by Kate Hewitt
“Now I’ll be right upstairs,” she promised. “And Sam is right downstairs, if you need anything.” But please don’t get out of bed.
“You’re going?” Nathan’s voice wavered before he rolled over so his back was to her, thin shoulders hunched. “Fine.”
Rachel stared at him wretchedly, feeling all the more out of her depth. “I don’t have to go, Nathan,” she said after a moment. “I can bring my books and things down here if you like. I’ll stay in the lounge while you go to sleep.”
Nathan just hunched his shoulders all the more, a small, sad hump under his duvet.
“I’ll go get them,” Rachel said quietly.
“You’re going back down?” Miriam exclaimed when Rachel went back upstairs to get her school bag. “Rachel, you must be exhausted—”
“He’s only little.”
“He’s a holy terror.”
“He’d had a rough start to life.”
“I’ll grant you that, but you can’t spend every evening in Sam’s place while he works downstairs, can you?”
Could she? Rachel was too tired to think about it. “I’m just focused on tonight,” she said. “Sam will figure something out eventually.”
Back downstairs Nathan was settled in bed, if not asleep, and Rachel spread her papers on the coffee table as she started planning for the next day. The flat was quiet save for the occasional bout of raucous laughter from downstairs, and suddenly Rachel felt quite unbearably lonely. She was a people person, always had been, and she wanted to be with Miriam, the TV on in the background, a glass of wine by her elbow, planning her lessons while chatting and watching TV all the while. That was how she operated, how she thrived.
A whimper sounded from the bedroom, and Rachel tiptoed over to check on Nathan. He was muttering in his sleep, and as she gazed down at him her heart contracted with pity. It wasn’t a bad emotion, she realised, even though she’d resisted being the object of it herself. It was borne of care and compassion rather than any sense of smug superiority. She only wished there was more she could do. She touched his hair gently and then tiptoed back out to the lounge to wait for Sam’s return.
Chapter Sixteen
“RACHEL… RACHEL?”
The low voice and gentle prodding of her shoulder had Rachel coming out of a deep, dreamless sleep with a complete sense of disorientation. She sat bolt upright, blinking the sleep out of her eyes, having no idea where or even who she was. What day was it? What on earth was happening?
“Rachel, it’s okay. It’s me. Sam.”
Rachel blinked again, registering the warm hands on her shoulders, the face peering intently into her own. Sam. She was in Sam’s flat, and she must have fallen asleep on his sofa.
“I fell asleep,” she said, and Sam’s mouth kicked up at the corner.
“So you did.”
“What time is it?” She felt completely out of sorts, distantly conscious of how dazed she must look, her hair in tangles about her face. She fought an urge to curl up on the sofa and go back to sleep. She was still so tired.
“It’s a little bit after one in the morning.” Sam rose from his crouched position to sit on the opposite end of the sofa. “Thank you, Rachel.”
“It’s okay.” She just needed to get to bed. Now. Rachel stumbled up from the sofa, nearly losing her balance, and Sam rose quickly, reaching out a hand to steady her. Her body collided with his for a millisecond, but it still sent a scorching wave of—something—through her, shocking her awake.
Sam stepped back immediately, dropping his hands, and Rachel righted herself. Had she just imagined that moment? Was she that crazy tired?
“I should go to bed.”
“Let me see you upstairs.”
“You don’t—”
“I will.”
Since it seemed he would brook no argument, Rachel just shrugged and headed for the door. Her body tingled and her head felt fuzzy, a completely disconcerting combination.
The corridor felt very dark and narrow as she headed upstairs with Sam right behind her. She paused on the second landing, fumbling with her doorknob, and then Sam placed one hand flat on the door, staying her.
“Rachel.” His voice was low, warm, intent. Rachel stilled.
“Yes?” Her voice came out in little more than a whisper as she waited for who only knew what. If she didn’t feel so disorientated, she could navigate this moment more certainly, she was sure of it. As it was, her emotions were in a ferment, her thoughts a tangle. She half-turned, only to come into contact with Sam’s chest, more closely than she ever had before, so she could feel his pectoral muscles pressed against her, his hand braced by her head, everything about him so very close, and something flared white-hot inside her.
She backed up, but there was nowhere to go, and so she stood there, pressed against the door, waiting, her heart starting to thud.
“I…” Sam’s gaze scanned her face, his eyes looking very blue. Very piercing. Rachel’s breath caught. Was she imagining the chemistry that suddenly seemed to sizzle between them?
The moment spun out, and then suddenly it screeched to a halt. “Thank you,” Sam said, and stepped back. Rachel released her breath in an audible shudder. What had just happened?
Nothing, obviously. Sam was already turning away. Rachel fumbled once more with the doorknob and then let herself into the flat, letting out a little cry of surprise as a ball of golden fluff tackled her legs—and then had a wee on her shoes.
Five hours later Rachel was stumbling once more, out of bed and into the shower, her head feeling as if it were full of cotton wool. Miriam was still dead asleep, and so she sat alone at the little table in the living area, cradling a cup of coffee between her hands, feeling as if she were hungover even though she hadn’t had a drop to drink last night, more was the pity.
