The Secret Letter
The Secret Letter
Kerry Barrett
I signed the letter with a flourish. I wouldn’t send it. There was no need. But I wanted to keep it somewhere safe, somewhere I could find it if I ever needed to remember why I’d done what I’d done. The fight goes on, I told myself. The fight goes on… London, 1910. Twenty-one-year-old Esther Watkins would do anything for the Suffragette cause. Imprisoned, force-fed and beaten, she is determined to fight for what she believes is right – no matter what it costs her. With new love Joseph by her side, will she get the better future she dreams of? Kent, 2019. With her marriage in tatters, school teacher Lizzie Armstrong moves to sleepy Elm Heath for a fresh start, and her pupils and the community soon steal her heart. So when the school is threatened with closure Lizzie knows she has to fight, and she looks to the school’s founder for inspiration. What makes Esther, born and bred in London, a proud Suffragette, suddenly leave the city and escape to Elm Heath? And when Lizzie uncovers Esther’s heartbreaking secret, could it give her the strength she needs to save not just the school, but her new beginning too? A heart-wrenching and uplifting novel for fans of Emily Gunnis, Kathleen McGurl and Kathryn Hughes. Readers love Kerry Barrett: ‘All Kerry Barrett's books are brilliant’ ‘I'd highly recommend this: detective fiction, historical fiction, powerful, moving, thrilling, sometimes comic, always very human. ’ ‘A beautiful story which kept me hooked’ ‘I would definitely recommend this read, but be warned, you won't want to put it down. ’ ‘Loved the whole story, couldn't put it down’ ‘Will definitely read more from this author’
About the Author (#u23aa09f1-e995-514e-8038-2df3133e707f)
KERRY BARRETT is the author of eight novels, including the Strictly Come Dancing themed A Step in Time, and The Girl in the Picture, about a crime novelist who solves a 160-year-old mystery.
Born in Edinburgh, Kerry moved to London as a child, where she now lives with her husband and two sons. A massive bookworm growing up, she used to save up her pocket money for weeks to buy the latest Sweet Valley High book, then read the whole story on the bus home and have to wait two months for the next one. Eventually she realised it would be easier to write her own stories …
Kerry’s years as a television journalist, reporting on EastEnders and Corrie, have inspired her novels where popular culture collides with a historical mystery. But there is no truth in the rumours that she only wrote a novel based on Strictly Come Dancing so she would be invited on to It Takes Two.
When she’s not practising her foxtrot (because you never know …), Kerry is watching Netflix, reading Jilly Cooper, and researching her latest historical story.
Readers Love Kerry Barrett (#u23aa09f1-e995-514e-8038-2df3133e707f)
‘All Kerry Barrett's books are brilliant.’
‘I love Kerry Barrett’s books and this one is no disappointment’
‘Highly recommended’
‘I just loved the way Kerry took us effortlessly from one era to another’
‘Immediately bought another Kerry Barrett book – great writer!’
‘Brilliantly written gripping loved it’
Also by Kerry Barrett (#u23aa09f1-e995-514e-8038-2df3133e707f)
The Could It Be Magic? Series
Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered
I Put a Spell on You
Baby, It’s Cold Outside
I’ll Be There for You
A Spoonful of Sugar: A Novella
A Step in Time
The Forgotten Girl
The Girl in the Picture
The Hidden Women
The Secret Letter
KERRY BARRETT
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020
Copyright © Kerry Barrett 2020
Kerry Barrett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © February 2020 ISBN: 9780008321604
Version: 2019-11-14
Table of Contents
Cover (#u469ad37c-28d1-51fb-8997-ab8d7c2acf43)
About the Author
Readers Love Kerry Barrett
Also by Kerry Barrett
Title Page (#u1132daea-ffba-5193-b181-dc3ea2c591a2)
Copyright (#u12fb477b-c8d2-544d-9428-308bd1eb2675)
Dedication (#u0091b2d1-c160-547e-8bd9-1b677cdcde0b)
Prologue
Chapter 1: Lizzie
Chapter 2: Lizzie
Chapter 3: Lizzie
Chapter 4: Lizzie
Chapter 5: Esther
Chapter 6: Esther
Chapter 7: Lizzie
Chapter 8: Lizzie
Chapter 9: Esther
Chapter 10: Esther
Chapter 11: Lizzie
Chapter 12: Lizzie
Chapter 13: Esther
Chapter 14: Esther
Chapter 15: Lizzie
Chapter 16: Lizzie
Chapter 17: Lizzie
Chapter 18: Esther
Chapter 19: Esther
Chapter 20: Lizzie
Chapter 21: Lizzie
Chapter 22: Esther
Chapter 23: Esther
Chapter 24: Esther
Chapter 25: Lizzie
Chapter 26: Lizzie
Chapter 27: Lizzie
Chapter 28: Lizzie
Chapter 29: Lizzie
Chapter 30: Lizzie
Chapter 31: Esther
Chapter 32: Esther
Chapter 33: Esther
Chapter 34: Esther
Chapter 35: Lizzie
Chapter 36: Lizzie
Chapter 37: Lizzie
Chapter 38: Lizzie
Chapter 39: Esther
Chapter 40: Esther
Chapter 41: Esther
Chapter 42: Lizzie
Chapter 43: Lizzie
Chapter 44: Esther
Chapter 45: Lizzie
Chapter 46: Lizzie
Chapter 47: Lizzie
Chapter 48: Lizzie
Epilogue: Esther
Acknowledgements
Extract
Dear Reader … (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
To the strong women in my life who are the living embodiment of Deeds Not Words: my fabulous aunts, Pauline and Norma; my godmother, Linda; my second mum, Les; and of course, my amazing actual mum, Dorothy.
Prologue (#ulink_81d62e35-c48d-5d54-b7b8-efc135ab3e8b)
Esther (#ulink_81d62e35-c48d-5d54-b7b8-efc135ab3e8b)
December 1910
I picked up the letter I’d written and read it over to myself. I knew he’d never see it, but it made me feel better, just putting my feelings down on paper. Putting everything that had happened behind me.
‘Sometimes the fight is part of the fun,’ I’d written. I smiled sadly. That was exactly how I felt, and why everything had gone so wrong between us; there had just been no fight.
Picking up my pen again, I signed the letter with a flourish and then wafted the paper, waiting for the ink to dry. I wouldn’t send it. There was no need. But I wanted to keep it somewhere safe, somewhere I could find it if I ever needed to remember why I’d done what I’d done.
I glanced round my small bedroom, looking for inspiration, and my eyes fell on my fabric bag, stuffed under the bed. I pulled it out and opened it and found inside the wooden photograph frame holding the only photograph I had of my former love. Perfect. But first I had to change something else. On my bedside table was my journal and tucked inside was a photograph of myself. It had been taken at a recent suffragette rally and vain as it sounded, I loved the way it made me look. I had my chin raised slightly and a flash of fire in my eyes. I looked like a woman to be reckoned with.
Smiling, I opened the back of the picture frame and took out the photograph that was in there. Should I throw it away? No, he was part of my past no matter how horribly things had ended. Instead I put it into the bag and pushed it back under the bed. Then I put the photograph of myself into the frame, folded up the letter and put it in an envelope, carefully tucked that behind the photo and fixed the back on securely. I proudly stood the photograph on my bedside table. I would keep that picture with me, wherever I ended up, and every time I looked at it I would remember that I had been made stronger by everything that had happened.
‘The fight goes on, Esther,’ I said to myself. ‘The fight goes on.’
Chapter 1 (#ulink_83c91a2c-f1d9-5a78-8f86-c5c88f25f2f4)
Lizzie (#ulink_83c91a2c-f1d9-5a78-8f86-c5c88f25f2f4)
August 2019
I stared at the building where I would spend most of my time for the next year, or even two, with a mixture of hope, fear and resentment.
‘Just a few months,’ I whispered to myself. ‘Just a few months, and then you can get back to normal.’
I pushed my sunglasses up on top of my head so I could see better and squinted in the brightness. It was an old-fashioned school building. The sort of building that in London would have been converted into luxury flats years ago. It had black iron railings, a paved area at the front with hopscotch markings and two entrances, over which in the stonework was carved “boys” and “girls”. I knew that at the back was a more modern extension, but staring at the front I felt like I’d gone back in time.
My stomach lurched with nerves and I took a step backwards, lowering my sunglasses again like a shield.
‘Chin up, Lizzie,’ I told myself sternly. ‘You’ve got this.’
But I wasn’t sure I did have it.
It was mid-morning but it was quiet. No one was around and I was glad. School didn’t start for another ten days though I’d come to Elm Heath early so I could move into my new house, get settled in, and generally find my feet a bit. It was very different here from my life in Clapham and I knew it was going to take some getting used to.
I took a deep, slightly shuddery breath as I thought about my ex-husband, Grant, who was – as far as I knew – still living in leafy South-West London. Predictably, he’d managed to emerge from the disaster of the last couple of years smelling of roses despite being asked to leave Broadway Common School before he was pushed. Never had the phrase “men fail up” seemed truer than when I’d discovered he’d walked into a fancy job in some think-tank, advising local councils on education policy and was earning more now than he’d ever done as a head teacher. Which was ironic considering one of the many, many things he’d done wrong was being creative with some of the school budgets.
Under my sunglasses, I felt a tear start to dribble down my nose and I reached up with one finger to wipe it away. I had to stay strong or I would fall apart. And yes, it wasn’t fair that I’d been treated with suspicion too, even though an investigation had proved that I hadn’t been involved in Grant’s misdemeanours whatsoever. But it was harder to prove I didn’t know anything about it, because while he was head of the huge junior school, I was in charge at the infants’ school next door. And as I’d soon discovered, no one really believed that I was innocent, despite what the official reports said. I’d waited for Grant to clear my name – to speak out on my behalf. But I was still waiting. Because as it turned out, Grant telling everyone I knew nothing would have effectively meant admitting he’d done all the things he was accused of. So instead he stayed quiet.
With the trust gone in our marriage, I’d found myself moving back to my mum’s house at the ripe old age of thirty-eight. And with the trust gone in my job, I’d resigned and applied for new posts all over the place – just to get away from London.
‘And here I am,’ I said out loud, still looking at Elm Heath Primary. Elm Heath was an ordinary school. It wasn’t a super, high-performing school; it was just a normal, nice-enough village primary. And that made it the perfect school for me to prove myself.
There was no doubt everything that had happened had left me needing to show the teaching world that I still had it, and I thought Elm Heath would give me that opportunity. As far as I could see, it was just a bit old-fashioned. The last head teacher had been in her job for yonks, and she’d been quite resistant to change. I thought I could drag the school into the twenty-first century, revitalise it, get my mojo back and then go back to London and to normality. Albeit a Grant-free normality.
I forced a small smile. This was just a blip, I thought to myself. Just a small hump in the road of my career. And perhaps a slightly bigger hump in the road of my personal life because despite everything he’d done, I still missed Grant. I missed being part of a team. The Mansfields. Grant and Elizabeth. A double act. A “you two”. Now it was just me.
Sighing, I picked up my bag. I’d moved into my tiny terraced house yesterday – my whole life reduced to a few boxes of books – but it was still chaotic and I had a lot to do to get sorted before term started. I really should get on with it.
As I turned to walk away from the school a voice shouted from the playground.
‘Ms Armstrong? Yoo-hoo! Ms Armstrong!’
I ignored it for a split second and then looked back over my shoulder as it dawned on me that I was Ms Armstrong. I’d applied for this job in my maiden name – part of my plan to be “me” instead of Grant’s other half.
Across the playground, a short woman – perhaps ten years older than me – came barrelling towards the gate.
‘Wait!’ she called. ‘I’ll let you in!’
I groaned as I recognised her from one of my interviews. It was Paula Paxton, the deputy head. Grant would have said she was the perfect mix of overenthusiastic and underachieving. Though she’d been very nice to me when I met her before, I just wasn’t really in the mood for company.
‘Ms Armstrong,’ she panted as she unlocked the gate. ‘I saw you from my office and thought you would want to come in rather than lurk outside. So I said to myself, I said “Paula, run downstairs and let her in – she doesn’t want to be lurking outside,” and I raced downstairs and then when I saw you pick your bag up, I thought I’d missed you.’
Faced with such jollity, I winced. Despite how nice Paula had seemed at my interview, I wasn’t sure I could deal with her kindness today when I was feeling fragile. She saw my reaction and she paused while opening the iron gate.
‘I’m babbling,’ she said. ‘I always babble when I meet new people. I’m sorry.’
I managed a weak smile. ‘Don’t be,’ I said.
She reached out and took my bag from me.
‘Coffee?’
I smiled more genuinely this time. ‘Coffee would be great.’
I followed her through the echoey corridors of the school. Generally, I disliked schools out of hours. They needed the children to make them feel alive, I always thought. But today, I appreciated the quiet stillness of the building. It was cool inside, no fancy air-conditioning could compete with hundred-year-old thick stone walls.
I was wearing a vest top, cropped jeans and Havaianas that flipped and flopped loudly down the hall. Paula Paxton was dressed for work in a neat wrap dress with court shoes and – I thought – nude tights. It was thirty degrees outside, and it was the summer holidays, so I wondered if she dressed like that all the time. On the beach. At the gym.
‘God, I’m so hot,’ she said, over her shoulder. ‘I’ve been to a funeral.’
Oops.
‘Sorry,’ I muttered, feeling horrible for having had nasty thoughts about her. Paula waved her hand at me.
‘Nah, don’t be. It was some client of my husband’s firm. I only went so I could bring the car home afterwards because I need to go to the supermarket later, and I could have got the bus, but I’ll have a lot of bags …’
I smiled and she stopped.
‘Babbling again,’ she said. ‘Here are the offices.’
She opened a door on her left. It was an original, thick with paint and with a wobbly window on the top half.
Inside was a sort of reception area with seating and two desks for the secretaries I assumed. Beyond it were two more doors, similarly old-fashioned, one marked “head teacher” and one marked “deputy head teacher”.
‘I’m on the left,’ she said. ‘I teach as well, obviously, so I don’t use my office much. But I have the coffee machine. Milk and sugar?’
After suffering in too many staffrooms where the only refreshments on offer were clumpy catering tins of instant, I was pleasantly surprised to hear there was a coffee machine. I smiled.
‘Just milk, please. I’ll just have a look at my own office if that’s okay?’
‘Hold on,’ she said. She opened the top drawer of one of the desks and pulled out a key.
‘This is yours.’
I wondered if there was any point in keeping a key just centimetres away from the door it unlocked but I didn’t say anything. Instead I simply unlocked the door.
‘I’ll fire up the Nespresso,’ Paula said. ‘Well, it’s not a real Nespresso, because they’re so expensive. It’s just the Marks and Sparks version, but I find it’s just as good …’
She trailed off, much to my relief.
‘Just come in when you’re ready.’
I nodded and, taking a deep breath, I went into my new office.
It was pretty bare. There was a big desk by the window, a round table, and two empty bookcases. On one wall there was an old-fashioned black and white photograph of a young woman wearing what I thought was Edwardian dress, and a fierce expression.
‘You’re going to have to go,’ I told her out loud. ‘I can’t have you looking down on me so disapprovingly.’
My voice bounced around the empty room.
Suddenly overwhelmed by everything, I sat down at my new desk and put my face in my hands. This was my last chance to save my career and start again but it just seemed like a huge task. Was this going to be a massive mistake?
Chapter 2 (#ulink_b60ded2c-3b69-5585-a926-41e1018ac385)
Lizzie (#ulink_b60ded2c-3b69-5585-a926-41e1018ac385)
I sat like that for a few minutes, wallowing in my misery over my new life. None of this was my fault, I thought. I was just another one of Grant’s victims, like the parents he fooled, and the kids he let down, and whose SATs results he faked, and the PTA whose funds he siphoned off. Though that bit had never been proved, and like I said, he’d never actually admitted the rest – just insisted it was all a misunderstanding. I took a deep breath and rubbed my eyes, trying to pull myself together. I couldn’t fall apart now, not with Paula Paxton in the next room.
‘Excuse me, Ms Armstrong,’ a voice said, making me realise that Paula Paxton wasn’t in the next room; she was in my room, clutching two mugs of coffee.
I forced my head upright and tried to smile. But my neck felt weak and my smile weaker.
‘Oh dear,’ Paula Paxton said. ‘Oh dear.’
She put both mugs on the desk and in two strides was next to me. Tentatively, she touched my arm.
‘Feeling a bit overwhelmed?’ she said.
Her kind voice almost made me fall apart. With super-human strength I managed to nod, without looking at her.
‘I know what happened,’ she said. ‘In your last job, I mean. You don’t have to explain.’
Of course she knew. She’d been in my interviews; she must have read my application. Knowing she knew made me feel oddly relieved and embarrassed at the same time. I couldn’t bear her feeling sorry for me. It was the sympathy and the sad faces and the tilty heads asking ‘how ARE you?’ that had made life in London so completely awful.
Paula rubbed my arm gently and then went round the other side of the desk and sat down opposite me. She pushed one of the mugs towards me and picked up the other one.
‘I think I should tell you just how thrilled we are to have you here,’ she said in a conversational tone. ‘I’ve read all the things you’ve written in Teacher magazine. And I was actually at your training day in Brighton.’
This time I did manage to meet her eyes.
‘Really?’
Grant had been the face of our schools. We worked together but he was the driving force. He was the one doing the Tedx talks, and writing for the broadsheet education supplements about his views on education policy, and his approach to helping young children learn. He was outspoken, handsome and funny, and he really knew his stuff, so he was very media friendly. He’d even been on Question Time once. In fact, I thought it was his profile that had led him to make the bad decisions he’d made. Education is a long game and seeing children through their years at school can sometimes feel like an age. Grant couldn’t wait for results, and so he had to fiddle them, because he couldn’t be seen to be failing. Apart from in our marriage, of course. He didn’t care about that going wrong.
But I’d been passionate about what we were doing, too. I’d written a few articles for a teaching mag; I’d done a couple of seminars at training days. And it seemed Paula Paxton knew all about them.
Now she smiled at me. ‘Ms Armstrong …’
‘Lizzie,’ I said. ‘Please call me Lizzie.’
‘Lizzie, Elm Heath Primary needs a boost.’
‘I know.’
‘I’ve worked here for twenty years,’ Paula went on. ‘My daughter came here. It’s such a lovely school. We were just so thrilled when you took the position.’
I smiled at her across the top of my coffee mug. It was nice to hear after so much bad stuff.
‘You’re so inspirational,’ Paula was saying. ‘You have such wonderful ideas about putting the children first in everything.’
I felt a very small flush of pride. ‘Really?’ I said. That had always been my focus.
Paula smiled at me again. ‘I read some of your husband’s articles too.’
‘Ex-husband.’
She bit her lip. ‘He’s more about winning.’
I’d taken a mouthful of the rather good coffee while she was talking and now I swallowed it all, making me cough.
Still spluttering, I laughed for the first time in what seemed like weeks. It sounded slightly strange. ‘That’s Grant in a nutshell.’
Paula grinned at me, then taking advantage of the friendlier atmosphere between us, she leaned forward. ‘Was it awful? Your break-up?’
I shrugged. ‘You know when people say something’s ended not with a bang but with a whimper? It was like that, really. He let me down professionally and then – boom – it all just crumbled.’
‘That’s almost worse,’ Paula said and again I was surprised by her insight. I nodded, feeling another rush of self-pity and, sensing my mood, she smiled again.
‘I’ve organised a barbecue for you to meet all the staff,’ she said. ‘My house, tomorrow evening.’
‘Oh I’m not sure …’ I began. I was still finding my feet in Elm Heath and I wasn’t sure I was quite ready to meet my teachers.
Paula waved her hand. ‘It’s all arranged,’ she said. ‘I’m only round the corner from you – I’ll send someone to collect you on the way so you don’t get lost.’
I blinked at her, astonished. She’d arranged a party for me and she knew where I lived? In London I’d be suspicious of such overly friendly behaviour, but here it just seemed … nice. I thought briefly of boozy staff parties at the Three Crowns in Clapham High Street and then shook my head to clear the memories. My life was different now and I had to get used to it. And if it was totally overwhelming, then I’d stay an hour, make an excuse of doing more unpacking or something, and scarper.
‘Thank you,’ I said, smiling. ‘That’s very kind.’
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Paula said. ‘Could I ask you to rinse out your mug and put it back in my office when you’re done?’
‘Of course.’
She got up and turned to go. ‘Feel free to make the office your own,’ she said as an afterthought. ‘If you need more bookshelves, or chairs just let Jeff the caretaker know.’
‘Thanks,’ I said again. I glanced round. It was a bigger office than the one I’d had in London and I was sure I could make it my own. My eye was caught by the portrait on the wall. ‘Paula, who’s that woman in the picture?’
She smiled. ‘That’s Esther Watkins,’ she said, proudly, as though it needed no further explanation.
I screwed up my face. ‘Sorry, I don’t know who that is.’
‘She founded Elm Heath Primary back in the early twentieth century,’ Paula said, as though she was reading from an information card at a museum. ‘We’re actually one of the oldest schools in the county. Esther Watkins dedicated her life …’
‘Maybe we should move her picture,’ I said hurriedly, interrupting her before I got treated to a lecture about a sour-faced spinster who probably thought children should be seen and not heard.
Paula looked horrified so I backtracked immediately.
‘I mean, maybe she needs to be seen. We could put her in the main office, perhaps. Or in the corridor.’
‘Perhaps.’ Paula sounded doubtful. ‘I’ve always thought it was nice that she’s in here. This would have been her office at one time, you know?’
I knew when I was beaten. I’d move grumpy Ms Watkins when I was settled in and had a quiet moment to myself.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ I said to Paula.
She grinned at me, obviously pleased she’d convinced me to leave Esther Watkins where she was.
‘I’ll send someone round to get you about sixish.’
‘Sounds great,’ I said, forcing away the nerves I was feeling at being “presented” to all the staff at once. ‘Lovely.’
Chapter 3 (#ulink_b06bdaaf-d83c-5c46-8f17-a5e894dbb2d7)
Lizzie (#ulink_b06bdaaf-d83c-5c46-8f17-a5e894dbb2d7)
What did one wear to a village barbecue? I wondered, looking at my small selection of clothes later. When my life had fallen apart, I’d put most of my belongings into storage while I holed up at my mum’s house. And then, when I’d moved down to Elm Heath in the middle of deepest, darkest Kent, I’d realised I didn’t need all the stuff I’d accumulated over the years – it just reminded me of better times – so I sold it all, except for a few boxes of books.
Now I had what might be called a capsule wardrobe. A very small capsule wardrobe. I decided to go casual, so I pulled on the pair of cropped jeans I’d been wearing at school yesterday and a floaty vest with little flowers on it, and put a cardigan in my bag in case it got chilly later.
I was, I discovered when I was trying to draw a straight line with eyeliner, ridiculously and shakily nervous. What if everyone knew what had happened in London and they all thought I’d been involved? What if none of them wanted to work with me? What if – I gasped aloud and jabbed myself in the eye with the eyeliner pencil – they’d all wanted Paula to be the new head and were resentful that I’d got the job?
With one eye watering, I wiped off the mess I’d made of my make-up and instead just dabbed on some lip balm. They’d have to take me as I was. I brushed my hair, then went downstairs to my tiny kitchen and took the bottle of Prosecco I’d bought out of the fridge. If all else failed, I’d bribe them with bubbles.
I was ready and waiting when the doorbell rang, but it still made me jump because I was so edgy. I took a deep breath, plastered a smile on my face and opened the door to find a woman maybe five years younger than me on the doorstep. She had bright blonde hair in a high ponytail and freckles and looked like a cheerleader in an American teen film.
‘Hello, I’m Lizzie,’ I said, then I paused. ‘Lizzie Armstrong.’
She grinned at me, showing neat, white teeth. ‘I’d worry if you weren’t,’ she said. ‘Paula sent me to fetch you. I’m Pippa Davis. I teach years one and two.’
I relaxed, slightly, in the face of such friendliness. ‘Nice to meet you Pippa,’ I said. I picked up my bag and the bottle. ‘Shall we go?’
Paula was right, she did live just round the corner. I wondered if it was going to be odd living on top of all my colleagues and – more importantly – my pupils. Though we’d lived fairly close to our school in London, catchment areas were so small we didn’t have students as neighbours. This was going to be totally different.
‘Everyone’s so excited to meet you,’ Pippa said as she bounced down the side of Paula’s large detached house – I remembered what she’d said about her husband having clients and wondered briefly what he did – and into the big garden, me trailing behind like a sulky teenager.
‘She’s here!’ she sang. ‘Lizzie’s here!’
The garden was full of people, chatting and laughing, but as Pippa made her announcement, they all fell silent and as one they turned and stared at me. I felt sick. I’d not wanted to arrive with a huge fanfare, like this.
‘Hello,’ I squeaked. ‘Hi.’
Everyone chorused hellos and Paula rushed up to us and gave me a hug that surprised me.
‘So pleased you could make it,’ she said. ‘Come and meet everyone. Pippa, can you get Lizzie a drink?’
My head spinning, I took the glass Pippa handed me and drained it without even looking at the contents.
‘So, Pippa you’ve met,’ Paula said. ‘And her best friend is Emma, who’s our school secretary. She keeps us all organised. They both went to Elm Heath Primary together – isn’t that lovely?’
‘Lovely,’ I echoed.
I could hear Grant’s mocking voice in my head. He’d roll his eyes at the thought of people growing up here, marrying their childhood sweetheart, and staying put. ‘It’s so English,’ he’d say with a sort of superior chuckle. ‘So white, straight … vanilla.’
I thought of Broadway Common School where we had kids speaking more than thirty languages, celebrated every festival going, worked hard to include the kids with two dads in Mother’s Day and the ones with two mums in Father’s Day, and I wondered if I’d miss that diversity.
