The Lake

by Louise Sharland

  As if reading my mind, Julia says, ‘You just be careful. I get the impression that Desra doesn’t do anything without a reason, and a self-serving one at that.’

  The clanging of the ship’s bell alerts us all to the end of the evening. We all head back to the boathouse for our final instructions.

  ‘Thank you all for a wonderful evening,’ says Desra. ‘It was a great opportunity to get to know you all a bit better.’

  ‘Which should have happened on day one,’ Julia grumbles next to me.

  ‘Now before you all head off, I’ve got an announcement – and a special surprise for you.’ The room quiets to a hush. ‘As you know, I met with my agent today and I’m pleased to confirm that my collection of poems will be published in both the UK and North America by Epiphany Press in the new year.’ A few members of the group began to offer their congratulations, but Desra raises a hand. ‘But the surprise I mentioned is to do with you, not me.’ She is so puffed up I’m surprised she doesn’t float away. ‘As you’re all aware, I’ve been a key player in the planning of the Lennoxton Summer Lecture Series, the final event of which will take place this Friday. Poets, scholars, and poetry enthusiasts from all over the United Kingdom and Europe will be attending, and I’m delighted to say that I’ve arranged for the guest lecturer Professor Findlay Cardew to host a special poetry masterclass on Friday morning. As part of this masterclass you will also be reading your work to Professor Cardew for feedback.’ The group’s earlier excitement has now dimmed to a mixture of terror and awe. ‘Because of time limitations it will need to be a short piece of three to five minutes. Professor Cardew will then take a few minutes to give individual feedback.’ She presses both hands together as if in prayer. ‘This is an extraordinary opportunity to work with one of the best poets of a generation.’ Gazing around the room with a laughable attempt at gravitas, she adds, ‘Don’t waste it.’ There is a smattering of applause and a few whoops of excitement. ‘Now get to bed everyone. I’m sure tomorrow’s going to be another exciting day.’

  ‘Desra!’ Sally calls, her cheeks pink with excitement. ‘What’s it going to be called? Your collection of poems, what’s it going to be called?’

  Desra gives the group a triumphant smile. ‘As it’s a collection focusing on innocence and experience via the natural world, I’ve decided to title the anthology after the central poem.’ She pauses to ensure that all eyes are on her. ‘It’s entitled Carnation.’

  It’s as if all my senses, all my motor functions are slowly shutting down. My heart slows to a hibernation state. My brain, at first fired with supposition, now seems sluggish, unable to reason.

  ‘Carnation’ is the title of Michael’s poem. The one in his diary.

  ‘It also touches on themes of sexual obsession and forbidden love,’ Desra continues cheerfully.

  I watch, frozen, as the tutor makes her way through the small throng, accepting congratulations and commendations with a false modesty that is sickening. As she grows closer, I find myself wanting to shove her back into the darkness where she belongs. Suddenly she is standing next to me.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I whisper. I force a smile, but in truth I feel shaky; sick. Desra squeezes my arm, smiles, and moves on. I take a deep breath and force back the bile. Everything is upended.

  At least I know for certain now that Desra McKinley is Diving Fish.

  33

  I spend a sleepless night brooding over Desra’s announcements, of her publishing deal, her anthology, and her wonderful, wonderful life. How is it that her anthology, Carnation, has the same title as Michael’s poem? I glance to where Michael’s diary lies open on the bed next to me, to his own ‘Carnation’.

  Moonlight lingers on

  the pale abandon

  of

  your

  skin.

  I go through all the diary entries again and again to try and find some hint, some clue as to what this all means. There is only one answer. Desra McKinley stole Michael’s poetry, his innocence, and his life. I feel sick, but more than that I feel driven. Driven for truth, driven for justice, and driven for revenge.

  I review Desra’s behaviour over the last few days: the toying with Caleb, her suggestiveness with me last night, and of course that bombshell from Julia about her flirting with the young Student Ambassador, Turner. Resentment burns in me like poison, sullying even the tiniest flavour of hope. Forcing myself from bed, I sit in the cold glow of dawn, desperately trying to think of what to do. My plan had always been so clear: use Desra McKinley to find out more information about that night. Now, however, as I find myself virtually face-to-face with Diving Fish – with the person who groomed, seduced, and corrupted my teenage son – I feel rudderless. I return to the action plan I scribbled in my notebook earlier in the week. Point six is blank. I add a sentence, short and to the point.

