The first thing I notice is the long, gabled facade of the main building.
‘Looks like something out of Jane Eyre,’ I mutter. I follow the drive as it loops past the main entrance and around to a parking area. I pull up under a row of sticky pines and pause to take in the world around me. To my left I can see an expanse of cricket and rugby pitches, and beyond that a wide curtain of leylandii. To my right is the main building, and behind that I get a glimpse of what appears to be a chapel. I take the site map from the glove box and study it closely.
‘The Rep,’ I say, referring to the main building and reception area. I trace my finger along the wide arch of buildings that spread out behind it. ‘And there’s the quad with all the teaching rooms.’
Beyond the quad are the boarding houses and sports centre, and in recognition of a key Eastern European patron, The Arkady Ishutin Business and Enterprise Centre.
‘What the hell am I doing here?’ I whisper, overcome by doubt. There is a soft tap on the car window which makes me jump. I look up to see the smiling faces of two young women.
‘Are you here for the summer school?’ asks one as I open the car door and get out.
‘Yes.’
‘We’re terrified,’ says the other. By the open, welcoming looks on their faces it is clear they are inviting me to accompany them. I consider their offer with caution. It would be nice to have the time to prepare myself for my first meeting with Desra McKinley, but then again, what better way to appear inconspicuous than to arrive in a group?
‘I’m Marie-Claire.’ The woman closest to me holds out her hand.
‘And I’m Julia,’ says the other.
Both women are in their late twenties. Marie-Claire is tall and whippet thin, with tidy dreadlocks and the most luminescent brown skin that I have ever seen. Her soft French accent hints at someone who’s lived in the UK for several years. Julia, on the other hand, is short and round with striking blue eyes, a mass of blonde curls, and a face that seems made for smiling. Her accent is pure Yorkshire.
‘I’m Kate,’ I say, returning their handshakes. ‘I’m pretty nervous too.’ I grab my suitcase from the boot and follow the two women towards the main entrance of the Rep where a small group of people are already waiting. I scan their faces, looking for Desra.
‘Welcome,’ says the receptionist, ushering us into the entrance area. ‘If you would be kind enough to sign in,’ – her voice echoes amongst the high stone arches – ‘it would be most appreciated. You can leave your bags in the cloakroom just to your left for now, and then proceed to the meeting room on your right where tea will be served.’ As if by magic, two attractive, healthy-looking teenagers appear beside her. ‘Some of our students stay on campus over the summer months to continue their elite sports training. Nearly twenty of our alumni have made it onto Olympic teams,’ she adds proudly. ‘They also are often kind enough to help with other events that fund our sports scholarships.’ She turns to the two young people standing beside her. ‘Becky and Turner here are both hugely talented athletes who have their eyes on the next Olympics. They are also kind enough to be acting as Student Ambassadors over the next week, helping our regular staff with any issues or queries you may have during your stay.’
The guests form an orderly queue, sign the register as instructed, and dutifully follow their guides to the meeting room.
‘Good afternoon everyone,’ says Becky, whose accent is definitely more East Coast American than Scottish. ‘My name is Becky Wilson, and I’m a Student Ambassador here at Lennoxton.’ She points to the young man standing next to her, who has the healthy good looks of someone from privilege. ‘This is Turner. We’re here to ensure your stay at Lennoxton is a pleasant one and that everything runs smoothly for the next five days.’ Perfect, I think. Perfect teeth, perfect face, perfect life. Then I feel guilty for being so ungenerous. ‘I’m about to take you into the Headmaster’s outer meeting room, which at Lennoxton is affectionately known as the Crucible. As many of you may know, a crucible can be defined as a situation of severe trial.’ Becky gives the group a glowing smile. ‘Any Lennoxton pupil invited to meet with the headmaster or deputy headmaster in this room would be familiar with that experience.’ There are a few polite chuckles from the group.
Pushing open the heavy wooden door, Becky leads us inside. The room is rather less imposing than suggested; a large, Georgian style sitting room with a stone fireplace and high-backed chairs covered in tartan material. In the far corner a large table is set out with coffee and tea urns, as well as plates of scones, cakes, and shortbread.