Her mind kept going round in circles, first wondering how she was going to cope today, and hoping that Nathan might be a bit better behaved, considering he knew her better, and then thinking about Sam and that odd moment last night when he’d seemed as if he’d wanted to say—or do—something important.
When it had seemed, for a split second, almost as if he wanted to kiss her.
“You are a dolt,” Rachel said out loud. “A very big dolt and a ninny.” She didn’t want to be kissed by Sam West. She didn’t want to be kissed at all. She wasn’t ready for romance, and Sam West of all people…yes, he was attractive in his own way, but he was so different—and she barely knew him. No, Sam West was off the table, not up for discussion or even consideration. Friend zoned, most definitely.
Half an hour later, dressed and feeling marginally better after two cups of strong coffee, Rachel headed downstairs and then up the high street towards Thornthwaite Village School. It had rained in the night and the pavement was washed clean, everything glittering in the bright autumn sunshine, the air crisp and clear.
“How did yesterday go?” Sarah asked as she popped her head in Rachel’s classroom right before the bell rung. Rachel couldn’t keep from making a face.
“He’s a handful.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“I’m going to spend about eighty per cent of my time on classroom management,” Rachel said honestly. “Which isn’t fair to the other children.”
“I know.” Sarah looked both tired and torn. “You know what it’s like with all these budget cuts, Rachel. If we could get you a classroom assistant, I would, in a heartbeat—”
“I know, I know.” As a Year Three teacher with only twenty-five pupils, she wasn’t eligible for a classroom assistant, not unless one of her pupil’s special needs required it—and Nathan didn’t, at least not officially.
One of the government’s austerity measures had been to reduce the number of children who could be given what was now called an EHC plan, or Education, Health, and Care plan for children with special needs, which would allow the school to obtain extra help and staffing. Nathan West didn’t have a plan, and Rachel doubted his current behaviour w
ould qualify him for one. He was troubled, and there were, sadly, far too many troubled children.
“We’ll get there,” she assured Sarah, although she felt far from such confidence herself. “Eventually. Perhaps he just needs time to settle in.”
A lot of time, she decided later, as she told Nathan to sit by her for the third time that morning. He came so quickly Rachel wondered if he wanted to sit by her, and was misbehaving towards that end. Maybe she needed to think up new methods of discipline…ones that actually worked.
By three o’clock, as she dismissed the children for the day, Rachel was glad to be finished, but also encouraged that it hadn’t been quite as difficult as yesterday. Nathan hadn’t been as openly defiant, although he still seemed to have a big problem with self-control, especially when it came to sudden movements or noises from his tablemates, whom Rachel had to continually swap out in order to achieve some degree of classroom sanity, never mind serenity.
She heaved a gusty sigh as she sat at her desk, grateful for the peace of a quiet and empty classroom. She would spend a couple of hours marking maths sheets and preparing for tomorrow, and then head home…to goodness knew what. Would she offer to take Nathan again? How could she not?
“Rachel.”
Rachel looked up in surprise as someone came through the doorway of her classroom. Sam. Her heart flip-flopped at the sight of him—in surprise, obviously. Not anything else.
“Sam.” She rose from the desk, one hand on the back of her chair. “What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to speak to you for a bit. How was Nathan today?”
“Better than yesterday,” she admitted.
“That’s not saying much, though, is it?” Sam said with a grimace, and she smiled in sympathy.
“He’ll get there.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Sam raked a hand through his close-shorn hair. “As well as for everything else you’ve done for him. I know he’s not easy.” Rachel decided to diplomatically remain silent on that point. “Anyway,” Sam resumed, “I just wanted to tell you I’ve sorted the evenings, for the most part. I’ve hired some more part-time help so I’ll get off my shift at half past five, in time to pick him up from the afterschool club.”
Amazingly, Rachel felt the tiniest, most treacherous flicker of disappointment at this assuredly welcome news. “Oh,” she said after a second’s pause. “Wonderful.”
“The only thing is,” Sam continued, with an unusual hesitancy in his voice, “I haven’t been able to get cover yet for Friday and Saturday evenings. I will, of course, as soon as possible, but in the meantime…”
It took Rachel a few seconds to realise what he was trying to say—or rather, ask. “You want me to watch Nathan on Fridays and Saturdays?”
“Only this week,” Sam said quickly. “I’ll find someone by next week—”
“I don’t mind,” Rachel cut him off, realising she meant it. “And it’s not as if I’m doing something exciting on the weekends. Really, Sam, I’m happy to help.” In case she sounded too eager, which didn’t really make sense considering what she was agreeing to, Rachel sat back down and needlessly shuffled a few papers. “So,” she said, apropos of nothing.
“Are you sure about this?” Sam asked after a moment, his voice low. “I feel as if I’m asking a lot of you…”
“You’re really not,” Rachel assured him. “And anyway, what are friends for?” The words seemed to hang in the air, holding far more import—and intent, even—than Rachel had meant them to.
Sam stared at her for a long moment, his eyes narrowed, his jaw taut. Rachel had no idea what he was thinking, and his next words floored her.
“You really don’t remember, do you?”
