by Georgia Hill
Turning, I saw he stood against the window, one arm on the high sill, his head resting on his hand.
‘I never disapproved, Peter.’
‘I know.’ He straightened. ‘And I love you for it.’
We gazed at one another from either end of the hall. Love and understanding humming between us, only strengthened more by our distance. I wanted to run to him, to clutch him to me, to feel the solidity of his arms around me once again. Instead I simply said, ‘Write to me.’
He nodded. ‘I promise. Hetty, I will write.’ He added in a kind of urgent despair. ‘I will write.’
He never did.
Chapter 30
Rachel stood outside St Mary’s Primary School with her fingers itching for her pencils. She had half a mind to sit down and sketch the place right now, but thought it might look suspicious. Better to go straight in.
It was ridiculously pretty. Victorian, with the date 1880 proudly displayed in coloured tiles over the main entrance and its bell tower on top of the roof. Behind her, another view of the county spread itself in all its glory, with the Malvern Hills blue in the Worcestershire distance.
The school was halfway up the main hill out of the village, on the road towards Worcester and reached by a narrow B road pitted with potholes. It would be lethal in winter, but on a day like today, in the last-gasp days of a hot August, it was breathtaking. What a place to come to school!
She’d come here on another impulse. From being a woman with the strong habit of caution, her impulses were getting alarmingly regular; they’d get her into trouble one day. She had forgotten it was still the long summer break and unlikely that anyone would be here. In this, it seemed she was wrong. There were three cars parked outside: one swanky little red convertible, a more humble people carrier and a VW Polo, which looked vaguely familiar. They could belong to people walking, she supposed, but it was worth a try, now she’d come, to see if anyone was in.
The main entrance did not bear any resemblance to Hetty’s description of separate doors for boys and girls. It was an enormous sheet of green glass, with an oak door set into it. Carved onto that was the name of the school and an accompanying crest. It showed a lion and a lamb nestled together, with the school motto underneath, So Shall the Strong Aid the Meek. Together We Triumph. Rachel rang the bell and stepped back to admire the craftsmanship. She liked its message.
‘Good afternoon. I’m afraid we have no school places at present.’ A slim blonde, in her mid-forties or so, opened the door and looked enquiringly at Rachel. She had a slight accent, which Rachel couldn’t place.
‘I’m so sorry, perhaps that’s not why you came?’
Rachel smiled. ‘It isn’t actually.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure why I’ve come, really. I wanted to see the school where Hetty volunteered.’
‘I see,’ the woman said, with impeccable politeness, though she plainly didn’t.
Rachel began to feel foolish.
‘Was this Hetty a friend?’ The r rolled. A Scottish burr.
‘No, not really. I live in her house. Well, what was her house. One of them. She’s dead now. Died a few years back. She worked here a long time ago. During World War One.’
A light-brown plucked eyebrow rose. ‘How very intriguing. Then perhaps you’d better come away in.’ The woman smiled broadly and gestured for Rachel to go in. ‘I’m Shona Cameron, the head teacher. How nice to meet you.’
‘Rachel Makepeace,’ Rachel said and shook the proffered hand. It was, as expected, cool and assured. She relaxed a little. Her primary head teacher had been nothing like this smooth, stylish creature.
‘Come along here, Rachel, we’re just having tea. And you’ll not say no to a scone? Bridget makes them especially for these days when we sneak in to work when everyone else is at play.’
‘Thank you, I’d love to, that’s if it’s not taking up too much of your time. I’m pleased to find someone here. I expected the school to be closed up for the summer.’
‘Well, it is mostly. Bridget is my school administrator and we like to get together in the weeks before we go back proper just to catch up on one or two things.’ Shona winked. ‘I like to steal a march on my teachers. Keeps them on their toes, poor wee things.’
She led Rachel into the staff room. ‘Bridget, we have a visitor. Can we make the cream and jam stretch?’
A large woman, with a florid expression and untidy gunmetal hair, stood up. She was in direct contrast to the cool Ms Cameron. She smiled at Rachel and nodded wordlessly. Rachel wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d curtseyed. ‘One more for tea, Sheila,’ she called to a woman in the adjoining kitchenette.