‘Your first task,’ says Becky brightly, ‘is to help yourself to a cup of tea or coffee and a snack and relax.’ She glances at her watch. ‘I believe we are expecting a few more arrivals any minute now. As soon as they get here, we will take you all on a tour of the facilities before allocating you your rooms.’ She gives the group another glowing smile. ‘Are there any questions?’
For some reason I am beginning to find her rather annoying.
I sip my Lapsang Souchong and make small talk with the other students. It’s oddly disconcerting how normal this all feels, as if I was just attending a short break for indulged, artsy folk, instead of a determined investigation into my son’s death. I note that my fellow students range in age from late twenties to early sixties, and that by the make of their clothes, shoes, and luggage, are all solidly upper middle class. Even Marie-Claire and Julia, the two more studenty members of the group, still sport expensive waterproofs. As I drift in and out of polite conversation, I can’t help but wonder how I will manage the next five days. It was in secondary school over twenty years ago that I made my first and only attempt at writing poetry. That experience had been an unsuccessful and embarrassing one. The small group presently ensconced within the nineteenth-century walls of Lennoxton Academy appear to be committed, experienced – some are even published – and determined. I can only attribute one of those qualities to myself, and that has nothing to do with poetry.
There is a gentle knock and then the cathedral arch door is pushed open.
‘Ah,’ says Becky. ‘That must be our final two.’
A small, bird-like woman steps forward and smiles. She has bright pink hair and is wearing what can only be described as a tie-dye patchwork-type dress.
‘Sorry we’re late,’ she says in bright Geordie. ‘Accident on the B846.’
‘No problem,’ replies Becky politely, adding a tick to the sheet of paper on her clipboard. ‘Please help yourself to a drink and something to eat.’ The bird woman nods and makes her way towards the refreshment table. She is followed close behind by our final member. He is so tall he ducks to avoid hitting his head on the door arch. It feels as if sunlight is entering the room. He smiles shyly at the group but doesn’t introduce himself.
‘Please do mingle and say hello to the other guests,’ says Becky. She glares at Turner, who is helping himself to a miniature Victoria sponge, but blushes charmingly when he returns her look with a wide grin. ‘In approximately twenty minutes, Mrs Roe, who checked you in when you first arrived, will be giving the health and safety briefing, and then we’ll begin our tour. Turner and I will be here to answer any questions you may have. I will be just outside finalising a few details, and I’ll see you in about thirty-five minutes.’
‘Give or take,’ I mutter.
‘Damned efficient I’d say.’
I turn to see a smiling Marie-Claire dusting icing sugar off her chin.
‘Can anyone really have teeth that white?’ adds Julia, sidling up on my left and giving me a cheeky smile.
I smile in return. ‘Exactly what I was thinking.’
‘And who is he?’ says Marie-Claire, pointing discreetly towards the man who arrived with the bird woman.
He must be over six feet tall, with the long, lean physique and tanned skin of someone who’s used to working outdoors. His pale blond hair and striking green eyes give him a fairy-tale quality.
‘A Viking god,’ Julia
whispers.
‘If only I fancied men,’ Marie-Claire sighs.
‘I get the feeling that you two are going to be a bit of a handful,’ I say, in a playful tone I haven’t exercised in months.
‘We probably will need keeping in check,’ Julia replies, flashing huge, innocent eyes.
We’ve barely gotten around to introducing ourselves when Becky re-emerges and begins handing out health and safety checklists. I am more than happy to be relieved from my discussion with Marvin and Roz, a middle-aged couple from Sussex, regarding their self-published anthology of poems about their pet cats Byron and Will.
‘Byron is named after Lord Byron,’ Roz says.
‘And Will is named after Shakespeare. William Shakespeare,’ Marvin adds.
I have never welcomed a health and safety briefing more in my life.