‘This is Nate – Mr Welsh – who teaches years five and six,’ she said introducing a man about the same age as Pippa and Emma, who’d no doubt gone to school with them too.
I shook his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said.
Nate stifled a yawn. ‘God, I’m sorry,’ he said in horror. ‘That was so rude.’
Paula looked at him with genuine affection. ‘Nate’s a new dad,’ she said.
‘Congratulations.’ I smiled at him. ‘Is your wife here?’
Nate looked at me with a hint of mischief in his eyes. ‘My husband Marc is over there with our baby, Leia,’ he said.
I turned to see an athletic man, a bit older than Nate, expertly bouncing a baby on his knee, while holding a bottle of beer and chatting to another man.
I screwed my face up. ‘Sorry,’ I whispered, feeling a tiny flush of triumph. Ha, Grant! I thought. Village life is interesting.
Nate chuckled. ‘Don’t be. It must be hard for you coming from London where people aren’t as liberal.’
He was joking, I thought. But I blushed anyway.
Nate introduced me to another teacher – Celeste – who was a dead ringer for a young Michelle Obama, right down to the enviable upper arms. I slid my own bingo wings into my cardie as I spoke to her, feeling self-conscious and not just about letting myself believe that everyone in Elm Heath was a boring stereotype.
Paula’s husband Chris was on the barbecue and their daughter Chloe, who was in sixth form, handed out drinks. It was all very pleasant, just a bit – overwhelming. Trying to make a good impression on so many new people was hard work.
Needing a moment to myself, I slunk across the garden to an empty deckchair and sat down. To my left, Paula’s husband Chris was flipping burgers. He was engaged in what seemed to me to be a fairly heated discussion with the man who’d been talking to Nate’s handsome husband. The other man was shorter, stockier, and more dishevelled than Marc, but also very attractive in his own way.
Both Chris and the other man looked quite cross and I was intrigued. I leaned slightly to the side and tried to eavesdrop on their conversation.
‘I think you’re being unrealistic,’ Chris was saying. ‘Idealistic.’
The other man frowned. He looked worried. ‘I thought perhaps, I could just see it as business …’
‘Are you the new headmistress?’ a voice at my elbow said, interrupting my earwigging. I turned to see a small girl – year three, I guessed with my expert eye – with a gap-toothed smile and wonky bunches.
‘I am,’ I said.
She fixed me with a serious stare. ‘Are you a nice headmistress or a strict headmistress?’
I thought about it. ‘Could I be both?’
‘S’pose.’
‘Then I will be both.’
‘You don’t look like a headmistress.’
‘Why not?’
‘You look like a mummy.’
I smiled, a genuine, not-nervous smile. ‘Do I look like your mummy?’
‘My mummy is dead.’
I stopped smiling. ‘I’m sorry.’
The little girl grinned at me. ‘I have a daddy.’
‘That’s nice.’
I shifted awkwardly in my seat. Obviously, I considered myself to be good with kids, but I was off my game this evening and this small child was unsettling me.
‘What is your name?’ she asked.
‘Ms Armstrong. What’s yours?’
‘Cara,’ she said, frowning. ‘What is Mizzzzzzz?’
‘It’s a title, like Mrs or Miss.’
Cara shook her head, her lopsided bunches bouncing. ‘I think you’re getting muddled,’ she said kindly, patting my hand. ‘Miss means you haven’t got a husband or a wife, and Mrs means you have. Mizzzzzz is just pretend. Do you have a husband or a wife?’
I swallowed. ‘No, I don’t have a husband.’
‘Do you have a wife?’
‘No.’
She nodded. ‘Then you are a Miss,’ she said, speaking clearly like I was elderly and hard of hearing. ‘MISS.’
‘Cara, are you being a nuisance?’
The attractive man who’d been talking to Chris was standing in front of us. He flashed me a smile and for a split second I felt a flicker of interest and not just in his conversation. He was wearing a rumpled T-shirt and jeans and his hair was sticking up, but there was something about him that I liked.
‘I’m chatting to MISS Armstrong,’ Cara said. ‘She is the new headmistress and she is nice and also strict and she doesn’t have a husband or a wife.’
I felt myself flush as the man raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Strict, eh?’
Urgh. ‘I have my moments,’ I said. Where on earth did that come from? Was I flirting?
The man put his hand on Cara’s head. ‘We need to go, angel,’ he said. ‘It’s late.’
‘But Daddy, it’s a party.’
‘And now it’s finished.’
Cara rolled her eyes and I couldn’t help but chuckle.
‘Nice to meet you, MISS Armstrong,’ the man said. ‘I’m Danny Kinsella, by the way.’
‘Are you a teacher?’ I said, running through the list of names Pippa had bombarded me with in my head.
‘God no. Just a friend of Paula and Chris.’
‘And a daddy,’ Cara said.
He smiled down at her. ‘And a daddy.’
‘See you at school then, Miss Armstrong.’
He waved at me, and he and Cara wandered off down the side of the house and out on to the road. I stared after them feeling slightly off-balance. There was definitely more to life in Elm Heath than I’d imagined.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_408c72ce-c95e-5a0d-b85e-f224039e698b)
Lizzie (#ulink_408c72ce-c95e-5a0d-b85e-f224039e698b)
I was at school at the crack of dawn on the first day of term. I had always been an early riser, and when I was nervous I could never sleep.
I thought I’d be the only person there, but Emma was already in the office.
‘Morning,’ she sang. ‘Ready for action?’
I grimaced. ‘As I’ll ever be.’
She put a hand on my arm. ‘You’ll be great. Cup of tea?’
‘Yes please.’
Emma headed to the corner of the reception area where there was a sink, a little fridge and a kettle and busied herself finding mugs.
‘I’ll let you get on,’ she said over her shoulder as she filled the kettle. ‘Some things arrived for you. I’ve put them all on your desk.’
I thanked her and headed into my office. I’d come in every day for a couple of hours and made it more homely. I’d put books on the shelves, and brought in my stationery. But Esther Watkins still glowered down at me and the whole room was still pretty bare. At least it had been. Now there was a stack of post on my desk, a huge bouquet of flowers, a box of chocolates and two bottles in shiny presentation bags.
‘Oh my God,’ I breathed. ‘What’s all this?’
Emma had come up behind me, holding my tea. ‘Everyone’s very pleased you’re here,’ she said. ‘The big card and the chocolates are from the staff, but I think all the other bits are from parents.’
She handed me the mug. ‘I’m going to go and check all the classrooms,’ she said. ‘See you in a little while.’
Overwhelmed, again, I sat down on the chair and stared at the pile of gifts. I couldn’t believe how welcoming everyone was being. It was not what I’d expected and I almost felt guilty that they were being so nice when I was seeing this job as a step on my road back to normal life. A means to an end, rather than an end in itself.
I took a deep breath and a swig of tea and started opening the cards. They were all full of lovely good luck messages.
‘Wishing you and Elm Heath Primary lots of luck for the future,’ one said. ‘Love Sarah, Gary, Olivia (y6) and Rosie (y4).’
‘Let’s hope this is an exciting new chapter for Elm Heath Primary,’ read another. While another said, in a child’s handwriting: ‘Hello Mrs Armstrong! From William, Luke, Charlie and Emily.’ The kids had all signed their names individually and drawn little pictures of themselves and it was so adorable I could forgive them calling me “Mrs Armstrong”.
There was even one from Danny and Cara Kinsella. ‘Good luck, MISS Armstrong,’ Danny had written, which made me smile even while I prickled with irritation. ‘See you soon.’
I arranged the cards on the shelves, put the wine to one side to keep for drinks with the staff on Friday – I thought we’d probably need them – and opened the big card from the staff.
They’d all written personal messages to me, telling me how much they were looking forward to working with me, and how they thought this was the start of good times for Elm Heath Primary. I felt guilty all over again as I read them, given that I was approaching this job as a sort of gap year. A sabbatical. A way of pressing the reset button after a blip in an otherwise high-flying teaching career, no matter how many sweet pictures the kids drew, or how many messages of support the staff shared.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ I said to Esther Watkins as she stared down at me.
I drained my mug of tea and turned my attention to the flowers. They were peonies – my absolute favourite and very hard to come by in early September.
With a slight sense of misgiving, I pulled out the envelope that was tucked inside the cellophane wrapping and slid my finger under the flap to open it.
‘Queenie,’ the card read. I winced at the stupid nickname that I’d not heard in a long while. ‘Missing you fiercely but wishing you lots of luck. Gx’
My stomach twisted. How could he do this? I was just getting to the point where I didn’t think about him every hour of every day and now he’d wormed his way in again.
‘Sod off, Grant,’ I said out loud. I screwed up the card and threw it in the bin, then reached in and took it out again.
It had been such a shock when I’d discovered the extent Grant had gone to in his career. The risks he’d taken and the questionable practices he’d employed and not even for the good of the kids, simply to make himself look better – for his own gains. I’d been shocked by his deception, and by the fact that he’d not been the person I’d thought he was.
And then I’d been shocked all over again at how easily he’d sacrificed our marriage. His only concern was looking after himself; I didn’t seem to count for anything. It had been a long, hard year for me, living with Mum, coming to terms with what had happened, applying for jobs and having to explain why I’d left London over and over again. But it looked like Grant didn’t appreciate that at all.
‘Sod. Off,’ I said again. This time I ripped the card up into tiny pieces, shredding it on my desk like ironic confetti.
A knock on my door made me jump and I swept the bits into the bin, just as Paula stuck her head round.
‘Morning! The kids are about to arrive,’ she said. ‘Thought you might like to stand in the playground with me while they come in?’
I didn’t really. I wanted to hide in my office and pretend I wasn’t there, but I knew the sight of all the children would boost my spirits. I glanced at the cards on my shelf – I also knew the parents would be expecting to see me.
‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’
* * *
When the kids were all safely in their classrooms, I felt much happier. They’d all been so excited, skipping into school, shouting greetings to their friends. Cara had arrived, gripping the hand of an older woman I assumed was her grandmother, and gave me a cheery wave.
‘They’re a good bunch, by and large,’ Paula said as we strolled back to the office together. She taught reception and the littlest children weren’t starting until next week, so she was donning her deputy-head hat today.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing them all together in assembly later.’ I paused. ‘There aren’t many of them,’ I said carefully. ‘I knew the school was small, but …’
Paula bit her lip. ‘I noticed that too. I knew numbers were dwindling but …’
‘More so than you expected?’
Emma looked up as we entered but didn’t interrupt, obviously sensing the tone of the conversation.
‘I think so. It’s hard to tell in the playground.’
‘I’ll have a look,’ I said. ‘I should have admissions from the county by now. Come with me.’
Paula followed as I went into my office, sat down, and opened my emails. I was used to lots of movement in the days before term started; London had a population that was always changing with people arriving and leaving often, so getting final admission numbers at the last minute didn’t faze me in the slightest.
I found the right email and clicked on it. It was automatically generated by the council and had a list of pupils who had been withdrawn before the start of term. I scanned the names – there were about twenty of them. I turned my screen round so Paula could see.
‘Oh bugger,’ she said. ‘That’s four year sixes, a handful of year fours and fives, and lots of year threes.’
‘And you have eight starting in reception next week?’
Paula nodded.
‘How many do you normally have?’
‘About twelve,’ she said. ‘Sometimes as many as fifteen.’
‘Is there a waiting list?’ I said, knowing the answer. Paula just laughed without humour.
‘Where are they all going?’
She shrugged. ‘The big primary in Blyton, I imagine.’ Blyton was the nearest town and had a newly built primary school.
‘It’s quite a distance.’
‘It is, but it’s a good school. It’s a modern school with lots of bells and whistles. Some parents obviously think the journey is worth it.’
I picked up a pen and tapped out a rhythm on the desk, thinking. ‘What went wrong here, Paula?’
She sighed. ‘I think we all got a bit set in our ways.’
I met her eye. ‘All?’
‘As you know, the old head was quite old-fashioned,’ she said diplomatically. ‘We’re looking forward to you shaking things up.’
I smiled, even though I had that knot of anxiety and guilt in my stomach again. I didn’t mind shaking things up, but I hadn’t had any idea that pupil numbers were falling so fast. It didn’t sound good, to me. ‘Any ideas about what we should do?’
‘Lots,’ Paula began, then paused as Emma knocked on the door.
‘There’s a phone call for you, Paula,’ she said. ‘Lily Johnson’s mum. She says Lily’s been having nightmares about starting school and she wonders if you can pop in and see her?’
Paula smiled. ‘Bless her,’ she said. ‘I’ll sort it out. Sorry, Lizzie.’
She went off to take the call, leaving me marvelling at the thought of a teacher popping into to see a nervous four-year-old before she started school. It was a privilege, I thought, to be able to look after the kids like that. This was a lovely school.
Above my desk, Esther Watkins looked down at me, her expression unreadable.
‘Oh, shut up,’ I said.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_8857a799-24ed-598d-8692-cfd6d1114c34)
Esther (#ulink_8857a799-24ed-598d-8692-cfd6d1114c34)
April 1910
I flinched as the huge metal gate clanged shut behind me. After everything that had happened, I was jumpy and nervous. Would that stay with me? I wondered. I thought it probably would. I was changed forever now.
Beside me, was my friend Minnie, looking shrunken and pale. She stumbled and I caught her arm.
‘Easy, there,’ I said.
‘Anyone coming for you?’
She shook her head.
‘Me neither. I’ll walk with you.’
We were both unsteady on our feet. Both feeling the effects of a few weeks in prison. We’d been on hunger strike and had suffered the horrors of being force-fed shortly before we were told we were being released early. But Minnie had been inside longer than me. She was feeling it more. I looked at her in concern, hoisted my bag on to my back and offered her my arm. She hung on to me in a fashion very unlike my independent friend. I thought about just how long the Holloway Road was. I wasn’t sure she would make it.
We took a few steps forward and I looked back over my shoulder at the prison behind us. It was a huge, grey stone building, squatting like a giant slug on the side of the road.
‘Where are you going?’
She shrugged. ‘Dunno. I lost my digs. You?’
‘Home,’ I said, though the word felt strange in my mouth. ‘Back to my mother.’
‘You never talk about her,’ Minnie said. ‘She a suffragette, is she?’
I laughed out loud for the first time in weeks. ‘No,’ I said. ‘She’s … disapproving.’
We shuffled along a bit further and then paused as a hansom cab drew up next to us.
‘Minnie Gantry and Esther Watkins?’ the cabbie asked, leaning out of the window. His horse stamped its foot, eager to get going.
‘Yes?’ I said, cautious. I had no money and I doubted Minnie had any either.
‘Mrs Pankhurst sent me to see you home,’ he said. ‘Jump in.’
I was still wary. ‘We have no means to pay you.’
‘All done.’
I exchanged a glance with Minnie. ‘Minnie has nowhere to go.’
‘I got an address here, from Mrs P,’ he said. ‘Are you getting in or not?’
I helped Minnie inside then followed. She slumped in the corner and I thanked our lucky stars – and Mrs Pankhurst – that the cab had shown up when it did.
I’d only been inside Holloway for a few weeks, but as soon as my cell door had clanged shut on that first awful night, I’d put pen to paper and started writing about my experiences. I’d always written letters, since I was a child. I never sent them, just wrote them – to school friends who’d wronged me or who’d helped me, to my mother when she annoyed me, to the king, to teachers I liked, to characters in the books I read. And even to my father when he died. So when I went to jail, it seemed obvious to start writing about it. And this time I sent the letters and Mrs Pankhurst wrote back, asking for more. I’d only met her once or twice but I felt like I knew her – and perhaps she felt the same because she was obviously looking out for us.
I must have dozed off myself because it felt like just a couple of minutes before we were pulling up outside my mother’s terraced home in Wandsworth. I didn’t even remember crossing the river.
Bleary-eyed, I sat up. ‘Good luck, Minnie,’ I said. ‘I hope we meet again.’
She gave me a sleepy smile, without opening her eyes. ‘And you, Esther. Our paths are bound to cross soon.’
I thanked the driver and slid out of the cab, clutching the bag that contained my meagre belongings. At the front door, I took a deep breath, bracing myself, before I knocked.
It took an age – or perhaps it just felt that way – before my mother answered.
‘You’re back are you?’ she said.
‘I am.’
She left the door open and walked away back to the lounge, I supposed.
‘There’s no food,’ she said over her shoulder.
‘Not hungry.’ I paused. ‘Can I have a bath?’ I felt grubby and dusty, covered in prison muck.
Mother looked round at me, her mouth a pinched knot of disappointment. ‘Do what you like,’ she said. ‘You always do.’
I went up the steep steps to my bedroom. It was tucked under the eaves in the roof of the house, cramped and uncomfortable. My narrow bed was neatly made with clean sheets and a blanket and I managed a tiny smile; it seemed Mother hadn’t completely given up on me.
Looking at my bed, I was suddenly overwhelmed with tiredness. It wasn’t easy to have a proper night’s sleep in prison. Sharing a cell with other women, the cries and sobs and shouts that carried on long into the wee small hours, and the discomfort of the hard beds all made for an unpleasant experience. Which was the point, I supposed.
I pulled off the dress I was wearing, which still smelled of Holloway, and balled it up. I knew I wouldn’t throw it away – I didn’t have the luxury of having so many clothes that I could afford to discard them on a whim – but I didn’t want to wear it for a long while. I couldn’t sleep while I was so filthy, though, so I plodded back downstairs and heated some water for the bath, my arms aching with fatigue as I filled it.
It was chilly in the back room and I didn’t linger in the tepid water. I washed my body and my hair, which had got long while I was away. There was no sign of my mother. I guessed she was reading, either in her own room or in the lounge. She obviously didn’t want to speak to me, and I couldn’t blame her really. This was hard for her. Everything was hard for her.
Until my father had died, we’d had a good life. Not affluent, not by any means. But we’d lived well enough. He was a clerk, working for a firm of solicitors, and my mother had been a tailoress and after I came along she took in mending and made dresses from home. They were so proud of me when I got my job as a schoolteacher. I thought my father would burst.
But just two years later, he was gone and so was all our money – thanks to his gambling habit. A habit he’d kept secret from my mother and me, but which had left us with debts to pay. Faced with poverty, we’d had to move to this house – I looked round as I dried myself off with a thin towel – this cramped two-up, two-down, where we could hear everything the neighbours said and did, and which my mother hated. It was our lack of options, as two women with no man providing for us, while clearing up the mess that he’d left behind, and my rage over that helplessness, that had led me to the women’s suffrage movement. And the friends I’d made there had become my family while my mother grew ever more distant.
With heavy legs, I climbed the stairs to my room. Mother’s door was firmly shut, so I didn’t call goodnight. Instead I simply pulled my nightgown on over my head and slid beneath my sheets, ready for sleep.
Tomorrow, I thought, I would speak to Mother and clear the air. I would explain what Mrs Pankhurst and the other women were trying to do and make her understand how important it was. How vital it was that women like me and Mother had some agency over our own lives, and how allowing us to vote was just the start of that.
I reached down into my bag and felt about for the battered old notebook I wrote in. I would start by writing her a letter, I thought. I just needed to get her to listen …
* * *
I woke with a start a clear twelve hours later, my notebook still on my lap with just “Dear Mother” written at the top of the page, to the sound of the front door closing and the murmur of voices.
Sitting up in bed, I strained my ears to hear. It sounded like Mrs Williams, the headmistress of the school I taught in. But it was Saturday, and I’d been planning to visit her myself later to explain I was back and ask her for my job back.
Why was she here?
Quickly, I threw on a dress and shawl and twisted my plaited hair up on the back of my head, then as quietly as I could, I tiptoed down the stairs and sat at the bottom, to hear what was being said.
‘I’ll wake her,’ Mother said. ‘We can’t leave you waiting.’
‘She must be very tired after her …’ Mrs Williams tailed off.
‘Well, yes,’ said Mother awkwardly.
I felt like shouting: ‘Prison! I am tired because I have been in prison for six weeks and I couldn’t sleep.’ But I resisted. An outburst like that would hardly help the situation. And I feared it needed help because the only reason I could imagine for Mrs Williams arriving on our doorstep on a Saturday morning was not good.
Slowly, I stood up and made my way into the lounge.
‘Good morning, Mother,’ I said. ‘Mrs Williams.’
Mother stood up. She was twisting a handkerchief in her hands, winding it round her prominent knuckles. ‘I will make tea.’
Alone with Mrs Williams, I sat down on the edge of a chair. ‘What brings you here so early?’
Mrs Williams gave me a disbelieving glance. ‘You don’t know?’
‘I was hoping I might be mistaken.’
She shook her head. ‘I came to tell you we can no longer employ you at Trinity School,’ she said.
I closed my eyes. ‘Mrs Williams,’ I began. ‘Could I just explain …’
‘I’m afraid not.’ She stood up. ‘We cannot employ criminals at our school.’
‘I’m not a criminal,’ I said. ‘I was a political prisoner.’
She looked at me in disdain. ‘You engaged in a criminal act.’
‘I smashed a window.’
‘And that is illegal.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Your employment is terminated,’ she said. ‘And I feel I must tell you that you will be similarly unwelcome at every school in London.’
‘Surely not every school?’ I said, sulky like one of my pupils.
‘Every school,’ Mrs Williams said. ‘Every one.’ She picked up her shawl and glared at me. ‘Please thank your mother for the tea but I have to be on my way.’
She spun round and stalked out of the room as I sank back against the chair. Why did I cheek her? Why didn’t I throw myself on her mercy, apologise, and beg for my job?
A creaky floorboard made me look up. Mother was standing there, her face drawn. She had dark circles under her eyes and I felt a flash of guilt that I’d caused her more pain.
‘You have to leave,’ she said.
I stared at her.
‘Now,’ she continued. ‘I can let your room out if you go. I can’t afford for you to be here. Not now you have no job.’
‘I’ll get another job.’
‘Not soon enough. No one will take a chance on you. Not now. Not after this. It could take months before you’re earning again.’
My eyes were hot with tears. ‘Mother, no.’
‘Esther,’ she said. ‘I’ve found a lodger already.’
‘Where will I go?’
She looked down at me and suddenly her sad face seemed full of menace. ‘I don’t know, Esther,’ she said. ‘And I don’t much care.’
Chapter 6 (#ulink_dd4a3503-a258-56f5-bf2b-94793fb49588)
Esther (#ulink_dd4a3503-a258-56f5-bf2b-94793fb49588)
It took just minutes for me to pack. I had so few belongings nowadays that my whole life fitted into a carpetbag.
I went downstairs, my bag thumping against the walls, and found Mother in the kitchen, washing up.
‘I’m going now,’ I said.
‘Goodbye.’ She didn’t look at me.
‘Do you want me to send word of my new address?’
She shrugged. ‘Whatever you see fit.’
Without another word – what else was there to say? – I turned and, with my shoulders hunched, I left the house. I walked a little way along the street and then stopped. I was at a loss. I had no idea where to go. Not even which direction to walk in.
I supposed I should try to find a job first and then a room? Or would it make more sense to find a room first? I had picked up a few coins from my drawer at home, but it wouldn’t go far. I wasn’t even sure it would be enough to cover any rent up front. Would landladies want rent up front? I had no idea.
Hauling my bag on to my shoulder, I wandered through the narrow streets of Wandsworth, unconsciously heading back towards Stockwell and the home where I’d grown up. Another family lived there now. A family with lots of children to fill the rooms where I’d played by myself as a child. A family with a mother who was loving and full of laughter – like mine had once been – and a father who really was the sort of man everyone believed him to be, and not secretly gambling away his family’s future.
I walked along the side of the park towards our old house. It wasn’t far from here that I’d first met Mrs Pankhurst’s daughter, Christabel.
I’d been walking home one day, over a year ago, and just like today I’d taken the long way round because I’d wanted to see our old house again. I’d walked down an alleyway where the back gardens of the houses on our former street met the back gardens of the next road along, but what I’d found was a group of women. A large group actually. They were all gathered in the street, staring up at a woman who was leaning out of the window of a house on the corner and talking.
The houses were tall here – proud, I’d always thought – and the woman was small so she was using the window as a stage. It was clever.
I’d stopped just where I was and listened, mesmerised. She talked about how women’s views needed to be represented and stated that she believed all women who paid taxes should be allowed to vote. I found myself nodding along, as her words struck a chord with me. It was as though this woman knew exactly how I was feeling. About how helpless I’d felt since my father’s death, how frustrated I was that I had no agency over my own life, and how absolutely furious it all made me.
And then she said something that resonated with me – with the anger I felt inside.
‘We’ve been polite for forty years,’ she said. Standing in the street, I snorted. My mother was polite. She was too polite. She just went about her business, struggling through life and trying to keep her head above water, never arguing because it was unladylike. Never saying a bad word about my father, even though he’d left us with nothing.
Above me, the woman was still speaking. ‘We’ve signed petitions and asked nicely and nothing has changed,’ she said. ‘It is time to adopt vigorous methods.’
The women below her all cheered and the speaker carried on.
‘I believe the tide is turning,’ she said.
‘Coppers,’ someone near me shouted. ‘Clear away.’
The woman disappeared back into the house and dropped the open sash window with a thud. The crowd melted away in seconds, leaving me lurking in the alleyway next to the back gate of my old house. I’d been so gripped by the woman’s words I’d not even registered where I was standing. There were shouts from the street ahead and I saw a policeman run past. I frowned. What did they care if some women gathered together to share their thoughts? I wondered. Why were they so scared?
In front of me, the gate to the house opposite opened and the woman who’d been speaking peered out. She was elegant and well dressed and looked nothing like the sort of person who should be hiding from the long arm of the law.
‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘The police are on the main road.’
She smiled at me, but as she stepped into the alleyway we heard a man shout: ‘These houses have back gates. Check down the alley.’
Her eyes met mine and without thinking I, Esther Watkins, who’d never done a thing wrong in my whole life, reached behind me and opened the gate to my old house.
‘Here,’ I said. ‘There’s a shed. The coppers won’t look there.’
