The Actuary's Wife

by K T Bowes

  “Here!” Sam barged into the room and set two mugs of tea on the desk. “It’s playtime and Muriel’s doing tea leaves. She’s gonna do mine so I’ll be in the staffroom if anyone wants me.” He slammed out in a huff.

  “Ooh that’s bad news,” Freda muttered. “Never be tempted to mess with that rubbish.”

  Emma shook her head. “I won’t. Dad was clear about occult stuff, even the things which seem harmless. He always said there was a cost to it but I didn’t understand what he meant. I wish he was here. There’s so many things I still need to ask him. He was such a knowledgeable man.” Emma sipped her drink, her face downcast.

  “Did you still believe it was Rohan’s fault your father died?” Freda asked and Emma gasped at the unexpectedness of the question.

  “What? I’ve never blamed him!”

  “Haven’t you?” Freda’s bright eyes conveyed a perception which Emma found hard to bear.

  “No! I’ve never blamed him.” Even the words had a false quality on her tongue. “How can I blame him? Maybe it was all our faults; Ro just happened to be the eldest.”

  “But you’ve told me you tried to protect each other from his mother’s poisoning. None of you would think to protect a grown man.”

  “Anton protected us.” Emma’s teeth ground in her jaw making her whole face ache. “He flushed Alanya’s food down the toilet and gave us his.”

  “But Rohan was older than both of you, wasn’t he?” Freda asked. “Wasn’t it his responsibility?”

  “He didn’t see!” Emma’s hands became fists. “He never sees!”

  Freda nodded and continued with her pencil list, leaving Emma with the damaging revelation. She licked her dry lips and sipped her tea, a knot of something nasty stirring in her breast. When she scraped her mug on the desk and put her head in her hands, Freda crossed the tiles between them. “There, there,” she soothed, her fragile arms like tiny bird’s wings around Emma’s torso. She offered no judgement or condemnation, but Pandora’s Box left its debris suspended in the air molecules around their heads.

  “I do blame him,” Emma confessed. “It’s why I don’t trust him. He wants to protect me but when he tries, I can’t let him in case he gets it wrong and somebody dies. Last time it was Dad; this time it could be Nicky. I have no one left to lose.”

  “You need to remember he was a boy, a boy who loved his mother and didn’t want to see what she was doing. Munchausen syndrome by proxy is a manipulative illness. They’re like magicians performing tricks for an audience. You can’t blame him for being fooled by a skilled practitioner. There’s no wonder as an adult, he deals in facts and figures and hard won analysis of risk. Can you blame him for needing proof for every move he makes? He wants it weighed and measured before he takes a single step forward. I think under the circumstances, it’s understandable.”

  “What kind of risk am I?” Emma sniffed, the heady aroma of Freda’s floral perfume providing a shroud of safety around her head.

  “I think you’re an unpredictable one,” Freda said, her voice low and soporific. “He can’t plan or chart your explosions because the fuse moves every time you open your mouth. You don’t trust him and he can’t trust you.”

  “You make us sound like an accident waiting to happen,” Emma snorted.

  Freda smiled into her face, her eyes sparkly and young in the crinkled face. “Oh, my darling,” she crooned. “You’re the best firework display I’ve seen in years!”

  In the staffroom, Freda handed Emma her mug to load into the dishwasher and turned towards the knot of excited bodies crowded around Muriel in the corner. She waxed lyrical over something in the bottom of the Year 4 class teacher’s mug. As Emma shut the dishwasher and turned round, her heart quailed at the sight of Freda ploughing her way into the centre of the group and leaning over the mug. “That’s a tea bag!” she said with disdain. “You can’t do a tea leaf reading with tea bags; it’s cheating!”

  Emma groaned and ran her hand through her hair as a few staff members lost faith with surprising speed and left. Freda raised an eyebrow at Annabel, the Year 4 teacher and cocked her head like a sparrow. “Why do you want to see what tomorrow has for you, when getting through today’s such a struggle? God sends the good and the bad when we’re ready to cope with it. Knowing the bad things in life early causes unnecessary worry and getting the good things early is like ruining Christmas.”