‘Oh hello, Rachel, fancy seeing you here!’ Sheila Llewellyn bustled through, carrying a large brown betty teapot.
Rachel blushed. It was embarrassing enough having to face Mike on a regular basis, but far worse to face her younger lover’s mother. ‘Sheila, how lovely,’ she managed.
Shona glanced from one to the other curiously. ‘Sheila is a governor, Rachel. Perhaps she can give you the grand tour later on? Shall we sit down and enjoy our feast, ladies? Then Bridget and I can enjoy our break and we can hear all about Rachel and her friend Hetty.’
Sheila settled a cosy on top of the teapot and sat down. She began to hand out plates and knives. ‘Ah, so you’re still finding out about Hetty, are you, Rachel?’ She looked around to the other women. ‘Rachel is going out with Gabriel. He’s told me all about Hetty.’
‘He did smashing work on my kitchen, Gabe did,’ Bridget spoke up. ‘Lovely cabinets, oak veneer they are. Proper job.’
‘Och yes, and he was wonderful with Key Stage Two that time, with the Senses Garden project. The sculpture he created with them is marvellous. You must see it before you go, Rachel. He made our magnificent front door too. A talented man.’ Shona beamed at them all. ‘Now isn’t this blissful? Tea?’
Rachel was bemused. Gabe had never mentioned the work he’d done here. Her heart blossomed with pride. And she knew he could do so much more with his talents, if only he was a little more ambitious.
Over tea and scones, Rachel explained about the box of documents found in the cottage and the latest information about Hetty volunteering at the school during the war.
‘How completely fascinating.’ Shona clapped her hands together. ‘And are you planning to do anything with the information, Rachel?’ She looked discreetly at her watch.
‘Well, I’m not sure at the moment. I’m an artist. I draw illustrations for books and magazines. I had thought about writing a book about her life and creating some drawings to go with it, but I’m not so sure now.’
‘Gabriel says Rachel does some beautiful stuff,’ Sheila interjected.
‘And why are you not sure about the book, Rachel?’ Shona asked.
Rachel hesitated. ‘I’m not sure there’s a market for it,’ she began, ‘actually, the real reason is it seems too much of an intrusion, somehow. Some of the things I’ve found out about her later life are very personal and I don’t have all that much information about her childhood.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m no writer. I don’t know what form the book might take.’
‘I know I’d buy it,’ Bridget said. ‘I love that kind of thing.’ She began to clatter together the tea things. Break time was obviously over. ‘You know what might help,’ she looked to Shona, who caught on immediately.
‘The Log Book!’ Shona rose in one smooth movement and groaned. ‘I’d love to chat with you a wee while longer, but the dreaded paperwork beckons. Bridget, can you find the copy of the Log Book, do you think?’ She turned to Rachel, ‘The original is in the County Museum. We’re one of the oldest schools in the area, you know. Much as I’d love to hear more, I must away.’ She headed to the door. ‘Could I ask a favour?’
Rachel had the feeling no one said no to Shona and lived. ‘Yes?’
‘Would you be prepared to come in and talk to the children about what you do? Perhaps help out with an art lesson or two? We’re always lookin
g for helpers. That much hasn’t changed in a hundred years!’ She grinned and then issued orders, ‘Bridget, find the Log Book and Sheila, could I impose on you to give Rachel a tour?’
‘I’d be happy to come into school, I think,’ Rachel said, aware of more people entwining their lives around hers. Of becoming rooted in a place. It would be fun, though, to work with the children. ‘Just before you go, Shona, can I ask you a question?’
The head teacher turned, obviously impatient to get one, but too well-mannered to hurry off. ‘Of course.’
‘Do you know anything about a Peter Innisford? He taught here about the same time as Hetty volunteered.’
‘Mr Innisford?’ Shona twinkled. ‘Have a look at the board in the hall and you’ll find him.’
With that, she vanished into the corridor, followed by a bustling Bridget.
‘Quite a woman, isn’t she?’ Sheila said and loaded a tray with crockery.
Rachel laughed. ‘She’s that alright.’
‘She’s worked miracles since she came here. I love being a governor, although I’m not too sure how much longer I can do it.’
Rachel took the tray off her, thinking Sheila looked tired. The women went into the kitchenette and washed up the tea things in a companionable way.
