by Julie Corbin
Next day, my surgery goes like clockwork. I ask one of the other doctors – not Leila, it’s too soon for me to be normal with her – to cover the antenatal clinic. The drive to Livingston shouldn’t take more than forty minutes but traffic is often slow on the Edinburgh bypass and I head off in plenty of time. As I drive to the school, I think of all the questions a parent in my position would ask – teaching, exam results, facilities, what’s their bullying policy? health policy? – so that by the time I turn off the main road, I have a list of questions at the ready. Sanderson Academy is about half a mile up a tree-lined drive, chestnut trees growing either side and farmed fields beyond. The school itself is a hotchpotch of buildings, large and small, springing up at random, it seems, and in all different sizes and styles. A sign directs me to the front of the oldest one, a square Victorian building, once grand but now slightly shabby, entirely symmetrical, apart from the modern extension to one side, flat roofed and ugly, like a carbuncle on the side of an elegant foot.
I park in a visitor space and open the entrance door into a small round glass porch, gardenias and begonias flowering in the heat of the sun. The door leading into the school is clear glass and I can see into the hallway where there’s a large curved staircase and four doors leading off like diagonal points on a compass. The front door is protected by an entry system and I notice a CCTV camera just above it, in stark contrast to the rest of the décor, which is more mid-twentieth than twenty-first century.
I ring the doorbell and wait, my heart bumping nervously against my ribcage as I’m suddenly anxious about one of the members of staff recognising me. We’re not that far from Edinburgh and the City Women awards have been well publicised in the Courier. Perhaps I should have given a false name, but then I really would have been lying, whereas at the moment, I’m simply feigning an interest in sending Lauren to school here. All I’m doing is wasting their time, I remind myself. I’m not breaking the law.
One of the doors opens and a young girl comes through it. She is tall and blonde and looks a similar age to Lauren. She unlocks the front door and smiles at me.
‘Hello,’ I say. ‘I have an appointment with your headmistress, Miss Baker.’
‘Come in.’ She holds the door open. ‘You should check in with her secretary, Mrs Tweedie. She’s just in here.’
I follow her across the hallway. She’s walking with an exaggerated bounce, her ponytails flying up and down to the rhythm. There’s the melodic sound of a piano playing in a not-so-distant room but that’s immediately drowned out when we go into Mrs Tweedie’s office. The first thing I see, and hear, are two spaniels in a large cage in the corner; they stand up and bark, their wagging tails eager.
‘Boys!’ Mrs Tweedie shouts and they stop at once. She holds out her hand to me. ‘You must be Mrs Somers. Welcome to Sanderson. Miss Baker will be with you directly.’ She glances beyond me to where the girl who opened the front door for me is standing in the shadows. ‘You can go now, Portia,’ she calls.
‘Thank you for showing me in, Portia,’ I say, and she gives me a practised smile then bounces off up the stairs.
‘They love to gossip, these young girls,’ Mrs Tweedie says. ‘And as most of the school knows, Miss Baker is talking to an agent, from London.’ Her tone is hushed. ‘We’re hoping a couple of our older students will be considered for a part in one of the soaps. Can’t say which one.’ She pretends to zip up her lips. ‘All I can say is that a Scottish family will be moving on to the street and two of our children are up for auditions.’ She sits back down with a happy sigh. ‘Life is never dull here, Mrs Somers.’
‘I’m sure.’ I lean down to stroke the dogs through the wire, while Mrs Tweedie tells me about the history of the school and the sorts of work some of the ex-pupils go on to achieve – in television, theatre and music. It sounds impressive, and if Lauren actually was interested in a career in performing arts, I’m sure I’d be partway there to deciding Sanderson was a good option.
The door opens a couple of times as girls come in with written messages and requests, and then, the third time, it’s the headmistress. She introduces herself and we go through to the drawing room. She looks to be in her mid-forties and has reddish auburn hair, cut in a neat bob, and a long swan neck. She has the posture and poise of a former ballerina and walks with an effortless, enviable grace.
