by K T Bowes
Emma turned the plaque around so they could read the damaging inscription again. She peered at it upside down, hoping she’d misread it the first five times.
To commemorate the opening of Little Arden School on September 12th in the year 1860 AD by Reverend P. Jameson, Vicar of St Martins, Leicester.
Sam worried at an itch in his scalp and bit his lip. “How could they get so mixed up? They think this year’s the hundred and fiftieth anniversary but it’s not, is it?”
“No.” Emma exhaled and wrapped her arms around the heavy wall plaque. She felt the roughness of the screw holes against her palms and shook her head. “They’re five years too late.”
Freda stared at the plaque. “I’ve never seen that. This doesn’t make sense.” She tapped her grey temple. “There’s nothing wrong with my memory.”
“Maybe it belongs to a school with the same name, but ended up here by mistake.” Sam nodded, trying to inject hope into the awful situation. He pointed at Emma. “Why don’t you do some research and see if that’s possible?”
Emma grimaced. “Look, we need to keep this between us for now. I’ll do some checking with the Harborough museum, the council and the local library and see what I can find out.” She bit her lip. “But we need to face facts. This school might be older than we thought.”
Sam held his hands out for the plaque. “Why don’t I pop it back in the attic for now? I’ll put it behind the labelled boxes so we know where it is. It’d be a disaster if Mr Dalton came wandering in here and saw it. He’d go mental!”
Emma nodded. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. But first I’ll take a quick scan of it.”
“You can’t take it out there!” Freda exclaimed as the hand bell rang for morning playtime. “Someone might see!”
“Take a photo on your phone?” Sam’s head wobbled like a toy.
“I broke it.” Emma’s shoulders drooped as she handed the offending artifact over to the caretaker.
“I’ll do it on mine and email it to you.” Sam laid the plaque on the table and took a few snaps of it. Then he pressed buttons and asked for Emma’s email address.
“I don’t have one. Oh, this is a disaster!”
“We’ll sort it out later,” Sam said, slipping his phone into his pocket. “So is one of you really pregnant then? Or was it a joke?”
“Me!” Emma said. “And if you tell anyone about the plaque or my pregnancy, I’ll break your legs.”
“No, you won’t,” Sam snickered and then he looked at Emma’s intense stare. “Oh, you would.”
“I most definitely will!” Emma snapped. She pointed a dust covered finger at his pointy nose. “And I mean it!”
Sam disappeared with the plaque covered in an old stained tea towel, sneaking round the corner like a ninja on a mission. Freda stood next to Emma and stroked her curly hair with tender fingers. “It might not be a disaster, dear. The photos and other artifacts still need taking care of. They’ll decay further if we don’t get them into the proper wrappers and boxes. I’m sure Mr Dalton will understand that?”
“He won’t care anymore,” Emma replied sadly. “People only care about history if they can use it for something. Mr Dalton and the committee were only interested in the photos because they needed them. If there’s nothing to celebrate, they’ll go back into the attic for another fifty years.”
“Well, forty five actually,” Freda said, giving Emma a hearty pat on the back. “Try not to worry. It changes nothing.”
Emma shrugged. “I liked having a job title. Anton left me enough money not to work but I’m used to being independent. It’s silly really, I know.”
“No, it isn’t.” Freda bent and kissed the top of Emma’s head. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to find your place in this world.” She gave Emma’s shoulders a squeeze. “Look, darling. Do your research and say nothing for now. I’ll pack up for today. I need to visit my apartment and pick up more clothes. Please could you fetch me when you finish here?”
Emma nodded. “Yeah, that’s fine.” She stood up and hugged the elderly lady. “I’m glad you were here when I found it. It’s a relief to have someone to share my burdens with.”
Freda winked at Emma as she shrugged on her tweed jacket. “My pleasure, dear. I haven’t had this much fun since I was a much younger woman.”
Emma smiled, but the expression didn’t reach her eyes. “I didn’t imagine it would be this turbulent.”
“You’re doing just fine.” Freda grabbed her handbag, stopping at the door in hesitation. “Emma, you’d tell me if I outstayed my welcome, wouldn’t you? I’ve lived at Wingate Hall for over two weeks now and while I’ve loved every moment, I don’t want to become a burden.”
