The Secret Letter

by Kerry Barrett

  ‘Teachers?’

  He laughed. ‘Yes, teachers too.’

  The lift doors opened and we went out into a large room full of floor-to-ceiling metal shelves, stuffed with cardboard boxes and folders.

  ‘Archives,’ Danny said, spreading his arms out wide. ‘Anything you want to know about the history of Elm Heath Primary will be in these boxes. Somewhere.’

  I looked from one end of the room to the other, taking in just how many folders lined the shelves.

  ‘I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘That’s where Claire comes in,’ he said. He tugged my hand and led me round to the left, past a pile of flattened boxes to a desk where a woman about my own age sat at a desk, tapping at a keyboard.

  ‘Gorgeous Claire,’ he said.

  She looked up and beamed at him. ‘Danny.’

  ‘This is Lizzie, the head teacher of Elm Heath Primary. She’s the one who wants to know more about the history of the school.’

  Claire smiled at me. ‘I can definitely help there.’

  ‘Did you find those boxes I asked for?’ Danny said.

  She nodded. ‘I sent the first lot up to Marcus in planning,’ she said. ‘He was furious, by the way.’

  Danny chuckled. ‘Good.’

  ‘And the Elm Heath bits are all by Gloria’s desk. She’s on holiday this week so she’s not around.’ She gestured to the side of the desk opposite her.

  ‘Have a root through, Lizzie. Take as long as you like.’

  Danny touched the top of my arm gently. ‘I need to pop in and see Marcus in planning, but I’ll be back in a bit.’

  Weirdly disappointed that he was leaving me, I nodded. ‘He’s furious with you,’ I said. ‘Be careful.’

  ‘I’m always careful,’ he said.

  He disappeared off back to the lift, and I settled down at Gloria’s desk and opened the first box.

  It was a treasure trove of information. There were old photographs, programmes from school plays, newspaper reports on pupils winning awards for music or sport – and in one case a bravery award for pulling a dog out of a canal – but it was all from the 1960s and 70s, nothing earlier.

  ‘Is there anything about the school being founded?’ I asked Claire.

  She barely glanced up from her screen; clearly me on my own wasn’t nearly as interesting as me with Danny.

  ‘The boxes are dated,’ she said.

  ‘Oh.’ I looked at the side of the box I’d been rummaging through and right enough it said 1961–79.

  With some effort I moved the piles around and finally found the one marked 1912–1925. Bingo.

  It smelled dusty and old inside, but I got stuck in, pulling out the papers and laying them on the desk. This was more like it. I found more old school photographs, the original plans for the building, and lots of official correspondence from the education authority to Esther. Many of them were to do with building costs, and salaries, and while fascinating were not overly helpful. But then I found the letter giving Esther the go-ahead to open the school and let out a little yelp of joy. Claire tutted and I apologised, flattening the yellowed, ageing pages out on Gloria’s desk.

  ‘Dear Miss Watkins,’ the letter read.

  ‘I am writing to inform you that your plans to open a primary school in Elm Heath have been approved. As you know, I had some reservations about your character and whether it would be right to employ a woman with your history. However, the reference you provided from Sergeant Fairbanks of the Metropolitan Police assured me that your misdemeanours were youthful folly and would not be repeated. And your former employer, Mrs Agnes Oliver, provided a very positive character reference.

  ‘I was also reassured by your aims for the school and the clear way you set them out in the letter you wrote me. You are obviously a teacher of talent and I am willing to take a chance on you. I need not remind you that any return to your previous behaviour would result in immediate dismissal …’

  I breathed out slowly. This was more like it. Clipped to the back of the letter were the references mentioned. Mrs Agnes Oliver enthused about how well Esther had taught her three children and how much they would miss her, while Sergeant Fairbanks wrote in stilted police jargon about how much Miss Watkins ‘regretted and apologised for her previous misdemeanour’ and how she had ‘learned a great deal from her time in Holloway’.