She paused for a second, obviously sizing me up, then having decided she could trust me, she darted across the alleyway and into my old back garden. I’d played so many games here as a child it was strange to be back and for a second I felt dizzy as the memories flooded into my mind.
I sent up a prayer thanking God it was cold and drizzly and the children of the house were warm inside and not playing on the lawn, and I hurried the woman along the edge of the garden and into the potting shed.
She’d taken off her gloves and hat and shaken her head.
‘I thought I was a goner there,’ she’d said. ‘Thank you.’ She stuck her hand out for me to shake. ‘I’m Christabel Pankhurst,’ she said.
And that was the beginning.
Now, standing in the shadow of my old family home, I felt suddenly more positive. The suffragettes were a sisterhood, I thought. The Women’s Social and Political Union – the proper name for the group of women who’d become the suffragettes – was led by Mrs Pankhurst and her daughters. We were all family as they were. The suffragettes were the reason I’d gone to jail, and the reason I’d lost my job, and I knew without a shadow of a doubt they would help me now.
With new-found energy, I lifted my chin and strode out on to the main street. I’d find Mrs Pankhurst, I thought. She’d know what to do.
The only problem I had was that I wasn’t completely sure where Mrs Pankhurst lived, or where I could find her. I had an inkling she was based in East London but I had no real idea where and I didn’t fancy wandering the streets until I stumbled upon a suffragette. Chewing my lip, I gazed up at the houses and tried to remember which window I’d seen Christabel speaking from. Could I knock there and ask if the occupants knew where I could find Mrs Pankhurst? They had to be sympathetic if they’d allowed her daughter to make a speech from their house. But I wasn’t completely sure which of the identical sashes it had been – nor which window belonged to which house.
Unsure and nervous about intruding, I decided instead that I would head to Kennington. I’d been to several meetings at a house there, where a very active suffragette lived. I’d knock there and ask for directions to Mrs Pankhurst’s house.
I glanced back over my shoulder at the home I’d grown up in. That life was all gone now. I may have been thrown out on to the streets by own mother and lost my job but I was part of something. Something bigger than just me …
‘OOF!’
I gasped as the ground came up to meet me and all the air was pushed out of my lungs. I’d tripped over something and now I was sprawled face down on the pavement, the contents of my carpetbag scattered across the stones in front of me and to the side and no doubt behind me too.
Carefully, I pushed myself up to sitting. My cheekbone was grazed and my nose was bleeding.
‘Oh, blimey,’ I said. ‘What now, Esther?’
A man, hurrying along, stepped over my legs without looking down at me and then trod, with his mucky boots, on one of my underskirts that was lying in an undignified heap on the ground.
I opened my mouth to shout at him but instead of angry words, all that came out was a sob. And once one sob had been released, I found I was powerless to stop the others. I sat on the pavement outside my former family home, bloodied and bruised, with my belongings strewn into the gutter, and I cried.
‘Need a hand?’
I looked up, sniffing loudly. A young man stood there, his arm outstretched to help me. I grasped his hand and stood up, wincing as I did so. My cheek was sore and so, I discovered, was my arm.
‘What happened, Miss?’
‘I tripped, I think,’ I said, putting my fingers to my nose to see if it was still bleeding. ‘I fell and my bag split.’
He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and gave it to me.
‘For your nose,’ he said. ‘I’ll pick everything up.’
‘Thank you.’ I was grateful to him for coming to my aid and for the handkerchief, which seemed to have stopped the bleeding.
He scooped up my dresses, and a book that was in the gutter, and helped me put them all back in my bag.
‘I’ll let you get those bits,’ he said, gesturing with his head towards my underwear and avoiding my eye.
Quickly, I gathered them up and stuffed them in too. ‘If I hold my bag in my arms, nothing can fall out,’ I said.
He smiled at me. He was rather nice-looking, I thought, with dark blond hair falling over his forehead and a mischievous glint in his eye.
‘Very enterprising,’ he said.
‘I try my best.’
‘Where are you off to?’ the young man asked. ‘I’m just on my way to Lambeth Police Station. If you’re going that way, I can walk with you. Make sure you don’t come a cropper on the way.’
My stomach twisted in alarm. ‘The police station,’ I said, trying to sound light-hearted. ‘Are you in trouble?’
‘Good Lord, no,’ he said, raising his eyebrows high on his forehead. ‘No, I’m a constable.’
He sounded proud and I forced myself to smile.
‘How nice. No uniform?’
‘I’m not officially working today, and actually, I’m based over in Whitechapel usually, but I have to pop in.’
‘I’m going the other way,’ I said hurriedly, though the quickest route to the house I was planning to visit would take me straight past the police station.
‘Then I’m afraid I have to say farewell,’ the man said.
‘Thank you for helping me. Someone stepped over me, before you stopped.’
‘I can well believe it.’
He grinned at me again and I felt a tiny curl of interest in my lower belly.
‘I’m Joseph,’ he said. ‘Joseph Fairbanks.’
‘I’m Esther W …’ I stopped myself just before I told this eager young constable my real name – the name that appeared on my criminal record – and pretended to dab my nose again while I desperately looked round me for inspiration. My eyes fell on the painted bricks of the house opposite. ‘Esther Whitehouse,’ I said.
‘It’s very nice to meet you,’ Miss Whitehouse,’ he said. ‘I hope our paths will cross again one day.’
‘Likewise,’ I said politely, though inside I felt uncomfortable. How awkward it would be for him to find out the young woman he’d helped was fresh from jail and an enthusiastic suffragette? I wouldn’t want to put him in that position. No, I thought, it would be easier for everyone if I never saw Joseph Fairbanks again.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_4b587f39-8ee7-58a8-b869-59299b1b9572)
Lizzie (#ulink_4b587f39-8ee7-58a8-b869-59299b1b9572)
September 2019
The first big event of the school year was, I discovered, the Elm Heath harvest festival. This was all new to me. At my last school our harvest festival had been pretty low-key. We’d sing about ploughing the fields and scattering, and the parents would send their kids in with a donation for a local foodbank.
But at Elm Heath, it was a Big Deal.
‘We’re a farming community,’ Paula explained. ‘At least we were. Things have changed a lot but there are still pupils who live on farms. It’s an important part of life in Elm Heath.’
I nodded.
‘Sounds interesting,’ I said. ‘What happens?’
What happened, I discovered, was the school ran the whole show, apart from the traditional thanksgiving service at the church. Elm Heath Primary was the focus for a week of festivities. There was scarecrow making, and a corn-dolly workshop – I didn’t know exactly what a corn dolly was but I didn’t tell Paula. I thought I’d just google it later. There was a concert with folk dancing, which the kids then performed at the nearby care home for elderly people. And there was a country fair at the weekend, in the school playground, where locals would sell produce and crafts. It all sounded very wholesome, and a million miles from Clapham.
‘It’s a lot of work,’ Paula said apologetically. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t mention it before now.’
‘It’s fine, honestly.’
I was actually quite pleased to have more to fill the hours when I wasn’t at school. Though I was enjoying being back in the swing of school life – more so than I’d anticipated, truth be told – I was finding life on my own to be, well … a challenge.
More than once I’d thought about calling Grant and changed my mind. I didn’t want to open that can of worms, not after the way his flowers had unsettled me. I didn’t miss him exactly. It just felt odd doing this all by myself. When I had been head at Broadway Common Infants, Grant was just across the field in the junior school ready to offer advice (and opinions) whenever I needed. I’d never been in charge alone before. And, of course, I was going home from school to my little cottage, which was cute and homely – if not really to my taste – but echoed with emptiness. I was lonely; that was the truth.
* * *
So for the next couple of weeks, I threw myself into organising the concert. I found songs that even the littlest reception child could sing, and worked out cool dance routines for the sulkiest of the year-six boys. Considering we’d only had a short while to sort it all out, it was a triumph. They performed for their parents, and for the elderly residents at the care home, and on a makeshift stage at the country fair on the Saturday.
‘Are you crying, Miss Armstrong?’ Cara Kinsella, who was dressed as a corn-on-the-cob with yellow tights, a yellow T-shirt and her face painted to match, eyed me suspiciously.
‘Noooo,’ I said, subtly wiping away a small tear. The kids had all worked so hard and it had been lovely.
‘Maybe you have hay fever,’ she said helpfully. ‘Daddy has hay fever.’
‘That’s probably it,’ I said.
‘Do you want a toffee apple? My grandma has been making them.’
She took my hand and dragged me through the throngs of people in the playground. There were all sorts of stalls, selling jams, bread, vegetables, sweets and even a few Christmas decorations though it was only late September.
‘Here,’ she said in triumph depositing me in front of a stand with brightly coloured bunting. ‘My grandma.’
Cara’s grandma was the woman I’d seen dropping her off on the first day of term. Up close, she was elegant with chic greying hair, wearing a simple shift dress. She smiled at me.
‘You must be Miss Armstrong.’
‘I am,’ I agreed. ‘Are you really Cara’s grandma?’
‘I’m Sophie Albert,’ she said in a voice that had the faintest hint of a French accent.
‘Grandma is my mummy’s mummy,’ Cara explained. ‘That’s what a grandma is. Grandma, can Miss Armstrong have a toffee apple?’
‘Of course.’
She handed me an apple covered in thick red toffee and wrapped in cellophane and waved away my attempts to pay.
‘Please, we’re friends now,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’
She nodded at the chair next to her. ‘Sit down,’ she said and obediently I did, feeling suddenly very weary.
‘You must be tired after organising that wonderful performance.’ She smiled at Cara who bounced up and down on her yellow feet.
‘Did you like my bit, Grandma? When I said about looking after the trees?’
‘I loved it.’
Cara saw one of her friends across the playground and darted off to speak to him while Sophie sat down next to me.
‘She has a lot of energy.’
‘She’s wonderful.’
‘So like her mother was at that age – it fills me with joy even as it breaks my heart.’
Remembering what Cara had said about her mummy being dead, I wasn’t sure what to say so I just gave what I hoped was a sympathetic smile.
Sophie looked distant for a second, then she focused on me again.
‘We are all very excited to have you here,’ she said. ‘Do you think they will close this school?’
I was disarmed by her way of saying exactly what she thought.
‘Erm,’ I began. ‘I’m not sure …’
She waved her hand. ‘But things are going wrong,’ she said. ‘Look how few children are here now. Look how they all go in their cars to the fancy school in Blyton.’
‘Well, yes, but …’
Sophie took my hand. ‘My husband went to this school, and so did my daughter,’ she said to me. ‘And now my granddaughter. And ask anyone here, they will tell you the same.’ She gestured with her arm, taking in the whole school, and maybe even the village. ‘Imagine if we didn’t have this,’ she said.
I shifted on my deckchair and gave the rows of toffee apples my attention, instead of Sophie. ‘I’m not sure there’s anything I can do,’ I muttered.
‘Psssht,’ she said. ‘Of course there is.’
‘Is she roping you in to sell toffee apples?’
It was Danny. Despite myself, I sat up a bit straighter wondering if I had mascara smudged beneath my eyes.
‘Sophie,’ he said.
‘Hello, Danny.’
Was I imagining it, or did Sophie’s face suddenly look harder? More pinched?
‘We’ve mostly been chatting,’ I said, trying to lighten the atmosphere that I sensed between Sophie and Danny. ‘Not done much selling.’
‘I’ve been telling Miss Armstrong that she can save Elm Heath Primary.’
Danny smiled at me, a cheeky smile that gave me that unsettled feeling again. ‘I imagine you’re good at just about everything, MISS Armstrong,’ he said. ‘But I think this one might even be beyond you.’
Sophie glared at Danny – there was definitely tension there – and he ignored her, looking at me instead.
‘But you never know,’ he added.
‘It’s not closing,’ I said, knowing my words were empty because the lack of pupils spoke for itself. Danny just shrugged and Sophie looked away across the playground to where Cara was running round with her friends who were both dressed like pumpkins.
‘Cara’s over there,’ she said bluntly.
Danny looked like he was going to say something then he shut his mouth instead. After a second he opened it again.
‘Nice seeing you again, Ms Armstrong.’
I was faintly disappointed that he’d used my correct title.
‘Thank you for the good luck card,’ I called as he wandered over the playground towards Cara. He raised his hand to show he’d heard.
Sophie was looking at me, her brow furrowed.
‘He’s a tricky one,’ she said. Was she warning me off? There was really no need. I was hardly in the market for romance.
I didn’t get a chance to respond because one of the pumpkins was suddenly at my elbow. It was a little boy from Cara’s class whose name was Hayden. Or Jayden. Or perhaps Cayden.
‘Miss?’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘Cara said she thought you were a bit sad, Miss.’
I wasn’t sure what to say. I looked at his little orange face, all earnest and worried, and smiled.
‘I’m not sad.’
He shrugged. ‘Thought this might cheer you up.’
He reached out his hand. In his palm was a corn dolly. I’d never got round to googling them, but instead I’d watched the kids making them. They’d twisted and wrapped corn into little shapes to make their creations. This one was a simple circle with a red ribbon bow.
‘Thank you,’ I said, genuinely touched at the gesture. ‘You’re so kind.’
‘That’s lovely, Jayden,’ Sophie said, obviously realising I was struggling to get his name.
‘It really is. I’ll put this in my office at school and it will make me smile every time I look at it.’
‘Miss, I made one for you too.’
On my other side was a little girl dressed as Elsa from Frozen, which had no direct link to harvest as far as I could tell. She pushed a corn dolly into my hand.
‘Thank you, Elsa,’ I said and she beamed at me.
‘I did one as well.’ Cara was there, in her yellow get-up, brandishing her corn dolly, which was plaited like her hair.
I took hers too. ‘These are all wonderful,’ I said.
And suddenly I was surrounded by children, all giving me their corn dollies – the little creations they’d all worked so hard on.
‘Miss, they’ll bring you good luck,’ they told me. ‘They’re lucky.’
I took each one, gathering them into my lap and trying not to show the children how overwhelmed I was by their kindness.
Then the parents started handing me their dollies too. Some of them were like tiny works of art – the dried corn twisted into heart and star shapes, or made to look like little ladies with fronds of corn forming their skirts.
‘Good luck,’ they each said as they handed them over.
By the time they’d finished I reckoned I had a hundred or more of the dollies heaped in my lap, and tears streaming down my face.
‘Thank you,’ I said over and over. ‘Thank you.’
I wasn’t sure what to do next. I couldn’t stand up because my knees were covered in corn and slightly alarmingly I couldn’t seem to stop crying either.
Luckily, like a guardian angel, Paula appeared behind the group of children and parents.
‘Let’s take all these to your office, shall we, Ms Armstrong?’ she said.
Sophie handed her a linen bag and together we carefully put all the corn dollies inside.
‘Come on then,’ Paula said, like I was one of her reception children. ‘Come on, Lizzie.’
I blew a – slightly snotty – kiss to the children as I followed her into school feeling like something important had just happened. Perhaps I wasn’t planning to stay at Elm Heath forever, but I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I had to do my best to reverse the trend of children going to Blyton and do everything I could to make sure the school stayed open.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_6e4685d3-2b7e-564b-9386-5df44bf61a94)
Lizzie (#ulink_6e4685d3-2b7e-564b-9386-5df44bf61a94)
‘I can’t believe they did this,’ I said later. I was sitting at Paula’s kitchen table with an enormous glass of wine and the corn dollies all spread out in front of me. ‘I can’t believe they gave them all to me.’
‘It really was something,’ she said. She picked one of them up and showed me. ‘Look, this one is like a peacock’s tail.’
I admired it.
‘They’re all wonderful. I’ll ask Jeff if there is some way we can display them in my office.’
Jeff was the school caretaker and a very creative handyman to boot.
‘He’ll come up with something, I’m sure,’ Paula agreed.
I picked up Jayden’s corn dolly – the little circular twist of corn tied with a ribbon – and smiled. ‘So they symbolise luck?’
Chris was rummaging in a kitchen drawer, looking for a takeaway menu.
‘Luck,’ he said without glancing up. ‘And fertility.’
I swallowed a gulp of wine as I laughed.
‘Well I’ll just take the luck, thanks.’
‘I can’t find the blasted menu,’ Chris said.
‘I don’t suppose Deliveroo delivers here?’ I said hopefully. I’d been looking forward to a curry since Paula suggested it earlier on, after my corn dolly experience.
‘Noooo,’ said Chris doubtfully.
I picked up my phone and found the app, then I showed them how it worked.
‘So you choose what kind of food you want, then pick a restaurant, and then you scroll through and add what you want to your basket …’
I tailed off, aware both Chris and Paula were staring at me.
‘I’ll just call Nish on his mobile, instead of calling the restaurant,’ Chris said. ‘He won’t mind. What do you fancy, Lizzie?’
‘Chicken biryani?’
‘Done. Usual for you, Paula?’
She nodded and Chris pulled out his phone and went into the hall to make the call. I heard him laughing with the person on the other line.
‘Living in a village is very different from living in London,’ I said to Paula. ‘It’s strangely both harder and easier.’
She grinned at me. ‘You’ll get used to it,’ she said.
‘I am starting to, I think.’
‘You’ve not got much choice, now.’
I looked at the piles of corn dollies on the table. ‘Do these mean that I’m one of you now?’
‘Definitely. You might never leave.’
The idea didn’t fill me with horror, much to my surprise.
Chris had come back into the kitchen and was topping up our glasses.
‘You’ll like Nate’s husband,’ he said.
‘Marc?’ I remembered seeing him at my welcome barbecue.
‘He’s the son of a friend of Sophie’s, or a distant relative, or something like that,’ Paula said, leaning forward in a conspiratorial way. ‘He came to work on some project nearby …’
‘He’s a surveyor,’ Chris put in. ‘Or is he an architect? Something along those lines.’
Paula tutted at his interruption. ‘He stayed with Sophie for a few weeks, met Nate and boom! That was it.’
Her mentioning Sophie made me think of the expression on her face when Danny had approached the toffee apple stall earlier.
‘What’s the story with her and Danny?’
‘Similar,’ Chris said, misunderstanding. ‘He works in finance, and the company he works for provides investment for public sector initiatives …’
‘Oh Chris, shush,’ Paula said. She looked at me through narrowed eyes. ‘Why do you want to know?’
I drank some wine. ‘Sophie was all smiley until he appeared,’ I said. ‘Then she looked annoyed and wouldn’t really talk to him.’
Paula nodded and Chris topped up my glass.
‘I was good friends with Isabelle – Sophie’s daughter,’ Paula said. ‘I was older than her, but we both liked the same kind of music and we got to know each other that way. We were always in touch but we reconnected after Bella graduated from university.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘You must miss her.’
Paula gave me a small smile. ‘I do,’ she said. She took a deep breath. ‘Paula met Danny at uni. They stayed in Manchester afterwards and set up home together. It was a mistake really. They weren’t love’s young dream. They were always breaking up and she’d come home, then go back to him five minutes later. She left him for good when Cara was a baby.’
‘How did she die?’
‘Ovarian cancer it was,’ Paula said. ‘Nasty stuff. Anyway, she got sick, and he, to be fair to him, came when she needed him. He started spending more time with Cara and when Isabelle went into the hospice, Cara moved in with Danny. I think he’s really stepped up and he’s a wonderful dad now.’
‘But Sophie’s not sure?’
‘I don’t think she can forgive him for making Isabelle’s life so miserable when she only had a short time to live it.’
I nodded. ‘That’s really sad.’
The doorbell rang, letting us know our dinner had arrived, and our talk of Danny and Sophie was forgotten.
On Monday morning, I went into school feeling full of beans. I’d really enjoyed the weekend and I was more positive and excited about the days ahead than I’d been for months. A year, even.
Until, after morning assembly, when I sat down at my desk and opened an email from the head of the council’s education department, a woman called Denise Deacon, asking me to ring her, urgently.
‘Uh-oh,’ I said out loud. ‘This can’t be good.’
I dialled the number on the bottom of her email and she answered straight away.
‘I’m not going to beat around the bush, Lizzie,’ she said when I’d introduced myself and we’d exchanged a bit of small talk. ‘As far as pupil numbers and budgets are concerned, the council can’t justify keeping Elm Heath open any longer.’
My stomach lurched and for one terrifying moment, I thought I might throw up all over my desk. I took a deep breath and tried to control my voice. ‘I see.’
‘It’s no secret that admissions are falling and with financial cuts the way they are, well …’
‘Times are tough,’ I said, sounding weak and quavering. ‘How long do we have?’
‘They’re looking at the end of the academic year. But I wanted to speak to you first because I thought it was important that you know it’s not definite. The axe is being sharpened but it’s not yet fallen.’
I was heartened – slightly – by that news. We still had the rest of this term, and two more, to change the council’s mind. If they were open to their minds being changed of course.
‘What can we do to stop this closure?’
She sighed. ‘That’s the million-pound question, isn’t it? I wish I knew the answer because Elm Heath is a lovely school.’
‘It’s an important school.’
There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘Listen, Lizzie,’ she said. ‘I think your best bet is to prove the school plays a vital role in the community. Maybe that it’s more than just a school; that it provides services that can’t be found elsewhere.’
‘Like what?’ I said, at a loss.
‘No idea, you’d have to get creative.’
I tapped the end of my pen on my desk. ‘We’ve got no breakfast or after-school club here,’ I said. ‘They were really well used at my old school.’
‘That’s exactly the sort of thing that I mean,’ Denise said. ‘As things stand, the kids can get the education they’re getting at Elm Heath from Blyton Primary. And the council have put a lot of money into that school – it’s in their interests to up the pupil numbers there.’
I snorted, but I was still thinking. ‘We had a police station at my old school. Like a community thing where the kids got to know the local bobbies. Obviously, things are a bit different round here, but it could still work? Or what about using the school hall for fitness classes? I bet there are local Zumba teachers and whatnot.’
‘It’s a start,’ said Denise.
I was on a roll, scribbling ideas down as I spoke. ‘Did you ever see that TV show where they took little kids into a retirement home?’ I said, thoughtfully. ‘What about inviting some local people to afternoon tea with the children?’
‘These are all great ideas,’ Denise said.
‘But?’
‘But I’m worried they don’t go far enough. You need to think about what makes Elm Heath unique.’
‘It’s very old,’ I said.
‘Well perhaps you can show that it’s of special historical interest. Anything that makes it important.’
‘More important than giving kids a good education?’ I said, slightly sulky that she’d dismissed all my ideas.
She gave a small, humourless laugh. ‘Quite,’ she said. ‘If you can come up with something then perhaps there’s a chance.’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Then that’s what we’ll do. As well as all that other stuff.’
We ended the call and I sat for a second, thinking. So the axe was swinging above our heads after all. What had started as a project to save my career was suddenly a project to save a school. Was I up to the task? Was it worth it?
I glanced at the pile of corn dollies on my shelf, waiting for Jeff to put up a display for me.
‘We could do with a bit of that luck now,’ I muttered. I’d have to call a staff meeting, let everyone know what was going on. Urgh. Maybe I should buy some wine, to help the news go down a bit easier?
‘What would you do, Esther?’ I looked up at the photograph that I’d not yet managed to move. ‘Would you roll over and let them close the school or would you fight?’
Esther looked at me, her expression fierce, and I looked back at her, and a tiny idea took seed. She founded this school, I thought. Maybe she had a story we could use. Get us some publicity.
I studied her photo. She was staring, unsmiling, at the camera wearing a severe black skirt and high-necked white blouse with a sort of flouncy cravat-type creation. Her chin was lifted and she looked snooty, to my twenty-first-century eyes. She didn’t look like she was the type to put up a fight about anything.
I opened my laptop and typed Esther Watkins and teacher into the search engine then blinked in surprise at the first entry, which seemed to be a court report from a newspaper dated 1910.
‘Esther Watkins, aged twenty-one, schoolteacher, sentenced to ten weeks in Holloway Women’s Prison for public disorder offences,’ it read.
‘That can’t be right,’ I said to myself. I glanced over at the photograph where our Esther’s names and the dates 1889–1970 were written on the frame. I added up in my head. If our Esther had been born in 1889 then she would indeed have been twenty-one in 1910.
‘Well, well, well,’ I said. There was obviously more to Esther Watkins than I’d imagined. I felt a small flicker of excitement followed almost immediately by crushing disappointment. An ex-con’s story was hardly going to prove that Elm Heath was a vital part of the community, was it? I was just going to have to come up with something else.
Chapter 9 (#ulink_5140b909-4208-5eb3-a19c-8187e08d25a2)
Esther (#ulink_5140b909-4208-5eb3-a19c-8187e08d25a2)
1910
I walked the long way round to the house, clutching my bag to my chest as I tried to remember the name of the suffragette who lived there. Agnes, I thought. I couldn’t recall her surname. It was a long walk up the hill from Stockwell, and when I eventually found the house, hot and bothered and with my cheek throbbing, Agnes wasn’t in.
I pulled the bell and heard the noise echoing round the empty house and then, completely out of ideas and energy, I sat down on the stone step. I’d wait, I supposed, until she came home. It wasn’t as though I had anywhere else to go.
Leaning against the iron railings I found my eyes closing but I forced myself awake. I may have been on my uppers but I wasn’t about to start sleeping in the street like an urchin.
‘Are you waiting for me?’
I looked round to see a woman, older than me – in her thirties I guessed – hurrying up the stairs. She looked vaguely familiar.
‘I’ve seen you at meetings,’ she said now. ‘I’m Agnes Oliver.’
‘Esther,’ I said, standing up. ‘Yes, I was hoping you could tell me where I could find Mrs Pankhurst.’
‘Oh, heaven knows, that woman is never around when we need her.’
Faintly amused by the woman’s sense of entitlement, I smiled. ‘She is often busy.’
‘We’re all busy,’ Agnes said. ‘She wants me to put together this blessed newspaper and it’s all well and good, but when I’m spending all the hours God gives me on that, she forgets I’ve also got three children who need looking after. And she promised she was going to find me a governess but has she? No, she has not …’
Without stopping to think, I interrupted her tirade. ‘She has,’ I said. ‘Found you a governess, I mean.’
