Kathy nodded, dumbly.
‘Ah, well,’ he said. ‘Just dropped in to check. People can find it a bit weird, stuck on their own down here. Wanted to check you were still alive and kicking.’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ said Kathy. ‘Won’t be long, now.’
The door closed again, snuffing out the sound of a conductor’s raised voice reminding the orchestra how to play a complex passage from a symphony.
Kathy laid aside that photo, picked up another. The string section, relaxing in a break between rehearsals. Arms round each other, smiles for the camera from some, a tongue poked out to ruin the informal shot, from a man in a T-shirt. And Sally’s mother caught in the act of cuffing him for his impudence.
There were other, more formal photographs, still and cold: the orchestra dressed to perform, and looking as if it simply wanted to get away and get on with the job it was paid to do. The same faces, but without the smiles, their owners withdrawn behind professional masks of concentration.
Worst of all, the photo she had hidden beneath the others – stuffed hastily away as soon as her eyes saw it. Kathy took a long deep breath, then reached slowly to the bottom of the pile, drawing it out again.
A beautiful, posed, yet natural portrait. A tall slim woman, blonde hair sweeping over bare shoulders and her dark performer’s evening dress: a quiet and intelligent face, looking directly at and smiling into the camera. A shining violin and its bow held easily in her right hand, while her left hand rested gently on the shoulder of a little girl, who had been dressed specially for the occasion.
Sally, smiling up at her mother, with almost tangible love and pride.
Kathy’s vision blurred. The woman’s eyes seemed to leap straight out through the camera to her. No challenge in them. If anything, a quiet and confident assessment, recognition and, ultimately, acceptance.
Kathy turned the photo over, then repacked everything into the different boxes. She had discovered what she could about her shadow, and was now more confused and helpless than before. Through that final photograph she had somehow touched the mind of the woman who stood between the future and herself, to find no silent threat.
Instead, she had found someone with whom she would have been happy, under different circumstances, to have become a friend.
Noel sighed, stretching out long legs from his folding chair. The weekend sun was warm on him, and the towpath round under Skipton Castle thronged with visitors. Sipping lazily from his glass of wine, he watched the world pass by.
‘All I need,’ he said, ‘is a dusky maiden, fanning me with a palm frond.’
Henrietta glanced across from her own seat. ‘Will I go and smear some coal dust on?’ she asked.
Noel considered. ‘Not quite what I had in mind,’ he said.
‘Then wave your own palm frond,’ she told him.
They sat in companionable silence, until Noel shaded his eyes, peering forward. ‘Is that them coming back from the market?’ he asked. They were just like any other family group, he thought. A tall man, with a barely noticeable limp, his hands full of plastic bags, a woman carrying her own share and laughing up at him, while a child clutched a single bag and darted round their feet.
‘It’s good, to see her happy again,’ he murmured.
Henrietta smiled. ‘You love her, don’t you? Her and the boy?’
‘No comment.’
Henrietta took a bigger mouthful of wine than she’d intended. Her father and herself had been a family unit, which needed no others, ever. Now he was gone. At times like this, she felt very much alone. She put down her glass of wine, and wiped her nose.
‘Hey, wee coal-wumman,’ Noel said gently in broadest Scots.
‘What?’ She blinked away tears.
‘You’re part of this family, like it or lump it. You and your coal have crept in here, when nobody was looking. You are welcome, but your coal’s rubbish.’
Henrietta stared at him. ‘How did you know what I was thinking?’
‘I’m a journalist – trained to read other people’s minds, when they won’t give me a decent quote. Mostly, they’ve been pleasantly surprised at the quality of their thoughts, when they saw my copy.’
‘Maybe. But there’s nothing wrong with my coal,’ she said.
The boat rocked as the others came on board.
‘He’s done it again,’ groaned Becky. ‘I turn my back on him for a few minutes, and there’s another opened bottle of wine on the table.’
‘That’s how fairies work,’ Noel explained. ‘You never see them. Just, phut . . .’ he clicked thumb and finger, ‘. . . and there you are, another gift from the fairy kingdom lies in front of you.’
‘Pity they don’t mark coursework,’ she said. ‘Mike’s offering to take us round the Skipton Spur – that’s the canal loop round behind the castle.’