  But what wasn’t there, was the letter Esther had written that had convinced them to take the chance on her. The letter setting out her aims for Elm Heath Primary that would be absolutely and totally helpful for me, more than one hundred years later, trying to find a way to save the school. I tipped the box upside down, ignoring Claire’s irritated sigh, and rifled through the papers but there was nothing there. Then I went through all the other boxes, looking for Esther’s mission statement, as I was thinking of it, but it was nowhere to be found.

  ‘Is this it?’ I said to Claire. ‘Nothing else on Elm Heath?’

  ‘No, that’s all of it,’ she said. ‘Is something missing?’

  I showed her the letter from the council and explained the letter they mentioned wasn’t there. She shrugged.

  ‘Might have got filed in the wrong box,’ she said. ‘It happens. But it would be impossible to find it if so.’

  ‘That’s such a shame – it sounded like it would really have helped.’

  Claire, to my surprise, looked interested. ‘There are normally ways round these things,’ she said. ‘Can I see?’

  I handed over the letter and the references and she scanned them, looking more cheerful than she had since Danny left. ‘These people could be helpful,’ she said, pointing to the names of Sergeant Fairbanks and Agnes Oliver. ‘You’ve got an address for Agnes, and the police station where Fairbanks was based. You could try them.’

  ‘They’ll be dead, surely?’

  She rolled her eyes at my stupidity. ‘Well, obviously,’ she said. ‘But Agnes had three children who might have families, or there will be police records. It’s something to follow up at least.’

  I felt a tiny tug of excitement. ‘It is,’ I agreed. ‘Thank you.’

  Chapter 17

  Lizzie

  Claire copied the letters and references for me. While I was waiting I got a message from Danny to say he was waiting in reception and Claire glanced over, hopefully.

  ‘Is Danny coming back?’ she asked. I shook my head.

  ‘He’s done with his meeting so he’s waiting for me upstairs.’

  Clearly disappointed, she thrust the papers at me and sat down at her desk.

  ‘I might need to come back sometime, if that’s okay?’

  ‘You’re welcome any time,’ she said, sounding as if she really meant the opposite.

  I went back up to reception where Danny was standing, looking grim-faced.

  ‘Everything okay?’

  He gathered himself and gave me his most dazzling smile. ‘All fine.’

  ‘Was he furious?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Marcus in planning.’

  He laughed, softly. ‘Actually, no,’ he said. ‘For once Marcus and I are singing from the same hymn sheet. We’re trying to find a solution to something, and it’s my boss who’s being difficult.’

  We’d walked out of the council offices and paused by the car park.

  ‘Do you need a lift home?’ I asked.

  ‘That would be great, if you don’t mind. My colleague dropped me off earlier.’

  On the drive home we chatted about the letter I’d found, and the references.

  ‘The note from the council said they’d been impressed by a letter Esther had written, spelling out her aims for Elm Heath Primary, but that letter wasn’t there.’

  ‘That’s annoying.’

  ‘I know. I looked through every box but it wasn’t anywhere to be found.’

  ‘It would be fun to compare the aims of the school then with the aims now,’ Danny commented.

  ‘I know.’ I indicated to turn off the dual c
arriageway on to the small side road that led to Elm Heath. ‘But your friend Claire said it could be worth trying to find out more about the two people who wrote Esther’s references.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘One was some policeman. He sounds like a stuffed shirt. And the other was the woman who employed her as a governess.’

  ‘Can I see the letter?’

  ‘I’ve put my bag in the boot. I can get it when we stop.’

  I glanced over at him. He was staring ahead through the windscreen, his jaw tight with tension and I wondered what had happened at the council to make him so stressed.

  ‘Is Cara with Sophie?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, she always does Monday evenings.’

  ‘Then why don’t you come back to mine. I can make us some dinner and open a bottle of wine. I’ll show you the stuff I found today. You’ve obviously had a rotten day and it looks like you need to chill out.’

  Danny leaned his head against the back of the car seat and smiled a tired smile.

  ‘I can’t tell you how nice that sounds,’ he said. ‘Yes please.’