‘How long have you been one?’ Rachel asked as she dried and then stacked the cups and plates in a tidy pile.
‘Oh, since Gabriel was a pupil here. I sort of carried on after that, although Mike kept on at me to give it up. I nearly did and then Shona came along and it’s such a joy to work with her, I wanted to keep doing it.’ Sheila paused to scratch her chin, leaving a bubble of washing-up liquid on it. ‘It’s a bit thankless at times, but I love coming in and hearing readers, that sort of thing. Makes up for all the bureaucracy.’ She emptied the bowl and dried her hands on Rachel’s tea towel. ‘Leave the rest. I’ll do it later. Come on, then. If it’s a tour you’re after we’d best get started. Hall first, I think.’
Rachel followed Sheila down the corridor, dull and bare without its term-time displays. ‘I didn’t like to show my ignorance, but just what is the Log Book?’
Sheila laughed. ‘It’s a record of daily life in the school. Every head teacher had to keep one. A sort of diary, I suppose. I suppose Bridget meant that it might give you some more information to flesh out your book. It’s an idea. I’m sure the entries for the Great War will be fascinating. Speaking of which, there he is, there’s your Mr Innisford.’
Rachel looked up. They were in the assembly hall. On one wall was a wooden board. It was the roll of honour Stan had mentioned.
Please let him have survived the war, she prayed. It was ridiculous, she had never known the man. The board was divided into two, with one entitled In Memoriam, written in gilt copperplate. Steeling herself, Rachel scanned the names of those staff and pupils who had given their lives in service in two world wars. No Peter Innisford. She allowed herself to breathe. There it was, his name under Roll of Honour, head teacher from 1927 to 1952. Thank goodness, he was alright. And had returned and risen to head teacher!
Sheila looked at her curiously. ‘Is Peter Innisford anything to do with Hetty?
‘Well, they were certainly close friends. In fact, I’d go as far as saying they loved one another.’
‘Mmm, funny pairing, though. She all hoity toity war wife and he a school teacher.’
Rachel laughed. ‘I’m not sure Hetty was all that hoity toity. Stubborn and wilful maybe, with a destructive temper, but not stuck-up. But I suppose they were from different classes, so yes, a funny pairing,’ she admitted. She turned to Sheila, realising how much she liked her. ‘I’m not sure they even got on to begin with.’
‘Still, you can’t always choose who you fall for, can you?’ Sheila said, meaningfully.
‘Isn’t that the truth?’
The two women smiled at one another in understanding.
Rachel realised she’d made an ally. Whatever Sheila’s feelings about her relationship with Gabe, it wasn’t going to get in the way of their friendship. She warmed to Sheila even more.
‘So, come on then,’ she said, ‘where’s this tour you promised me?’
Rachel rattled up the track to home feeling happy. She’d enjoyed seeing round the school and had spent the rest of the afternoon sketching it. She’d loved trying to see it through Hetty’s eyes, although there was scant left of the original Victorian interior. She’d loved, even more, seeing the school Gabe had gone to as a child. Sheila had fished out some old school photos and there he was, in the football team, a mop of unruly blonde hair and a familiar cheeky expression.
What had been even more thrilling was Sheila knowing about Delamere House, the Trenchard-Lewis home. To Rachel’s joy, the house still existed and they’d planned to visit sometime. Rachel hoped it would be soon. She couldn’t wait to see where Hetty had grown up. She was also looking forward to spending more time with Sheila. She’d liked her immensely.
Parking the Fiat next to the Toyota, Rachel paused for a moment to admire, yet again, the view from her cottage. She leaned on the steering wheel and grinned to herself. Life was good.
Trailing inside and finding Gabe sprawled on the sofa, fast asleep, she put the precious school Log Book on her desk and made her way upstairs. There, any contentment fled. Gabe had obviously had a bath. Not a problem. However, the grime ring around the rim and the heap of dusty clothes littering her new bathroom floor definitely was. Then Rachel sniffed. The familiar scent of Jo Malone hung in the air. The evidence, an empty bottle on its side in the sink. Gabe had helped himself to her bath oil and, what’s more, had used the lot.
