Mind still turning Thelma got out of the car, feet crunching on the scattered leaves and all at once she was struck by the stillness of the early evening’s advent, the peace as tangible as the fading heat of the day. The fierce sun had mellowed into something more tranquil, sweeping the early evening sky with strokes of lilac and tangerine, bathing the bulk of Roseberry Topping and the surrounding patchwork of fields. She locked the car, breathing in the scents of cut grass and cow parsley – and all at once the thought hit her—
I drove here … !
She had driven the thirty-five miles from Ripon with barely a thought of unease or insecurity. It was as if the whole crippling doubt and lack of confidence of the past few weeks had broken like a fever. What on earth had she been making such a fuss about? But then, she reflected, how many, many times in life the mind built fears up, and equally how many times the feared realities proved to be so much less than the dark imaginings one had?
‘Father,’ she said, ‘thank you. Thank you for easing my fears – and give me grace and wisdom to respond to whatever it is Annie has to tell me.’
She turned to walk up the lane to the five-bar gate of Bretton Hall – and stopped. With a surge of déjà vu, she saw the powder-blue Mini parked in by the bus stop, brown leaves dotting the bonnet and windscreen. Had Chloe Lord not even moved her car since their encounter a few days ago? With some trepidation she scanned the lane beyond – and sure enough there on the bench by the bus stop was the slight figure with white-blonde hair ruddy inthe lengthening rays of sun. Chloe Lord was sitting, head bowed, face pressed into her hands. This time the sheath dress was an emerald green and the spiky tattoo was muted under the redness of the skin on her upper arms. Thelma approached and she looked up, face puffy and blotchy and so very tired.
As Thelma sat down beside her, Chloe began scrabbling self-consciously in a crammed and jumbled bag, presumably for tissues. Thelma’s bag, benefitting from forty years more organisational skill, was considerably more accessible. Before the older woman had fully sat down, she was able to offer the younger one a pack of tissues.
‘Ta.’ Chloe tore out a tissue and opened it out. ‘Annie said she’d asked you to come.’
‘You’ve been to see her? How is she this evening?’ asked Thelma.
For an answer Chloe shook her head, burying the tissues into her sore eyes.
‘I’m so very sorry,’ said Thelma gently. ‘I know how much you care for her.’
‘She believes in me.’ Chloe’s voice was little more than a whisper. ‘She’s the only one who does.’
‘I don’t think that’s true at all,’ said Thelma, but still in the same gentle tone.
‘I mean as a teacher,’ corrected Chloe rather hoarsely. ‘Her and of course Davey – he believed in me.’
‘As do your class,’ pointed out Thelma.
‘My class?’ Broken as she was, Chloe sounded puzzled.
‘Of course, your class,’ said Thelma. ‘Those thirty-odd children you teach. They believe in you, that’s very obvious – both Liz and I noticed it straight away, when we saw you in school that day. That castle with the shields and flags – and that wonderful dragon. The children were all totally absorbed.’
Chloe shrugged. ‘They’re a good class,’ she said grudgingly.
‘Believe you me,’ said Thelma. ‘Even the very best group of children can and will run amok if they don’t believe in or respect their teacher. Annie believes you’re a good teacher because you are.’
Again Chloe shrugged and finished wiping her face. As she did Thelma prayed that her words had lodged and would in time take full root. She was wondering whether to get up and continue on with her visit to Annie when Chloe spoke.
‘You don’t know everything,’ she said in a sad, small voice. It was the sort of comment that equally may or may not lead to something more, some revelation or confession. Thelma recognised such moments from of old, and knew they were as fragile and unpredictable as soap bubbles. She breathed in the still, scented air and waited.
‘It’s all my fault,’ said Chloe eventually.
‘What is?’ asked Thelma.
‘The inspection!’ The words came out in an anguished sort of bark. ‘The Ofsted. It’s my fault the school’s been shut down.’
Accompanied by the substantial presence of Zippy, Liz felt a lot more confident knocking on doors and peering in windows; even the prospect of being confronted by an angry Ffion didn’t seem as bad.
She pressed her face against the Clichéd Stunning kitchen window. It was looking less stunning than before; fast food cartons and a couple of empty Prosecco bottles were scattered about, clutter on clutter all but obscuring the granite worktops.
‘Fookin’ hell,’ said Zippy. ‘That’s a tip and a half.’
‘Denby plates though,’ said Sidrah in awe. ‘Lush.’
The living room curtains were pulled, leaving only the narrowest of gaps through which Sidrah, Zippy and Liz all peered.
‘OMG! That rug!’ exclaimed Sidrah. ‘I’m sure that’s Orla Kiely.’
But neither Liz nor Zippy were paying any attention to the rug.