  The kitchen in my little cottage was small but Danny sat at the breakfast bar while I opened a bottle of red wine and put some pasta on to boil. It was still early for dinner, but as we’d chatted we’d realised we’d both skipped lunch and we were starving. I dug some garlic bread out of the freezer and put that on too.

  ‘I love being with Cara,’ Danny said. ‘And I know I’m lucky to have Sophie round the corner because she helps out so much …’

  ‘Despite her being so unpleasant to you?’

  He grinned at me. ‘I wouldn’t say unpleasant,’ he said. ‘More, openly hostile.’

  I chuckled and he carried on.

  ‘But sometimes I get worn out always being the grown-up. Always being the one who’s doing the looking-after, you know?’ He paused. ‘What I’m saying is, it’s nice to be cooked for.’

  ‘It’s only pasta and pesto, so don’t get too excited.’

  He drank some wine, looking at me over the top of the glass. ‘That’s not the point and you know it.’

  Our eyes met and the moment felt loaded, making the hairs on my neck tingle. I broke my gaze before he did, feeling my cheeks flush again.

  ‘The bread should be ready,’ I said, opening the oven door. ‘Could you cut it up for me?’

  I pulled out the tray but the hot glass door swung shut as I did so, hitting the back of my hand.

  ‘Ouch, ouch, ouch,’ I wailed.

  Danny jumped from his stool and dashed over to me, taking my arm by the wrist and shoving my burnt hand under the cold water.

  ‘It hurts,’ I said, tears stinging my eyes. The back of my hand was red and forming a large angry blister. I tried to pull it out of the water and Danny held it in.

  ‘Don’t be a baby,’ he said sternly. ‘You need to cool it down.’

  ‘But it hurts.’

  ‘Not as much as it will hurt if you don’t do this.’

  He was standing behind me, one hand holding mine in the cold water, the other on my waist, keeping me steady. Danny wasn’t a tall man, in fact we were a similar height, and it felt comfortable standing so close to him. I could feel the heat from his body on my back and his breath against my neck and I had to be honest, that was helping numb the pain from my burnt hand far more than the cold water was.

  ‘How does it feel?’ Danny said.

  ‘Good,’ I answered dreamily. I tilted back a fraction so I was leaning on him.

  ‘Good? Really? It looks so painful.’

  I realised what I’d said. ‘Not good,’ I gabbled. ‘Not good. But it’s getting better.’

  He leaned over my shoulder to look at my hand, his face close to mine. If I turned my head the tiniest amount, our lips would touch. Did I dare?

  ‘Oh shit, the pasta!’ Danny let go of my hand and turned to rescue the pan from where it had boiled over the hob. ‘Colander?’

  ‘In the cupboard.’

  He found it and I moved out of the way so he could drain the pasta, drying my hand carefully on a piece of kitchen towel.

  ‘We should cover that,’ he said, putting the drained pasta back in the pot. ‘Do you have plasters?’

  ‘I think there are some in the cupboard in the bathroom. I’ll get them.’

  ‘Nope,’ he said, disappearing out of the kitchen. I heard him run up the stairs and then, after a few seconds, run back down again, with a large Elastoplast in his hand. I held out my wrist like a dog with a wounded paw and he gently covered the wound.

  ‘There you go.’

  ‘Now you’re doing the looking-after again,’ I pointed out.

  ‘And yet funnily enough, I don’t mind at all.’

  I smiled goofily. He was really nice, despite what Sophie said.

  ‘You sit down and I’ll finish the dinner,’ he said. I watched him stir the pesto into the pasta, cut up the bread, and top up my wine. My hand was still stinging but it was calming down now, and luckily it was my left hand and I was right-handed, so it didn’t stop me picking up a fork. I grinned at Danny.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘Lucky I was here.’

  ‘It was.’

  We smiled at each other for a second and then he tucked into his pasta and I did the same. We chatted about silly things Cara had said, and I shared some stories about kids at my old school, and then as I finished the last piece of garlic bread, I sighed.

  ‘The kids at Elm Heath Primary are just as lovely as the ones from my old school. Lovelier even. Those corn dollies …’

  I stopped, voice cracking as I remembered how overwhelmed I’d been.