Remember? Rachel stared at him blankly. “Sorry, remember what, exactly?”
He let out a huff of laughter, the sound a little too sad to be one of humour. “Not that I’d expect you to remember. I know your parents had loads of people coming through the vicarage.”
“Coming through the vicarage? Wait, you mean…”
He nodded, affirming what she hadn’t been able to voice. “I lived at the vicarage for a couple of weeks.”
She goggled at him, hardly able to believe what he was saying. “You did? When? Was I at uni or something? Or…”
“No, you were seven. So was I.” His mouth quirked at the corner, barely a smile. “My sister was four. We had nowhere to go so your parents said we could come live with you until something was sorted.”
He spoke matter-of-factly enough, but the simple statement was enough to cause a lump to form in Rachel’s throat. Seven. Four. Nowhere to go.
“Why?” she whispered. “Why did you have nowhere to go?”
Sam’s expression hardened, his eyes turning flinty. “My parents were…well.” He shrugged, shaking his head. “My dad was a drunk, and he wasn’t above knocking my mum around when he’d had a few too many. Knocking us around, too. A neighbour finally called the police and we were put into care, except there were no places available. That’s when your parents stepped in.”
Rachel knew her parents had trained as respite foster carers a long time ago, just so they could step in as they had with Sam and his sister. But she still found it hard to believe Sam had actually lived in her house and she hadn’t even realised or remembered.
“I’m a bit shocked,” she admitted with a laugh. “What do you remember of that time?”
“Not all that much. Your mum’s cooking stands out. She made a treacle tart and let me have three slices. I thought it was the best thing, ever.”
Rachel smiled, assailed by a pang of bittersweet nostalgia. “That sounds like my mum.”
“Yeah, she was great.” Sam smiled and shook his head. “Sorry, I’m making it sound as if she’s dead.”
“No, just far away.” She smiled sadly. “Do you have any others memories?”
“A few. We stayed up on the top floor, and the windowpanes rattled. It scared me but I wouldn’t have wanted anyone to know.”
Big brave seven-year-old. Rachel could see him, trying to be tough, blue eyes narrowed with determination, lower lip jutted out stubbornly, thin shoulders squared. Kind of like Nathan. It sounded as if Sam had had a similar upbringing, and look how he’d made good now. Rachel was both impressed and humbled.
“So were you as challenging as Nathan back then?” she asked and Sam laughed, the sound one of genuine amusement like she’d never heard before from him, and it made her grin in response.
“I hope not, but maybe. Probably.” He cocked his head, lost in memory. “I do remember your father taking me aside one time, in his study. Telling me I was a fine representative of my family. I think I’d just nicked some sweets and so I felt terrible.”
“He probably knew it,” Rachel rejoined. “Dad always had a wonderful way of making you want to live up to his expectations.”
“He’s a good man. You’re lucky, you know, with your parents.”
“Yes.” Rachel swallowed hard. “I know.”
The silence between them stretched on for a few beats, comfortable and weirdly intimate. He’d lived with her family. She must have talked with him, played with him. Rachel wished she could remember, but she’d been so young and they’d had so many people through the vicarage over the years—a parade of those in need. Perhaps Esther remembered more.
“I should go,” Sam finally said. “Nathan’s waiting for me outside, and by now he’s most likely torn up the play equipment or started a fire.”
“My bet’s on the fire.”
They shared a smile, adding to the sudden sense of intimacy. Rachel looked away first.
“Right, I’m off then,” Sam said, turning towards the door. “I’ll see you later.”
It almost felt like a promise. “Yes,” Rachel agreed. “Later.”
After he’d gone she remained where she was, staring into space, a silly little smile on her face. After a few seconds she sna
pped out of it, giving herself a mental shake as well as physical one. What was she on about? She was almost acting as if…
But, no. Of course she wasn’t. Rachel pulled some papers towards her and focused on them with extra concentration, yet another few minutes passed before she could take anything in.
She left school two hours later, with a mizzling drizzle falling, cloaking the village in grey mist.
“Hello there, Rachel Holley.”
Rachel slowed, peering through the damp gloom, to see the wizened little woman standing in front of the gate to number fourteen on the high street, a whitewashed terraced cottage with a garden of neatly tended lavender.
“Hello, Mrs Cribbs.” Fortunately Abigail Cribbs was one of her father’s elderly parishioners whom Rachel knew by name. She attended church every Sunday without fail and sat in the back pew. She was also a ferociously keen knitter, and had outfitted all four Holley sisters with white crocheted cardigans every Easter for at least ten years. She had a stern, no-nonsense manner about her, a beady-eyed, gimlet stare, and a heart of pure gold.
“How are you today?” Rachel asked, and Abigail’s lips pursed.
“Oh, I’m fine,” she answered with unmistakeable emphasis. “It’s you I’m wondering about.”
Uh-oh. Rachel’s footsteps had slowed, and she now fought the urge to step up her pace once more. She didn’t want yet more pity—and she soon realised she wasn’t going to get it.
“So the wedding’s been called off,” Abigail announced, as if Rachel didn’t know. “What are you going to do now?”
“Um…just keep on, really. With my job and…stuff.” Not the most eloquent answer.