Sworn Secret

by Amanda Jennings

  Kate thought about Rebecca, so thin and gaunt, herself a victim, the direct witness to the pertinent event to which Mr Yarwood was referring. She wondered how she would cope with a trial, and whether they would allow her to testify in a private room, or if because she was now sixteen she’d be made to face the jury, and Dr Howe, face to face.

  ‘It could be a child who’s angry with him. Made it up to get back at him!’ called a woman.

  ‘I read in the paper this weekend past there’s, like, thousands of these finger-points each year and they’re all shown not to be right.’

  ‘That’s not true! I read that article too; it was in the Mail. It didn’t say that!’

  ‘I know a teacher who was accused and lost her job, and even though the child admitted she was lying for a laugh the blot stays on my friend’s record. It’ll never be taken off. That’s criminal!’

  ‘It’s the fault of them bloody political correct liberal nonces!’

  ‘We haven’t got enough teachers as it is, without suspending them all on hearsay!’

  ‘But we’ve no proof!’

  ‘What if it’s true, though?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Yarwood, what if he is a child abuser and your child’s next?’

  The room erupted as people started arguing across each other.

  Kate sat with her head low, wanting to stand up and say she did have proof. But then she would also have to say that she had no evidence whatsoever to suggest that he had done this or would do this to any other child but hers. She heard Stephen’s plaintive plea that they loved each other. Could that be true? Could it be an extreme case of a May to September love affair? And if this was the case, did he deserve to lose his job? But then another voice spoke out in her head. Stephen Howe had sex with a child. Fine, he said he loved her, but what if that love was really the twisted desire of depravity and the next time he fell in love it was with a child of twelve?

  The room was getting hotter, clearly ill equipped to deal with the rising heat from so many impassioned people, and Kate took off her jacket and fanned her face with her hand.

  ‘What we have to do, Mr Yarwood,’ cried Marlena, ‘is take a stand for what’s right, and not feel threatened by the media or the teachers’ union. We have a right, no,’ she paused, melodramatically. ‘We have an obligation to protect our children.’ A roar of assent went up from most of those in the room. ‘We need to safeguard their future.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ shouted a number of voices in unison.

  ‘We need to protect them from paedophiles!’

  ‘It’s bloody disgusting. We should hang the lot of them!’ cried a woman.

  ‘But he hasn’t been arrested. He hasn’t even been charged!’

  ‘He should be thrown to the dogs!’

  ‘If that man goes back to school my daughter’s moving to Woods End. There’s space. I rang this morning.’

  ‘Come on, now. Let’s keep this orderly!’ shouted Paul Yarwood ineffectually.

  And in the middle of the mayhem, the doors opened.

  There was a collective intake of breath and then excited muttering. Kate swivelled in her chair and saw Angela and Stephen Howe. Silence gathered around them as they walked towards the stage, voices falling to hushed whispers and then to nothing until all you could hear in the room was their footsteps on the wooden floor.

  Angela walked in front of Stephen and they climbed the steps on to the stage. Paul Yarwood offered his hand to Stephen, but Kate noticed that he did so self-consciously, and not with the gusto of a man standing shoulder to shoulder with an accused. He whispered something to Stephen, who nodded.

  ‘Dr Howe would like to speak to us. I urge you to be gracious enough to listen to what he has to say, remind you all of his exemplary standing as our headmaster and reiterate how the success of our school is down to his remarkable leadership skills. And, on a personal note, I would like to add that I offer Dr Howe my unerring support.’ He shifted his weight and cast his eyes over the seated parents. Kate dropped her head to avoid him. ‘I have every confidence that the police investigation will find these allegations to be false.’

  Kate glanced up at Stephen, whose eyes were fixed on something above their heads, perhaps the clock, or maybe the seating in the gallery. When Paul Yarwood stopped speaking, he and Stephen exchanged a brief look and then swapped places.

  ‘I have come here today,’ he said, in a calm, even voice, ‘with Angela, my beloved wife and loyal colleague, to try and put your minds at ease. You will have heard, in some form or another, that I have been accused of sexual misconduct. I am here to reassure you that this accusation is completely and utterly unfounded.’