‘Do take a seat, Mrs Somers.’ Her arm wafts towards a sofa, covered in a stiff fabric patterned with roses. ‘And tell me all about your daughter.’
I take a seat and speak about Lauren for a couple of minutes, not exactly making it up, but certainly exaggerating her love of music and performing. When I’m flagging, I start on my list of questions and this keeps us going until Mrs Tweedie brings in a tray of tea and biscuits. The sight of the biscuits sets my stomach rumbling. I remember that I haven’t eaten lunch and take two. Miss Baker sits with a black tea, her ankles crossed and her back straight, and we talk about her career, first with the Royal Ballet and then as a teacher in Glasgow. What I really want to do is steer the conversation around to senior pupils – Kirsty Stewart in particular – but short of just coming out with it, I can’t seem to make it happen, and I find myself dutifully copying down the names of a couple of dance teachers in Edinburgh.
‘Your daughter may be more interested in musical theatre. Ballet is by no means a prerequisite for entry into the school. I know some girls find the self-discipline of ballet practice far too taxing, especially when they turn thirteen and boys become interesting.’ A bell sounds in a far-off corridor. ‘Ah.’ Miss Baker stands up. ‘That’s the bell for next lesson and I teach a class. I’ve arranged for a couple of the older girls to show you around. I think it’s a much better way for you to get a feel for the place.’ Her right cheek dimples with a smile. ‘And of course they’re far more indiscreet than I am. So you’ll no doubt discover all our secrets.’
‘Perfect,’ I say, smiling too, sure that this is my way to finding out about Kirsty but, at the same time, anxious that I don’t bump into Tess, as there’s a slim chance she’s back at school today. She may react badly to seeing me here and I don’t want to be forced to add to my lies or be ushered off the premises for being here under false pretences.
The girls who’ve been asked to show me around are called Becca and Arielle. They’re both fifteen and are coming to the end of their third year. They have pretty, vivacious faces and they talk nonstop. They show me the music block and the theatre (‘best acoustics of any school in Scotland’); the swimming pool and games pitches (‘we’re actually much better at sports than you might think’), and the dining room. ‘They do make sure we eat, if that’s what you’re wondering,’ Arielle says, flicking back perfectly styled hair. ‘My mum always worried about that because everyone goes on about anorexia in boarding schools, but it’s not too bad here.’
I don’t ask her to elucidate on what ‘not too bad’ means because it’s now or never and I don’t want this to be a wasted journey. ‘I’m really interested in senior pupils and what they become involved in. Do you have any information about that?’
‘Come into our common room,’ Becca says. ‘We have loads of photos up on the walls and we can tell you who’s who.’
This sounds promising and I follow them to their common room, which is large and slightly dilapidated. There are half a dozen well-used couches and several mismatched rugs dotted across the space. A table in the corner has a kettle and a toaster on it and a fridge beside it. ‘Not exactly the Ritz,’ Arielle says.
‘But comfortable,’ I say. ‘And all those photographs!’ One whole wall is taken up with photographs and newspaper articles, and the girls lead me towards it.
‘Now, I wonder whether you have a photograph of Kirsty Stewart?’ I say. ‘I saw her in a performance at the Lyceum recently and she was wonderful.’
The girls steal a glance at each other. Unfortunately, it’s a look I can’t read, significant but I don’t know why. ‘Here’s one of her,’ Becca says.
/> I lean in to the wall and stare at the photo. It’s a girl on a stage, wearing Elizabethan clothing, a hoop dress and wig. From the distance the photograph’s been taken, it’s impossible to make out her features.
‘And this is her,’ Arielle says, pointing to a photo further along the wall.
A modern play this time, and she’s in jeans and a checked shirt. Her face is turned away from the camera but there’s something familiar about the line of her jaw and the way she’s standing. It’s the first time I have an inkling that I might have seen her before and it makes me feel afraid. Could I have seen her outside on the street? Perhaps she’s been watching us, following me to work or the children to school.
‘She can act pretty much anything,’ Arielle says, her tone scathing rather than admiring.
‘From Shakespeare’s Ophelia to Miller’s Catherine,’ Becca says.