Horrified, Rachel gathered up the mess he’d left and stormed into the bedroom. There was worse. Gabe had left all his sopping-wet bath towels on the throw at the foot of the bed. It was pale-blue silk. Rachel gave a little scream of terror and snatched off the offending towels. Too late. The colour from the darker-blue embroidered pattern had bled. It would never be the same again.
‘Gabe!’ she roared, turning to find him leaning lazily on the door jamb.
‘Hi, Rach. You’ve been a long time. We finished over at the Hallidays’ early for once. Came home and crashed.’ He scrubbed a weary hand over his hair, oblivious to the woman’s anger.
‘Look at this!’ Rachel pointed to the ruined throw.
Gabe yawned and stretched. ‘What’s the matter with it?’ Blinking, he sensed he was in trouble – again. He looked closer at the throw. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, babe. It’ll come out, though, won’t it?’ He looked at Rachel warily. They’d had arguments like this before and he always trod carefully. He didn’t understand Rachel’s obsession with having everything just so, but he knew when he’d upset her and hated it. He came towards her. ‘I’m really sorry, Rach.’ He put his hands on her arms and caressed them.
She shrugged him away, she wasn’t letting him off that easily. ‘And your work clothes were all over the bathroom and you’ve used the last of my Jo Malone.’
Gabe frowned, ‘Your what?’
Rachel exploded, ‘My bath oil!’
He tried to gather her to him. ‘Oh babe, I’m really sorry. I’m a pig. I’ll buy you some more. And a new bed thingy.’
Rachel stepped out of his embrace. ‘One, I am not your babe,’ she said, through clenched teeth, ‘and two, I doubt that you could afford it.’
Gabe’s face closed. He ran a hand through his hair again. ‘Yup, you’re probably right. I’m just a working bloke. One who has to have a bath to get the stink of honest graft off his body. One who is so knackered by the fourteen-hour days he’s been putting in that he forgets to stuff his clothes in a bag and drops the towels all over the place, goes downstairs and falls asleep before he can tidy up before Miss Anal Retentive comes home.’
Rachel flinched. That last barb hit home. It was too close to the warning Tim had given her. Too close to the truth. What she’d said to Gabe had been unforgivable. ‘I’m sorry.’ She took a breath. ‘I am, really. You’
re probably right. I am a bit anal.’
‘A bit?’ He looked at her from under his lashes, still wary.
It had been too nice a day to spoil it by ending with an argument. ‘Alright. Very,’ she conceded.
He came to her, relieved. He couldn’t understand this side of her. The jibe about money had got to him, but he wanted her too much to let it rankle and he’d never been the sort to sulk. ‘I’m sorry too,’ he repeated as he put his arms around her and nuzzled her hair. ‘I am a pig and a lout and I don’t deserve you.’ He backed off a little and met her eyes. ‘Perhaps this is all going a bit too fast? Maybe I should go home tonight and leave you to your own space for a bit?’
Fear flickered through her. She didn’t want to lose him. ‘No, don’t do that. It’s me, Gabe. I need to relax, to chill a bit more. I like you being here. Don’t go.’ She reached up and kissed him. He smelled wonderful, as well he might, she thought, and her lips curled. ‘I’m a buffoon,’ she said, through her kiss. ‘I don’t deserve you.’
‘So, I’m a pig and you’re a baboon?’ He put a warm hand on the side of her breast. ‘Sounds like a match made in heaven.’
‘A buffoon,’ she began, but was silenced by his kisses.
Chapter 31
‘Right, that’s sorted, then.’ It was Sheila on the phone. ‘Pick me up on Thursday. I don’t believe in putting things off any more.’
Rachel, just as keen to see Hetty’s old home, was thrilled to have Sheila as a fellow enthusiast. She was looking forward to a girly day. Making small talk with Kev, Brian and the team got a bit wearing.
Rachel stole a glance at her passenger as she put the car into third and eased down the narrow lane Sheila dictated was the route to Delamere House. Sheila had mentioned, without going into the reason, why she felt better on some days than others. Today, she was glowing.
‘Looking forward to seeing the house, then?’ Sheila now asked.
‘I can’t wait. Hetty sort of described it, but I haven’t got a clear picture of what it’s like.’