“It’s been lovely having someone else around,” Emma sighed. “It’s a huge old place and I’ve appreciated your advice with the redecorations.”
“Very well then.” Freda smiled. “I’ll give it a few more nights but then I should go home. My poetry recital group have been ringing my mobile phone every day for the last week. I think they’re missing me.” With a final regal wave she set off, closing the door quietly behind her.
In the empty room, Emma let her head sink into her hands to stave off the groan of misery. She heard Sam walking overhead in the attic. His footsteps were a long way from the mezzanine floor and she picked up the sound of his heavy boots jumping from joist to joist where there was nothing between the insulation and the ceiling. A piece of plaster hit Emma on the top of the head and a shower of white flakes followed it. Where was he hiding the stupid thing? Emma sighed and missed Rohan with a physical ache at the top of her stomach. “Where are you, Rohan Andreyev?” she spoke into the emptiness. “Why are you never around when I need you?”
Emma heard Sam moving back along the joists and watched as another cloud of dust shivered through the glow from the bare strip lights, sparkling like glitter. She heaved a sigh of relief that the damning object was once again safely hidden and contemplated the century and a half of trouble it was about to release.
Chapter 7
It took hours for Emma to find sleep after her stressful day. The discovery of the mottled, brass plaque filled her with horror and she fretted. It explained the school’s classification as Church of England, even though the links with the little church around the corner were tenuous. The local vicar visited the assembly once a month when he could make it and although he was a vibrant and entertaining frocked gentleman, the association went no further. The Church must have commissioned the school, otherwise it made no sense for the Vicar of St Martins to open it. Emma groaned and pushed her face into the pillow. She’d walked the dog for an hour in the dark, hoping to find physical exhaustion conducive to sleep but failing.
The piercing scream woke her, heart pounding and wide eyed as Emma sat upright in her bed and stared into the darkness. She heard the dog bark in the kitchen and panicked.
“Mummy!” Running feet heralded a terrified Nicky barrelling into the room, terror drawing sobs from his slender chest. “Mummy! You heard it?”
“It’s ok, it’s ok,” she repeated, her voice coming amidst gasps of air. “Climb under the blankets and hide. I’ll check on Freda.” Emma pushed the covers back and patted her son’s head, grabbing the cricket bat from behind Nicky’s bedroom door on her way past. Her heart pounded, sending blood swishing through her eardrums as Emma ran along the hallway past closed doors, making little sound on the carpet in her socks.
Light came from under Freda’s door and Emma heard the low murmur of voices. She pressed her ear against the oak, listening for a repeat of the scream. Her held breath emerged in a rush of recognition and she gripped the knob and flung the heavy door open. “What’s going on?”
The man’s back was tanned, the flesh scarred with lines which Emma knew intimately. His bare bottom was pert and neat, his arms muscular and defined as he pressed a rumpled shirt over his groin to protect his last shred of dignity. Freda sat upright in the cream bed coverings, her hair suck
ed tightly into rollers and shrouded by a black hair net. Her wrinkled face was shiny with moisturiser and her lips were in the process of transitioning from horror to pleasure. Her blue eyes bugged in their sockets, crinkled at the corners where the laughter began. “Your husband paid me a visit,” Freda simpered, her mouth looking collapsed without her dentures. “But much as I’d love to oblige, I don’t indulge in married men.”
Emma bit her lip and turned to Rohan. “You came onto Freda?” Her tone sounded incredulous and he shook his head, his face angry.
“No, I bloody didn’t! I thought I’d sleep in here and surprise you in the morning. I didn’t know there’d be a staraya zhenshchina in the spare bed?”
“What?” Freda perked up, rising from the sheets like a flannelette clad ghost. “What did he call me?”
“A guest, Freda. He said guest,” Emma replied, not taking her eyes from her husband. She raked his gloriously formed body for injury. Covering for his tactless use of the Russian for old woman, her shoulders drooped as she spotted the bruising around his ribs. “I’m awake now, Rohan. You might as well come to bed.” Emma turned, waving over her shoulder as she set off towards the bedroom. “Unless you’d rather stay with Freda.”