‘Thank you, Mrs Roe,’ says Becky, after what seems like an interminable session on fire alarms, not smoking in one’s room, and even an overview of how to safely use a kettle. ‘If you all follow me back into the reception area, we’ll begin our tour.’ I exchange glances with Julia and Marie-Claire before following the group back to the main reception area. ‘Welcome to Lennoxton Academy,’ Becky begins. Turner has mysteriously vanished, replaced by a day boarder named Malcolm, who is also employed as a Student Ambassador for the summer. ‘Founded in eighteen forty-two, Lennoxton Academy is one of the most prestigious and well-respected boarding schools in Europe, with students from around the world including the United States, United Arab Emirates, and South East Asia. Lennoxton prides itself on its multicultural approach to teaching and learning. This approach is reflected in the success of our alumni, who include European and Middle Eastern royalty as well as numerous heads of industry including those in Thailand, China, Nigeria, and Kenya. The Lennoxton philosophy of …’
I had read it all on the website and so I let my attention drift to the countless coats of arms that speckle the grey stone interior.
‘McIntosh, McKenzie, Buchanan, Boyd,’ I mumble, and swivelling my head to the left, find myself intrigued by a less traditional inventory. ‘D’Annunzia, Rossa, Muscatolli.’ I twist further and am delighted to discover some more modern additions. ‘Abadi, Barkutwo, Huang, Malouf.’
‘And if you’ll just follow me.’ Becky’s determined nasal twang pierces its way into my consciousness. ‘As you all arrived via the main gate and drive,’ she continues enthusiastically, ‘I wonder if any of you noticed the CCTV cameras outside the gate, as well as those that would have tracked your journey along the road to the Rep?’ The twelve guests exchange uncertain looks. ‘Just as it should be,’ she declares triumphantly. ‘Our security procedures are top notch and designed to protect Lennoxton students at all costs.’
‘Which would indicate,’ whispers Julia, ‘that some may come from more questionable origins than the pretty shields above our heads would suggest.’
‘Now come on chérie,’ replies Marie-Claire, wagging a finger at her girlfriend. ‘You’re not implying that this school is a safe house for the children of well-to-do criminals, are you?’
‘As an additional safety measure,’ Becky continues, ‘access to the student-centred areas of the school, including boarding houses and teaching areas, is via secured entrances and exits. Doorways and gates are operated by a keypad system. For the purposes of this week you will all have one code for all entrances. Now, if you follow me along this hallway to the rear of the building, we will pass some of the other areas, including the main hall, canteen, and library. I will also show you how to use the keypad system.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ Julia whispers.
‘Do you think she’s always like this?’ whispers Marie-Claire.
‘Always,’ comes the response. We turn to see a dour-looking Malcolm standing next to us.
‘Oh, you poor thing,’ says Julia, patting his arm sympathetically.
We tour a series of buildings, which are laid out in a tidy quadrangle behind the Rep.
‘And finally,’ declares Becky, ‘behind the quad and just to our left we have the boarding areas. These have been recently upgraded thanks to a generous donation from one of our benefactors. In front we have the junior and middle school residences, which can house up to one hundred pupils each including house masters and matrons, and a little further back are the sixth-form residences where you’ll be based.’
I stop to admire the beauty of it all. Edgecombe Hall, with its damp, squashed, crumbling halls of residence, and the more recent addition of an ugly prefabricated group house for the swimming team, has nothing on this. Lennoxton’s two-storey dormitory, with its surrounding landscaped gardens, looks more like an upscale adult apartment complex than private boarding halls. While Becky drones on about eco this and sustainable that, I wander off, heading towards the chapel: a bright, triangular building notable for its glass and steel facade. The afternoon is blazing, and the chapel doors are wide open and inviting, but I resist crossing the threshold into what I suspect is a cool marble and polished-teak interior. I can’t bear the endless memorials that I know will be pinned to those shiny stone walls. Passchendaele, Normandy, Gallipoli, Ypres, Korea, Northern Ireland, The Falklands, Afghanistan. Would there even be any space remaining? Instead I gravitate further west to a stunning Cubist structure accented with a large vertical water wall.
The Arkady Ishutin Centre, reads the brushed silver plaque. I settle myself on a bench and let my hand drift in and out of the cascading stream of water before gently pressing it against my blazing forehead.