  Kate’s stomach lurched.

  ‘This is clearly a worrying time for us, as indeed it is for you. But I want to assure you that not one of your children is at risk, or ever has been, from either myself, or from any member of my dedicated and talented staff. Sadly, the allegation means it is impossible for me to continue to work, and therefore I am in agreement with the governors and have accepted their recommendation for suspension pending the outcome of the police investigation.’

  The hall reverberated with hundreds of whispered voices.

  ‘To those of you who support me, thank you; to those others I would like to say I understand your concerns, and hope that when this accusation has been shown to be unfounded you will feel able to rebuild your trust in me so that I may continue to steer this wonderful school. I cannot think—’ Stephen’s voice cracked and he turned his head away from the audience, lifting his hand to his mouth to compose himself. A moment or two later he nodded and faced them again. ‘I cannot think of anything I would rather do than be the headmaster of Park Secondary School.’

  He held the audience for a while and then nodded once and looked across at Angela, who gestured for him to step away as she moved herself to the edge of the stage.

  ‘The issue of false allegations,’ she said, with the voice of a practised public speaker, ‘made against teachers occupies time at every gathering of senior members of the profession. The threat of an accusation of this nature is a dreadful worry that plagues a teacher’s nightmares. I am not, for one moment, suggesting that a child’s allegation should be dismissed without investigation, but what I am saying is the damage done to a career can be devastating. Even when allegations are found to be groundless, they stay on a teacher’s record indefinitely and will almost certainly prejudice future employment opportunities. It is both terrifying and shocking that a man who has dedicated over half his life to the care and education of this country’s children, a man who has worked tirelessly for you, a revered and respected man within our profession, who is consulted by other headteachers from all around the country, has become the latest victim of this abomination.’

  The room was silent. Kate looked at the people around her as they dropped their eyes, quietened perhaps by a sense of shame at their previous zealous anger. Though she understood Angela’s loyalty, however misguided or self-delusory it was, Stephen’s barefaced lies had skewered Kate. She couldn’t sit there quietly. She had to speak, even though the prospect filled her with a nerve-shredding dread.

  She stood up.

  ‘Dr Howe,’ she said in a loud clear voice that wavered only slightly.

  She sidestepped out of the row of chairs and moved around the back of the audience to the central aisle. She saw Stephen’s horrified eyes, Angela mouthing something to him.

  ‘I think everybody here understands what damage lies can do. I think everybody here is also aware of the damage that abuse will cause a child and that child’s family. All this talk we’ve heard today, of support, of vilification, conspiracy, the strength of the school, of paedophiles and abuse and hanging, or malicious children and gullible policing, it’s all a smokescreen for the truth.’

  Kate, who had continued to walk towards the stage, stopped level with the front row of seats. She locked eyes with Stephen; the strength he’d affected for his speech seemed to have vanished. H
is face had paled, and there was a fine sheen of sweat across his forehead. ‘But the one thing that always happens, no matter what, is that the truth will out. It always does. And if you did do it, Dr Howe, if you did have sex with a pupil under the age of eighteen then you are guilty of sexual abuse, of abusing your position of responsibility, your position as headmaster of this school, and your reputation and your career is rightly finished; you deserve to be judged. If you didn’t do these things, however, if you’re innocent, then I know the parents of this school will find a way to support you.’

  Stephen tried to exchange a helpless look with Angela, who glared daggers at Kate.

  ‘Hear, hear,’ shouted Marlena suddenly, jumping to her feet and clapping. ‘Oh, hear, hear!’

  Then the hall re-erupted. Kate’s heart pumped and her blood fizzed; everything tingled with a mixture of exhilaration, anger, sadness and release. She turned away from the stage and walked purposefully out of the hall, and as soon as the doors closed behind her she broke into a run. When she reached the end of the road, she rounded the corner and then fell against a lime tree. She covered her face with her shaking hands and breathed the hot, trapped air deeply in and out in an attempt to calm herself.