Emma strode along the corridor and placed the cricket bat behind Nicky’s door. She heard Rohan shuffling behind her, balancing his clothing in his arms and listing on his prosthetic leg. They met up in the bedroom doorway, Rohan’s face flushed with embarrassment and his eyes bashful. Nicky shot up from under the duvet and yelped with pleasure. “Daddy!”
“Zdravstvuyte, syn,” Rohan replied, dropping most of his clothes as the child hurled himself against the strong, masculine body. Hello, son. He struggled to keep himself modestly covered using his underpants and a lonely black sock.
Nicky kissed the washboard stomach and giggled. “You’re rudey dudey!”
“Yeah, Dad’s tired now, babe. He scared Freda and now he’s going to bed. There’s nothing to worry about so hop back into bed and go to sleep. You’ve got school in a few hours.” Emma shooed the reluctant child into his room and settled him with kisses, returning to the bedroom to the sound of water running in the ensuite bathroom. Rohan’s crutches lay on the tiles near the shower entrance and his prosthetic leg stood abandoned in the corner. A stump sock lay next to it and Emma picked it up, laying it in the washing basket with a sigh.
Steam filled the large room and the slap of water on the glass screen broke into the night, sounding too loud for the hour. Rohan soaped his body with meticulous care and ran his hands over his hair to push the water back from his eyes. He balanced on one leg, intermittently using his hands to brace himself against the walls of the shower. Emma sat on the toilet lid and waited, sleep a long way off.
Rohan pushed the shower door open and balanced on one leg to reach for his crutches. Emma got there first, handing them to him so he could step onto the mat. His body glistened with water and a drip ran off the end of his nose. “Here, let me,” Emma whispered, reaching backwards for a towel. With gentle fingers she ran the fabric over her husband’s face, patting the soft area around his vibrant blue eyes. Then she smoothed it along his neck and chest. Rohan balanced on his crutches, knitting his brow as he tried to read her expression but Emma moved behind him, stroking the towel over his strong back and patting the shining beads from his shoulders. It was hard work ignoring the pink scar from a stab wound inflicted a few months previously and Emma deliberately concentrated on the ridges of his spine. She bit her lip and hid a smile as Rohan’s muscles flexed, sensing his excitement at her touch. She dragged the towel down his ribs with care, seeing the blush of a purple bruise reach towards his backbone. Her lips against his shoulder blade ignited a shiver of desire which rippled across Rohan’s body. “I’ve missed you so much,” he breathed.
The crutches made it impossible for him to touch her and Emma played her advantage, trailing her lips down his side to his hip and hearing him gasp. “Did you?” she asked, rising and inflicting a tiny nip on his pectoral muscle. Her brown eyes were full of question, a delicate hint of mischief underlining the fear which drove her to know if her absence affected him.
“Of course I did, devotchka.” Rohan stared at the floor tiles and his long eyelashes grazed his cheek. “It’s strange. I used to feel so alive when I was the Actuary, tracking the risk and planning how to liberate it. This time was different. I wanted to be home with you and my syn.”
Emma rested her face against his arm, feeling the hairs tickling her. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the sensation of Rohan’s muscles flexing and the changing contours of his flesh against her cheek. “I didn’t want you to go,” she whispered. “I’ve hated the last two weeks.”
Rohan nodded. “I’m sorry, Em. I shouldn’t have gone. It was a big mistake.”
“What happened?” Fear lit Emma’s face from the inside and her brown eyes flashed.
Rohan shook his head. “No, dorogaya, not tonight. I’m tired and I want to be in bed with my wife.”
Emma saw the exhaustion in his eyes and the wobble in his stance as he balanced on his good leg and leaned heavily on the metal crutches. She fixed the towel around his waist so he could propel himself across the cold bedroom and drop the crutches next to the bed, falling into the warm sheets with a contented sigh. “You didn’t light the fire?” he asked as Emma snuggled into his armpit and stretched her forearm across his damp stomach.
“Couldn’t be bothered,” she sighed. “Going to bed without you was horrid. It felt soulless like in the old days on the estate, cuddling into my sleeping bag with ice on the inside of the windows.”