  Muriel tutted and heaved herself out of the chair. “It’s a bit of fun. Why do you have to ruin it?”

  “Fun?” Annabel’s voice rose a few octaves. “It’s not fun for me! You’re meant to be telling me when I’ll get pregnant!” Her words spluttered out around a growing barrage of tears. “My husband’s desperate for a baby and you said this would help!”

  At the hysteria in her voice, Muriel slunk away, dumping the sacred mug and remaining grounds into the dishwasher, as though demonstrating their irrelevance in the grand scheme of things. “I wanted a baby!” Annabel wailed, folding forwards so her elbows rested on her knees. Huge sobs emanated from her slender frame. Emma bit her lip and pulled her cardigan around her growing secret, keen not to cause offence.

  “A baby? Is that all?” Freda exclaimed. “Stand.”

  The shaking woman got to her feet and Freda seized her shoulders and bowed her head. “What are you doing?” Annabel whispered.

  “Praying for you, dear. Not much else will work; the Lord gives and He takes away. So why go asking a few tea crumbs in the bottom of a mug for something they aren’t able to give? Now shush.”

  Annabel poked in her sleeve for a tissue and dabbed her nose as Freda lowered her hand and raised her eyes. “We’ve tried everything and I can’t seem to get pregnant,” Annabel sniffed. “Every month is such a disappointment.”

  “Well, next month won’t be.” Freda smiled and patted her on the arm. “You should go, there’s a riot in your classroom.”

  Annabel’s eyes roved towards the open staffroom door as her ears picked up a high pitched shriek. “Oh, goodness, yes I can hear them. Little monsters!”

  Emma watched Freda with eyes of suspicion as the staffroom emptied, leaving the two women and Sam. Freda straightened the magazines on the coffee table and stood upright. “Come on missy, out with it.”

  “You promised her a baby!” Emma exclaimed. “She’ll be devastated when she doesn’t get one.”

  “God promised her a baby and I facilitated the prayer reaching her. She won’t be disappointed.”

  “How can you be sure?” Emma wrung her hands, her dark eyes filled with pain. “My dad believed everything in the bible, even as his wife slowly poisoned him. Where was God for him? Why didn’t He heal my father and stop my life turning to misery?”

  “I don’t have the answers, Emma; this silly old woman’s not God. I only know what I know. And He was with you through your worst nightmares; He never abandoned you.”

  Emma nodded and sniffed, eager to end the conversation. She pulled herself together with an effort of will. “Come on, let’s finish these 1930s photos and start sorting the ones with names.” Before she left the room, Emma glanced back at Sam. “You coming?”

  He followed, his face set in a dark glower and closed the office door behind him with his foot. Then he paced around the room. “Why didn’t you tell me you could do that?” he spat.

  “What?” Freda settled herself in a chair next to Emma, ready to pour over more photos.

  “Make people have babies. I want a baby. You never did that thing for me!”

  Freda looked at Sam as though he was a small boy. She dragged her words out. “You can’t have babies, Sam. You’re a man.”

  He balled his fists by his side. “My wife’s been trying to get pregnant for the last two years and can’t.” He jabbed an angry finger at Freda. “My sex life rotates around temperatures and calendars and positions that might make it easier for...” He stopped and rubbed his hand over his face. “And all the time you could’ve helped.”

  “I can’t
help if I don’t know,” Freda said with gentleness, standing and approaching the angry young man. She placed her hands on his shoulders and closed her eyes. Emma watched the angst leave Sam’s face and peace take its place. “There,” Freda said and kissed his cheek with a light touch. “That’s in repayment for the times you’ve pulled my scooter out of the rain and left the gate open for me. I always notice.”

  Sam’s face creased into an embarrassed smile. “Yeah, I do. That’s cool.” His face became eager. “So, do I rush home and do it now?”

  Freda clutched her chest. “Ooh, if you’re hoping to get graphic with me, young man, please remember my old heart.”

  Sam nodded and reached for his jacket and phone. “I’m nipping out to...to...get supplies,” he said. Emma smirked as she heard him dial his wife. “Yeah, I’ll be home for lunch in five minutes. No, we’re not eating.”