I look up to see Malcolm approaching. ‘There you are.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I was just rather hot, and Becky’s induction was—’
‘Making you lose the will to live?’ he replies. ‘She takes her Student Ambassador role very seriously.’ His face creases into a roguish grin. ‘This summer we’ve already had an art residential school, three faith groups, and a team of IT consultants for an away day, and they all needed tours and information sessions from the rather long-winded Becky.’
‘Oh, you poor thing,’ I laugh, echoing Julia’s sentiment. Realising that my words may sound more critical than light-hearted, I add, ‘Are you two together?’
‘God no!’ exclaims Malcolm, and reaching out, he helps me to my feet. ‘She and Turner have been a thing since the start of term, poor chap.’
‘Well, I’m sure everyone appreciates her diligence.’
‘The income from our summer schools contributes significantly to our scholarship fund,’ he says, his tone softening.
The words scholarship fund bring me tumbling back to reality; to the photograph of Michael, Lisa, and Susan. Not for the first time do I wonder what I’m doing here. Maybe I should just go to the local police and tell them everything I know.
But what do I know? Michael’s diary could easily be construed as adolescent fantasy, the texts and emails just the same. I can’t go to the police on a gut instinct. The information that Lisa gave to me is unsubstantiated, inconsistent, and to some eyes would appear as nothing more than fabrication and fancy. I still berate myself for forgetting to turn on the voice recorder on my phone during our conversation.
I think back to my discussion with Doris, how instead of dismissing my concerns as an overly emotional response to unresolved loss and grief, she had suggested instead that my journey here might be an opportunity for truth, and even some form of resolution.
What you’re going to need, Katie, is good, solid evidence.
‘And that’s what I’ll get.’
‘Pardon me?’ says Malcolm.
‘I said I’d better get back. Before Becky gets cross with me.’
‘Believe me,’ he replies, with a knowing look, ‘you won’t be wanting that.’
The small group are just emerging from the chapel when I rejoin them.
‘Are you okay?’ whispers Marie-Claire.
I nod and discreetly slip back into line.
‘So, as you can see, Lennoxton sp
reads out in a series of teaching and living spaces behind the main building. First the boarding houses, then the chapel, and finally the Ishutin Building from which Mrs Hardy has just returned.’ Next to me Julia gives a huff of amusement. ‘Your induction lecture will be held there after lunch so there is no need to visit at this time. If you’ll follow me, we’ll continue along the Cobbles.’
‘Why does everything in this place have to have a boujie nickname?’ Julia whispers.
The group follow Becky along the cobbled path that runs behind the chapel and boarding houses.
‘Finally, we have the leisure area – or Free, as we call it – which includes the sports and outdoor activity centre. As you may know, alongside its outstanding academic curriculum, Lennoxton has a vibrant sports programme including golf, rugby, and equestrianism. If you glance just to your left, you’ll see the sports centre, and just beyond that Loch Haugh where most of our water sports take place.’
The relentless self-promotion is giving me a headache. All I want is to get to my room, have a shower and take a nap.
‘My, hasn’t the time flown,’ says Malcolm, and, making a show of looking at his watch, he adds, ‘I believe chef was very clear about lunch being served at one, and as it’s nearly twelve, I wonder if it’s best we get on with settling our guests into their rooms?’
I’m not certain, but I think I hear a collective sigh of relief from the group.
Becky’s cheeks redden.
‘Yes, Malcolm, I’m aware of that – but there are a few more points I need to cover.’ And without breaking stride, she carries on. ‘There are no boarders on campus during your residential stay; however, there are still a number of admin staff on site, as well as Student Ambassadors including myself, Malcolm, Turner and Nikki, who have all remained here over the summer months.’
Turner approaches carrying a fibreglass canoe above his head. ‘Nice to see you all again,’ he says, in a clipped Home Counties accent. ‘I’m just setting up for tomorrow’s canoeing lesson – so if you’ll excuse me.’ He gives Becky a wink and carries on towards the loch. The self-assured young American suddenly seems flustered.
The Lake Page 18