  When she got home she went to her studio. She was buzzing. It felt so good to stand in front of Stephen Howe and say what she had without a stutter or a stumble. It had felt good to crack his façade, to see him squirm as her words smacked into him, and to keep control of her emotions, righteous anger, in such a commanding manner. She felt she had won an important battle, not against Stephen, but against herself.

  The painting of Anna was sensational. It flew off the canvas in its luminosity. There was something about the way she’d managed to capture her smile. It shone through her eyes and her mouth and the angle of her head thrown backwards in joy. This was the best ever. She used to find it so much harder, and at the beginning they never seemed to work out. She sometimes found herself so desperate and frustrated that she’d tear them up or scrub them out with frenzied strikes of black paint. But this one had come so easily.

  As she stepped back from it, she knew it was the last. She wouldn’t be able to top this, and if she couldn’t do that then what was the point? She sat on the floor with her legs crossed and stared at it. When her back began to ache she stood up and then, very methodically and with great reverence, she started to pack her paints away. She cleaned her brushes, swilling them around a jar of white spirit and watching the paint cloud the liquid in smoky swirls. Then she wiped the palette knives, threw away painty cloths and stacked the canvasses. She kept on until everything was tidy, and the new painting of Anna was left alone in the middle of the room on the easel. Of course, she would paint again, but she would paint for pleasure, not therapy. This painting was what she’d been searching for. It was Anna. Just as she remembered her. She leant forward and kissed the still-wet paint, tasting the paint on her lips as she did.

  She carefully climbed into bed and lay back on the pillow. She knew by the way Jon breathed that he was asleep. She eased up the covers and turned her back to him, balancing almost precariously on the edge of the bed. Usually it took her ages to fall asleep after painting, but that night she slept almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.

  She was woken by banging on the front door. The noise dawned gradually, forcing her into a drowsy wakefulness. She glanced at Jon’s clock, then got out of bed and grabbed her dressing gown from the hook on the door and went down the stairs whilst tying the belt. What on earth could be so urgent this early in the morning? Jon hadn’t even left for work – he was still in the shower – and Lizzie wouldn’t be up for at least another hour.

  She opened the front door to find Angela Howe standing on the doorstep.

  It was raining. The sky was a deep, grim grey and the traffic splashed through enormous puddles, wipers working overtime. Angela was soaked to the skin. She looked like she’d been mugged, or something similar – her hair and clothes were all over the place, her eyes were raw and puffed and mascara scooted down her face with the rain.

  ‘You bitch,’ she growled, before Kate had a chance to speak. ‘And that bitch daughter of yours.’

  Kate froze.

  ‘Flaunting herself, dancing around him like some whore off the street.’

  Kate tried to speak, but Angela’s tone was so menacing that words failed. Angela took a step forward. Kate knew she should close the door on her, but her muscles wouldn’t work, her feet somehow nailed to the floor.

  ‘Do you have any concept of how hard I worked to get where I am?’ Angela was standing only inches from Kate. Her breath smelt sour and her livid eyes smouldered with hatred.

  ‘Please leave,’ mumbled Kate.

  ‘Oh, you’d like that wouldn’t you?’

  Kate noticed that one side of Angela’s mouth was twitching. She remembered how she had looked at her in the Friends’ Meeting House. The same glare. The same loathing. Kate tried to remind herself that it was she who should be angry. How dare this woman batter the door down at six thirty in the morning? How dare she use such vile words against Anna? It was her husband who had acted wrongly, and she who’d tried to cover it up for him.

  Kate squared her shoulders and stood taller. ‘I don’t want to speak to you.’

  Angela’s eyes narrowed. ‘I hate you. I hate you for giving birth to that little slut. She ruined my life. That whore took everything.’

  Kate looked over her shoulder, hoping to see Jon coming down the stairs. Surely he wouldn’t be long? But she could still hear the sound of the shower. She lifted an arm made of jelly, with fingers shaking, and tried to push Angela back off the doorstep.