  “You’re a woman of many talents,” Emma said, the half-smile not reaching her eyes. “Don’t suppose you could fix my life too?”

  Freda scooted her chair closer, the castors making a strange noise on the tiles. Her spindly arm around Emma’s shoulder offered comfort. “Once you’ve worked out what you want, everything else will fall into place. Find out the story behind this celebration and make your stand. Decide whether you want the gorgeous Russian in your life; then ask him back.”

  “Or not.”

  “Oh, you want him, dear, but your head won’t listen to your heart. Don’t leave it too long. There’s plenty out there would be glad of his attentions.” Freda kissed the side of Emma’s face. “Now, I have a game of Scrabble waiting and you’ve already worked your paid hours. I suggest you do some thinking and tell me what you decide.” Freda pushed a stack of photographs in front of Emma. “There you go, dear. All the 1930s named as best I can. Those records of admission helped jog my memory. Frank Jameson taught me.” She tapped a gloved finger over the greyed face of a nondescript man standing to attention next to the gathered rows of children.

  “Clarissa’s grandfather?”

  “Great-grandfather. Not a kind man; abusive in the classroom and at home. That’s his son, right there above me. Silly Annie married him after the war and regretted it. I wouldn’t have touched the family with a bargepole after being taught by old Frank; drunk most of the time and fathering cuckoos in other nests for the rest of it. He had eleven sons, poor dribbling wrecks of boys and none of them veered very far from their father’s path. You didn’t in the old days. A bad reputation was a terrible thing and stuck from one generation to the next.”

  “Clarissa knows you married into the Ayers family, but does she know you’re one by blood?”

  Freda’s face creased into a knowing smile. “I’m saving that one up for the perfect moment. It’s the stuff of fantasy and I can’t imagine when it’ll be, but it will come. Everyone will enjoy watching her face change from disdain to agony when she realises she should have been getting on side with me, instead of slamming the doors of Harborough society in my face.”

  Emma sighed. “Wait until she realises I own Wingate Hall.”

  Freda snorted. “Maybe we should break both bits of news at the same time and see what happens?”

  “You’re a wicked woman.” Emma allowed herself a smile. “Now play Scrabble with your oldie. When do I get to meet him?”

  “He’s a Scrabble partner, my dear; nothing more. You take care.” Freda kissed the top of Emma’s head and left, taking the lightness from the room with her. Emma sighed in her wake and laid her head on her forearms, peering at the photo from close range. Frank Jameson looked stern in the photograph, his unsmiling eyes staring through the ages without compassion.

  Emma moved it out of the way and peered at the same view in an older photograph, the children wearing clothes from the late 1800s. Emma’s eyes almost crossed as she spotted something in the background over the male teacher’s left shoulder. She reached for the magnifying glass Freda used for identifying children’s faces. The corner of an object looked familiar and Emma gasped.

  The last four letters of the plaque’s top line were almost readable, hanging next to the rear doors of the main building. Emma raked the sea of sepia colours looking to identify more of the surroundings and then she left the office, powering along the corridor at a trot. A little boy sidled towards her, his fingers entirely covered in glue. “Om er, miss. You’re not allowed to run,” he said, scandal lacing his squeaky voice.

  “It’s a fast walk,” she answered. “Aren’t you meant to be washing that off?”

  He nodded. “Yep, but I want it to dry before I peel it. It’s more fun.”

  The teaching assistant from the reception class in which the four-year-olds were sequestered, appeared in a rush, closing the door behind her against the cacophony of noise. “Robert Powell!” she announced in a voice of steel. “Get that washed off now.”

  “Nooooo,” he began and Emma smiled at the long suffering assistant and continued on her mission.

  It was icy outside and a breeze blew leaves into a whirl in one corner. Emma stood in the playground and stared at the building, mentally placing the rows of children and the schoolmaster. The red brick grimaced back at her as the weather battered its surface for yet another season and Emma saw nothing. Clambering onto the railing which surrounded two sides of the steps, Emma ran a shaking hand over the bricks. Her fingers found what her eyes could not and the two little indentations revealed themselves. Filled over decades by dirt and dust, the holes were unnoticeable to the naked eye. But their presence betrayed the telltale drill sites for two large screws which once held the plaque in place. For a few years, the school displayed its true date of inception but at some point before 1900, it was stripped of its history. The question was why? And by who?

