The Lake

by Louise Sharland

  ‘On the move already are we, Desra?’

  I riffle through the paperwork, school newsletters and staff rotas, before finding an A4 leather document folder. I gently ease it out of the drawer and unzip it. Inside, there are newspaper clippings from Desra’s time at Edgecombe Hall, including an event she hosted for National Poetry Day, and a short interview with her in the Swimming Times, where she talked about how the arts have real value in sports education. I also find a photograph from a school swimming gala at Edgecombe Hall. I am becoming increasingly impervious to shock, but the image still drains the colour from my cheeks. In the photograph are Michael and Lisa. Both are in their swimwear. In the middle stands Desra, her arms linked through theirs. I contemplate tearing the image to pieces, but taking it would give the game away, and I won’t do that yet.

  I’m carefully returning the contents to the folder when I see something poking out from one of the side pockets. I slip my hand in amongst the soft calfskin and remove the final item. Another photograph. It’s of Desra with a handsome, auburn-haired boy about Michael’s age when he died. It’s clearly been taken at a swimming competition, because he’s wearing a Speedo and has a medal around his neck. It’s not at Edgecombe, though, and I don’t recognise him from the countless swimming events I attended over the years. His proudly smiling face and bare chest are dotted with freckles. She is standing next to him, a hand on his shoulder. I turn it over. On the back is written a single name. Alistair. Was Alistair another Edgecombe student taken in by Desra?

  I turn the photo back over and study it closely. On the wall behind the boy is a banner. There is an image of a swimmer and above that a maple leaf. I strain to read the lettering below.

  Swimming Canada – Junior Championships – Parc Olympique – Montréal

  I strain further to read the date and my breathing stills, almost stops. This picture was taken three years after Michael’s death. Three years after Desra’s involvement with Lisa. God help me; was this poor boy another one of her victims?

  I take my mobile from my back pocket and photograph the image front and back, as well as the one of Michael and Lisa, then return all the items to the folder before carefully putting it back in its hiding place in the drawer.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Iris.’ I turn to see the cleaner standing in the hallway outside the door. Feeling guilty, I grab the anthology from the desk, slip it back into its envelope and return it to McKinley’s in-tray. ‘I couldn’t resist a little peek,’ I say sheepishly.

  ‘Crap isn’t it?’ she replies, holding her hand out for the keys.

  34

  I spend the next few hours restless and uncertain. Confirming that Desra has plagiarised Michael’s work, and most likely has manipulated a third young person, corroborates my suspicions in the worst possible way. If this immoral woman would steal a dead boy’s poem, or abuse a young person and then write about it, then what else is she capable of? It’s a good thing she’s in Edinburgh or I would take that damn anthology, march into that damn theatre, and, in front of everyone, shove it in her pinched little face, exposing her as a liar, a thief and paedophile.

  But what good would that do? I need proof, and, if she’s been getting away with it for this long, that isn’t going to be easy.

  After my late lunch, I grab a cup of tea and escape to my room, explaining to Julia and Marie-Claire that I’m planning to spend the afternoon in my room, writing. I don’t think I could face a group critique session, no matter how friendly.

  Taking out my laptop, I decide to see if I can find out anything about that boy in the picture, Alistair. If Desra was having a sexual relationship with him as well, then maybe he could corroborate … I don’t allow myself to think any further. There have been too many disappointments already.

  I go first to the photograph on my phone I took of the photograph of Alistair and Desra. Very meta, Mum, Michael would have said. I stare at the image, of an innocent smiling young man with everything in the world to hope for. My eyes shift to the woman standing next to him, her hand possessively gripping his shoulder. I have never truly felt hatred for another human being, but now I am bloated with it; overcome. I tiptoe to the common room, grab a half-bottle of wine, the remnants of our drinking session from a few nights before, then head back to my room and lock the door.

  I start with the Swimming Canada website and the results for the junior championships in Montreal in 2018.