Rohan kissed the top of her head. “I thought Nicky would take my place and didn’t want to disturb you both, so figured I’d shower in the bathroom down there. I smelled paint and wanted to see how the room turned out. When I opened the bedroom door and flicked on the light, Freda sat up in the bed like Poseidon, her hair on end and a trident gripped in her fingers.”
Emma snorted. “Don’t exaggerate. Poseidon with hair curlers and teeth in a glass on the night stand?”
“Don’t remind me,” Rohan groaned.
“Freda’s always telling me this house was a hot bed of affairs and bed hopping in its time. Your nude full frontal was probably the most exciting thing that’s happened to her in years.” Emma sniffed, her voice sad. “Nicky didn’t sleep here after the guest room was finished. Freda moved in there and he abandoned me. She’s due to go home tomorrow anyway.”
“Nicky’s growing up so fast.” Rohan shifted on his side and stroked Emma’s cheek. Moonlight from the open curtains filtered through the leaded windows and bathed her in a silvery glow. Rohan’s fingers strayed to Emma’s stomach, feeling the budding swell of his child. “Best he does it before this little one comes along.” His fingers drifted inside the elastic of Emma’s pyjamas, pushing the fabric away from her sensitive skin. “Ya lyublyu tebya, Mrs Andreyev.”
Emma’s breath came as a tiny puff as she groaned and whispered, “I love you too.”
Chapter 8
“Nice of ya to walk yer wee friend home.” His lyrical Irish voice made Emma turn sharply on the path through the park, her fright gravitating quickly to annoyance.
“Stop doing that!” she exclaimed. “I’m pregnant, you idiot!”
“Aye so y’are. Didn’t I see the test before anyone else, ya stroppy wee mare?”
“Only because you spend your life poking in other people’s rubbish!” Emma turned back to her walk and strode towards the school building which rose over the perimeter wall like a sentinel.
“That’s not a nice greeting, so,” the man grumbled. “I look out for ya and that’s how you repay me?”
Emma spun round and faced the tall Irishman, fire threatening in her expression. “Christopher Dolan, your job for Anton is done. I’m safe and happily married to his brother like he always wanted. We’re having a baby and I’m renovating the house Anton gifted us. Everything’s fine. You can live your life
knowing you did a great job. Nicky and I will live happily ever after; thanks to you.”
Christopher Dolan’s dark brow furrowed and his eyes looked troubled. “Gee, Em! That’s rough! A man gives a few years of his life looking after a mate’s sister-in-law and that’s yer greetin’? I thought better of ya.”
“Are you in trouble?” Emma took a few steps towards him, his doleful expression uncharacteristic of the Irish charmer he usually played. She sounded concerned.
“No more than usual.” The classic Christopher Dolan smile broke through the sense of rejection and he shrugged with his familiar brand of nonchalance. “But you are.”
“Pardon?” Emma eyed him with suspicion and cast around, looking for an assumed threat. The last time Christopher ambushed her in the street she ended up as a hostage.
“No, not from me.” He held his hand up to placate her but Emma moved backwards, mistrust in her eyes.
“Sod off, Christopher. If there’s trouble, it’ll be following you!”
His long strides easily brought him level with her and he pulled on Emma’s arm to slow and spin her into his chest. He held her there in a grip she found impossible to break. Her knee in his groin bent him like an envelope and Emma laughed and stepped back. “What? You didn’t expect Rohan to give me self-defence lessons after your last little stunt? Ah well, never underestimate an Andreyev.”
Christopher muttered something unrepeatable and Emma watched as a line of dribble oozed from his mouth and trailed down to the floor. She had a moment of guilt, quickly extinguished by his next sentence. “Emma, if you won’t listen, I’ll talk to Nicky.”
“You leave my son alone!” She raised her voice to a shout and her face held fury. “You’re messing with his head again and I asked you to stop. You promised!”
Christopher stood up suddenly and Emma’s eyes widened as she took a step backwards out of range. “I never promised that, Em. Anton asked me to look after youse as long as I could. That’s what I’m doing.”