal enemy, they would freeze whenever I walked into the room, then run and hide under the nearest piece of furniture.

  When I walked into Mrs. Doyle’s classroom, she looked up from her desk with the same hunted expression I used to see in those kittens’ eyes. Fortunately there was no place for her to hide.

  “I thought I ought to tell you what we got done yesterday,” I said before she could open her mouth. “I was so tired at the end of the day I forgot to leave you a note.”

  “Oh, that’s quite all right—I mean, I’m only sorry you had to come at all—the children will tell me—”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t quite stick to the curriculum,” I said, interrupting rudely. “I don’t know a thing about the Napoleonic wars, so we did American history instead, and I’m hopeless as an art teacher, so—”

  “I’m sure you coped very well, Mrs. Martin, and the children were well ahead with their work, anyway. Please excuse me, I must go and see to—I must go and talk to—”

  Stammering, she fled, brushing past me with exactly the panicky courage the kittens used to display when I blocked their escape route.

  Well, well.

  Thoughtfully, I went in search of Mrs. What’s-Her-Name—Basset, was it?

  Beecham. The name was written on a small card above the room number. She was at her desk grading some papers. When she looked up, her face was set in a tight mask.

  “Oh. Hello. Are you supplying for someone else today?”

  “No. I didn’t know Mrs. Doyle was back until I got here this morning. What on earth was she up to yesterday, anyway? She won’t say a thing to Catherine Woodley, and she’s scared stiff of something.”