  Even after years of following Michael’s competition results, I still find the website confusing. There are fifteen heat sheets for both men and women, which include ‘prelims’ and ‘finals’, including races in age groups ranging from eleven to twenty, and in categories including breaststroke, backstroke, butterfly and freestyle. The lettering is small, the sections poorly formatted, and clearly a scan, as someone has scrawled PB in large letters throughout. After a half hour of searching my eyes are sore and my head aches. Maybe the wine wasn’t such a good idea after all. I decide to shift my search wider than just the men’s competitions.

  That’s when I find it.

  Event 33: Mixed 400 Meter Medley Relay.

  In amongst a catalogue of surnames and initials, I come across one that stands out. Team LCSWIM. March, A. I lean back, place my head in my hands and breathe. Could this be him? Then I realise this is a mixed relay; boys and girls. A March could be Alison, not Alistair. I look for the psych sheet: a list of swimmers, their best times, and where they are seeded in the competition. Coaches and athletes use psych sheets all the time to check out their competitors. Under Event 33, and in the middle with a very decent time, is LCSWIM, and under that, just what I’ve been looking for: March, Alistair (15).

  ‘I’ve found you.’

  I scribble the words Alistair March, Lakeview College swimming team in my notebook, and begin searching through the social media sites with renewed vigour.

  It’s nearly five when I leave my room. Initially downhearted, I finally uncovered a significant lead as to Alistair’s current whereabouts. According to the Lakeview College alumni page he was granted the McKenzie Corbett Memorial Scholarship and is currently studying International Relations at St Andrews University, less than fifty miles away. This can’t just be a coincidence. This was meant to be. All I need now is a bit of help to bring this all to life.

  I find Julia and Marie-Claire sitting on a picnic bench in the courtyard. I hold up a bottle of wine and some plastic cups. ‘Fancy a drink?’

  ‘You must be a mind reader,’ says Julia, pouring her cup of herbal tea onto the grass. ‘Where have you been all afternoon?’

  ‘No Sally?’ I ask, trying to change the subject.

  ‘She’s been working on her piece for Friday,’ replies Marie-Claire, and, with a wink, adds, ‘We thought you two might have gone off together.’

  ‘She’s taking it all very seriously,’ I mutter.

  ‘And you?’ Marie-Claire scrutinises me closely. ‘Have you been taking this all very seriously too?’ At first, I think she is being critical, but the kind, questioning look on her face tells me something different. ‘It’s just the way you challenged Desra about Caleb’s piece – it made me think—’

  ‘That Dr Desra McKinley is a complete, bloody idiot!’ says Julia. She takes the glasses from me, opens the wine, and pours us all a drink.

  ‘I didn’t quite mean—’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ says Julia taking a furious gulp. ‘That ridiculous PowerPoint presentation on the first day? The rudimentary exercises that wouldn’t even challenge a secondary school student?’

  ‘I must confess – that poem about the wolf,’ says Marie-Claire, trying her best not to sound unkind, ‘well, it was pretty—’

  ‘Horrendous. Shit! And she didn’t even know who Martha Sprackland is!’ Julia seems genuinely affronted. ‘How could someone who supposedly did their PhD on contemporary British poets not know who Martha Sprackland is?’

  I wait a moment before speaking. ‘What do you mean by supposedly
?’

  Julia glances at Marie-Claire. I pour us all another glass of wine.

  ‘I tried to ask her during the coffee break this morning where she did her PhD.’ Julia shakes her head and makes a little tutting sound. ‘She refused to answer. Changed the subject as quickly as possible and then ran off to make a phone call. Something about her just doesn’t ring true.’

  ‘Do you really think she’s faked her PhD?’ I ask. Julia shrugs, as if unwilling to be pinned down. ‘What difference would it make if she did?’ The two women look at me, perplexed. ‘I mean whether or not she’s got a PhD. It’s not actually a requirement to teach this course is it?’

  ‘The course, no,’ says Marie-Claire through a mouthful of wine, ‘but for this school, and using the title. Lying on her application. Academic misconduct.’ Her eyes widen dramatically. ‘It would be very detrimental to her career as a teacher, and I suspect as a poet, if someone were to learn she lied about her credentials.’