‘Grab the chance!’ said Noel. ‘That stretch of the canal is shallow – full of rock shelves. Only permitted skippers are allowed to go the whole way round the spur. What’s in your bags?’
‘Food,’ Becky replied. ‘I’m relying on the fairies, to provide refreshments. I’ve got bread, some baking . . . fantastic sausages with meat and herbs in them. . . .’
‘And she bought me a pair of football boots,’ said Jonathon, flourishing one above his head. ‘Can I wear them now, Mum?’
‘No,’ said Becky. ‘You’ll damage the deck.’
‘There’s a good thick carpet, down in the lounge,’ offered Noel.
Jonathon disappeared in a blur of light.
‘You’re spoiling that child,’ accused Becky.
‘Well, I’m a stand-in granddad. And that’s what granddads do – pass on bad habits, and encourage kids to bend the law.’
‘You score ten out of ten, on that,’ Becky sighed. ‘When do you want to cast off, Mike?’
Mike looked at the sun, already sliding down. ‘Soonest,’ he said. ‘The spur takes about an hour. Then four swing bridges and three locks to Longbank – that’s another two hours’ work.’
Becky stared fixedly at Noel.
He sipped wine. ‘Am I in your way?’ he asked.
‘Unless I take your heels, and tip you overboard.’
Noel sighed, and rose to his feet, glass in one hand, bottle of wine in the other. ‘I think she means yes,’ he confided to Henrietta.
‘Can we sit on the roof?’ Henrietta asked.
‘Only if you want to be swept overboard by low branches,’ Mike smiled.
‘Do we really need to sail round this castle?’ Henrietta asked plaintively.
‘Let’s take the best seats at the cabin windows,’ Noel encouraged. ‘Leave the servants to their menial work.’
‘Keep an eye on Jon,’ said Becky. ‘Don’t let him damage anything with these new boots – that’s Mike’s fault, he encouraged him.’
Mike leaned forward, pressing the starter button. ‘He didn’t need much encouragement. And I didn’t hear you argue with him either.’
‘I was outvoted.’
‘That’s never stopped you before. Right, you’re cabin boy. Cast off.’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ she said, edging round the narrow footway and stepping ashore. With practised ease, she cast off the mooring ropes. A gentle nudge out, with her foot, and the slow beat of the engine took over to send them smoothly up the canal, past tourists’ clicking cameras. ‘Remember to smile,’ she called down to Noel.
‘I’m smiling, I’m smiling,’ came the reply.
They chugged up the cleared part of the loop, the stretch which the thirty-minute boat trips used, and pushed beyond the turning basin into a stretch of canal where sheer rock walls towered up at their right, and the branches of overgrown bushes reached low from the other bank. They passed an ancient stone quay, and headed into what seemed almost virgin jungle.
Mike throttled back, edging slowly forward. There came the gentlest of scrapes as the hull bottom brushed a rock shelf. The propeller’s slow turning was kicking up clouds of silt from
the bottom. Mike edged to the right, another gentle scrape. A dark underwater ridge surfaced, feet away.
Frowning with concentration, Mike steered the old narrowboat through the passage of clear water. The overhanging branches came lower and lower, until Becky was crouching over the cabin door, catching each long branch and lifting it over Mike’s face.
It brought her very close to him. She saw the grey eyes smile, felt the light kiss on her face. ‘Not now,’ she said. ‘Can’t you see, I’m working?’
Another branch, another kiss. Then again.
Finally, neglecting her duty, she was gently whacked on the back of the head by a branch which had crept up on her. ‘Ouch!’ she said.
Mike lifted it easily over them both. ‘Becky Calderwood?’ he said.
His grey eyes were suddenly serious.
‘Yes,’ she said, unable to take her own eyes off them.
‘I think I love you,’ he said gently.
It should have been so easy, but the words froze on her tongue. She fought to respond – but the words wouldn’t come.
He lifted another oncoming branch over both of them.
‘In fact,’ he said quietly, ‘I know I do.’
Tears blurred her eyes. ‘Not yet, Mike,’ she said huskily. ‘I want to, but I can’t. Cut me a little more slack. There was so much damage done the time before, so many things that were true when we said them. So many promises we tried to keep and couldn’t. Let me find my own way through that mess, and maybe start again, with you. . . .’