Agnes blinked at me and I stuck my hand out for her to shake.
‘It’s me. I’m Esther Watkins and I’m a schoolteacher. At least I was.’
‘What happened?’
I screwed up my face and took a chance. ‘I lost my job because I was in Holloway.’
Agnes nodded slowly. ‘The school won’t have you back?’
‘No.’
She was looking at me, sizing me up, I guessed. I tried to stand up straighter, aware that I was not at my best, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
‘What happened to your cheek?’
‘I tripped over a tree root on my way here.’
Agnes nodded again, her eyes never leaving my face.
‘Is it a live-in position?’ I said, hoping beyond hope that it was.
‘I would prefer it to be live-in but if that’s a problem, we can discuss it. Did Mrs Pankhurst not explain all this when she told you about the position?’
‘I must have forgotten,’ I lied. ‘So much has happened.’
‘Hmm,’ she said. For a moment, I thought I’d made a big mistake and that this wasn’t going to be the answer to my prayers but then she clapped her hands together.
‘You’ll be perfect,’ she said. She gripped my arm tightly. ‘Could you possibly start today?’
Relief flooded me. ‘I could.’
‘Wonderful. I can get you a cab and we can collect your things.’
‘I have all my things,’ I said, gesturing to my carpetbag. ‘I don’t have much. And, well, I can’t go home because my mother is of the same mind as my former headmistress.’
Agnes’s face softened. ‘Doesn’t approve?’
‘Not in the least.’
The familiar frustration and rage that I felt when I thought of my mother began to build.
‘We lost everything when my father died because of mistakes he made,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘We had to sell the house. But still she thinks women are supposed to suffer and that this is just the way it shall be.’ I took a breath. ‘Sorry.’
Agnes shook her head. ‘Don’t apologise,’ she said. ‘We all have our reasons for finding our way to each other.’
She picked up my battered bag. ‘Now, shall we go in?’
She unlocked the large front door and I followed her inside. I hadn’t even asked how many children I would be teaching. I hoped it would be two quiet little girls rather than four boisterous boys, but I felt I couldn’t ask because I’d pretended that I knew all about the job.
‘Edie?’ she called. ‘Edie?’
A woman wearing an apron came rushing through the hall from the back of the house. ‘I was hanging out the washing,’ she said. ‘Have you been knocking?’
‘Not at all,’ Agnes said, peeling off her gloves. ‘This is our new governess, Esther. Esther, this is Edie our housekeeper.’
Edie and I nodded hello to each other.
‘Are the children here?’ Agnes looked around her as though she expected them to appear in a puff of smoke.
‘Went for a walk with Mr Oliver.’
‘I shall go and find them.’
Edie showed me to my room while Agnes went to find the children. My bedroom was on the top floor alongside another room with bookshelves crammed with books, a blackboard, and a low table. The windows looked out over London.
‘What a marvellous view,’ I said. ‘I can’t imagine the children ever want to do schoolwork when they could be looking at the rooftops.’
‘Mr John always wants to do his schoolwork,’ Edie said as I sent silent thanks upwards for a scholarly pupil. ‘The girls don’t apply themselves so much, so I’ve heard.’
I wondered how many girls there were. ‘Remind me of how old they all are,’ I said casually.
‘John’s ten, Meg’s eight and Pearl’s almost seven,’ she said. ‘They’re nice kids most of the time. Just don’t let them run rings round you.’
I smiled. ‘Don’t worry about me. I can give as good as I get.’
She looked at me with a critical eye. ‘Yes, I reckon you can. Though right now it just looks like you could do with a good dinner and an early night.’
I nodded, almost moved to tears by her kind words, which seemed ridiculous. It was just such a long time since anyone had said anything nice to me.
‘Go and meet the children, then come into the kitchen for some food,’ Edie said. ‘You’ll soon settle in here.’
She was right. Within a week I felt like I’d been there forever. Agnes and her husband – who was also called John – were kind, the children were welcoming, and I was so grateful to have a roof over my head and money in my pocket that I thanked my lucky stars every day that I’d bumped into Agnes on her doorstep.
On my first Saturday with the family, Agnes knocked on my bedroom door.
‘I know it should really be your day off but I have some jobs to do for Mrs Pankhurst,’ she said. ‘And Christabel is breathing down my neck, too. Could you possibly take the children to the park?’
‘Of course,’ I said. I had nothing else to do, though I was itching to get back to meetings. ‘What sort of jobs do you have to do?’
‘Lord, I almost forgot you were one of us,’ Agnes said, pleased. ‘It’s mostly frightfully dull newsletter bits but I can show you this afternoon, if you like? And I have a meeting this evening – would you like to come along?’
I was thrilled. ‘Yes please,’ I said. ‘I’m feeling a little out of touch.’
‘You can tell us all about your exploits in jail,’ Agnes said.
I picked up my shawl. ‘I’m not sure about that,’ I said. ‘But I’d like to come, thank you.’
After a delightful morning with the children, who were really a lovely bunch, I tracked Agnes down in the dining room. She was sitting at the table, a typewriter in front of her. She was surrounded by reams of paper and looking flustered.
‘Oh, Esther, thank goodness,’ she said. ‘Can you help me?’
I pulled out another chair and sat down. ‘I can try.’
‘Christabel and I want to get this all to the printer next week, but we’re missing a few pages, and I need to fill them.’
She looked up at me and gasped in delight. ‘Of course!’
‘What?’ I said, warily. I may only have known Agnes for a week but I was already getting to understand her spontaneity didn’t always work out for the best.
‘You have to write something about your time in jail.’
‘Really?’
‘I heard a whisper that you were the one writing to Mrs Pankhurst about her experiences in Holloway,’ she said. ‘Is that true? I heard the letters were wonderfully detailed. Evocative.’
I bowed my head, embarrassed by the praise.
‘Come on, Esther,’ Agnes urged. ‘You’re educated and witty, which is more than I can say about some of the writers we have contributing to the paper. Don’t tell Christabel I said that.’
I smiled briefly but then shook my head. ‘I’m not sure, Agnes.’
She took my hand. ‘You’ve been through an ordeal,’ she said, her reading glasses slipping down her nose. ‘I believe it would be good for your own peace of mind to share your experiences.’
I nodded. ‘That is true. It always helps me to write things down.’
‘It would certainly be good for others to read about them. So they’re prepared, if needs be.’
She pushed the typewriter towards me.
‘You want me to do it now?’
She held out a piece of paper and slowly I fed it into the typewriter.
‘I shall do my best,’ I said.
Agnes smiled at me. ‘That’s all I can ask.’
Chapter 10 (#ulink_d0470a1e-c5bc-55c5-9132-1ac6d48a0a01)
Esther (#ulink_d0470a1e-c5bc-55c5-9132-1ac6d48a0a01)
The next day should have been my day off again but after church I found I couldn’t settle to anything. It was a glorious spring day and I wanted to be outside so I put my book to one side and went to find the children to see if they wanted a walk.
The idea was met with a great deal of enthusiasm so we all pulled on boots and hats, and went out to the park. They liked going to the ponds to see the ducks so we headed in that direction, the children running ahead and me walking more sedately behind, feeling the weak sun on my face and revelling in the fresh air. I felt at peace, for the first time in weeks, and also determined.
Last night’s meeting had been astonishing. I’d spent the afternoon writing about my time in Holloway and when Agnes read what I’d written, her face had gone pale.
‘How awful,’ she’d said.
‘It was certainly no fun but I didn’t have it bad, compared to some. I had only just started my hunger strike when I was released so I’d only suffered being forcibly fed once. But believe me that was enough.’ I’d felt bile rise in my throat at the awful memory and had to take a moment to swallow before I could carry on. ‘My friend Minnie went through it twice and it was much worse the second time. She was in a bad way.’
‘Well, I’m very pleased you are sharing your thoughts,’ she’d said.
And at the meeting she had stood up and introduced me.
‘This young woman is Esther Watkins,’ she had said. ‘She was recently in Holloway and I would like her to tell you all a little about her experiences there.’
I’d spoken slowly at first about prison. I’d told them about the women I’d met, and how we were treated.
‘I still dream I’m there,’ I’d said. ‘I wake up in the morning not sure where I am. And I think about the women I met in there all the time. I wonder how they’re getting on – the ones who stayed longer – and I find myself looking at the clock and thinking they’ll be sending round supper now. Or wondering if Mrs Flintoff has recovered from her cold, or if Miss Bolton has managed to sleep through a whole night without a bad dream.’
‘Are you frightened you’ll go back?’ one woman had asked me.
I’d thought for a moment. ‘No,’ I’d said. ‘I don’t want to go back but if I have to, then I will. Because this is important. Women are not second-class citizens, to mop up men’s mess and do their bidding. Not any more.’ I’d looked around the room at the women. ‘They’re the ones who are scared,’ I’d said. ‘Not us. They’re scared that giving us a voice means things are going to change. And they’re scared because they know we’re right.’
Some of the women had cheered and suddenly I’d felt bolder.
‘I’m frightened of going to jail again, but I’m not stopping.’
They’d cheered again and I’d sat down feeling buoyed up by their support. I was a part of something, I’d thought. A part of something very important.
But later in the meeting, while someone else was talking, things had taken a turn. I was suddenly aware of a flurry of noise and movement at the back of the hall as women got to their feet.
‘Is there a problem?’ the woman on stage had called. But no one had answered. I’d stood up, trying to see what was wrong. Next to me another woman had shrieked.
‘Rats,’ she’d gasped. ‘There are rats in the hall.’ She’d clambered on to her chair and others followed.
At the back of the hall, someone had thrown the doors open and women had begun streaming outside.
Bewildered I’d looked round and saw to my horror that the woman on the chair was right. There were several large brown rats scuttling along the floor in the hall. They were darting this way and that under the chairs, while women had held their skirts up, trying to avoid them.
Agnes had been next to me, looking disgusted.
I’d clutched her arm. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Please.’
We’d both hitched up our skirts and – grateful that we were sitting towards the back of the hall – we’d made a dash for the door.
Outside, and across the road, we’d shaken out our skirts.
‘Ugh, I feel dirty,’ Agnes had said. ‘How on earth did that happen? We’ve used that hall often and never seen vermin before.’
‘Someone put them there,’ a passing suffragette had said, still holding her dress up above her knees. ‘Heard about it happening a few times in Manchester.’
‘Who would do such a thing?’ The hatred we drew was nothing new, but it still shocked me every time I experienced it.
She’d shrugged. ‘Coppers?’
‘Miss Whitehouse?’
Startled out of my memories of the rat-infested meeting, I almost ignored the voice behind me, until it said again: ‘Miss Whitehouse?’ and I remembered the false name I’d given the young man who’d helped me to my feet last week.
I turned to see Joseph Fairbanks – I found I had no trouble remembering his name – grinning at me. My heart – my foolish heart – gave a flutter as I looked at his handsome face and I cursed myself inwardly. All this talk of women being equal to men, and there was I going giddy at the first sight of a crooked smile and friendly blue eyes …
‘How lovely to see you,’ Joseph said.
For the first time I noticed he was wearing his police constable uniform, holding his hat under his arm, and I felt a rush of something. Fear? Trepidation? My only dealings with constables had not been good and the horror of the rats in the meeting was still raw. Despite Joseph’s smile and handsome face, and my absolute certainty that he was a good man unlike some of the others I’d come across, I found I wanted to spin on my heels and run away.
But instead, I nodded politely. ‘Likewise.’
‘Enjoying the spring sunshine?’
‘Indeed.’
‘It seems a shame to walk alone,’ he began, but he stopped as Meg skipped up to me.
‘Esther, we have found a patch of daffodils, which means winter is truly gone now – come and see.’
She tugged at my skirt and I smiled down at her, happy both at her enthusiasm and that she had given me an excuse to leave.
‘One moment, Meg,’ I said and she darted off again.
‘Not alone then?’
I smiled, properly this time. This truly was a nice man. Not someone to fear. Someone, in fact, I felt I liked although we’d only met recently.
‘I’m a governess,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure I am ever alone.’
Joseph laughed and his whole face lit up. ‘I’ve got four brothers,’ he said. ‘I know how that feels.’
‘I should go and admire the daffodils.’
‘And I should get to work.’
We smiled at each other again and I felt a pull towards him. I may have been twenty-one years old, but I’d never had a romance. Some of the girls I’d known at school were married already but I’d been so busy dealing with my father’s death and the mess he’d left behind and then getting involved with the WSPU, that I’d not really had time to think about finding myself a suitor.
‘Until next time,’ he said.
He sauntered off down the path, spinning his hat on his hand as he went.
I watched him go, thinking – somewhat wistfully – that if things were different, and he wasn’t a policeman and I wasn’t, well a criminal in the eyes of the law, then perhaps we could have spent some time together.
But instead, I went to find Meg and the daffodils, which were indeed very lovely and I thought about what to say to Agnes if Meg mentioned me chatting with a constable in the park.
We’d not been home five minutes before Meg brought it up, just as I knew she would. She was a bright little girl and she was endlessly fascinated by people.
‘Esther was talking to a friend in the park,’ she said to her mother as she wrestled off her boots. ‘A man.’
Agnes looked at me with raised eyebrows. ‘A man? Is that so?’
I braced myself, waiting for her to say he was a policeman. Like me, most of the suffragettes did not think much of the constables who were a thorn in all our sides. Agnes would not be happy about me chatting with one, I thought. Especially after last night.
‘Yes,’ Meg said looking rather too pleased with herself. Here it came. She was surely about to announce he had been wearing a uniform. But it seemed that wasn’t what had interested my charge about my exchange with Joseph Fairbanks – she’d been watching me instead.
‘Esther did laugh a lot, and she tilted her head on the side when she talked so the whole world must have looked the wrong way around.’
‘Meg,’ I said, embarrassed, but Agnes just chuckled and Meg was undeterred.
‘And Esther’s cheeks were all red like they are now.’
I put my cool hands to my face. She was right, the wretched child. My cheeks were flaming.
‘Edie has made lunch for you all in the kitchen,’ Agnes said, dropping a kiss on Meg’s head. ‘Go on.’
The children raced off for their food and I busied myself gathering their boots to take upstairs.
‘Oh leave all that for now,’ Agnes said. ‘Come and have tea and tell me all about this handsome chap you’ve been chatting to.’
To my surprise, I discovered I had quite a lot to say about Joseph.
‘I met him the other day when I fell over on my way to Mrs Pankhurst’s house,’ I told Agnes. ‘He picked me up and brushed me off.’
‘He picked you up,’ she repeated, delighted.
‘He did.’ I paused. ‘He was nice. Another man stepped over me and trod on my petticoat but he stopped to help.’
‘A gentleman.’
‘Handsome, too.’
‘So that’s why your cheeks were red,’ she teased and I felt myself blush again.
Agnes clapped her hands. ‘It’s like a fairy story,’ she said. ‘You fell over and he fell in love.’
‘Heavens, Agnes, no. You are getting ahead of yourself.’
‘Don’t pretend you’re not interested.’
I tried to look indifferent but I failed. ‘He’s nice,’ I admitted. ‘I like him.’
‘I knew it!’
‘But this is all stuff and nonsense,’ I said. ‘Nothing will come of it. Goodness, I’m so busy with the WSPU business, and the newspaper, and the children …’
Not to mention the fact that he was a policeman and there was no way a constable could even entertain the idea of romance with a woman like me. No way at all. I shook my head vigorously.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I am committed to the cause.’
‘Some men are allies to the cause,’ Agnes pointed out. ‘My John, for one.’
‘Your John is a treasure. But he is far from the norm.’
I wondered if it was possible that PC Fairbanks could be a secret supporter of women’s suffrage. Perhaps. He seemed to be such a nice chap. Surely he would be able to see the reason behind our arguments? Though that didn’t mean he could suddenly start spending time with suffragettes.
‘Anyway, whether he is an ally or not, I have no time for male attention.’
‘Really?’ Agnes said, disappointed.
I was firm. ‘Really.’
Chapter 11 (#ulink_7b6c166f-a665-5d11-8134-fcaec4f2328b)
Lizzie (#ulink_7b6c166f-a665-5d11-8134-fcaec4f2328b)
2019
I knew that telling the staff that the council intended to close Elm Heath Primary would be terrible. I thought it would be one of the worst things I’d ever had to do.
When the shit hit the fan in Clapham it had been bad, but at the start I’d been absolutely certain that it was all a big mistake and that Grant would never have done the things they said he’d done.
Of course, I’d been wrong, which had made the whole thing even worse, but I didn’t know that at the beginning, even if I started to have some niggling doubts later on.
But the way I’d felt that day when Grant told me he’d been suspended while they investigated some “inconsistencies”’ was nothing compared to the way I felt just imagining the expressions on the faces of the Elm Heath staff.
And so, I decided not to tell them.
‘They’ll just start looking for another job,’ I reasoned with myself. ‘Or they’ll blame me and make things difficult. It’s better if they don’t know yet.’
Instead, at the end of the school day, I took Paula into my office and shut the door on Emma, who was pretending to be absorbed in putting her coat on and absolutely not listening to what we were saying.
‘What’s all this?’ Paula said, looking alarmed. ‘Bad news?’
‘The worst.’
The colour drained from her face and she sat down heavily, looking like the air had been knocked out of her.
‘They’re closing Elm Heath?’
I nodded.
‘I never thought they’d actually do it.’
‘It’s not definite yet.’ I was eager to reassure her, because I couldn’t bear to see how bereft she looked. ‘That’s why I’m only telling you for now – not everyone else.’
She shrugged. ‘What can we do? I know how these things work – once a decision has been made, it’s made.’
‘Not necessarily,’ I said, but my protests sounded weak to my own ears. ‘I spoke to Denise Deacon at the council and she said it wasn’t signed off yet. It’s not official.’
Paula looked up at me, a tiny glimmer of hope in her eyes. ‘What exactly did she say?’
I thought for a moment. ‘She said it was a shame and she wished the school could stay open. I got the impression she’s on our side, thought she couldn’t really say so outright.’
Paula nodded. ‘And?’
‘She said we had to be creative and prove that Elm Heath was a vital part of the community, or that it was of special interest. We’ve got some time – and I’ve had a few ideas.’
‘Hit me,’ Paula said.
I found my scribbled notes and took her through what I’d come up with so far and she listened intently, her mind obviously racing with her own ideas.
‘My friend Joanna is a personal trainer,’ she said. ‘I bet she knows loads of fitness instructors who might want to use the hall. I’ll put the word out. If we’re smart we could get someone hiring it every evening and that will definitely help the budget.’
I nodded, pleased she’d got on board so fast.
‘And I absolutely love the idea of bringing the kids and the elderly people together.’
‘I don’t think that will be a money-making idea really but it will prove we’re important in the community, which is also part of the plan.’
‘And the after-school club will do both,’ Paula said triumphantly.
‘I hope so. I’m surprised you don’t do one already.’
She grimaced. ‘Like I said, we got a bit stuck in our ways. We’d need someone to run it though.’
‘I had an idea about that, too.’
‘You’re on fire today.’
I grinned. ‘What about Sophie Albert?’
Paula clapped her hands. ‘That’s a fabulous idea. She knows all the kids anyway, and she’s got her DBS checks because she’s often helping out at school things.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And I think I’d ask Celeste to coordinate from our side. She’s very organised and she is keen to have a new challenge. Might encourage her to stay.’
‘Great,’ I said. ‘That’s sorted then. I’ll chat to Celeste and Sophie. Could you and Pippa take on the afternoon teas for the elderly people? Maybe speak to some daycentres or whatever? If they work well with the little children, we can extend it to the older ones.’
‘On it,’ Paula said.
I ran my fingers through my hair. ‘I just hope it works,’ I said. ‘Denise seemed to think it was a start rather than a solution. She sounded quite downbeat about it all.’
‘I really believed that once we had you at the helm we’d be fine,’ Paula said, almost to herself.
‘I did worry that this was because of me. That the axe is falling while I’m here, because of what happened,’ I admitted out loud for the first time, my mood going from positive to negative in record speed.
‘At your old school you mean?’
I nodded.
‘Absolute rubbish,’ Paula said firmly. ‘They were fully up to speed with everything that happened when they offered you the job.’
‘I s’pose,’ I muttered.
Paula fixed me with the stern glare that made unruly children quake. ‘You need to stop feeling guilty about something you didn’t do.’
‘I s’pose,’ I muttered again.
There was a pause. I played with the edge of the desk, wondering what to say next.
‘What did you mean when you said interest?’ Paula said.
‘Pardon me?’
‘You said we had to prove the school was of special interest. What kind of interest?’
‘Well, Denise suggested historical, because I mentioned how old it was,’ I said. ‘But anything I suppose.’
‘Right,’ Paula said, fire in her eyes.
‘Do you have an idea?’
‘What about Esther?’ she said, gesturing to the photograph on my wall.
‘I’m a step ahead of you there. But that’s not going to work.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because,’ I said. ‘I googled old butter-wouldn’t-melt Esther Watkins and discovered she was a criminal, that’s why.’
Paula stared at me. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Google doesn’t lie.’
She raised an eyebrow at me.
‘Okay, Google sometimes lies, but the dates match up. I’m pretty sure it’s the same woman.’
Paula didn’t speak; she just looked so upset that I felt bad all over again.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘Let me do a bit more research. Maybe it’s not her. It does sound pretty unlikely.’
‘It does, doesn’t it?’
‘Why would a middle-class schoolteacher go to prison?’
‘Exactly.’
Paula looked at her watch and grimaced. ‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘Keep me posted on anything you discover?’
‘I will.’
Looking harassed, she hurried out of my office, leaving me alone. I looked out of the window at the autumn sunshine. All my best thinking used to be done while I was out walking. And when Grant’s actions made my whole life fall apart, I’d power my way round the commons of south London, working out solutions in my head. I’d go for a walk, I decided, and perhaps inspiration would strike.
As I left the school grounds, and pulled on my denim jacket though, I realised I was stumped. Back in London, I’d head to Wandsworth Common, or Tooting Common and follow the path round. But here in the countryside, I realised, I had no idea where to go. There was so much open space but I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to walk there. Surely the fields all belonged to people? Were there footpaths across them? How would I know? What if there were animals? I wasn’t keen on animals – I mostly just liked them from a distance. Especially scary ones like bulls.
Behind the playground was a patch of waste ground with the remains of a building on it and a broken fence. I’d seen teenagers out there in the evening, chatting and watching stuff on their phones, but it didn’t look like somewhere I wanted to be.
Beyond that was a neatly hedged field. I eyed it suspiciously. I couldn’t see a bull, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one there.
Making up my mind, I crossed the road and headed instead to the park. It was only small, with a couple of football goals, and a little fenced-in play area, but I could walk round that without fear of being gored and hopefully clear my head a bit.
I’d only gone a little way round the edge of the park when my energy deserted me and I sat down on a bench, watching the kids running round the play area. I was at a loss about what to do for the best. The ideas we had were good but I wasn’t stupid. I knew they were a drop in the ocean compared to our falling admissions and the squeeze on education budgets. It seemed like an impossible task to save Elm Heath Primary, but it also seemed really important.
The old me would have relished this challenge. She’d have swooped in like a super-teacher, told everyone what to do to improve results and foster a growth mindset in all the pupils, and then swooped off again. But my confidence in my own abilities had deserted me, and this was all just too … huge.
‘You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders,’ said a voice. I looked up to see Danny Kinsella smiling at me.
To my surprise, my heart jumped at the sight of him. Just a bit.
‘School stuff,’ I said.
He sat down next to me. ‘Spill.’
‘I can’t.’
He pinched his lips together tight and made a zipping gesture. ‘I’m the soul of discretion, me,’ he said. ‘And if there’s anything I’ve learned over the years, it’s that a problem shared really is a problem halved.’
I looked at him. ‘You have to promise not to tell anyone,’ I said. ‘Not Cara and definitely not Sophie.’
‘Sophie ignores everything I say anyway.’
‘Promise,’ I said.
Danny looked at me gravely and held out his little finger. ‘Pinkie promise.’
‘Danny …’
‘It’s the most binding promise there is, according to Cara.’
Feeling faintly ridiculous, I linked my little finger with his. His hands were warm and soft.
‘There,’ he said, shaking. ‘Now you can tell me everything.’
And so I did. I told him all about Denise Deacon telling me the school would close unless we could do something to stop it, and about the ideas we’d had. It felt good to unburden.
‘Those are all great plans,’ he said. ‘Sophie’s the perfect person to run the after-school club.’
‘It’s not enough though, is it?’
He shrugged. ‘Possibly not. But it’s a start.’
‘I also had the idea of proving the school was of historical interest, so I looked up Esther Watkins, who founded it back in 1912, and discovered she was a criminal.’
‘What?’ said Danny, delighted. But I wasn’t happy.
‘I feel like I’ve hit a brick wall,’ I said. ‘I can’t tell the rest of the staff because they’ll just look for other jobs and we’ll be left with no one. Paula’s devastated. And the one thing I thought might help – our history – is a non-starter.’