  ‘I hope I can do something to stop the council closing the school,’ I said. ‘But it feels like a massive ask at the moment.’

  Danny looked down at his empty plate. ‘In my experience, these decisions have sometimes been made by the people at the top long before anyone gets to hear about it.’

  ‘Really?’

  He shrugged. ‘I just know how property works, that’s all. It’s a valuable site.’

  I looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Have you heard something?’

  Avoiding my stare, he shifted on his stool. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Danny?’

  ‘I think it’s amazing how much you care about Elm Heath,’ he said, finally looking up at me. ‘You’ve only known us all of five minutes and here you are, trying your hardest for everyone.’

  ‘I like it here.’ It seemed obvious to me. ‘Everyone is nice.’

  Danny pushed his empty plate away and leaned towards me. ‘Everyone?’ he said. He reached over and brushed a strand of my hair over my shoulder and then, very softly he kissed me. A jolt of longing shot through me like an electric shock.

  ‘Everyone,’ I agreed, pulling him closer.

  Chapter 18

  Esther

  1910

  After my discussion about the police with the wide-eyed girl at the meeting, I worried all night about seeing Joseph so close to home. I barely slept and went down to breakfast hollow-eyed and pale, much to Agnes’s worry. Fortunately, the children had their music lessons first thing, so she said she would take them and let me go back to bed.

  Grateful, I snuggled back down under the blankets wondering what I should do. Joseph was coming from work, and I worried that he could be wearing his uniform. If Agnes, or one of the others saw, I’d have a hard time explaining. And if he discovered I was part of the WSPU – and more than that, a woman who’d been jailed for being a part of the WSPU – he’d almost definitely not want to spend time with me any more. But I didn’t want to just not turn up, because short of going over to Whitechapel, to his police station, I couldn’t get hold of him.

  I sat up in bed as a thought occurred to me. I could go to Whitechapel. He said he finished work at four o’clock. I’d go at half past three and wait for him.

  And so, that’s what I did. I got the bus along to Whitechapel and found the polic
e station, just as the clock on the nearby church was chiming the half-hour. In relief, I settled down on a bench opposite and waited for him to come out of the building. I was still nervous though. Perhaps he’d been working elsewhere today? Or maybe there was more than one police station in Whitechapel and I’d chosen the wrong one. By five past four, I was getting anxious. I stood up and paced back and forth across the pavement. And then I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked round to see Joseph’s lovely face, his broad smile showing me how pleased he was that I was there.

  ‘Esther?’ he said. ‘I thought we were meeting in Kennington?’

  I couldn’t help smiling back at him, despite my earlier worry.

  ‘I fancied the fresh air,’ I said.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it, since it means we get to meet earlier than I expected.’

  He was not wearing his uniform, I noticed, but something about his demeanour still suggested copper to me. Maybe it was the way he held himself so upright, or how his eyes scanned the people around us. Or perhaps it was just because I knew he was a constable and I was imagining it. Whatever it was, I was glad that I’d made the trip east to Whitechapel instead of him coming to me.

  ‘If you’ve already done your walking for today, what about we go for tea and cake?’ Joseph was saying, still smiling.

  ‘That sounds perfect.’

  He offered me his arm and I took it, enjoying the feeling of his strong muscles beneath his jacket.

  ‘Do you live in Whitechapel?’ I asked, as we strolled. ‘Why have I only seen you in Kennington?’

  ‘I live in Whitechapel now. I have lodgings close to the police station. But my mother and father live in Kennington, and one of my brothers too, with his family, so I visit often.’

  I tucked my hand into his arm a bit tighter. I loved the idea of a close family. My father had lied and tricked his way through my childhood and then Mother, well, she and I had little in common. I liked the thought of visiting parents on a Sunday, and playing with nieces and nephews in the park.

  ‘That’s nice,’ I said. ‘I would have liked to have a family. I see my charges with their grandparents and it makes my heart full. And the way they run to John when he comes home from work, barrelling down the stairs to tell him about their day, oh it’s a sight to see.’