‘You don’t sound as if you like her, though?’ I say, fishing.
Another look passes between them. ‘She can be a bit of a bully,’ Becca says.
‘There’s this girl in the year above us called Tess,’ Arielle says. ‘And . . .’ She stops and shakes her head. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, there’s not a lot of bullying here, but Tess is the perfect victim.’
‘Arielle,’ Becca warns.
‘Well, it’s true, she is! I don’t know what she’s even doing at this school. She doesn’t try with her acting or her music.’
‘That’s because she wants to be a make-up artist,’ Becca says, walking along in front of the wall of fame. ‘This is Kelly McLeod,’ she says, pointing to another photograph. ‘You might have heard of her?’
‘Doesn’t ring any bells,’ I say, still thinking about Tess. I’m not surprised to hear she’s been bullied by Kirsty; she does have a downtrodden air about her. But, more to the point, this means the two girls are very definitely connected.
‘Kelly’s left school now, lucky her,’ Arielle says. ‘She moved to LA and was in three HBO pilots last year.’
‘Quite a few girls leave before they’re eighteen,’ Becca says.
‘This is Frances Scooter,’ Arielle continues. ‘The school wanted her to change her name so she changed it to Aimee Fox and then she got a part in a radio play,’ Arielle says. ‘Incidentally, what’s your daughter’s name?’
‘Lauren Somers.’
‘That’s perfect,’ Arielle says. ‘Names are really important. I mean, would Meryl Streep be taken seriously if her name was Kylie Sidcup? Or Brittney Rusk?’
I laugh. ‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Normal names with a twist are good, like Emilia instead of plain Emily, Elyssa instead of just Ellie,’ Becca says.
‘Carrie Loftus.’ Arielle points to another photo. ‘Good Christian name but again the surname wasn’t right – makes her sound large, doesn’t it?’
‘Who knew there was all this going on behind the scenes?’ I say, determined to steer them back where I want them. ‘Kirsty didn’t have to change her name, then?’
‘Her surname’s not great but Kirsty sounds friendly, doesn’t it?’ Arielle says.
I nod.
‘Which is ironic really,’ Becca continues. ‘Because she isn’t friendly at all.’
‘Truthfully, most of us are glad she left because she got all the best parts.’
The gloves are off.
‘So she’s left school already?’ I say.
‘She left at Christmas.’
‘The teachers all thought she was amazing.’
‘It’s just a shame she’s such a bitch.’
‘She doesn’t sound very nice,’ I say. ‘I’m not surprised you’re glad she’s left.’ And then casually, ‘So what’s she doing now? Is she living in Edinburgh?’
‘In Slateford, I think.’
‘She lives in that block of flats opposite Tesco Express,’ Becca says. ‘I know that because my mum met her in there last week.’
‘You didn’t tell me that,’ Arielle says, and they start to discuss what Kirsty was wearing and has she really got an agent now and is it true she’s going off to London soon? Becca’s mum seems to have been short on detail so I don’t learn any more, but I feel like I’m definitely making progress. And now I know where she lives, should I tell O’Reilly? Or should I just go and see her myself? Because by now I’m inclined to think that Kirsty is involved. Sure, coincidences happen, however unlikely they might seem, but the balance of probabilities is that Tess and Kirsty are significant to what’s been happening to my family.
The girls tell me they have prep to do and take me back to Mrs Tweedie, who’s still behind her desk sifting through piles of A4 papers. ‘So, how have you enjoyed your visit?’ she asks me, dumping one of the piles on the floor beside her.
‘It’s been marvellous,’ I say. ‘I’m very impressed with the school.’
‘I’m so glad you’ve enjoyed it.’ She gives me a pleased smile and takes a pen from the misshapen pottery jug on her desk. ‘Give me your details and we’ll send you on some information.’
‘I could just take it with me now, if you like?’ I say, not really wanting to end up on their mailing list.
‘Well, yes. I can give you a prospectus and application form now, but we’d also like to invite you and Lauren to one of our performances.’
I can’t argue with that, especially as I’m feeling guilty for having wasted their time, so I take the pen and a piece of paper and start to write down my details.