He kissed the tip of her nose.
‘Take as long as you need,’ he said. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
David looked up from the drawings he was working on, as the doorbell rang again.
‘Coming!’ he shouted through.
He opened the door to find a bedraggled Kathy, her hair plastered flat from the rain. ‘What on earth. . . ?’ he exclaimed.
‘I walked,’ she said, no expression in her voice or on her face.
Gently, he steered her into the flat. ‘Take that wet coat off,’ he said. ‘I’ll get a towel for your hair.’
When he returned, she was still standing, head down, a small cluster of drips on the carpet from her ruined coat. He eased her out of that, threw it onto the coat-stand in the hall. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Dry your hair.’
She looked up at him. ‘I’ve come, to say goodbye,’ she said. In that same voice, without expression. Because, if she allowed expression, then all her control would slip – and that could take her anywhere.
‘Why on earth would you want to say goodbye?’
‘I’ve been thinking. . . .’ Water ran from her hair down her face.
‘Oh, come here,’ David said crossly. He opened the fresh towel and dried her hair as if it was Sally he was handling. Gently, but no-nonsense firm. ‘Now, what’s all this goodbye rubbish about?’
‘It’s for the best. I’ve only just realized how close you were as a family. No wonder: Beth was a lovely person. You must both have loved her very much. . . .’
‘That’s true, but. . . .’
Kathy ploughed on as if she hadn’t heard, as if quoting from a script which had gone round and round inside her head until all other thoughts had been driven out. ‘I think you’re still in love with her,’ she said. ‘I don’t think you’re ready to move on yet. And I don’t think Sally is ready to let go of the past, and see another woman step into your life. It might have worked, you and me . . . but not now. I got my timing wrong. I met you too quickly, fell for you before you were ready for that. So I wanted to tell you that I think we should end it now. Before we hurt each other – or Sally – more than either of us could take.’
David threw the wet towel onto the carpet and caught her gently by the shoulders. ‘Do you want to say goodbye?’ he demanded.
‘I’m trying to. . . .’
‘Do you really want us to step out of each other’s lives?’
Kathy’s brown eyes filled. Slowly, she shook her head.
‘Nor me,’ he said intensely. ‘Beth was my past. Every fibre in my mind and body tells me that you are my future. Because of Sally, it isn’t easy. I can’t just step away from the past, and do what I want to do. Not when she’s needing help so badly, to come to terms with life.’
He drew her into his study; the light was still on above the sloping desk and its papers. ‘You’re soaked through,’ he said gently. ‘I need to drive you home before you catch a chill. But, Kathy, don’t go away. Not ever. Please. I know it’s difficult for you, but Sally and I are stranded in the middle of a maze and, somehow, we’ve got to find our way out of it together. Not just Sally and me – all three of us.’
His fingers tightened on her arms, drawing her closer. ‘We have to find a way to bring Sally on board about us,’ he said desperately. ‘If we don’t she might always hate you.’
Kathy shivered. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around her and they were kissing. At first, with passion, then gently. Kathy felt herself melt into his embrace, that moment stretching forever, bringing more love and tenderness than she had ever known. This man was her future.
The front door opened.
David pushed himself guiltily away from her.
‘Daddy? I’m home.’ Sally, back from school.
‘Through here,’ he said, stepping apart.
‘That’s it,’ Kathy said, ever so quietly.
She walked through the door, gathering the sodden coat. Passing Sally in the hallway, she said: ‘Don’t worry, Sally, I’m going. . . .’ Then, with her final words directed to David, ‘And I won’t be back.’
The front door closed quietly behind her.
Puzzled, Sally studied her father’s grim face. ‘What’s Kathy talking about?’ she asked.
Chapter 8
‘They’ve always been out to get us,’ Liza Forbes said tiredly. ‘Officialdom won’t rest until they have closed us down, then merged our pupils with the bigger schools in Skipton.’
Henrietta bristled. ‘They’ve tried that before,’ she snapped. ‘Fat lot of good it did them.’ She picked up the letter notifying the school that it would be inspected by an Ofsted team in four weeks’ time. ‘Our best defence, as always, is to be so good they can’t attack us. Score the highest grade we can get, then turn this into a shield to protect our independence against local politicians and officials. . . .’