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Kerry Barrett
I signed the letter with a flourish. I wouldn’t send it. There was no need. But I wanted to keep it somewhere safe, somewhere I could find it if I ever needed to remember why I’d done what I’d done. The fight goes on, I told myself. The fight goes on… London, 1910. Twenty-one-year-old Esther Watkins would do anything for the Suffragette cause. Imprisoned, force-fed and beaten, she is determined to fight for what she believes is right – no matter what it costs her. With new love Joseph by her side, will she get the better future she dreams of? Kent, 2019. With her marriage in tatters, school teacher Lizzie Armstrong moves to sleepy Elm Heath for a fresh start, and her pupils and the community soon steal her heart. So when the school is threatened with closure Lizzie knows she has to fight, and she looks to the school’s founder for inspiration. What makes Esther, born and bred in London, a proud Suffragette, suddenly leave the city and escape to Elm Heath? And when Lizzie uncovers Esther’s heartbreaking secret, could it give her the strength she needs to save not just the school, but her new beginning too? A heart-wrenching and uplifting novel for fans of Emily Gunnis, Kathleen McGurl and Kathryn Hughes. Readers love Kerry Barrett: ‘All Kerry Barrett's books are brilliant’ ‘I'd highly recommend this: detective fiction, historical fiction, powerful, moving, thrilling, sometimes comic, always very human. ’ ‘A beautiful story which kept me hooked’ ‘I would definitely recommend this read, but be warned, you won't want to put it down. ’ ‘Loved the whole story, couldn't put it down’ ‘Will definitely read more from this author’
About the Author (#u23aa09f1-e995-514e-8038-2df3133e707f)
KERRY BARRETT is the author of eight novels, including the Strictly Come Dancing themed A Step in Time, and The Girl in the Picture, about a crime novelist who solves a 160-year-old mystery.
Born in Edinburgh, Kerry moved to London as a child, where she now lives with her husband and two sons. A massive bookworm growing up, she used to save up her pocket money for weeks to buy the latest Sweet Valley High book, then read the whole story on the bus home and have to wait two months for the next one. Eventually she realised it would be easier to write her own stories …
Kerry’s years as a television journalist, reporting on EastEnders and Corrie, have inspired her novels where popular culture collides with a historical mystery. But there is no truth in the rumours that she only wrote a novel based on Strictly Come Dancing so she would be invited on to It Takes Two.
When she’s not practising her foxtrot (because you never know …), Kerry is watching Netflix, reading Jilly Cooper, and researching her latest historical story.
Readers Love Kerry Barrett (#u23aa09f1-e995-514e-8038-2df3133e707f)
‘All Kerry Barrett's books are brilliant.’
‘I love Kerry Barrett’s books and this one is no disappointment’
‘Highly recommended’
‘I just loved the way Kerry took us effortlessly from one era to another’
‘Immediately bought another Kerry Barrett book – great writer!’
‘Brilliantly written gripping loved it’
Also by Kerry Barrett (#u23aa09f1-e995-514e-8038-2df3133e707f)
The Could It Be Magic? Series
Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered
I Put a Spell on You
Baby, It’s Cold Outside
I’ll Be There for You
A Spoonful of Sugar: A Novella
A Step in Time
The Forgotten Girl
The Girl in the Picture
The Hidden Women
The Secret Letter
KERRY BARRETT
HQ
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First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020
Copyright © Kerry Barrett 2020
Kerry Barrett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © February 2020 ISBN: 9780008321604
Version: 2019-11-14
Table of Contents
Cover (#u469ad37c-28d1-51fb-8997-ab8d7c2acf43)
About the Author
Readers Love Kerry Barrett
Also by Kerry Barrett
Title Page (#u1132daea-ffba-5193-b181-dc3ea2c591a2)
Copyright (#u12fb477b-c8d2-544d-9428-308bd1eb2675)
Dedication (#u0091b2d1-c160-547e-8bd9-1b677cdcde0b)
Prologue
Chapter 1: Lizzie
Chapter 2: Lizzie
Chapter 3: Lizzie
Chapter 4: Lizzie
Chapter 5: Esther
Chapter 6: Esther
Chapter 7: Lizzie
Chapter 8: Lizzie
Chapter 9: Esther
Chapter 10: Esther
Chapter 11: Lizzie
Chapter 12: Lizzie
Chapter 13: Esther
Chapter 14: Esther
Chapter 15: Lizzie
Chapter 16: Lizzie
Chapter 17: Lizzie
Chapter 18: Esther
Chapter 19: Esther
Chapter 20: Lizzie
Chapter 21: Lizzie
Chapter 22: Esther
Chapter 23: Esther
Chapter 24: Esther
Chapter 25: Lizzie
Chapter 26: Lizzie
Chapter 27: Lizzie
Chapter 28: Lizzie
Chapter 29: Lizzie
Chapter 30: Lizzie
Chapter 31: Esther
Chapter 32: Esther
Chapter 33: Esther
Chapter 34: Esther
Chapter 35: Lizzie
Chapter 36: Lizzie
Chapter 37: Lizzie
Chapter 38: Lizzie
Chapter 39: Esther
Chapter 40: Esther
Chapter 41: Esther
Chapter 42: Lizzie
Chapter 43: Lizzie
Chapter 44: Esther
Chapter 45: Lizzie
Chapter 46: Lizzie
Chapter 47: Lizzie
Chapter 48: Lizzie
Epilogue: Esther
Acknowledgements
Extract
Dear Reader … (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
To the strong women in my life who are the living embodiment of Deeds Not Words: my fabulous aunts, Pauline and Norma; my godmother, Linda; my second mum, Les; and of course, my amazing actual mum, Dorothy.
Prologue (#ulink_81d62e35-c48d-5d54-b7b8-efc135ab3e8b)
Esther (#ulink_81d62e35-c48d-5d54-b7b8-efc135ab3e8b)
December 1910
I picked up the letter I’d written and read it over to myself. I knew he’d never see it, but it made me feel better, just putting my feelings down on paper. Putting everything that had happened behind me.
‘Sometimes the fight is part of the fun,’ I’d written. I smiled sadly. That was exactly how I felt, and why everything had gone so wrong between us; there had just been no fight.
Picking up my pen again, I signed the letter with a flourish and then wafted the paper, waiting for the ink to dry. I wouldn’t send it. There was no need. But I wanted to keep it somewhere safe, somewhere I could find it if I ever needed to remember why I’d done what I’d done.
I glanced round my small bedroom, looking for inspiration, and my eyes fell on my fabric bag, stuffed under the bed. I pulled it out and opened it and found inside the wooden photograph frame holding the only photograph I had of my former love. Perfect. But first I had to change something else. On my bedside table was my journal and tucked inside was a photograph of myself. It had been taken at a recent suffragette rally and vain as it sounded, I loved the way it made me look. I had my chin raised slightly and a flash of fire in my eyes. I looked like a woman to be reckoned with.
Smiling, I opened the back of the picture frame and took out the photograph that was in there. Should I throw it away? No, he was part of my past no matter how horribly things had ended. Instead I put it into the bag and pushed it back under the bed. Then I put the photograph of myself into the frame, folded up the letter and put it in an envelope, carefully tucked that behind the photo and fixed the back on securely. I proudly stood the photograph on my bedside table. I would keep that picture with me, wherever I ended up, and every time I looked at it I would remember that I had been made stronger by everything that had happened.
‘The fight goes on, Esther,’ I said to myself. ‘The fight goes on.’
Chapter 1 (#ulink_83c91a2c-f1d9-5a78-8f86-c5c88f25f2f4)
Lizzie (#ulink_83c91a2c-f1d9-5a78-8f86-c5c88f25f2f4)
August 2019
I stared at the building where I would spend most of my time for the next year, or even two, with a mixture of hope, fear and resentment.
‘Just a few months,’ I whispered to myself. ‘Just a few months, and then you can get back to normal.’
I pushed my sunglasses up on top of my head so I could see better and squinted in the brightness. It was an old-fashioned school building. The sort of building that in London would have been converted into luxury flats years ago. It had black iron railings, a paved area at the front with hopscotch markings and two entrances, over which in the stonework was carved “boys” and “girls”. I knew that at the back was a more modern extension, but staring at the front I felt like I’d gone back in time.
My stomach lurched with nerves and I took a step backwards, lowering my sunglasses again like a shield.
‘Chin up, Lizzie,’ I told myself sternly. ‘You’ve got this.’
But I wasn’t sure I did have it.
It was mid-morning but it was quiet. No one was around and I was glad. School didn’t start for another ten days though I’d come to Elm Heath early so I could move into my new house, get settled in, and generally find my feet a bit. It was very different here from my life in Clapham and I knew it was going to take some getting used to.
I took a deep, slightly shuddery breath as I thought about my ex-husband, Grant, who was – as far as I knew – still living in leafy South-West London. Predictably, he’d managed to emerge from the disaster of the last couple of years smelling of roses despite being asked to leave Broadway Common School before he was pushed. Never had the phrase “men fail up” seemed truer than when I’d discovered he’d walked into a fancy job in some think-tank, advising local councils on education policy and was earning more now than he’d ever done as a head teacher. Which was ironic considering one of the many, many things he’d done wrong was being creative with some of the school budgets.
Under my sunglasses, I felt a tear start to dribble down my nose and I reached up with one finger to wipe it away. I had to stay strong or I would fall apart. And yes, it wasn’t fair that I’d been treated with suspicion too, even though an investigation had proved that I hadn’t been involved in Grant’s misdemeanours whatsoever. But it was harder to prove I didn’t know anything about it, because while he was head of the huge junior school, I was in charge at the infants’ school next door. And as I’d soon discovered, no one really believed that I was innocent, despite what the official reports said. I’d waited for Grant to clear my name – to speak out on my behalf. But I was still waiting. Because as it turned out, Grant telling everyone I knew nothing would have effectively meant admitting he’d done all the things he was accused of. So instead he stayed quiet.
With the trust gone in our marriage, I’d found myself moving back to my mum’s house at the ripe old age of thirty-eight. And with the trust gone in my job, I’d resigned and applied for new posts all over the place – just to get away from London.
‘And here I am,’ I said out loud, still looking at Elm Heath Primary. Elm Heath was an ordinary school. It wasn’t a super, high-performing school; it was just a normal, nice-enough village primary. And that made it the perfect school for me to prove myself.
There was no doubt everything that had happened had left me needing to show the teaching world that I still had it, and I thought Elm Heath would give me that opportunity. As far as I could see, it was just a bit old-fashioned. The last head teacher had been in her job for yonks, and she’d been quite resistant to change. I thought I could drag the school into the twenty-first century, revitalise it, get my mojo back and then go back to London and to normality. Albeit a Grant-free normality.
I forced a small smile. This was just a blip, I thought to myself. Just a small hump in the road of my career. And perhaps a slightly bigger hump in the road of my personal life because despite everything he’d done, I still missed Grant. I missed being part of a team. The Mansfields. Grant and Elizabeth. A double act. A “you two”. Now it was just me.
Sighing, I picked up my bag. I’d moved into my tiny terraced house yesterday – my whole life reduced to a few boxes of books – but it was still chaotic and I had a lot to do to get sorted before term started. I really should get on with it.
As I turned to walk away from the school a voice shouted from the playground.
‘Ms Armstrong? Yoo-hoo! Ms Armstrong!’
I ignored it for a split second and then looked back over my shoulder as it dawned on me that I was Ms Armstrong. I’d applied for this job in my maiden name – part of my plan to be “me” instead of Grant’s other half.
Across the playground, a short woman – perhaps ten years older than me – came barrelling towards the gate.
‘Wait!’ she called. ‘I’ll let you in!’
I groaned as I recognised her from one of my interviews. It was Paula Paxton, the deputy head. Grant would have said she was the perfect mix of overenthusiastic and underachieving. Though she’d been very nice to me when I met her before, I just wasn’t really in the mood for company.
‘Ms Armstrong,’ she panted as she unlocked the gate. ‘I saw you from my office and thought you would want to come in rather than lurk outside. So I said to myself, I said “Paula, run downstairs and let her in – she doesn’t want to be lurking outside,” and I raced downstairs and then when I saw you pick your bag up, I thought I’d missed you.’
Faced with such jollity, I winced. Despite how nice Paula had seemed at my interview, I wasn’t sure I could deal with her kindness today when I was feeling fragile. She saw my reaction and she paused while opening the iron gate.
‘I’m babbling,’ she said. ‘I always babble when I meet new people. I’m sorry.’
I managed a weak smile. ‘Don’t be,’ I said.
She reached out and took my bag from me.
‘Coffee?’
I smiled more genuinely this time. ‘Coffee would be great.’
I followed her through the echoey corridors of the school. Generally, I disliked schools out of hours. They needed the children to make them feel alive, I always thought. But today, I appreciated the quiet stillness of the building. It was cool inside, no fancy air-conditioning could compete with hundred-year-old thick stone walls.
I was wearing a vest top, cropped jeans and Havaianas that flipped and flopped loudly down the hall. Paula Paxton was dressed for work in a neat wrap dress with court shoes and – I thought – nude tights. It was thirty degrees outside, and it was the summer holidays, so I wondered if she dressed like that all the time. On the beach. At the gym.
‘God, I’m so hot,’ she said, over her shoulder. ‘I’ve been to a funeral.’
Oops.
‘Sorry,’ I muttered, feeling horrible for having had nasty thoughts about her. Paula waved her hand at me.
‘Nah, don’t be. It was some client of my husband’s firm. I only went so I could bring the car home afterwards because I need to go to the supermarket later, and I could have got the bus, but I’ll have a lot of bags …’
I smiled and she stopped.
‘Babbling again,’ she said. ‘Here are the offices.’
She opened a door on her left. It was an original, thick with paint and with a wobbly window on the top half.
Inside was a sort of reception area with seating and two desks for the secretaries I assumed. Beyond it were two more doors, similarly old-fashioned, one marked “head teacher” and one marked “deputy head teacher”.
‘I’m on the left,’ she said. ‘I teach as well, obviously, so I don’t use my office much. But I have the coffee machine. Milk and sugar?’
After suffering in too many staffrooms where the only refreshments on offer were clumpy catering tins of instant, I was pleasantly surprised to hear there was a coffee machine. I smiled.
‘Just milk, please. I’ll just have a look at my own office if that’s okay?’
‘Hold on,’ she said. She opened the top drawer of one of the desks and pulled out a key.
‘This is yours.’
I wondered if there was any point in keeping a key just centimetres away from the door it unlocked but I didn’t say anything. Instead I simply unlocked the door.
‘I’ll fire up the Nespresso,’ Paula said. ‘Well, it’s not a real Nespresso, because they’re so expensive. It’s just the Marks and Sparks version, but I find it’s just as good …’
She trailed off, much to my relief.
‘Just come in when you’re ready.’
I nodded and, taking a deep breath, I went into my new office.
It was pretty bare. There was a big desk by the window, a round table, and two empty bookcases. On one wall there was an old-fashioned black and white photograph of a young woman wearing what I thought was Edwardian dress, and a fierce expression.
‘You’re going to have to go,’ I told her out loud. ‘I can’t have you looking down on me so disapprovingly.’
My voice bounced around the empty room.
Suddenly overwhelmed by everything, I sat down at my new desk and put my face in my hands. This was my last chance to save my career and start again but it just seemed like a huge task. Was this going to be a massive mistake?
Chapter 2 (#ulink_b60ded2c-3b69-5585-a926-41e1018ac385)
Lizzie (#ulink_b60ded2c-3b69-5585-a926-41e1018ac385)
I sat like that for a few minutes, wallowing in my misery over my new life. None of this was my fault, I thought. I was just another one of Grant’s victims, like the parents he fooled, and the kids he let down, and whose SATs results he faked, and the PTA whose funds he siphoned off. Though that bit had never been proved, and like I said, he’d never actually admitted the rest – just insisted it was all a misunderstanding. I took a deep breath and rubbed my eyes, trying to pull myself together. I couldn’t fall apart now, not with Paula Paxton in the next room.
‘Excuse me, Ms Armstrong,’ a voice said, making me realise that Paula Paxton wasn’t in the next room; she was in my room, clutching two mugs of coffee.
I forced my head upright and tried to smile. But my neck felt weak and my smile weaker.
‘Oh dear,’ Paula Paxton said. ‘Oh dear.’
She put both mugs on the desk and in two strides was next to me. Tentatively, she touched my arm.
‘Feeling a bit overwhelmed?’ she said.
Her kind voice almost made me fall apart. With super-human strength I managed to nod, without looking at her.
‘I know what happened,’ she said. ‘In your last job, I mean. You don’t have to explain.’
Of course she knew. She’d been in my interviews; she must have read my application. Knowing she knew made me feel oddly relieved and embarrassed at the same time. I couldn’t bear her feeling sorry for me. It was the sympathy and the sad faces and the tilty heads asking ‘how ARE you?’ that had made life in London so completely awful.
Paula rubbed my arm gently and then went round the other side of the desk and sat down opposite me. She pushed one of the mugs towards me and picked up the other one.
‘I think I should tell you just how thrilled we are to have you here,’ she said in a conversational tone. ‘I’ve read all the things you’ve written in Teacher magazine. And I was actually at your training day in Brighton.’
This time I did manage to meet her eyes.
‘Really?’
Grant had been the face of our schools. We worked together but he was the driving force. He was the one doing the Tedx talks, and writing for the broadsheet education supplements about his views on education policy, and his approach to helping young children learn. He was outspoken, handsome and funny, and he really knew his stuff, so he was very media friendly. He’d even been on Question Time once. In fact, I thought it was his profile that had led him to make the bad decisions he’d made. Education is a long game and seeing children through their years at school can sometimes feel like an age. Grant couldn’t wait for results, and so he had to fiddle them, because he couldn’t be seen to be failing. Apart from in our marriage, of course. He didn’t care about that going wrong.
But I’d been passionate about what we were doing, too. I’d written a few articles for a teaching mag; I’d done a couple of seminars at training days. And it seemed Paula Paxton knew all about them.
Now she smiled at me. ‘Ms Armstrong …’
‘Lizzie,’ I said. ‘Please call me Lizzie.’
‘Lizzie, Elm Heath Primary needs a boost.’
‘I know.’
‘I’ve worked here for twenty years,’ Paula went on. ‘My daughter came here. It’s such a lovely school. We were just so thrilled when you took the position.’
I smiled at her across the top of my coffee mug. It was nice to hear after so much bad stuff.
‘You’re so inspirational,’ Paula was saying. ‘You have such wonderful ideas about putting the children first in everything.’
I felt a very small flush of pride. ‘Really?’ I said. That had always been my focus.
Paula smiled at me again. ‘I read some of your husband’s articles too.’
‘Ex-husband.’
She bit her lip. ‘He’s more about winning.’
I’d taken a mouthful of the rather good coffee while she was talking and now I swallowed it all, making me cough.
Still spluttering, I laughed for the first time in what seemed like weeks. It sounded slightly strange. ‘That’s Grant in a nutshell.’
Paula grinned at me, then taking advantage of the friendlier atmosphere between us, she leaned forward. ‘Was it awful? Your break-up?’
I shrugged. ‘You know when people say something’s ended not with a bang but with a whimper? It was like that, really. He let me down professionally and then – boom – it all just crumbled.’
‘That’s almost worse,’ Paula said and again I was surprised by her insight. I nodded, feeling another rush of self-pity and, sensing my mood, she smiled again.
‘I’ve organised a barbecue for you to meet all the staff,’ she said. ‘My house, tomorrow evening.’
‘Oh I’m not sure …’ I began. I was still finding my feet in Elm Heath and I wasn’t sure I was quite ready to meet my teachers.
Paula waved her hand. ‘It’s all arranged,’ she said. ‘I’m only round the corner from you – I’ll send someone to collect you on the way so you don’t get lost.’
I blinked at her, astonished. She’d arranged a party for me and she knew where I lived? In London I’d be suspicious of such overly friendly behaviour, but here it just seemed … nice. I thought briefly of boozy staff parties at the Three Crowns in Clapham High Street and then shook my head to clear the memories. My life was different now and I had to get used to it. And if it was totally overwhelming, then I’d stay an hour, make an excuse of doing more unpacking or something, and scarper.
‘Thank you,’ I said, smiling. ‘That’s very kind.’
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Paula said. ‘Could I ask you to rinse out your mug and put it back in my office when you’re done?’
‘Of course.’
She got up and turned to go. ‘Feel free to make the office your own,’ she said as an afterthought. ‘If you need more bookshelves, or chairs just let Jeff the caretaker know.’
‘Thanks,’ I said again. I glanced round. It was a bigger office than the one I’d had in London and I was sure I could make it my own. My eye was caught by the portrait on the wall. ‘Paula, who’s that woman in the picture?’
She smiled. ‘That’s Esther Watkins,’ she said, proudly, as though it needed no further explanation.
I screwed up my face. ‘Sorry, I don’t know who that is.’
‘She founded Elm Heath Primary back in the early twentieth century,’ Paula said, as though she was reading from an information card at a museum. ‘We’re actually one of the oldest schools in the county. Esther Watkins dedicated her life …’
‘Maybe we should move her picture,’ I said hurriedly, interrupting her before I got treated to a lecture about a sour-faced spinster who probably thought children should be seen and not heard.
Paula looked horrified so I backtracked immediately.
‘I mean, maybe she needs to be seen. We could put her in the main office, perhaps. Or in the corridor.’
‘Perhaps.’ Paula sounded doubtful. ‘I’ve always thought it was nice that she’s in here. This would have been her office at one time, you know?’
I knew when I was beaten. I’d move grumpy Ms Watkins when I was settled in and had a quiet moment to myself.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ I said to Paula.
She grinned at me, obviously pleased she’d convinced me to leave Esther Watkins where she was.
‘I’ll send someone round to get you about sixish.’
‘Sounds great,’ I said, forcing away the nerves I was feeling at being “presented” to all the staff at once. ‘Lovely.’
Chapter 3 (#ulink_b06bdaaf-d83c-5c46-8f17-a5e894dbb2d7)
Lizzie (#ulink_b06bdaaf-d83c-5c46-8f17-a5e894dbb2d7)
What did one wear to a village barbecue? I wondered, looking at my small selection of clothes later. When my life had fallen apart, I’d put most of my belongings into storage while I holed up at my mum’s house. And then, when I’d moved down to Elm Heath in the middle of deepest, darkest Kent, I’d realised I didn’t need all the stuff I’d accumulated over the years – it just reminded me of better times – so I sold it all, except for a few boxes of books.
Now I had what might be called a capsule wardrobe. A very small capsule wardrobe. I decided to go casual, so I pulled on the pair of cropped jeans I’d been wearing at school yesterday and a floaty vest with little flowers on it, and put a cardigan in my bag in case it got chilly later.
I was, I discovered when I was trying to draw a straight line with eyeliner, ridiculously and shakily nervous. What if everyone knew what had happened in London and they all thought I’d been involved? What if none of them wanted to work with me? What if – I gasped aloud and jabbed myself in the eye with the eyeliner pencil – they’d all wanted Paula to be the new head and were resentful that I’d got the job?
With one eye watering, I wiped off the mess I’d made of my make-up and instead just dabbed on some lip balm. They’d have to take me as I was. I brushed my hair, then went downstairs to my tiny kitchen and took the bottle of Prosecco I’d bought out of the fridge. If all else failed, I’d bribe them with bubbles.
I was ready and waiting when the doorbell rang, but it still made me jump because I was so edgy. I took a deep breath, plastered a smile on my face and opened the door to find a woman maybe five years younger than me on the doorstep. She had bright blonde hair in a high ponytail and freckles and looked like a cheerleader in an American teen film.
‘Hello, I’m Lizzie,’ I said, then I paused. ‘Lizzie Armstrong.’
She grinned at me, showing neat, white teeth. ‘I’d worry if you weren’t,’ she said. ‘Paula sent me to fetch you. I’m Pippa Davis. I teach years one and two.’
I relaxed, slightly, in the face of such friendliness. ‘Nice to meet you Pippa,’ I said. I picked up my bag and the bottle. ‘Shall we go?’
Paula was right, she did live just round the corner. I wondered if it was going to be odd living on top of all my colleagues and – more importantly – my pupils. Though we’d lived fairly close to our school in London, catchment areas were so small we didn’t have students as neighbours. This was going to be totally different.
‘Everyone’s so excited to meet you,’ Pippa said as she bounced down the side of Paula’s large detached house – I remembered what she’d said about her husband having clients and wondered briefly what he did – and into the big garden, me trailing behind like a sulky teenager.
‘She’s here!’ she sang. ‘Lizzie’s here!’
The garden was full of people, chatting and laughing, but as Pippa made her announcement, they all fell silent and as one they turned and stared at me. I felt sick. I’d not wanted to arrive with a huge fanfare, like this.
‘Hello,’ I squeaked. ‘Hi.’
Everyone chorused hellos and Paula rushed up to us and gave me a hug that surprised me.
‘So pleased you could make it,’ she said. ‘Come and meet everyone. Pippa, can you get Lizzie a drink?’
My head spinning, I took the glass Pippa handed me and drained it without even looking at the contents.
‘So, Pippa you’ve met,’ Paula said. ‘And her best friend is Emma, who’s our school secretary. She keeps us all organised. They both went to Elm Heath Primary together – isn’t that lovely?’
‘Lovely,’ I echoed.
I could hear Grant’s mocking voice in my head. He’d roll his eyes at the thought of people growing up here, marrying their childhood sweetheart, and staying put. ‘It’s so English,’ he’d say with a sort of superior chuckle. ‘So white, straight … vanilla.’
I thought of Broadway Common School where we had kids speaking more than thirty languages, celebrated every festival going, worked hard to include the kids with two dads in Mother’s Day and the ones with two mums in Father’s Day, and I wondered if I’d miss that diversity.
‘This is Nate – Mr Welsh – who teaches years five and six,’ she said introducing a man about the same age as Pippa and Emma, who’d no doubt gone to school with them too.
I shook his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said.
Nate stifled a yawn. ‘God, I’m sorry,’ he said in horror. ‘That was so rude.’
Paula looked at him with genuine affection. ‘Nate’s a new dad,’ she said.
‘Congratulations.’ I smiled at him. ‘Is your wife here?’
Nate looked at me with a hint of mischief in his eyes. ‘My husband Marc is over there with our baby, Leia,’ he said.
I turned to see an athletic man, a bit older than Nate, expertly bouncing a baby on his knee, while holding a bottle of beer and chatting to another man.
I screwed my face up. ‘Sorry,’ I whispered, feeling a tiny flush of triumph. Ha, Grant! I thought. Village life is interesting.