  6. Get the truth and make her pay!

  There’s work to be done on the last one, but I’ve still got three days of summer school left to prove my suspicions. If Desra really was making the moves on me tonight, as Julia suggested, then maybe I can use that to get close to her. I have to try to find out more about her and Michael and if she was on the lakeside with him that night. Whatever happens, by the end of the week I will go to the Headmaster and Board of Governors with a copy of Michael’s diary, details of Lisa’s story, and a clear accusation that Desra McKinley has a history of becoming sexually involved with her students; and she may in fact be grooming one of them right now. Until then, I’m going to have to play it very carefully.

  I take a moment to lie back on the bed, close my eyes and breathe. Maintaining this pretence requires a level of energy and diligence that is difficult and draining.

  Revenge is a lonely thing.

  The morning’s session begins with one of Desra’s typical self-promoting declarations.

  ‘I want to make a really good impression on Professor Cardew,’ she says, sipping from a Thermos mug that reads POETRY ROCKS. ‘So, to help prepare for your reading on Friday, I’ve planned a truly inspirational morning of exercises.’ She removes a small pouch from her rucksack and hands it to Sally. ‘Take a marble from the pouch and pass it on,’ she instructs. ‘Then I’ll ask you to find the person with the same coloured marble as yourself. That’s who you will be working with this morning.’

  I pick a red marble and gaze around the group to see who might have collected its twin. Piercing green eyes meet mine, and I smile awkwardly as Caleb holds up his matching stone. Next to me I hear Julia’s intake of breath as she realises that she is paired with Marvin, and Marie-Claire’s sigh of relief when she learns her partner is Dave.

  ‘Today we’re going to be working on haikus,’ Desra announces. ‘Is everyone familiar with haikus?’ The other students nod, and I find myself wracking my brain trying to remember anything from GCSE English. ‘Just to refresh your memory, a haiku is a Japanese verse form that uses just a few words to capture a moment and create a picture in the readers’ minds. It is like a tiny window into a scene much larger than itself.’ She takes another sip of coffee. ‘Due to its brevity, and yet the skill involved, I thought this would be the perfect format for your readings at the masterclass on Friday morning. Your piece doesn’t have to be a haiku in itself, but it needs to take on board that level of brevity and meaning.’ The mention of the masterclass sends murmurs of excitement throughout the room. ‘Keeping in mind the theme of my soon-to-be-published anthology, I have decided that our explorations this morning will focus on nature, the natural world and your physical and emotional responses to it.’ She places a pile of white envelopes on the floor in front of us. ‘In each envelope you’ll find a series of questions I want you to ask each other about your impressions and experiences. I don’t want you to settle for stock responses. I want you to challenge each other to go beyond the commonplace.’ She checks her watch. ‘I want you to wander around the campus, seeing, smelling, touching, experiencing nature in all its incarnations. It’s nine fifteen now. I
’d like us to meet back at the theatre for eleven. I’ll be wandering around checking in on you, so feel free to ask me any questions.’ She picks up her Thermos and leaves the theatre.

  ‘It would be nice if there was some actual teaching going on,’ Julia mutters, before reluctantly joining Marvin.

  Caleb and I decide to spend some time in a maple grove, examining the intricate tributaries in each leaf, rubbing earth through our fingertips. Caleb reads from the instructions in the envelope, challenging me to push myself further.

  ‘It smells like earth,’ I say.

  ‘What does earth smell like, Kate?’

  ‘Wet; damp. Earthy.’

  Caleb smiles. ‘What else?’

  I shake my head.

  Caleb takes a handful of earth and lets it trickle into my open palm before taking my hand in his and holding it to my face.

  ‘Close your eyes, Kate. Relax.’ I can feel the warmth of his body against mine. ‘Now tell me: what does it smell like?’

  I close my eyes and breathe in deeply. There is a musty smell, dank but fresh, like the garden after a rain shower.