She snorted, thinking that the grind of local axes was more dangerous than distant Whitehall. ‘I take it everything’s up to scratch?’ she demanded.
‘Absolutely! What else? We’re exactly where we should be on the curriculum, our project work shows good quality . . . while the continuing support of the children’s parents is our best advertisement.’ Miss Forbes faltered, then turned brick red, realizing she had forgotten to be shy.
Henrietta never noticed. She glanced at Becky. ‘Have you been through an inspection before?’
‘Once – but that was years ago.’
‘She’ll be fine,’ Pop said mildly. ‘And I’ll always be on hand to help out where needed.’ His eyes twinkled through bushy eyebrows. ‘Think of me as a partner in a wrestling tag-team, waiting outside the ropes.’
‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,’ said Henrietta. ‘Right, I’ve a business to run. Any problems, flag ’em up. Likewise, anything you need, just call me in.’ She looked wryly at Becky. ‘Bet I’m the only school board chairman who has coal dust in their hair. . . .’
Then she was off, her sturdy legs carrying her small square figure out of the staffroom and purposefully down the corridor.
Liza smiled weakly. ‘Henrietta is a force of nature,’ she said. ‘Like a hurricane, or a flood. She can flatten anything that local officialdom lines up against her. But not Ofsted and the government. She simply cannot grasp the mountain of paperwork that is waiting for us – the Self Evaluation Forms for the school, arguing the case for our grade and offering evidence for inspectors to test, or outlining how we interact with parents, invol
ving them with school policy. That’s my job – no sleep or television for the next three weeks.’ She sighed. ‘I’ll start tonight.’
‘Want any help?’ Pop asked.
‘Not really. I must check the paperwork from our last inspection, see what we can use again. Then download the new forms from the Ofsted website, and update everything.’ She smiled tightly. ‘Working on my own, I can utter wicked words.’ Liza, among her friends, was very human. ‘But first, I have to survive today – and that means setting up work for the children coming back from lunch. More rushed eating and drinking as I go – no wonder my tummy has been playing up.’ She left, clutching her sandwiches and a thermos flask.
Becky raised an enquiring eyebrow to Pop.
He shrugged. ‘Liza worries too much – always has. She’s gobbled down her lunch for years, then suffered indigestion. That’s been really bad, these last few weeks and I’ve been telling her to see the doc, in case she’s got an ulcer. But she’s always too busy to take time off and go.’
Becky reached for another sandwich. ‘What’s an inspection really like, Pop? You’ve seen off more inspectors than I’ve had hot dinners.’
‘Starting with the Romans?’ he asked, his faded blue eyes twinkling.
‘The only time it happened to me was in a big school with masses of staff and classes to inspect. I was a raw beginner and they left me in peace, which was decent of them. Then I got married, and have only just returned to teaching. In this small school, an inspection is likely to be more close-up and personal.’
Pop rubbed his bald head. ‘It used to be simple,’ he reflected. ‘They came to check where you were in the syllabus. Then to sit and listen to how you taught through your lesson plan, watching how you coped with the kids – you know how something always breaks their concentration. A squirrel runs up a tree outside, somebody asks out for the loo . . . and everybody starts talking. That’s when we have to act as sheepdogs and round them up again, get them back on course. That’s what they’re really watching for, how we cope with the unexpected, keep the lesson flowing.’
He sighed. ‘Nowadays, everything is hidden behind a smokescreen of buzzwords, paperwork and education slogans. Usually meaning nothing, and dreamed up by people who never could teach, and went into administration instead. It’s all aims, and outputs, and the Lord only knows what else. But when you cut through the smoke and mirrors, they are still looking at the basics which make teaching an art, rather than a formula. Are we breaking the lesson into digestible chunks? Are we communicating these simply to the kids? Is there a good come-and-go between them and us in a lesson? Do the kids understand what we say?’ His round face smiled. ‘Leave Liza to the paperwork. Don’t try anything fancy in front of the inspectors – just be yourself. Forget they’re in the room, and get on with what you do best. That’s my advice to you.’
Another Chance, Another Life Page 12