  Speaking of hungry wolves, I think. Both women are watching me intently. There is so much I want to say; so much I could say. Julia’s barely concealed animosity towards McKinley is palpable, like the taste of smoke on bonfire night. Marie-Claire, slightly more forgiving, is still clearly suspicious. I would probably only have to say a few words to either of them, and Desra’s career at Lennoxton – and possibly at that posh private school in Rhode Island – would be over.

  That, however, wouldn’t get me the information I need. Once I find out about Desra’s involvement with Michael, I will happily feed her to Julia and Marie-Claire; but not just yet.

  ‘I couldn’t really comment on her academic merit,’ I say, feeling like I am tiptoeing through a minefield. ‘I mean I come from a healthcare background. But she does seem a bit slipshod.’

  ‘Slipshod!’ says Julia. ‘That’s an understatement. Arrogant, incompetent, unprofessional more like.’

  ‘Maybe she’s just getting warmed up,’ counters Marie-Claire. ‘I mean she did have to step in at short notice.’

  For a moment Julia looks as if she is going to lose her temper, but almost immediately her face softens.

  ‘It’s one of the things I love about you most,’ she whispers, leaning over and giving Marie-Claire a kiss. ‘You always give people the benefit of the doubt.’

  ‘Well we’ve got to try to make the best of things I suppose. I mean we’re in a beautiful location, with good wine and good friends.’

  ‘Why didn’t you both just cancel when Maire Donaldson backed out?’ I say. ‘I mean it’s not like this course is really going to help you write your wedding vows, is it?’

  ‘They didn’t let us know until a week ago,’ replies Julia. ‘I’d already booked the travel, taken time off from my job, and we got a discount when they told us she had cancelled. Maybe you should ask for one too?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say, unwilling to tell them that the sole reason I have come all this way wasn’t for the noted Scottish poet, but for the suspect Desra McKinley. ‘Is there any way that we could find out about her PhD? I mean if she actually does have one?’

  ‘Well aren’t you the little detective,’ says Julia, with a wicked smile. ‘Normally a PhD will be registered with the university where the person completed it. Trouble is, Desra refused to tell me which one that was, hence my wondering whether maybe she’s telling porkies.’

  ‘Alors,’ cries Marie-Claire, clearly excited by the mystery. ‘If she did her thesis in the UK it wouldn’t just be registered with the university …’

  ‘But with the British Library as well!’ says Julia, rubbing her hands together in glee.

  ‘The British Library?’

  Julia’s expression becomes catlike. ‘Standard,’ she purrs. ‘Provided she did her PhD in the UK, it will be registered.’

  ‘What if she did it when she was in Canada?’

  Julia is not daunted. ‘We could do an author search on the Theses Canada website.’

  ‘Shall we go up to my room?’ I say. ‘My laptop is fired up and ready to go.’

  It doesn’t take long to find the British Library’s electronic thesis online service, as well as the Theses Canada Portal.

  ‘Des-ra Mc-Kin-ley,’ says Julia, typing the name into the search engines for each site.

  There is no result.

  ‘Are you spelling it right?’ Marie-Claire asks.

  ‘Of course I am.’ Julia points to the screen. ‘I’ve tried it three times, and nothing.’

  ‘I think you’d better try Susan O’Neill,’ I whisper.

  Julia looks up from the keyboard. ‘What?’

  ‘Susan O’Neill, try Susan O’Neill.’

  Marie-Claire moves closer. I can smell the musky scent of her perfume. ‘Is there something you’re not telling us, chérie?’

  ‘So, you’ve come all this way to try and prove that Desra McKinley, or Susan O’Neill, is a fraud?’

  Julia and Marie-Claire are sitting on the bed staring at me. I’m not sure if they buy my story of my fictional niece’s poetry being stolen by McKinley when she was one of her students. I may need to hint at more.

  ‘I know it sounds trivial,’ I say, ‘but Lisa was only a sixth former. She was seventeen years old, incredibly talented, and she trusted her.’ Holding out my phone, I show them the image of Michael and Lisa at the school fundraising event. ‘Afterwards, she became very depressed and gave up her place at university.’

  ‘But why now?’ Marie-Claire asks. ‘Six years later?’