Nate chuckled. ‘Don’t be. It must be hard for you coming from London where people aren’t as liberal.’
He was joking, I thought. But I blushed anyway.
Nate introduced me to another teacher – Celeste – who was a dead ringer for a young Michelle Obama, right down to the enviable upper arms. I slid my own bingo wings into my cardie as I spoke to her, feeling self-conscious and not just about letting myself believe that everyone in Elm Heath was a boring stereotype.
Paula’s husband Chris was on the barbecue and their daughter Chloe, who was in sixth form, handed out drinks. It was all very pleasant, just a bit – overwhelming. Trying to make a good impression on so many new people was hard work.
Needing a moment to myself, I slunk across the garden to an empty deckchair and sat down. To my left, Paula’s husband Chris was flipping burgers. He was engaged in what seemed to me to be a fairly heated discussion with the man who’d been talking to Nate’s handsome husband. The other man was shorter, stockier, and more dishevelled than Marc, but also very attractive in his own way.
Both Chris and the other man looked quite cross and I was intrigued. I leaned slightly to the side and tried to eavesdrop on their conversation.
‘I think you’re being unrealistic,’ Chris was saying. ‘Idealistic.’
The other man frowned. He looked worried. ‘I thought perhaps, I could just see it as business …’
‘Are you the new headmistress?’ a voice at my elbow said, interrupting my earwigging. I turned to see a small girl – year three, I guessed with my expert eye – with a gap-toothed smile and wonky bunches.
‘I am,’ I said.
She fixed me with a serious stare. ‘Are you a nice headmistress or a strict headmistress?’
I thought about it. ‘Could I be both?’
‘S’pose.’
‘Then I will be both.’
‘You don’t look like a headmistress.’
‘Why not?’
‘You look like a mummy.’
I smiled, a genuine, not-nervous smile. ‘Do I look like your mummy?’
‘My mummy is dead.’
I stopped smiling. ‘I’m sorry.’
The little girl grinned at me. ‘I have a daddy.’
‘That’s nice.’
I shifted awkwardly in my seat. Obviously, I considered myself to be good with kids, but I was off my game this evening and this small child was unsettling me.
‘What is your name?’ she asked.
‘Ms Armstrong. What’s yours?’
‘Cara,’ she said, frowning. ‘What is Mizzzzzzz?’
‘It’s a title, like Mrs or Miss.’
Cara shook her head, her lopsided bunches bouncing. ‘I think you’re getting muddled,’ she said kindly, patting my hand. ‘Miss means you haven’t got a husband or a wife, and Mrs means you have. Mizzzzzz is just pretend. Do you have a husband or a wife?’
I swallowed. ‘No, I don’t have a husband.’
‘Do you have a wife?’
‘No.’
She nodded. ‘Then you are a Miss,’ she said, speaking clearly like I was elderly and hard of hearing. ‘MISS.’
‘Cara, are you being a nuisance?’
The attractive man who’d been talking to Chris was standing in front of us. He flashed me a smile and for a split second I felt a flicker of interest and not just in his conversation. He was wearing a rumpled T-shirt and jeans and his hair was sticking up, but there was something about him that I liked.
‘I’m chatting to MISS Armstrong,’ Cara said. ‘She is the new headmistress and she is nice and also strict and she doesn’t have a husband or a wife.’
I felt myself flush as the man raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Strict, eh?’
Urgh. ‘I have my moments,’ I said. Where on earth did that come from? Was I flirting?
The man put his hand on Cara’s head. ‘We need to go, angel,’ he said. ‘It’s late.’
‘But Daddy, it’s a party.’
‘And now it’s finished.’
Cara rolled her eyes and I couldn’t help but chuckle.
‘Nice to meet you, MISS Armstrong,’ the man said. ‘I’m Danny Kinsella, by the way.’
‘Are you a teacher?’ I said, running through the list of names Pippa had bombarded me with in my head.
‘God no. Just a friend of Paula and Chris.’
‘And a daddy,’ Cara said.
He smiled down at her. ‘And a daddy.’
‘See you at school then, Miss Armstrong.’
He waved at me, and he and Cara wandered off down the side of the house and out on to the road. I stared after them feeling slightly off-balance. There was definitely more to life in Elm Heath than I’d imagined.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_408c72ce-c95e-5a0d-b85e-f224039e698b)
Lizzie (#ulink_408c72ce-c95e-5a0d-b85e-f224039e698b)
I was at school at the crack of dawn on the first day of term. I had always been an early riser, and when I was nervous I could never sleep.
I thought I’d be the only person there, but Emma was already in the office.
‘Morning,’ she sang. ‘Ready for action?’
I grimaced. ‘As I’ll ever be.’
She put a hand on my arm. ‘You’ll be great. Cup of tea?’
‘Yes please.’
Emma headed to the corner of the reception area where there was a sink, a little fridge and a kettle and busied herself finding mugs.
‘I’ll let you get on,’ she said over her shoulder as she filled the kettle. ‘Some things arrived for you. I’ve put them all on your desk.’
I thanked her and headed into my office. I’d come in every day for a couple of hours and made it more homely. I’d put books on the shelves, and brought in my stationery. But Esther Watkins still glowered down at me and the whole room was still pretty bare. At least it had been. Now there was a stack of post on my desk, a huge bouquet of flowers, a box of chocolates and two bottles in shiny presentation bags.
‘Oh my God,’ I breathed. ‘What’s all this?’
Emma had come up behind me, holding my tea. ‘Everyone’s very pleased you’re here,’ she said. ‘The big card and the chocolates are from the staff, but I think all the other bits are from parents.’
She handed me the mug. ‘I’m going to go and check all the classrooms,’ she said. ‘See you in a little while.’
Overwhelmed, again, I sat down on the chair and stared at the pile of gifts. I couldn’t believe how welcoming everyone was being. It was not what I’d expected and I almost felt guilty that they were being so nice when I was seeing this job as a step on my road back to normal life. A means to an end, rather than an end in itself.
I took a deep breath and a swig of tea and started opening the cards. They were all full of lovely good luck messages.
‘Wishing you and Elm Heath Primary lots of luck for the future,’ one said. ‘Love Sarah, Gary, Olivia (y6) and Rosie (y4).’
‘Let’s hope this is an exciting new chapter for Elm Heath Primary,’ read another. While another said, in a child’s handwriting: ‘Hello Mrs Armstrong! From William, Luke, Charlie and Emily.’ The kids had all signed their names individually and drawn little pictures of themselves and it was so adorable I could forgive them calling me “Mrs Armstrong”.
There was even one from Danny and Cara Kinsella. ‘Good luck, MISS Armstrong,’ Danny had written, which made me smile even while I prickled with irritation. ‘See you soon.’
I arranged the cards on the shelves, put the wine to one side to keep for drinks with the staff on Friday – I thought we’d probably need them – and opened the big card from the staff.
They’d all written personal messages to me, telling me how much they were looking forward to working with me, and how they thought this was the start of good times for Elm Heath Primary. I felt guilty all over again as I read them, given that I was approaching this job as a sort of gap year. A sabbatical. A way of pressing the reset button after a blip in an otherwise high-flying teaching career, no matter how many sweet pictures the kids drew, or how many messages of support the staff shared.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ I said to Esther Watkins as she stared down at me.
I drained my mug of tea and turned my attention to the flowers. They were peonies – my absolute favourite and very hard to come by in early September.
With a slight sense of misgiving, I pulled out the envelope that was tucked inside the cellophane wrapping and slid my finger under the flap to open it.
‘Queenie,’ the card read. I winced at the stupid nickname that I’d not heard in a long while. ‘Missing you fiercely but wishing you lots of luck. Gx’
My stomach twisted. How could he do this? I was just getting to the point where I didn’t think about him every hour of every day and now he’d wormed his way in again.
‘Sod off, Grant,’ I said out loud. I screwed up the card and threw it in the bin, then reached in and took it out again.
It had been such a shock when I’d discovered the extent Grant had gone to in his career. The risks he’d taken and the questionable practices he’d employed and not even for the good of the kids, simply to make himself look better – for his own gains. I’d been shocked by his deception, and by the fact that he’d not been the person I’d thought he was.
And then I’d been shocked all over again at how easily he’d sacrificed our marriage. His only concern was looking after himself; I didn’t seem to count for anything. It had been a long, hard year for me, living with Mum, coming to terms with what had happened, applying for jobs and having to explain why I’d left London over and over again. But it looked like Grant didn’t appreciate that at all.
‘Sod. Off,’ I said again. This time I ripped the card up into tiny pieces, shredding it on my desk like ironic confetti.
A knock on my door made me jump and I swept the bits into the bin, just as Paula stuck her head round.
‘Morning! The kids are about to arrive,’ she said. ‘Thought you might like to stand in the playground with me while they come in?’
I didn’t really. I wanted to hide in my office and pretend I wasn’t there, but I knew the sight of all the children would boost my spirits. I glanced at the cards on my shelf – I also knew the parents would be expecting to see me.
‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’
* * *
When the kids were all safely in their classrooms, I felt much happier. They’d all been so excited, skipping into school, shouting greetings to their friends. Cara had arrived, gripping the hand of an older woman I assumed was her grandmother, and gave me a cheery wave.
‘They’re a good bunch, by and large,’ Paula said as we strolled back to the office together. She taught reception and the littlest children weren’t starting until next week, so she was donning her deputy-head hat today.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing them all together in assembly later.’ I paused. ‘There aren’t many of them,’ I said carefully. ‘I knew the school was small, but …’
Paula bit her lip. ‘I noticed that too. I knew numbers were dwindling but …’
‘More so than you expected?’
Emma looked up as we entered but didn’t interrupt, obviously sensing the tone of the conversation.
‘I think so. It’s hard to tell in the playground.’
‘I’ll have a look,’ I said. ‘I should have admissions from the county by now. Come with me.’
Paula followed as I went into my office, sat down, and opened my emails. I was used to lots of movement in the days before term started; London had a population that was always changing with people arriving and leaving often, so getting final admission numbers at the last minute didn’t faze me in the slightest.
I found the right email and clicked on it. It was automatically generated by the council and had a list of pupils who had been withdrawn before the start of term. I scanned the names – there were about twenty of them. I turned my screen round so Paula could see.
‘Oh bugger,’ she said. ‘That’s four year sixes, a handful of year fours and fives, and lots of year threes.’
‘And you have eight starting in reception next week?’
Paula nodded.
‘How many do you normally have?’
‘About twelve,’ she said. ‘Sometimes as many as fifteen.’
‘Is there a waiting list?’ I said, knowing the answer. Paula just laughed without humour.
‘Where are they all going?’
She shrugged. ‘The big primary in Blyton, I imagine.’ Blyton was the nearest town and had a newly built primary school.
‘It’s quite a distance.’
‘It is, but it’s a good school. It’s a modern school with lots of bells and whistles. Some parents obviously think the journey is worth it.’
I picked up a pen and tapped out a rhythm on the desk, thinking. ‘What went wrong here, Paula?’
She sighed. ‘I think we all got a bit set in our ways.’
I met her eye. ‘All?’
‘As you know, the old head was quite old-fashioned,’ she said diplomatically. ‘We’re looking forward to you shaking things up.’
I smiled, even though I had that knot of anxiety and guilt in my stomach again. I didn’t mind shaking things up, but I hadn’t had any idea that pupil numbers were falling so fast. It didn’t sound good, to me. ‘Any ideas about what we should do?’
‘Lots,’ Paula began, then paused as Emma knocked on the door.
‘There’s a phone call for you, Paula,’ she said. ‘Lily Johnson’s mum. She says Lily’s been having nightmares about starting school and she wonders if you can pop in and see her?’
Paula smiled. ‘Bless her,’ she said. ‘I’ll sort it out. Sorry, Lizzie.’
She went off to take the call, leaving me marvelling at the thought of a teacher popping into to see a nervous four-year-old before she started school. It was a privilege, I thought, to be able to look after the kids like that. This was a lovely school.
Above my desk, Esther Watkins looked down at me, her expression unreadable.
‘Oh, shut up,’ I said.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_8857a799-24ed-598d-8692-cfd6d1114c34)
Esther (#ulink_8857a799-24ed-598d-8692-cfd6d1114c34)
April 1910
I flinched as the huge metal gate clanged shut behind me. After everything that had happened, I was jumpy and nervous. Would that stay with me? I wondered. I thought it probably would. I was changed forever now.
Beside me, was my friend Minnie, looking shrunken and pale. She stumbled and I caught her arm.
‘Easy, there,’ I said.
‘Anyone coming for you?’
She shook her head.
‘Me neither. I’ll walk with you.’
We were both unsteady on our feet. Both feeling the effects of a few weeks in prison. We’d been on hunger strike and had suffered the horrors of being force-fed shortly before we were told we were being released early. But Minnie had been inside longer than me. She was feeling it more. I looked at her in concern, hoisted my bag on to my back and offered her my arm. She hung on to me in a fashion very unlike my independent friend. I thought about just how long the Holloway Road was. I wasn’t sure she would make it.
We took a few steps forward and I looked back over my shoulder at the prison behind us. It was a huge, grey stone building, squatting like a giant slug on the side of the road.
‘Where are you going?’
She shrugged. ‘Dunno. I lost my digs. You?’
‘Home,’ I said, though the word felt strange in my mouth. ‘Back to my mother.’
‘You never talk about her,’ Minnie said. ‘She a suffragette, is she?’
I laughed out loud for the first time in weeks. ‘No,’ I said. ‘She’s … disapproving.’
We shuffled along a bit further and then paused as a hansom cab drew up next to us.
‘Minnie Gantry and Esther Watkins?’ the cabbie asked, leaning out of the window. His horse stamped its foot, eager to get going.
‘Yes?’ I said, cautious. I had no money and I doubted Minnie had any either.
‘Mrs Pankhurst sent me to see you home,’ he said. ‘Jump in.’
I was still wary. ‘We have no means to pay you.’
‘All done.’
I exchanged a glance with Minnie. ‘Minnie has nowhere to go.’
‘I got an address here, from Mrs P,’ he said. ‘Are you getting in or not?’
I helped Minnie inside then followed. She slumped in the corner and I thanked our lucky stars – and Mrs Pankhurst – that the cab had shown up when it did.
I’d only been inside Holloway for a few weeks, but as soon as my cell door had clanged shut on that first awful night, I’d put pen to paper and started writing about my experiences. I’d always written letters, since I was a child. I never sent them, just wrote them – to school friends who’d wronged me or who’d helped me, to my mother when she annoyed me, to the king, to teachers I liked, to characters in the books I read. And even to my father when he died. So when I went to jail, it seemed obvious to start writing about it. And this time I sent the letters and Mrs Pankhurst wrote back, asking for more. I’d only met her once or twice but I felt like I knew her – and perhaps she felt the same because she was obviously looking out for us.
I must have dozed off myself because it felt like just a couple of minutes before we were pulling up outside my mother’s terraced home in Wandsworth. I didn’t even remember crossing the river.
Bleary-eyed, I sat up. ‘Good luck, Minnie,’ I said. ‘I hope we meet again.’
She gave me a sleepy smile, without opening her eyes. ‘And you, Esther. Our paths are bound to cross soon.’
I thanked the driver and slid out of the cab, clutching the bag that contained my meagre belongings. At the front door, I took a deep breath, bracing myself, before I knocked.
It took an age – or perhaps it just felt that way – before my mother answered.
‘You’re back are you?’ she said.
‘I am.’
She left the door open and walked away back to the lounge, I supposed.
‘There’s no food,’ she said over her shoulder.
‘Not hungry.’ I paused. ‘Can I have a bath?’ I felt grubby and dusty, covered in prison muck.
Mother looked round at me, her mouth a pinched knot of disappointment. ‘Do what you like,’ she said. ‘You always do.’
I went up the steep steps to my bedroom. It was tucked under the eaves in the roof of the house, cramped and uncomfortable. My narrow bed was neatly made with clean sheets and a blanket and I managed a tiny smile; it seemed Mother hadn’t completely given up on me.
Looking at my bed, I was suddenly overwhelmed with tiredness. It wasn’t easy to have a proper night’s sleep in prison. Sharing a cell with other women, the cries and sobs and shouts that carried on long into the wee small hours, and the discomfort of the hard beds all made for an unpleasant experience. Which was the point, I supposed.
I pulled off the dress I was wearing, which still smelled of Holloway, and balled it up. I knew I wouldn’t throw it away – I didn’t have the luxury of having so many clothes that I could afford to discard them on a whim – but I didn’t want to wear it for a long while. I couldn’t sleep while I was so filthy, though, so I plodded back downstairs and heated some water for the bath, my arms aching with fatigue as I filled it.
It was chilly in the back room and I didn’t linger in the tepid water. I washed my body and my hair, which had got long while I was away. There was no sign of my mother. I guessed she was reading, either in her own room or in the lounge. She obviously didn’t want to speak to me, and I couldn’t blame her really. This was hard for her. Everything was hard for her.
Until my father had died, we’d had a good life. Not affluent, not by any means. But we’d lived well enough. He was a clerk, working for a firm of solicitors, and my mother had been a tailoress and after I came along she took in mending and made dresses from home. They were so proud of me when I got my job as a schoolteacher. I thought my father would burst.
But just two years later, he was gone and so was all our money – thanks to his gambling habit. A habit he’d kept secret from my mother and me, but which had left us with debts to pay. Faced with poverty, we’d had to move to this house – I looked round as I dried myself off with a thin towel – this cramped two-up, two-down, where we could hear everything the neighbours said and did, and which my mother hated. It was our lack of options, as two women with no man providing for us, while clearing up the mess that he’d left behind, and my rage over that helplessness, that had led me to the women’s suffrage movement. And the friends I’d made there had become my family while my mother grew ever more distant.
With heavy legs, I climbed the stairs to my room. Mother’s door was firmly shut, so I didn’t call goodnight. Instead I simply pulled my nightgown on over my head and slid beneath my sheets, ready for sleep.
Tomorrow, I thought, I would speak to Mother and clear the air. I would explain what Mrs Pankhurst and the other women were trying to do and make her understand how important it was. How vital it was that women like me and Mother had some agency over our own lives, and how allowing us to vote was just the start of that.
I reached down into my bag and felt about for the battered old notebook I wrote in. I would start by writing her a letter, I thought. I just needed to get her to listen …
* * *
I woke with a start a clear twelve hours later, my notebook still on my lap with just “Dear Mother” written at the top of the page, to the sound of the front door closing and the murmur of voices.
Sitting up in bed, I strained my ears to hear. It sounded like Mrs Williams, the headmistress of the school I taught in. But it was Saturday, and I’d been planning to visit her myself later to explain I was back and ask her for my job back.
Why was she here?
Quickly, I threw on a dress and shawl and twisted my plaited hair up on the back of my head, then as quietly as I could, I tiptoed down the stairs and sat at the bottom, to hear what was being said.
‘I’ll wake her,’ Mother said. ‘We can’t leave you waiting.’
‘She must be very tired after her …’ Mrs Williams tailed off.
‘Well, yes,’ said Mother awkwardly.
I felt like shouting: ‘Prison! I am tired because I have been in prison for six weeks and I couldn’t sleep.’ But I resisted. An outburst like that would hardly help the situation. And I feared it needed help because the only reason I could imagine for Mrs Williams arriving on our doorstep on a Saturday morning was not good.
Slowly, I stood up and made my way into the lounge.
‘Good morning, Mother,’ I said. ‘Mrs Williams.’
Mother stood up. She was twisting a handkerchief in her hands, winding it round her prominent knuckles. ‘I will make tea.’
Alone with Mrs Williams, I sat down on the edge of a chair. ‘What brings you here so early?’
Mrs Williams gave me a disbelieving glance. ‘You don’t know?’
‘I was hoping I might be mistaken.’
She shook her head. ‘I came to tell you we can no longer employ you at Trinity School,’ she said.
I closed my eyes. ‘Mrs Williams,’ I began. ‘Could I just explain …’
‘I’m afraid not.’ She stood up. ‘We cannot employ criminals at our school.’
‘I’m not a criminal,’ I said. ‘I was a political prisoner.’
She looked at me in disdain. ‘You engaged in a criminal act.’
‘I smashed a window.’
‘And that is illegal.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Your employment is terminated,’ she said. ‘And I feel I must tell you that you will be similarly unwelcome at every school in London.’
‘Surely not every school?’ I said, sulky like one of my pupils.
‘Every school,’ Mrs Williams said. ‘Every one.’ She picked up her shawl and glared at me. ‘Please thank your mother for the tea but I have to be on my way.’
She spun round and stalked out of the room as I sank back against the chair. Why did I cheek her? Why didn’t I throw myself on her mercy, apologise, and beg for my job?
A creaky floorboard made me look up. Mother was standing there, her face drawn. She had dark circles under her eyes and I felt a flash of guilt that I’d caused her more pain.
‘You have to leave,’ she said.
I stared at her.
‘Now,’ she continued. ‘I can let your room out if you go. I can’t afford for you to be here. Not now you have no job.’
‘I’ll get another job.’
‘Not soon enough. No one will take a chance on you. Not now. Not after this. It could take months before you’re earning again.’
My eyes were hot with tears. ‘Mother, no.’
‘Esther,’ she said. ‘I’ve found a lodger already.’
‘Where will I go?’
She looked down at me and suddenly her sad face seemed full of menace. ‘I don’t know, Esther,’ she said. ‘And I don’t much care.’
Chapter 6 (#ulink_dd4a3503-a258-56f5-bf2b-94793fb49588)
Esther (#ulink_dd4a3503-a258-56f5-bf2b-94793fb49588)
It took just minutes for me to pack. I had so few belongings nowadays that my whole life fitted into a carpetbag.
I went downstairs, my bag thumping against the walls, and found Mother in the kitchen, washing up.
‘I’m going now,’ I said.
‘Goodbye.’ She didn’t look at me.
‘Do you want me to send word of my new address?’
She shrugged. ‘Whatever you see fit.’
Without another word – what else was there to say? – I turned and, with my shoulders hunched, I left the house. I walked a little way along the street and then stopped. I was at a loss. I had no idea where to go. Not even which direction to walk in.
I supposed I should try to find a job first and then a room? Or would it make more sense to find a room first? I had picked up a few coins from my drawer at home, but it wouldn’t go far. I wasn’t even sure it would be enough to cover any rent up front. Would landladies want rent up front? I had no idea.
Hauling my bag on to my shoulder, I wandered through the narrow streets of Wandsworth, unconsciously heading back towards Stockwell and the home where I’d grown up. Another family lived there now. A family with lots of children to fill the rooms where I’d played by myself as a child. A family with a mother who was loving and full of laughter – like mine had once been – and a father who really was the sort of man everyone believed him to be, and not secretly gambling away his family’s future.
I walked along the side of the park towards our old house. It wasn’t far from here that I’d first met Mrs Pankhurst’s daughter, Christabel.
I’d been walking home one day, over a year ago, and just like today I’d taken the long way round because I’d wanted to see our old house again. I’d walked down an alleyway where the back gardens of the houses on our former street met the back gardens of the next road along, but what I’d found was a group of women. A large group actually. They were all gathered in the street, staring up at a woman who was leaning out of the window of a house on the corner and talking.
The houses were tall here – proud, I’d always thought – and the woman was small so she was using the window as a stage. It was clever.
I’d stopped just where I was and listened, mesmerised. She talked about how women’s views needed to be represented and stated that she believed all women who paid taxes should be allowed to vote. I found myself nodding along, as her words struck a chord with me. It was as though this woman knew exactly how I was feeling. About how helpless I’d felt since my father’s death, how frustrated I was that I had no agency over my own life, and how absolutely furious it all made me.
And then she said something that resonated with me – with the anger I felt inside.
‘We’ve been polite for forty years,’ she said. Standing in the street, I snorted. My mother was polite. She was too polite. She just went about her business, struggling through life and trying to keep her head above water, never arguing because it was unladylike. Never saying a bad word about my father, even though he’d left us with nothing.
Above me, the woman was still speaking. ‘We’ve signed petitions and asked nicely and nothing has changed,’ she said. ‘It is time to adopt vigorous methods.’
The women below her all cheered and the speaker carried on.
‘I believe the tide is turning,’ she said.
‘Coppers,’ someone near me shouted. ‘Clear away.’
The woman disappeared back into the house and dropped the open sash window with a thud. The crowd melted away in seconds, leaving me lurking in the alleyway next to the back gate of my old house. I’d been so gripped by the woman’s words I’d not even registered where I was standing. There were shouts from the street ahead and I saw a policeman run past. I frowned. What did they care if some women gathered together to share their thoughts? I wondered. Why were they so scared?
In front of me, the gate to the house opposite opened and the woman who’d been speaking peered out. She was elegant and well dressed and looked nothing like the sort of person who should be hiding from the long arm of the law.
‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘The police are on the main road.’
She smiled at me, but as she stepped into the alleyway we heard a man shout: ‘These houses have back gates. Check down the alley.’
Her eyes met mine and without thinking I, Esther Watkins, who’d never done a thing wrong in my whole life, reached behind me and opened the gate to my old house.
‘Here,’ I said. ‘There’s a shed. The coppers won’t look there.’
She paused for a second, obviously sizing me up, then having decided she could trust me, she darted across the alleyway and into my old back garden. I’d played so many games here as a child it was strange to be back and for a second I felt dizzy as the memories flooded into my mind.
I sent up a prayer thanking God it was cold and drizzly and the children of the house were warm inside and not playing on the lawn, and I hurried the woman along the edge of the garden and into the potting shed.
She’d taken off her gloves and hat and shaken her head.
‘I thought I was a goner there,’ she’d said. ‘Thank you.’ She stuck her hand out for me to shake. ‘I’m Christabel Pankhurst,’ she said.
And that was the beginning.