  ‘I clawed my way out of the gutter,’ Angela whispered. ‘Worked tirelessly, put up with so much rubbish, did everything I could to make something of my life. Now look at me. The pathetic widow of a vile paedophile.’

  Kate looked at Angela, wondering if she’d heard her properly.

  ‘That’s right,’ she spat. ‘That shit decided to throw himself off your daughter’s roof last night.’ Angela laughed bitterly. ‘The very same roof. Funny, isn’t it? Who’d have thought he would do that? He crept out in the middle of the night and jumped. Just like your whore of a daughter did.’

  Kate grabbed at the door frame to hold herself upright. ‘Anna didn’t jump.’

  Angela needled her eyes into Kate as rivers of rain streamed down her cheeks and nose.

  ‘Oh, didn’t she?’ Her voice had flattened and fallen quiet.

  ‘No. And I don’t think she fell either.’ Kate’s voice trembled. ‘I think she was pushed.’

  ‘Pushed?’ Angela looked genuinely shocked. ‘What do you mean? What are you trying to say?’

  ‘I think Anna was pushed off that roof by Stephen.’

  Angela stared at her. Then her face broke into a derisive smirk and she gave a snort of bitter laughter. ‘You really are pathetic, Kate. You just can’t believe it, can you? That she might have jumped because she had secrets she couldn’t handle. Stupid little girl. Or that she fell because she was drunk, just another out-of-control teenager, too much vodka, foot slipped, and . . . whoops . . . down she went. You hear about her and my idiot husband and you grab at the first crazy straw you can. Anything to make it easier to believe.’ She blinked slowly. ‘Well, I don’t have that luxury with Stephen. Stephen didn’t fall by accident. He wasn’t pushed. He took his own life. He went up on the roof of that gymnasium, tied the end of a rope around his neck, the other to a ventilation pipe and then he jumped, feeble coward that he was. Snapped his neck. Gone.’ Angela flicked her fingers. ‘Poof! No goodbyes. Not even a note.’

  Kate’s head flipped again and again. She tried to blank her mind. Scrub out the images that Angela’s ranting threw up. Anna falling. Stephen hanging with his neck broken.

  ‘And I’m left to deal with the mess. He looks guilty now, doesn’t he? A child abuser. A man who has sex with seven-year-olds.’ Angela stepped backwards, and at last
released Kate from her hammering stare. ‘We both know that’s not true. We know what that little whore did. That bitch was no more a child than you or I. She left the house looking so respectable, didn’t she? Not with her shirt unbuttoned, breasts spilling out, skirt hitched up until it barely covered that pert teenage bottom of hers. You didn’t know that’s how she pranced around school, did you? Did she have the make-up on at breakfast? Or did she stop on the pavement outside school, get her compact out and slap it on like plaster? A couple of baby wipes before she got home, and there you are, filthy whore gone, innocent child returned.’

  Kate was shaking now. Her head pounded. Angela was blurring in her vision. The rain seemed heavier than ever.

  ‘And you? Standing up and telling him and the rest of them that he was as good as muck on your shoe? You knew, didn’t you? You knew he loved her. He told you. I know he did. He told me he wanted you to know that he loved her. I told him he was a fool to think it would make any difference, but he said it would. He said that if you knew that he loved her it would change your minds. But he was wrong. He was wrong to think that his stupid, blind love legitimized anything. All it’s done is destroy my life. We tried so hard to move on, and now he’s killed himself and by doing that he’s tattooed the word paedophile to his sorry soul. We’ll be all over the papers, the television, reviled throughout the country. His name is muck.’ Angela took another step backwards. ‘You rest assured that Jezebel of yours is sashaying through Hell just waiting for you to join her.’ Then she turned and walked away, struggling to keep straight, drunk with devastation.

  Kate was still standing at the front door when Jon came down the stairs. She tried to speak but found she couldn’t; it was as if her lips had been sewn shut.

  ‘Bloody rain,’ he said, peering over her shoulder. ‘Traffic will be up the kibosh.’

  Kate turned and walked past him without a word. She went to their bedroom, closed the door behind her, sat on the bed and shook uncontrollably.