  ‘Lisa eventually did go to university,’ I reply, ‘she graduated last month.’ The lies are like liquid on my tongue. ‘She stayed with us for a few days afterwards. One night we were celebrating and got a bit drunk.’ I imagine all those hoped-for conversations I should have had with Michael, and I find myself blinking back tears. ‘That’s when she told me what Desra – or Susan, as she was known at that time – had done to her, and how she had completely destroyed her self-confidence and faith. Then she told me that she had heard that O’Neill was back in the country, was now calling herself Desra McKinley, and was teaching at Lennoxton.’ I take a crumpled tissue from my back pocket and blow my nose. ‘Lisa was determined to come here to seek her out, but I convinced her not to as I knew it wouldn’t be good for her mental health. She only relented when I promised to do it myself.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me about McKinley stealing her work,’ says Julia. ‘A mediocre undergraduate’s work would be better than most of the stuff of hers I’ve seen so far.’ She glances at me. ‘No offence to your niece of course.’

  ‘I hate to be the only dissenter,’ says Marie-Claire softly. ‘But do you have proof that she stole your niece’s work, or that it wasn’t all some sort of fantasy?’

  ‘Marie-Claire!’

  ‘Oh, come on, Julia. If the young woman had a fixation for her teacher, which is not unheard of, she could have constructed this entire story and pulled poor Kate into it.’

  ‘She said she wrote a poem on a piece of paper when she was at Desra’s flat.’ I feel the flush of guilt as I shamelessly plagiarise and distort Lisa’s story.

  Julia raises an eyebrow. ‘She was at her teacher’s flat?’

  ‘That’s what she told me.’ I continue. ‘But you’re right, Marie-Claire; of course you’re right.’ I can’t contain the emotion in my voice. ‘I have no solid evidence, and no proof; only Lisa’s word, and unless she decides to take it forward, there’s really nothing more I can do.’ I shake my head in self-reproach. ‘You probably both think I’m a complete idiot for coming all this way.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Marie-Claire gets up and takes my hands in hers. ‘Just a loving aunt.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Kate, why are you apologising?’ Julia is furious. ‘We’ve all seen the way she carries on with that Turner lad!’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ says Marie-Claire, uneasily, ‘that her friendliness with Turner can be construed as anything other than that.’ She gives Julia a gentle warning look. ‘You know how you tend to jump into
things, and not always with all the facts.’

  There is a silent exchange between the two women, and I wonder if Julia’s headstrong sense of justice has gotten her into trouble before.

  ‘But if we could find out about her PhD,’ says Julia, seemingly not having heard Marie-Claire’s warning.

  ‘For all we know she may have completed her PhD,’ said Marie-Claire, ‘but didn’t sign the licence agreement to have it published online.’ I can tell which of the duo is more cautious.

  ‘Marie-Claire may be right,’ I say, hoping to stop an impending argument. ‘There seems to be no definitive way we can prove—’

  ‘Is she published in any academic journals?’ says Julia, returning her keen eye to the computer screen. ‘Does she have a LinkedIn profile?’

  Marie-Claire places a hand on her fiancée’s. ‘This is not our battle, Julia.’

  ‘If she’s guilty of academic misconduct, it is!’

  ‘Please don’t argue,’ I beg. ‘I never planned to get anyone else involved, and I certainly don’t want you to do anything that might get you both into trouble.’ I’m going to have to extricate at least one of these women from any further involvement if I’m going to get the answers I need. It was all becoming too messy and too dangerous. ‘I’m sorry for dragging you both into this. I hope it hasn’t ruined the summer school for you both.’

  ‘Ruined it?’ Julia yells. ‘It’s the most exciting thing that’s happened all bloody week!’

  Smiling tightly, Marie-Claire gently prises the empty bottle of wine from Julia’s hands. ‘I think we’ve all had enough to drink, don’t you?’ She opens the bedroom door. ‘I’m going outside for a quick smoke, and then perhaps afterwards we can all make our way to the dining hall for something to eat.’ She turns back to her fiancée. ‘And maybe no more wine for you, eh chérie?’