Now, standing in the shadow of my old family home, I felt suddenly more positive. The suffragettes were a sisterhood, I thought. The Women’s Social and Political Union – the proper name for the group of women who’d become the suffragettes – was led by Mrs Pankhurst and her daughters. We were all family as they were. The suffragettes were the reason I’d gone to jail, and the reason I’d lost my job, and I knew without a shadow of a doubt they would help me now.
With new-found energy, I lifted my chin and strode out on to the main street. I’d find Mrs Pankhurst, I thought. She’d know what to do.
The only problem I had was that I wasn’t completely sure where Mrs Pankhurst lived, or where I could find her. I had an inkling she was based in East London but I had no real idea where and I didn’t fancy wandering the streets until I stumbled upon a suffragette. Chewing my lip, I gazed up at the houses and tried to remember which window I’d seen Christabel speaking from. Could I knock there and ask if the occupants knew where I could find Mrs Pankhurst? They had to be sympathetic if they’d allowed her daughter to make a speech from their house. But I wasn’t completely sure which of the identical sashes it had been – nor which window belonged to which house.
Unsure and nervous about intruding, I decided instead that I would head to Kennington. I’d been to several meetings at a house there, where a very active suffragette lived. I’d knock there and ask for directions to Mrs Pankhurst’s house.
I glanced back over my shoulder at the home I’d grown up in. That life was all gone now. I may have been thrown out on to the streets by own mother and lost my job but I was part of something. Something bigger than just me …
‘OOF!’
I gasped as the ground came up to meet me and all the air was pushed out of my lungs. I’d tripped over something and now I was sprawled face down on the pavement, the contents of my carpetbag scattered across the stones in front of me and to the side and no doubt behind me too.
Carefully, I pushed myself up to sitting. My cheekbone was grazed and my nose was bleeding.
‘Oh, blimey,’ I said. ‘What now, Esther?’
A man, hurrying along, stepped over my legs without looking down at me and then trod, with his mucky boots, on one of my underskirts that was lying in an undignified heap on the ground.
I opened my mouth to shout at him but instead of angry words, all that came out was a sob. And once one sob had been released, I found I was powerless to stop the others. I sat on the pavement outside my former family home, bloodied and bruised, with my belongings strewn into the gutter, and I cried.
‘Need a hand?’
I looked up, sniffing loudly. A young man stood there, his arm outstretched to help me. I grasped his hand and stood up, wincing as I did so. My cheek was sore and so, I discovered, was my arm.
‘What happened, Miss?’
‘I tripped, I think,’ I said, putting my fingers to my nose to see if it was still bleeding. ‘I fell and my bag split.’
He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and gave it to me.
‘For your nose,’ he said. ‘I’ll pick everything up.’
‘Thank you.’ I was grateful to him for coming to my aid and for the handkerchief, which seemed to have stopped the bleeding.
He scooped up my dresses, and a book that was in the gutter, and helped me put them all back in my bag.
‘I’ll let you get those bits,’ he said, gesturing with his head towards my underwear and avoiding my eye.
Quickly, I gathered them up and stuffed them in too. ‘If I hold my bag in my arms, nothing can fall out,’ I said.
He smiled at me. He was rather nice-looking, I thought, with dark blond hair falling over his forehead and a mischievous glint in his eye.
‘Very enterprising,’ he said.
‘I try my best.’
‘Where are you off to?’ the young man asked. ‘I’m just on my way to Lambeth Police Station. If you’re going that way, I can walk with you. Make sure you don’t come a cropper on the way.’
My stomach twisted in alarm. ‘The police station,’ I said, trying to sound light-hearted. ‘Are you in trouble?’
‘Good Lord, no,’ he said, raising his eyebrows high on his forehead. ‘No, I’m a constable.’
He sounded proud and I forced myself to smile.
‘How nice. No uniform?’
‘I’m not officially working today, and actually, I’m based over in Whitechapel usually, but I have to pop in.’
‘I’m going the other way,’ I said hurriedly, though the quickest route to the house I was planning to visit would take me straight past the police station.
‘Then I’m afraid I have to say farewell,’ the man said.
‘Thank you for helping me. Someone stepped over me, before you stopped.’
‘I can well believe it.’
He grinned at me again and I felt a tiny curl of interest in my lower belly.
‘I’m Joseph,’ he said. ‘Joseph Fairbanks.’
‘I’m Esther W …’ I stopped myself just before I told this eager young constable my real name – the name that appeared on my criminal record – and pretended to dab my nose again while I desperately looked round me for inspiration. My eyes fell on the painted bricks of the house opposite. ‘Esther Whitehouse,’ I said.
‘It’s very nice to meet you,’ Miss Whitehouse,’ he said. ‘I hope our paths will cross again one day.’
‘Likewise,’ I said politely, though inside I felt uncomfortable. How awkward it would be for him to find out the young woman he’d helped was fresh from jail and an enthusiastic suffragette? I wouldn’t want to put him in that position. No, I thought, it would be easier for everyone if I never saw Joseph Fairbanks again.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_4b587f39-8ee7-58a8-b869-59299b1b9572)
Lizzie (#ulink_4b587f39-8ee7-58a8-b869-59299b1b9572)
September 2019
The first big event of the school year was, I discovered, the Elm Heath harvest festival. This was all new to me. At my last school our harvest festival had been pretty low-key. We’d sing about ploughing the fields and scattering, and the parents would send their kids in with a donation for a local foodbank.
But at Elm Heath, it was a Big Deal.
‘We’re a farming community,’ Paula explained. ‘At least we were. Things have changed a lot but there are still pupils who live on farms. It’s an important part of life in Elm Heath.’
I nodded.
‘Sounds interesting,’ I said. ‘What happens?’
What happened, I discovered, was the school ran the whole show, apart from the traditional thanksgiving service at the church. Elm Heath Primary was the focus for a week of festivities. There was scarecrow making, and a corn-dolly workshop – I didn’t know exactly what a corn dolly was but I didn’t tell Paula. I thought I’d just google it later. There was a concert with folk dancing, which the kids then performed at the nearby care home for elderly people. And there was a country fair at the weekend, in the school playground, where locals would sell produce and crafts. It all sounded very wholesome, and a million miles from Clapham.
‘It’s a lot of work,’ Paula said apologetically. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t mention it before now.’
‘It’s fine, honestly.’
I was actually quite pleased to have more to fill the hours when I wasn’t at school. Though I was enjoying being back in the swing of school life – more so than I’d anticipated, truth be told – I was finding life on my own to be, well … a challenge.
More than once I’d thought about calling Grant and changed my mind. I didn’t want to open that can of worms, not after the way his flowers had unsettled me. I didn’t miss him exactly. It just felt odd doing this all by myself. When I had been head at Broadway Common Infants, Grant was just across the field in the junior school ready to offer advice (and opinions) whenever I needed. I’d never been in charge alone before. And, of course, I was going home from school to my little cottage, which was cute and homely – if not really to my taste – but echoed with emptiness. I was lonely; that was the truth.
* * *
So for the next couple of weeks, I threw myself into organising the concert. I found songs that even the littlest reception child could sing, and worked out cool dance routines for the sulkiest of the year-six boys. Considering we’d only had a short while to sort it all out, it was a triumph. They performed for their parents, and for the elderly residents at the care home, and on a makeshift stage at the country fair on the Saturday.
‘Are you crying, Miss Armstrong?’ Cara Kinsella, who was dressed as a corn-on-the-cob with yellow tights, a yellow T-shirt and her face painted to match, eyed me suspiciously.
‘Noooo,’ I said, subtly wiping away a small tear. The kids had all worked so hard and it had been lovely.
‘Maybe you have hay fever,’ she said helpfully. ‘Daddy has hay fever.’
‘That’s probably it,’ I said.
‘Do you want a toffee apple? My grandma has been making them.’
She took my hand and dragged me through the throngs of people in the playground. There were all sorts of stalls, selling jams, bread, vegetables, sweets and even a few Christmas decorations though it was only late September.
‘Here,’ she said in triumph depositing me in front of a stand with brightly coloured bunting. ‘My grandma.’
Cara’s grandma was the woman I’d seen dropping her off on the first day of term. Up close, she was elegant with chic greying hair, wearing a simple shift dress. She smiled at me.
‘You must be Miss Armstrong.’
‘I am,’ I agreed. ‘Are you really Cara’s grandma?’
‘I’m Sophie Albert,’ she said in a voice that had the faintest hint of a French accent.
‘Grandma is my mummy’s mummy,’ Cara explained. ‘That’s what a grandma is. Grandma, can Miss Armstrong have a toffee apple?’
‘Of course.’
She handed me an apple covered in thick red toffee and wrapped in cellophane and waved away my attempts to pay.
‘Please, we’re friends now,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’
She nodded at the chair next to her. ‘Sit down,’ she said and obediently I did, feeling suddenly very weary.
‘You must be tired after organising that wonderful performance.’ She smiled at Cara who bounced up and down on her yellow feet.
‘Did you like my bit, Grandma? When I said about looking after the trees?’
‘I loved it.’
Cara saw one of her friends across the playground and darted off to speak to him while Sophie sat down next to me.
‘She has a lot of energy.’
‘She’s wonderful.’
‘So like her mother was at that age – it fills me with joy even as it breaks my heart.’
Remembering what Cara had said about her mummy being dead, I wasn’t sure what to say so I just gave what I hoped was a sympathetic smile.
Sophie looked distant for a second, then she focused on me again.
‘We are all very excited to have you here,’ she said. ‘Do you think they will close this school?’
I was disarmed by her way of saying exactly what she thought.
‘Erm,’ I began. ‘I’m not sure …’
She waved her hand. ‘But things are going wrong,’ she said. ‘Look how few children are here now. Look how they all go in their cars to the fancy school in Blyton.’
‘Well, yes, but …’
Sophie took my hand. ‘My husband went to this school, and so did my daughter,’ she said to me. ‘And now my granddaughter. And ask anyone here, they will tell you the same.’ She gestured with her arm, taking in the whole school, and maybe even the village. ‘Imagine if we didn’t have this,’ she said.
I shifted on my deckchair and gave the rows of toffee apples my attention, instead of Sophie. ‘I’m not sure there’s anything I can do,’ I muttered.
‘Psssht,’ she said. ‘Of course there is.’
‘Is she roping you in to sell toffee apples?’
It was Danny. Despite myself, I sat up a bit straighter wondering if I had mascara smudged beneath my eyes.
‘Sophie,’ he said.
‘Hello, Danny.’
Was I imagining it, or did Sophie’s face suddenly look harder? More pinched?
‘We’ve mostly been chatting,’ I said, trying to lighten the atmosphere that I sensed between Sophie and Danny. ‘Not done much selling.’
‘I’ve been telling Miss Armstrong that she can save Elm Heath Primary.’
Danny smiled at me, a cheeky smile that gave me that unsettled feeling again. ‘I imagine you’re good at just about everything, MISS Armstrong,’ he said. ‘But I think this one might even be beyond you.’
Sophie glared at Danny – there was definitely tension there – and he ignored her, looking at me instead.
‘But you never know,’ he added.
‘It’s not closing,’ I said, knowing my words were empty because the lack of pupils spoke for itself. Danny just shrugged and Sophie looked away across the playground to where Cara was running round with her friends who were both dressed like pumpkins.
‘Cara’s over there,’ she said bluntly.
Danny looked like he was going to say something then he shut his mouth instead. After a second he opened it again.
‘Nice seeing you again, Ms Armstrong.’
I was faintly disappointed that he’d used my correct title.
‘Thank you for the good luck card,’ I called as he wandered over the playground towards Cara. He raised his hand to show he’d heard.
Sophie was looking at me, her brow furrowed.
‘He’s a tricky one,’ she said. Was she warning me off? There was really no need. I was hardly in the market for romance.
I didn’t get a chance to respond because one of the pumpkins was suddenly at my elbow. It was a little boy from Cara’s class whose name was Hayden. Or Jayden. Or perhaps Cayden.
‘Miss?’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘Cara said she thought you were a bit sad, Miss.’
I wasn’t sure what to say. I looked at his little orange face, all earnest and worried, and smiled.
‘I’m not sad.’
He shrugged. ‘Thought this might cheer you up.’
He reached out his hand. In his palm was a corn dolly. I’d never got round to googling them, but instead I’d watched the kids making them. They’d twisted and wrapped corn into little shapes to make their creations. This one was a simple circle with a red ribbon bow.
‘Thank you,’ I said, genuinely touched at the gesture. ‘You’re so kind.’
‘That’s lovely, Jayden,’ Sophie said, obviously realising I was struggling to get his name.
‘It really is. I’ll put this in my office at school and it will make me smile every time I look at it.’
‘Miss, I made one for you too.’
On my other side was a little girl dressed as Elsa from Frozen, which had no direct link to harvest as far as I could tell. She pushed a corn dolly into my hand.
‘Thank you, Elsa,’ I said and she beamed at me.
‘I did one as well.’ Cara was there, in her yellow get-up, brandishing her corn dolly, which was plaited like her hair.
I took hers too. ‘These are all wonderful,’ I said.
And suddenly I was surrounded by children, all giving me their corn dollies – the little creations they’d all worked so hard on.
‘Miss, they’ll bring you good luck,’ they told me. ‘They’re lucky.’
I took each one, gathering them into my lap and trying not to show the children how overwhelmed I was by their kindness.
Then the parents started handing me their dollies too. Some of them were like tiny works of art – the dried corn twisted into heart and star shapes, or made to look like little ladies with fronds of corn forming their skirts.
‘Good luck,’ they each said as they handed them over.
By the time they’d finished I reckoned I had a hundred or more of the dollies heaped in my lap, and tears streaming down my face.
‘Thank you,’ I said over and over. ‘Thank you.’
I wasn’t sure what to do next. I couldn’t stand up because my knees were covered in corn and slightly alarmingly I couldn’t seem to stop crying either.
Luckily, like a guardian angel, Paula appeared behind the group of children and parents.
‘Let’s take all these to your office, shall we, Ms Armstrong?’ she said.
Sophie handed her a linen bag and together we carefully put all the corn dollies inside.
‘Come on then,’ Paula said, like I was one of her reception children. ‘Come on, Lizzie.’
I blew a – slightly snotty – kiss to the children as I followed her into school feeling like something important had just happened. Perhaps I wasn’t planning to stay at Elm Heath forever, but I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I had to do my best to reverse the trend of children going to Blyton and do everything I could to make sure the school stayed open.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_6e4685d3-2b7e-564b-9386-5df44bf61a94)
Lizzie (#ulink_6e4685d3-2b7e-564b-9386-5df44bf61a94)
‘I can’t believe they did this,’ I said later. I was sitting at Paula’s kitchen table with an enormous glass of wine and the corn dollies all spread out in front of me. ‘I can’t believe they gave them all to me.’
‘It really was something,’ she said. She picked one of them up and showed me. ‘Look, this one is like a peacock’s tail.’
I admired it.
‘They’re all wonderful. I’ll ask Jeff if there is some way we can display them in my office.’
Jeff was the school caretaker and a very creative handyman to boot.
‘He’ll come up with something, I’m sure,’ Paula agreed.
I picked up Jayden’s corn dolly – the little circular twist of corn tied with a ribbon – and smiled. ‘So they symbolise luck?’
Chris was rummaging in a kitchen drawer, looking for a takeaway menu.
‘Luck,’ he said without glancing up. ‘And fertility.’
I swallowed a gulp of wine as I laughed.
‘Well I’ll just take the luck, thanks.’
‘I can’t find the blasted menu,’ Chris said.
‘I don’t suppose Deliveroo delivers here?’ I said hopefully. I’d been looking forward to a curry since Paula suggested it earlier on, after my corn dolly experience.
‘Noooo,’ said Chris doubtfully.
I picked up my phone and found the app, then I showed them how it worked.
‘So you choose what kind of food you want, then pick a restaurant, and then you scroll through and add what you want to your basket …’
I tailed off, aware both Chris and Paula were staring at me.
‘I’ll just call Nish on his mobile, instead of calling the restaurant,’ Chris said. ‘He won’t mind. What do you fancy, Lizzie?’
‘Chicken biryani?’
‘Done. Usual for you, Paula?’
She nodded and Chris pulled out his phone and went into the hall to make the call. I heard him laughing with the person on the other line.
‘Living in a village is very different from living in London,’ I said to Paula. ‘It’s strangely both harder and easier.’
She grinned at me. ‘You’ll get used to it,’ she said.
‘I am starting to, I think.’
‘You’ve not got much choice, now.’
I looked at the piles of corn dollies on the table. ‘Do these mean that I’m one of you now?’
‘Definitely. You might never leave.’
The idea didn’t fill me with horror, much to my surprise.
Chris had come back into the kitchen and was topping up our glasses.
‘You’ll like Nate’s husband,’ he said.
‘Marc?’ I remembered seeing him at my welcome barbecue.
‘He’s the son of a friend of Sophie’s, or a distant relative, or something like that,’ Paula said, leaning forward in a conspiratorial way. ‘He came to work on some project nearby …’
‘He’s a surveyor,’ Chris put in. ‘Or is he an architect? Something along those lines.’
Paula tutted at his interruption. ‘He stayed with Sophie for a few weeks, met Nate and boom! That was it.’
Her mentioning Sophie made me think of the expression on her face when Danny had approached the toffee apple stall earlier.
‘What’s the story with her and Danny?’
‘Similar,’ Chris said, misunderstanding. ‘He works in finance, and the company he works for provides investment for public sector initiatives …’
‘Oh Chris, shush,’ Paula said. She looked at me through narrowed eyes. ‘Why do you want to know?’
I drank some wine. ‘Sophie was all smiley until he appeared,’ I said. ‘Then she looked annoyed and wouldn’t really talk to him.’
Paula nodded and Chris topped up my glass.
‘I was good friends with Isabelle – Sophie’s daughter,’ Paula said. ‘I was older than her, but we both liked the same kind of music and we got to know each other that way. We were always in touch but we reconnected after Bella graduated from university.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘You must miss her.’
Paula gave me a small smile. ‘I do,’ she said. She took a deep breath. ‘Paula met Danny at uni. They stayed in Manchester afterwards and set up home together. It was a mistake really. They weren’t love’s young dream. They were always breaking up and she’d come home, then go back to him five minutes later. She left him for good when Cara was a baby.’
‘How did she die?’
‘Ovarian cancer it was,’ Paula said. ‘Nasty stuff. Anyway, she got sick, and he, to be fair to him, came when she needed him. He started spending more time with Cara and when Isabelle went into the hospice, Cara moved in with Danny. I think he’s really stepped up and he’s a wonderful dad now.’
‘But Sophie’s not sure?’
‘I don’t think she can forgive him for making Isabelle’s life so miserable when she only had a short time to live it.’
I nodded. ‘That’s really sad.’
The doorbell rang, letting us know our dinner had arrived, and our talk of Danny and Sophie was forgotten.
On Monday morning, I went into school feeling full of beans. I’d really enjoyed the weekend and I was more positive and excited about the days ahead than I’d been for months. A year, even.
Until, after morning assembly, when I sat down at my desk and opened an email from the head of the council’s education department, a woman called Denise Deacon, asking me to ring her, urgently.
‘Uh-oh,’ I said out loud. ‘This can’t be good.’
I dialled the number on the bottom of her email and she answered straight away.
‘I’m not going to beat around the bush, Lizzie,’ she said when I’d introduced myself and we’d exchanged a bit of small talk. ‘As far as pupil numbers and budgets are concerned, the council can’t justify keeping Elm Heath open any longer.’
My stomach lurched and for one terrifying moment, I thought I might throw up all over my desk. I took a deep breath and tried to control my voice. ‘I see.’
‘It’s no secret that admissions are falling and with financial cuts the way they are, well …’
‘Times are tough,’ I said, sounding weak and quavering. ‘How long do we have?’
‘They’re looking at the end of the academic year. But I wanted to speak to you first because I thought it was important that you know it’s not definite. The axe is being sharpened but it’s not yet fallen.’
I was heartened – slightly – by that news. We still had the rest of this term, and two more, to change the council’s mind. If they were open to their minds being changed of course.
‘What can we do to stop this closure?’
She sighed. ‘That’s the million-pound question, isn’t it? I wish I knew the answer because Elm Heath is a lovely school.’
‘It’s an important school.’
There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘Listen, Lizzie,’ she said. ‘I think your best bet is to prove the school plays a vital role in the community. Maybe that it’s more than just a school; that it provides services that can’t be found elsewhere.’
‘Like what?’ I said, at a loss.
‘No idea, you’d have to get creative.’
I tapped the end of my pen on my desk. ‘We’ve got no breakfast or after-school club here,’ I said. ‘They were really well used at my old school.’
‘That’s exactly the sort of thing that I mean,’ Denise said. ‘As things stand, the kids can get the education they’re getting at Elm Heath from Blyton Primary. And the council have put a lot of money into that school – it’s in their interests to up the pupil numbers there.’
I snorted, but I was still thinking. ‘We had a police station at my old school. Like a community thing where the kids got to know the local bobbies. Obviously, things are a bit different round here, but it could still work? Or what about using the school hall for fitness classes? I bet there are local Zumba teachers and whatnot.’
‘It’s a start,’ said Denise.
I was on a roll, scribbling ideas down as I spoke. ‘Did you ever see that TV show where they took little kids into a retirement home?’ I said, thoughtfully. ‘What about inviting some local people to afternoon tea with the children?’
‘These are all great ideas,’ Denise said.
‘But?’
‘But I’m worried they don’t go far enough. You need to think about what makes Elm Heath unique.’
‘It’s very old,’ I said.
‘Well perhaps you can show that it’s of special historical interest. Anything that makes it important.’
‘More important than giving kids a good education?’ I said, slightly sulky that she’d dismissed all my ideas.
She gave a small, humourless laugh. ‘Quite,’ she said. ‘If you can come up with something then perhaps there’s a chance.’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Then that’s what we’ll do. As well as all that other stuff.’
We ended the call and I sat for a second, thinking. So the axe was swinging above our heads after all. What had started as a project to save my career was suddenly a project to save a school. Was I up to the task? Was it worth it?
I glanced at the pile of corn dollies on my shelf, waiting for Jeff to put up a display for me.
‘We could do with a bit of that luck now,’ I muttered. I’d have to call a staff meeting, let everyone know what was going on. Urgh. Maybe I should buy some wine, to help the news go down a bit easier?
‘What would you do, Esther?’ I looked up at the photograph that I’d not yet managed to move. ‘Would you roll over and let them close the school or would you fight?’
Esther looked at me, her expression fierce, and I looked back at her, and a tiny idea took seed. She founded this school, I thought. Maybe she had a story we could use. Get us some publicity.
I studied her photo. She was staring, unsmiling, at the camera wearing a severe black skirt and high-necked white blouse with a sort of flouncy cravat-type creation. Her chin was lifted and she looked snooty, to my twenty-first-century eyes. She didn’t look like she was the type to put up a fight about anything.
I opened my laptop and typed Esther Watkins and teacher into the search engine then blinked in surprise at the first entry, which seemed to be a court report from a newspaper dated 1910.
‘Esther Watkins, aged twenty-one, schoolteacher, sentenced to ten weeks in Holloway Women’s Prison for public disorder offences,’ it read.
‘That can’t be right,’ I said to myself. I glanced over at the photograph where our Esther’s names and the dates 1889–1970 were written on the frame. I added up in my head. If our Esther had been born in 1889 then she would indeed have been twenty-one in 1910.
‘Well, well, well,’ I said. There was obviously more to Esther Watkins than I’d imagined. I felt a small flicker of excitement followed almost immediately by crushing disappointment. An ex-con’s story was hardly going to prove that Elm Heath was a vital part of the community, was it? I was just going to have to come up with something else.
Chapter 9 (#ulink_5140b909-4208-5eb3-a19c-8187e08d25a2)
Esther (#ulink_5140b909-4208-5eb3-a19c-8187e08d25a2)
1910
I walked the long way round to the house, clutching my bag to my chest as I tried to remember the name of the suffragette who lived there. Agnes, I thought. I couldn’t recall her surname. It was a long walk up the hill from Stockwell, and when I eventually found the house, hot and bothered and with my cheek throbbing, Agnes wasn’t in.
I pulled the bell and heard the noise echoing round the empty house and then, completely out of ideas and energy, I sat down on the stone step. I’d wait, I supposed, until she came home. It wasn’t as though I had anywhere else to go.
Leaning against the iron railings I found my eyes closing but I forced myself awake. I may have been on my uppers but I wasn’t about to start sleeping in the street like an urchin.
‘Are you waiting for me?’
I looked round to see a woman, older than me – in her thirties I guessed – hurrying up the stairs. She looked vaguely familiar.
‘I’ve seen you at meetings,’ she said now. ‘I’m Agnes Oliver.’
‘Esther,’ I said, standing up. ‘Yes, I was hoping you could tell me where I could find Mrs Pankhurst.’
‘Oh, heaven knows, that woman is never around when we need her.’
Faintly amused by the woman’s sense of entitlement, I smiled. ‘She is often busy.’
‘We’re all busy,’ Agnes said. ‘She wants me to put together this blessed newspaper and it’s all well and good, but when I’m spending all the hours God gives me on that, she forgets I’ve also got three children who need looking after. And she promised she was going to find me a governess but has she? No, she has not …’
Without stopping to think, I interrupted her tirade. ‘She has,’ I said. ‘Found you a governess, I mean.’
Agnes blinked at me and I stuck my hand out for her to shake.
‘It’s me. I’m Esther Watkins and I’m a schoolteacher. At least I was.’
‘What happened?’
I screwed up my face and took a chance. ‘I lost my job because I was in Holloway.’
Agnes nodded slowly. ‘The school won’t have you back?’
‘No.’
She was looking at me, sizing me up, I guessed. I tried to stand up straighter, aware that I was not at my best, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
‘What happened to your cheek?’
‘I tripped over a tree root on my way here.’
Agnes nodded again, her eyes never leaving my face.
‘Is it a live-in position?’ I said, hoping beyond hope that it was.