  Chapter 16

  Sam’s computer yielded the missing link between the disgraced school master and the opening ceremony. The 1841 census revealed the delightful occupants of the home of the Reverend Peter John Jameson, incumbent of St Martin’s Church in Leicester. His seven children included the eldest son, Peter Humphrey Jameson. Emma rested her chin on her forearms and peered at the screen, sighing when the expected sense of victory didn't come. The vicar of St Martin’s was the guest at the opening because his son was the new school master. Four years later the same family reeled as their son hung from the neck until dead in a stone walled courtyard in Newgate Prison. “I wonder if he died or if his sentence was reduced to life imprisonment,” Emma muttered to herself.

  “What?” Sam dropped the cable he was working on and swore, darting a nervous glance at Emma. “Who died?”

  “Oh, nobody,” she said, watching the screen flicker under the strip lighting. “But I’ve solved the mystery of the school opening. Mr Dalton and his team of merry widows are definitely five years too late.”

  “Bloody hell!” Sam exclaimed. “That’ll eff their plans up.” He chuckled. “I’m not bothered. Less work for me.”

  “That’s the spirit, Sam. Now I have to find a way of telling Mr Dalton.” Emma laid her face sideways on her arms, tiredness creating a weight in her chest. Nicky spent the last three nights in her bed, clinging to her in between bouts of tossing and turning. It was exhausting when added to the extensive walk and bus ride to get anywhere. “Isn’t it holidays yet?” Emma sighed. “I think I’ve had enough of this celebration; I should just leave.”

  “Brave lady,” Sam chortled. “Drop your bomb shell and run, why don’t ya?”

  “Yeah, I guess it’s cowardly. Come on, hurry up man! Get into the attic and fetch boxes. And I need your muscles to carry that delivery of supplies from the front office, please?”

  “You’re so bloody demanding, woman!” Sam smirked. “Yeah, I’ll get it. Just let me finish this repair. It’s Mr Dalton’s computer lead. The cleaner ran the vacuum over it. I think it’s buggered.” He picked up the squiggly cable and opened the door.

  “Take your time. I’ll have a nap.” Emma closed her eyes, lulled by the false sense of p
eace in the office.

  The lunchtime hand bell rung by a junior school child, made sure Emma didn’t relax for long. A knock on the door heralded Nicky, looking much happier. “Hi, Mama,” he said, poking his face into the gap. “Can I ‘ave a cuddle?”

  “Yeah, sure baby. I don’t think Sam will mind.”

  Nicky pushed his way in and closed the door behind him, bouncing across to Emma and putting his head on her lap. Emma stroked his hair, drawing comfort from his nearness, gratitude burgeoning in her heart. “Did you see Daddy at playtime?” Nicky asked, his voice muffled in her skirt.

  “No.” Emma felt a sickness in her stomach that he hadn’t sought her out. Her sense of reason asked why he would after their last conversation. “Where was he, Nicky?” She kept her voice level.

  “He was walking past. One of the junior classes went to the museum, so as a very special treat, my class went to the ball courts to play soccer. I waved to him and we spoke through the fence. He said he loved me and he’ll see me soon.”

  “That’s nice,” Emma replied, keeping the circular stroking motion going on her son’s back although her body was tense. A gnawing ache yawned in her heart and she fought to close it, changing the subject. “Don’t you need to get your lunch?”

  “Yep. But it’s cabbage today, I hate cabbage. I can smell it from here.”

  Emma sniffed. “Ah well, eating cabbage stops you behaving like one.”

  “Is that true?” Nicky’s head shot up and he searched her face. “I’ll go get some then.” He reached his little face up to hers for a kiss on the lips and offered a stunning smile. “Love you, Mummy.”

  “Love you too, baby,” Emma replied, smiling for the child’s benefit.