  ‘It smells like vegetation, rotting for centuries in cool obscurity. It smells like the beginning and the end. It smells like life.’

  I open my eyes to see Caleb smiling at me.

  We carry along the forest path until we come to a small beach surrounded by silver poplars. Caleb takes off his shoes and socks, rolls up his jeans, and walks ankle deep into the water.

  ‘It’s cold!’

  ‘How cold?’

  ‘Freezing cold.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘So cold the blood flow is halted.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like an image frozen in time … no! Like a statue after a heavy snowfall. The features are blanketed, undefinable, forgotten.’

  I find myself clapping in appreciation.

  ‘Come in,’ calls Caleb. ‘You don’t feel the cold after a while.’

  I step forward onto the sand, but no further.

  ‘You don’t like the water?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘But you went canoeing?’

  ‘Never again,’ I reply, remembering the feeling of wet, slimy leaves on my face and the inexplicable sound of Michael’s voice.

  Caleb walks out of the water and sits on the sand. A cool breeze blows in from the loch and I find myself sitting down beside him.

  ‘Have you always been afraid of the water?’

  ‘No. Just the last few years.’

  ‘Something happened?’

  I nod and look away. ‘My son, Michael.’ The words cling in my throat. ‘Six years ago.’

  Caleb takes my hand in his. We hear splashing and I look up to see the water silver and frothing.

  ‘A shoal of stickleback,’ Caleb explains, seeing the confusion on my face. ‘Trying to escape from predators. Pike I reckon, maybe carp. The fish tend to come up to the surface like that in a panic before diving down again.’

  Diving Fish.

  ‘We’d better get back,’ I say, removing my hand from his. ‘We don’t want to be late.’

  We arrive to hear Desra addressing the group.

  ‘An important part of this course is ensuring that you have the time to write,’ she says, ‘so I’m wrapping things up early today.’ She reaches into her bag and puts on a slick of lip gloss. ‘Final drafts for your readings are due in tomorrow lunchtime at the latest. I would suggest you spend the rest of the afternoon working on that, and maybe even arrange a group critique session. I’ll have a clinic this evening in the boathouse for anyone who wants feedback, but for now,’ she says, her cheeks creasing in a self-satisfied smile, ‘I’m off to meet with Professor Cardew.’ With a final smack of her lips, she leaves.

  The rest of us disperse slowly. I make my way out of the building, watching as Desra climbs into the passenger seat of the school transport, a shiny Mercedes people carrier driven by Turner.

  Julia, Marie-Claire and I exchange looks and then glance towards Becky, who waves determinedly as the car drives away. The schoolgirl looks momentarily troubled, and then, almost as quickly, her expression returns to one of cheery professionalism.

  ‘Just a reminder, everyone,’ she calls. ‘Picnic lunch by the loch. If you’ll all follow me …’

  ‘Is Turner old enough to drive?’ Julia asks.

  Becky turns. ‘Of course,’ she replies brightly. ‘He’s nearly eighteen.’

  ‘What I really meant was safe to drive,’ says Julia under her breath, ‘with her in the car.’

  I’m not sure if Becky has heard, but her demeanour seems to change. She stands straighter, flicks back her ponytail, and marches onwards with a firm ‘Come along now everyone.’

  ‘I’ll join you a little later,’ I say to Julia and Marie-Claire. ‘I have to phone my sister.’

  I wait until the others have made their way towards the loch before taking the cobbled path towards the quadrangle. The Rep, I have discovered, has a rear entrance facing the woods that is not overseen. I enter the generic passcode and the door opens with a soft click. Once inside, I make my way along the narrow corridor. The offices are interspersed with study areas, labs and small classrooms arranged in subject order. I pass an office with a skeleton on a stand and a large fish tank, then find myself glancing into the map-lined office of the head of Geography, before finally reaching the PE department. There is a teaching room plastered with posters of sports stars urging viewers to Just do it! Beyond that is a dark wooden door with a brass plaque that reads:

  Dr Desra McKinley PhD, Head of Sports Performance

  The door is locked.