‘I would prefer it to be live-in but if that’s a problem, we can discuss it. Did Mrs Pankhurst not explain all this when she told you about the position?’
‘I must have forgotten,’ I lied. ‘So much has happened.’
‘Hmm,’ she said. For a moment, I thought I’d made a big mistake and that this wasn’t going to be the answer to my prayers but then she clapped her hands together.
‘You’ll be perfect,’ she said. She gripped my arm tightly. ‘Could you possibly start today?’
Relief flooded me. ‘I could.’
‘Wonderful. I can get you a cab and we can collect your things.’
‘I have all my things,’ I said, gesturing to my carpetbag. ‘I don’t have much. And, well, I can’t go home because my mother is of the same mind as my former headmistress.’
Agnes’s face softened. ‘Doesn’t approve?’
‘Not in the least.’
The familiar frustration and rage that I felt when I thought of my mother began to build.
‘We lost everything when my father died because of mistakes he made,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘We had to sell the house. But still she thinks women are supposed to suffer and that this is just the way it shall be.’ I took a breath. ‘Sorry.’
Agnes shook her head. ‘Don’t apologise,’ she said. ‘We all have our reasons for finding our way to each other.’
She picked up my battered bag. ‘Now, shall we go in?’
She unlocked the large front door and I followed her inside. I hadn’t even asked how many children I would be teaching. I hoped it would be two quiet little girls rather than four boisterous boys, but I felt I couldn’t ask because I’d pretended that I knew all about the job.
‘Edie?’ she called. ‘Edie?’
A woman wearing an apron came rushing through the hall from the back of the house. ‘I was hanging out the washing,’ she said. ‘Have you been knocking?’
‘Not at all,’ Agnes said, peeling off her gloves. ‘This is our new governess, Esther. Esther, this is Edie our housekeeper.’
Edie and I nodded hello to each other.
‘Are the children here?’ Agnes looked around her as though she expected them to appear in a puff of smoke.
‘Went for a walk with Mr Oliver.’
‘I shall go and find them.’
Edie showed me to my room while Agnes went to find the children. My bedroom was on the top floor alongside another room with bookshelves crammed with books, a blackboard, and a low table. The windows looked out over London.
‘What a marvellous view,’ I said. ‘I can’t imagine the children ever want to do schoolwork when they could be looking at the rooftops.’
‘Mr John always wants to do his schoolwork,’ Edie said as I sent silent thanks upwards for a scholarly pupil. ‘The girls don’t apply themselves so much, so I’ve heard.’
I wondered how many girls there were. ‘Remind me of how old they all are,’ I said casually.
‘John’s ten, Meg’s eight and Pearl’s almost seven,’ she said. ‘They’re nice kids most of the time. Just don’t let them run rings round you.’
I smiled. ‘Don’t worry about me. I can give as good as I get.’
She looked at me with a critical eye. ‘Yes, I reckon you can. Though right now it just looks like you could do with a good dinner and an early night.’
I nodded, almost moved to tears by her kind words, which seemed ridiculous. It was just such a long time since anyone had said anything nice to me.
‘Go and meet the children, then come into the kitchen for some food,’ Edie said. ‘You’ll soon settle in here.’
She was right. Within a week I felt like I’d been there forever. Agnes and her husband – who was also called John – were kind, the children were welcoming, and I was so grateful to have a roof over my head and money in my pocket that I thanked my lucky stars every day that I’d bumped into Agnes on her doorstep.
On my first Saturday with the family, Agnes knocked on my bedroom door.
‘I know it should really be your day off but I have some jobs to do for Mrs Pankhurst,’ she said. ‘And Christabel is breathing down my neck, too. Could you possibly take the children to the park?’
‘Of course,’ I said. I had nothing else to do, though I was itching to get back to meetings. ‘What sort of jobs do you have to do?’
‘Lord, I almost forgot you were one of us,’ Agnes said, pleased. ‘It’s mostly frightfully dull newsletter bits but I can show you this afternoon, if you like? And I have a meeting this evening – would you like to come along?’
I was thrilled. ‘Yes please,’ I said. ‘I’m feeling a little out of touch.’
‘You can tell us all about your exploits in jail,’ Agnes said.
I picked up my shawl. ‘I’m not sure about that,’ I said. ‘But I’d like to come, thank you.’
After a delightful morning with the children, who were really a lovely bunch, I tracked Agnes down in the dining room. She was sitting at the table, a typewriter in front of her. She was surrounded by reams of paper and looking flustered.
‘Oh, Esther, thank goodness,’ she said. ‘Can you help me?’
I pulled out another chair and sat down. ‘I can try.’
‘Christabel and I want to get this all to the printer next week, but we’re missing a few pages, and I need to fill them.’
She looked up at me and gasped in delight. ‘Of course!’
‘What?’ I said, warily. I may only have known Agnes for a week but I was already getting to understand her spontaneity didn’t always work out for the best.
‘You have to write something about your time in jail.’
‘Really?’
‘I heard a whisper that you were the one writing to Mrs Pankhurst about her experiences in Holloway,’ she said. ‘Is that true? I heard the letters were wonderfully detailed. Evocative.’
I bowed my head, embarrassed by the praise.
‘Come on, Esther,’ Agnes urged. ‘You’re educated and witty, which is more than I can say about some of the writers we have contributing to the paper. Don’t tell Christabel I said that.’
I smiled briefly but then shook my head. ‘I’m not sure, Agnes.’
She took my hand. ‘You’ve been through an ordeal,’ she said, her reading glasses slipping down her nose. ‘I believe it would be good for your own peace of mind to share your experiences.’
I nodded. ‘That is true. It always helps me to write things down.’
‘It would certainly be good for others to read about them. So they’re prepared, if needs be.’
She pushed the typewriter towards me.
‘You want me to do it now?’
She held out a piece of paper and slowly I fed it into the typewriter.
‘I shall do my best,’ I said.
Agnes smiled at me. ‘That’s all I can ask.’
Chapter 10 (#ulink_d0470a1e-c5bc-55c5-9132-1ac6d48a0a01)
Esther (#ulink_d0470a1e-c5bc-55c5-9132-1ac6d48a0a01)
The next day should have been my day off again but after church I found I couldn’t settle to anything. It was a glorious spring day and I wanted to be outside so I put my book to one side and went to find the children to see if they wanted a walk.
The idea was met with a great deal of enthusiasm so we all pulled on boots and hats, and went out to the park. They liked going to the ponds to see the ducks so we headed in that direction, the children running ahead and me walking more sedately behind, feeling the weak sun on my face and revelling in the fresh air. I felt at peace, for the first time in weeks, and also determined.
Last night’s meeting had been astonishing. I’d spent the afternoon writing about my time in Holloway and when Agnes read what I’d written, her face had gone pale.
‘How awful,’ she’d said.
‘It was certainly no fun but I didn’t have it bad, compared to some. I had only just started my hunger strike when I was released so I’d only suffered being forcibly fed once. But believe me that was enough.’ I’d felt bile rise in my throat at the awful memory and had to take a moment to swallow before I could carry on. ‘My friend Minnie went through it twice and it was much worse the second time. She was in a bad way.’
‘Well, I’m very pleased you are sharing your thoughts,’ she’d said.
And at the meeting she had stood up and introduced me.
‘This young woman is Esther Watkins,’ she had said. ‘She was recently in Holloway and I would like her to tell you all a little about her experiences there.’
I’d spoken slowly at first about prison. I’d told them about the women I’d met, and how we were treated.
‘I still dream I’m there,’ I’d said. ‘I wake up in the morning not sure where I am. And I think about the women I met in there all the time. I wonder how they’re getting on – the ones who stayed longer – and I find myself looking at the clock and thinking they’ll be sending round supper now. Or wondering if Mrs Flintoff has recovered from her cold, or if Miss Bolton has managed to sleep through a whole night without a bad dream.’
‘Are you frightened you’ll go back?’ one woman had asked me.
I’d thought for a moment. ‘No,’ I’d said. ‘I don’t want to go back but if I have to, then I will. Because this is important. Women are not second-class citizens, to mop up men’s mess and do their bidding. Not any more.’ I’d looked around the room at the women. ‘They’re the ones who are scared,’ I’d said. ‘Not us. They’re scared that giving us a voice means things are going to change. And they’re scared because they know we’re right.’
Some of the women had cheered and suddenly I’d felt bolder.
‘I’m frightened of going to jail again, but I’m not stopping.’
They’d cheered again and I’d sat down feeling buoyed up by their support. I was a part of something, I’d thought. A part of something very important.
But later in the meeting, while someone else was talking, things had taken a turn. I was suddenly aware of a flurry of noise and movement at the back of the hall as women got to their feet.
‘Is there a problem?’ the woman on stage had called. But no one had answered. I’d stood up, trying to see what was wrong. Next to me another woman had shrieked.
‘Rats,’ she’d gasped. ‘There are rats in the hall.’ She’d clambered on to her chair and others followed.
At the back of the hall, someone had thrown the doors open and women had begun streaming outside.
Bewildered I’d looked round and saw to my horror that the woman on the chair was right. There were several large brown rats scuttling along the floor in the hall. They were darting this way and that under the chairs, while women had held their skirts up, trying to avoid them.
Agnes had been next to me, looking disgusted.
I’d clutched her arm. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Please.’
We’d both hitched up our skirts and – grateful that we were sitting towards the back of the hall – we’d made a dash for the door.
Outside, and across the road, we’d shaken out our skirts.
‘Ugh, I feel dirty,’ Agnes had said. ‘How on earth did that happen? We’ve used that hall often and never seen vermin before.’
‘Someone put them there,’ a passing suffragette had said, still holding her dress up above her knees. ‘Heard about it happening a few times in Manchester.’
‘Who would do such a thing?’ The hatred we drew was nothing new, but it still shocked me every time I experienced it.
She’d shrugged. ‘Coppers?’
‘Miss Whitehouse?’
Startled out of my memories of the rat-infested meeting, I almost ignored the voice behind me, until it said again: ‘Miss Whitehouse?’ and I remembered the false name I’d given the young man who’d helped me to my feet last week.
I turned to see Joseph Fairbanks – I found I had no trouble remembering his name – grinning at me. My heart – my foolish heart – gave a flutter as I looked at his handsome face and I cursed myself inwardly. All this talk of women being equal to men, and there was I going giddy at the first sight of a crooked smile and friendly blue eyes …
‘How lovely to see you,’ Joseph said.
For the first time I noticed he was wearing his police constable uniform, holding his hat under his arm, and I felt a rush of something. Fear? Trepidation? My only dealings with constables had not been good and the horror of the rats in the meeting was still raw. Despite Joseph’s smile and handsome face, and my absolute certainty that he was a good man unlike some of the others I’d come across, I found I wanted to spin on my heels and run away.
But instead, I nodded politely. ‘Likewise.’
‘Enjoying the spring sunshine?’
‘Indeed.’
‘It seems a shame to walk alone,’ he began, but he stopped as Meg skipped up to me.
‘Esther, we have found a patch of daffodils, which means winter is truly gone now – come and see.’
She tugged at my skirt and I smiled down at her, happy both at her enthusiasm and that she had given me an excuse to leave.
‘One moment, Meg,’ I said and she darted off again.
‘Not alone then?’
I smiled, properly this time. This truly was a nice man. Not someone to fear. Someone, in fact, I felt I liked although we’d only met recently.
‘I’m a governess,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure I am ever alone.’
Joseph laughed and his whole face lit up. ‘I’ve got four brothers,’ he said. ‘I know how that feels.’
‘I should go and admire the daffodils.’
‘And I should get to work.’
We smiled at each other again and I felt a pull towards him. I may have been twenty-one years old, but I’d never had a romance. Some of the girls I’d known at school were married already but I’d been so busy dealing with my father’s death and the mess he’d left behind and then getting involved with the WSPU, that I’d not really had time to think about finding myself a suitor.
‘Until next time,’ he said.
He sauntered off down the path, spinning his hat on his hand as he went.
I watched him go, thinking – somewhat wistfully – that if things were different, and he wasn’t a policeman and I wasn’t, well a criminal in the eyes of the law, then perhaps we could have spent some time together.
But instead, I went to find Meg and the daffodils, which were indeed very lovely and I thought about what to say to Agnes if Meg mentioned me chatting with a constable in the park.
We’d not been home five minutes before Meg brought it up, just as I knew she would. She was a bright little girl and she was endlessly fascinated by people.
‘Esther was talking to a friend in the park,’ she said to her mother as she wrestled off her boots. ‘A man.’
Agnes looked at me with raised eyebrows. ‘A man? Is that so?’
I braced myself, waiting for her to say he was a policeman. Like me, most of the suffragettes did not think much of the constables who were a thorn in all our sides. Agnes would not be happy about me chatting with one, I thought. Especially after last night.
‘Yes,’ Meg said looking rather too pleased with herself. Here it came. She was surely about to announce he had been wearing a uniform. But it seemed that wasn’t what had interested my charge about my exchange with Joseph Fairbanks – she’d been watching me instead.
‘Esther did laugh a lot, and she tilted her head on the side when she talked so the whole world must have looked the wrong way around.’
‘Meg,’ I said, embarrassed, but Agnes just chuckled and Meg was undeterred.
‘And Esther’s cheeks were all red like they are now.’
I put my cool hands to my face. She was right, the wretched child. My cheeks were flaming.
‘Edie has made lunch for you all in the kitchen,’ Agnes said, dropping a kiss on Meg’s head. ‘Go on.’
The children raced off for their food and I busied myself gathering their boots to take upstairs.
‘Oh leave all that for now,’ Agnes said. ‘Come and have tea and tell me all about this handsome chap you’ve been chatting to.’
To my surprise, I discovered I had quite a lot to say about Joseph.
‘I met him the other day when I fell over on my way to Mrs Pankhurst’s house,’ I told Agnes. ‘He picked me up and brushed me off.’
‘He picked you up,’ she repeated, delighted.
‘He did.’ I paused. ‘He was nice. Another man stepped over me and trod on my petticoat but he stopped to help.’
‘A gentleman.’
‘Handsome, too.’
‘So that’s why your cheeks were red,’ she teased and I felt myself blush again.
Agnes clapped her hands. ‘It’s like a fairy story,’ she said. ‘You fell over and he fell in love.’
‘Heavens, Agnes, no. You are getting ahead of yourself.’
‘Don’t pretend you’re not interested.’
I tried to look indifferent but I failed. ‘He’s nice,’ I admitted. ‘I like him.’
‘I knew it!’
‘But this is all stuff and nonsense,’ I said. ‘Nothing will come of it. Goodness, I’m so busy with the WSPU business, and the newspaper, and the children …’
Not to mention the fact that he was a policeman and there was no way a constable could even entertain the idea of romance with a woman like me. No way at all. I shook my head vigorously.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I am committed to the cause.’
‘Some men are allies to the cause,’ Agnes pointed out. ‘My John, for one.’
‘Your John is a treasure. But he is far from the norm.’
I wondered if it was possible that PC Fairbanks could be a secret supporter of women’s suffrage. Perhaps. He seemed to be such a nice chap. Surely he would be able to see the reason behind our arguments? Though that didn’t mean he could suddenly start spending time with suffragettes.
‘Anyway, whether he is an ally or not, I have no time for male attention.’
‘Really?’ Agnes said, disappointed.
I was firm. ‘Really.’
Chapter 11 (#ulink_7b6c166f-a665-5d11-8134-fcaec4f2328b)
Lizzie (#ulink_7b6c166f-a665-5d11-8134-fcaec4f2328b)
2019
I knew that telling the staff that the council intended to close Elm Heath Primary would be terrible. I thought it would be one of the worst things I’d ever had to do.
When the shit hit the fan in Clapham it had been bad, but at the start I’d been absolutely certain that it was all a big mistake and that Grant would never have done the things they said he’d done.
Of course, I’d been wrong, which had made the whole thing even worse, but I didn’t know that at the beginning, even if I started to have some niggling doubts later on.
But the way I’d felt that day when Grant told me he’d been suspended while they investigated some “inconsistencies”’ was nothing compared to the way I felt just imagining the expressions on the faces of the Elm Heath staff.
And so, I decided not to tell them.
‘They’ll just start looking for another job,’ I reasoned with myself. ‘Or they’ll blame me and make things difficult. It’s better if they don’t know yet.’
Instead, at the end of the school day, I took Paula into my office and shut the door on Emma, who was pretending to be absorbed in putting her coat on and absolutely not listening to what we were saying.
‘What’s all this?’ Paula said, looking alarmed. ‘Bad news?’
‘The worst.’
The colour drained from her face and she sat down heavily, looking like the air had been knocked out of her.
‘They’re closing Elm Heath?’
I nodded.
‘I never thought they’d actually do it.’
‘It’s not definite yet.’ I was eager to reassure her, because I couldn’t bear to see how bereft she looked. ‘That’s why I’m only telling you for now – not everyone else.’
She shrugged. ‘What can we do? I know how these things work – once a decision has been made, it’s made.’
‘Not necessarily,’ I said, but my protests sounded weak to my own ears. ‘I spoke to Denise Deacon at the council and she said it wasn’t signed off yet. It’s not official.’
Paula looked up at me, a tiny glimmer of hope in her eyes. ‘What exactly did she say?’
I thought for a moment. ‘She said it was a shame and she wished the school could stay open. I got the impression she’s on our side, thought she couldn’t really say so outright.’
Paula nodded. ‘And?’
‘She said we had to be creative and prove that Elm Heath was a vital part of the community, or that it was of special interest. We’ve got some time – and I’ve had a few ideas.’
‘Hit me,’ Paula said.
I found my scribbled notes and took her through what I’d come up with so far and she listened intently, her mind obviously racing with her own ideas.
‘My friend Joanna is a personal trainer,’ she said. ‘I bet she knows loads of fitness instructors who might want to use the hall. I’ll put the word out. If we’re smart we could get someone hiring it every evening and that will definitely help the budget.’
I nodded, pleased she’d got on board so fast.
‘And I absolutely love the idea of bringing the kids and the elderly people together.’
‘I don’t think that will be a money-making idea really but it will prove we’re important in the community, which is also part of the plan.’
‘And the after-school club will do both,’ Paula said triumphantly.
‘I hope so. I’m surprised you don’t do one already.’
She grimaced. ‘Like I said, we got a bit stuck in our ways. We’d need someone to run it though.’
‘I had an idea about that, too.’
‘You’re on fire today.’
I grinned. ‘What about Sophie Albert?’
Paula clapped her hands. ‘That’s a fabulous idea. She knows all the kids anyway, and she’s got her DBS checks because she’s often helping out at school things.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And I think I’d ask Celeste to coordinate from our side. She’s very organised and she is keen to have a new challenge. Might encourage her to stay.’
‘Great,’ I said. ‘That’s sorted then. I’ll chat to Celeste and Sophie. Could you and Pippa take on the afternoon teas for the elderly people? Maybe speak to some daycentres or whatever? If they work well with the little children, we can extend it to the older ones.’
‘On it,’ Paula said.
I ran my fingers through my hair. ‘I just hope it works,’ I said. ‘Denise seemed to think it was a start rather than a solution. She sounded quite downbeat about it all.’
‘I really believed that once we had you at the helm we’d be fine,’ Paula said, almost to herself.
‘I did worry that this was because of me. That the axe is falling while I’m here, because of what happened,’ I admitted out loud for the first time, my mood going from positive to negative in record speed.
‘At your old school you mean?’
I nodded.
‘Absolute rubbish,’ Paula said firmly. ‘They were fully up to speed with everything that happened when they offered you the job.’
‘I s’pose,’ I muttered.
Paula fixed me with the stern glare that made unruly children quake. ‘You need to stop feeling guilty about something you didn’t do.’
‘I s’pose,’ I muttered again.
There was a pause. I played with the edge of the desk, wondering what to say next.
‘What did you mean when you said interest?’ Paula said.
‘Pardon me?’
‘You said we had to prove the school was of special interest. What kind of interest?’
‘Well, Denise suggested historical, because I mentioned how old it was,’ I said. ‘But anything I suppose.’
‘Right,’ Paula said, fire in her eyes.
‘Do you have an idea?’
‘What about Esther?’ she said, gesturing to the photograph on my wall.
‘I’m a step ahead of you there. But that’s not going to work.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because,’ I said. ‘I googled old butter-wouldn’t-melt Esther Watkins and discovered she was a criminal, that’s why.’
Paula stared at me. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Google doesn’t lie.’
She raised an eyebrow at me.
‘Okay, Google sometimes lies, but the dates match up. I’m pretty sure it’s the same woman.’
Paula didn’t speak; she just looked so upset that I felt bad all over again.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘Let me do a bit more research. Maybe it’s not her. It does sound pretty unlikely.’
‘It does, doesn’t it?’
‘Why would a middle-class schoolteacher go to prison?’
‘Exactly.’
Paula looked at her watch and grimaced. ‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘Keep me posted on anything you discover?’
‘I will.’
Looking harassed, she hurried out of my office, leaving me alone. I looked out of the window at the autumn sunshine. All my best thinking used to be done while I was out walking. And when Grant’s actions made my whole life fall apart, I’d power my way round the commons of south London, working out solutions in my head. I’d go for a walk, I decided, and perhaps inspiration would strike.
As I left the school grounds, and pulled on my denim jacket though, I realised I was stumped. Back in London, I’d head to Wandsworth Common, or Tooting Common and follow the path round. But here in the countryside, I realised, I had no idea where to go. There was so much open space but I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to walk there. Surely the fields all belonged to people? Were there footpaths across them? How would I know? What if there were animals? I wasn’t keen on animals – I mostly just liked them from a distance. Especially scary ones like bulls.
Behind the playground was a patch of waste ground with the remains of a building on it and a broken fence. I’d seen teenagers out there in the evening, chatting and watching stuff on their phones, but it didn’t look like somewhere I wanted to be.
Beyond that was a neatly hedged field. I eyed it suspiciously. I couldn’t see a bull, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one there.
Making up my mind, I crossed the road and headed instead to the park. It was only small, with a couple of football goals, and a little fenced-in play area, but I could walk round that without fear of being gored and hopefully clear my head a bit.
I’d only gone a little way round the edge of the park when my energy deserted me and I sat down on a bench, watching the kids running round the play area. I was at a loss about what to do for the best. The ideas we had were good but I wasn’t stupid. I knew they were a drop in the ocean compared to our falling admissions and the squeeze on education budgets. It seemed like an impossible task to save Elm Heath Primary, but it also seemed really important.
The old me would have relished this challenge. She’d have swooped in like a super-teacher, told everyone what to do to improve results and foster a growth mindset in all the pupils, and then swooped off again. But my confidence in my own abilities had deserted me, and this was all just too … huge.
‘You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders,’ said a voice. I looked up to see Danny Kinsella smiling at me.
To my surprise, my heart jumped at the sight of him. Just a bit.
‘School stuff,’ I said.
He sat down next to me. ‘Spill.’
‘I can’t.’
He pinched his lips together tight and made a zipping gesture. ‘I’m the soul of discretion, me,’ he said. ‘And if there’s anything I’ve learned over the years, it’s that a problem shared really is a problem halved.’
I looked at him. ‘You have to promise not to tell anyone,’ I said. ‘Not Cara and definitely not Sophie.’
‘Sophie ignores everything I say anyway.’
‘Promise,’ I said.
Danny looked at me gravely and held out his little finger. ‘Pinkie promise.’
‘Danny …’
‘It’s the most binding promise there is, according to Cara.’
Feeling faintly ridiculous, I linked my little finger with his. His hands were warm and soft.
‘There,’ he said, shaking. ‘Now you can tell me everything.’
And so I did. I told him all about Denise Deacon telling me the school would close unless we could do something to stop it, and about the ideas we’d had. It felt good to unburden.
‘Those are all great plans,’ he said. ‘Sophie’s the perfect person to run the after-school club.’
‘It’s not enough though, is it?’
He shrugged. ‘Possibly not. But it’s a start.’
‘I also had the idea of proving the school was of historical interest, so I looked up Esther Watkins, who founded it back in 1912, and discovered she was a criminal.’
‘What?’ said Danny, delighted. But I wasn’t happy.
‘I feel like I’ve hit a brick wall,’ I said. ‘I can’t tell the rest of the staff because they’ll just look for other jobs and we’ll be left with no one. Paula’s devastated. And the one thing I thought might help – our history – is a non-starter.’
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Kerry Barrett
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: I signed the letter with a flourish. I wouldn’t send it. There was no need. But I wanted to keep it somewhere safe, somewhere I could find it if I ever needed to remember why I’d done what I’d done. The fight goes on, I told myself. The fight goes on… London, 1910. Twenty-one-year-old Esther Watkins would do anything for the Suffragette cause. Imprisoned, force-fed and beaten, she is determined to fight for what she believes is right – no matter what it costs her. With new love Joseph by her side, will she get the better future she dreams of? Kent, 2019. With her marriage in tatters, school teacher Lizzie Armstrong moves to sleepy Elm Heath for a fresh start, and her pupils and the community soon steal her heart. So when the school is threatened with closure Lizzie knows she has to fight, and she looks to the school’s founder for inspiration. What makes Esther, born and bred in London, a proud Suffragette, suddenly leave the city and escape to Elm Heath? And when Lizzie uncovers Esther’s heartbreaking secret, could it give her the strength she needs to save not just the school, but her new beginning too? A heart-wrenching and uplifting novel for fans of Emily Gunnis, Kathleen McGurl and Kathryn Hughes. Readers love Kerry Barrett: ‘All Kerry Barrett′s books are brilliant’ ‘I′d highly recommend this: detective fiction, historical fiction, powerful, moving, thrilling, sometimes comic, always very human. ’ ‘A beautiful story which kept me hooked’ ‘I would definitely recommend this read, but be warned, you won′t want to put it down. ’ ‘Loved the whole story, couldn′t put it down’ ‘Will definitely read more from this author’