‘And can I ask you something?’ Mrs Tweedie continues. ‘Are you the Dr Somers who’s just won a City Women award?’
‘Yes.’ I smile up from my writing.
‘My mother lives in town and she told me she’d voted for you.’
‘That’s very kind of her. The publicity has meant an influx of money which will really help the charity.’ I pass the paper and pen back to Mrs Tweedie and notice a pile of yearbooks on a filing cabinet close to her desk; it occurs to me that I might be able to find a better photograph of Kirsty in one of them. ‘Would it be okay if I looked through those?’ I say.
‘Of course, be my guest.’ She leans over to reach them. ‘They go back twenty years. Which one would you like?’
‘My daughter asked me to look up Kirsty Stewart. We saw her in the Lyceum last month and we were very impressed with her performance.’
‘Very talented girl, Kirsty. Can inhabit roles like a second skin,’ Mrs Tweedie says, her voice lowering with admiration. ‘She’s one of the most gifted students who’s ever stepped through these doors. She was a quiet wee thing when she arrived, but she soon found her niche.’ She reaches across to the books. ‘Her mother died when she was born and her father isn’t a well man and somehow that makes for a wonderful actress. Sometimes children who’ve suffered difficulties have seams to mine that other children just don’t have. I know happy childhoods are what we want for our children, but they’re not always useful for an aspiring actor.’ She keeps hold of one book and puts the others back. ‘Here we are. This is hot off the press as Kirsty’s year group is just graduating. Class of 2012.’
She hands it to me and I open it at the first page.
‘She has a London agent now. We expect her to go on to great things.’
The index tells me that on page twenty-four, each student talks about their time at Sanderson Academy.
‘Impeccable ear for accents,’ Mrs Tweedie says. ‘Why don’t you sit down there, Dr Somers?’ She points to a chair pos-itioned next to the dogs’ cage. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll fire off a couple of emails before I forget.’
I sit down on the seat, and the two spaniels come forward for a stroke. Resting my left hand on the cage, I find page twenty-four with my right. Each of the school leavers has been pictured as if for a passport photograph, and the first two pages cover surnames A to D, the next E to K and so on, until I get to the S’s. Kirsty Stewart – I see her photo at once. She’s facing the camera, her eyes fixed on the lens. She is wearing an enigmatic, Mona Lisa smile and her hai
r is tied back into a neat ponytail.
A butterfly storm starts up in my stomach and I catch my breath from the rush of movement. I want to shout out in disbelief, holler – it can’t be true! But I clamp my jaw shut, close my eyes and take a deep breath. My eyelids flutter but I keep them as closed as I am able, hectic light flickering in front of me. I count to ten and then slowly open my eyes and glance back at the book.
Nothing’s changed. The girl in the picture is Emily Jones. Emily Jones is Robbie’s friend. She comes to our house. She eats with us. She’s good with Lauren.
Emily Jones was the Good Samaritan who resuscitated Robbie.
The supposed Good Samaritan, because it’s clear from this photo that Emily Jones and Kirsty Stewart are the same person.
10
I don’t hang around for any more chat with Mrs Tweedie, but wish her a quick goodbye and walk out to my car. I feel as if my eyes have been glued wide open, stuck there, staring at the truth. Pretty, vivacious Emily, whom all the boys want to date and all the mothers like because she’s ‘such a lovely girl’, is Sandy and Trevor’s baby. The truth is staggering and it sets off a tidal wave of panic that washes through me, one wave after another, and each time I feel as if I’m about to pass out from the accompanying dizziness and disbelief.
Gradually, I find a way through it, very deliberately tuning into another part of me, the part that’s interested in the science behind my body’s reaction. My logical mind is never afraid, never out of control. It simply observes, taking notes like a court reporter, no judgement attached, just an accurate recording of facts; my heart is now pumping blood at a rate of five gallons a minute; my breathing is deep in case I need to scream or run; endorphins are coursing through my bloodstream so that if I have to fight, I won’t feel any pain; my senses are alive to everything around me – hearing more acute, pupils dilated, hairs standing on end.