  I’m just wondering what to do next when I hear the hum of a hoover. Making my way down the corridor, I find the cleaner doing her rounds. A plastic badge on her lapel reads ‘IRIS’. She gives me a friendly nod.

  ‘I’m normally long gone by this time,’ she grumbles. ‘But there was a governors’ meeting this morning.’ She shakes her head. ‘Who’d have thought they could make such a mess with a few shortbread rounds and a couple of flasks of tea?’

  Struggling to decipher her thick Highland brogue, I nod in sympathy. I reach into my shoulder bag and remove a small book of poetry I brought from home.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you when you’re so busy, Iris,’ I bend down to retrieve a sweet wrapper that has fallen from the wastepaper basket she is emptying, ‘but I promised Dr McKinley I would return this book I borrowed to her office before the end of the day.’

  Iris gives me a sharp look. ‘You don’t want that hen cross with you,’ she mutters, and, sighing, glances up at the clock on the wall.

  ‘If it’s any help I’ll do it myself. I mean I can see how busy you are,’ I say. ‘I’ll just be a second.’

  Iris deliberates for a moment before unclipping the large keyring from her belt. ‘It’s the one with the square top,’ she says, handing me her keys. ‘Just bring them back when you’re done. No need to lock up as I’ll be along soon.’

  I give my thanks and hurry along the corridor to Desra’s office. The key slips into the lock without hesitation, and the door opens smoothly and silently. The room is long and narrow, with a built-in desk and shelving unit along the right wall and free-standing bookshelves along the left. At the far end is a narrow window permitting a thin shaft of sunlight. Below the window is a small two-seater settee: the only place for students to sit. I wonder if Desra eschewed the sturdy desk chair in favour of more pleasurable contact with her students on the settee.

  I give myself an inward shake. There isn’t time for this. Iris will be expecting her keys back any minute now. I glance around the office trying to take everything in. On the desk sits an Apple Mac, a small printer and a desk tidy with pens, paperclips, and push pins. To the left of the computer is a large leather day-by-day diary opened to today’s date. On the shelf above are two handcrafted mahogany bookstands, both displaying thin volumes of poetry. The first – an in-house publication from a UK univers
ity – is drab and uninspiring. The second, a more artfully put-together prospect, has a glossy cover and a sticker on the front that reads:

  Shortlisted for the Governor General’s Award for English-language Poetry

  It is a Canadian publisher, which I assume means it was written during Desra’s five-year sojourn at Lakeview College in Canada. What occurred, I wonder, to take her from the highest echelons of Canadian society to this prominent but backwater Scottish prep school?

  ‘You messed up, didn’t you, Desra?’ I mutter, as I trawl through the tutor’s in-tray. I freeze when I see an A5 envelope with a return address that reads Epiphany Publishing, and with a note in the bottom right-hand corner that reads copies x 1. Inside is a galley proof of McKinley’s newest anthology, Carnation. The thick, unrefined paper cover is a muted cardboard grey. There is a simple, uncompleted drawing of a carnation, and within that outline another image of two figures, male and female, their bodies entwined. I flip through the pages, still marked in red pen, to the title poem.

  Moonlight lingers on

  the pale abandon

  of

  your

  Skin.

  My heart is beating so fast I have to sit down on the edge of the desk. The first line of the poem is set out exactly as Michael had done it, word for word. ‘Bitch!’

  I carefully work my way through the remaining pages, when all I really want to do is tear them into shreds and hurl them into the loch. I think of Lisa, of the poor broken girl whose life was ruined by exploitation and abuse, whose future was over even before it had started. I drop the proof copy on the desk, where it lands with a soft thud. There follows a soft jangle of metal. I look down to see the keys to the top drawer of Desra’s desk gently swinging back and forth.

  The first thing I spot in the drawer are pages of job descriptions from American private schools, clearly printed off from their websites. Parts of the personal specifications have been highlighted, and there are handwritten notes: use example from the teaching conference at Lakeview!. There is also an email from a school in Rhode Island inviting Desra to attend an online interview a few weeks before. Scribbled on the page are preparatory notes for her interview – make sure to mention work on the lecture series, and particularly with Cardew – and tick marks or happy faces next to her planned responses suggesting she had answered the question successfully.