She was sitting on the end of her bed in an ancient dressing gown. Her hair, pinned in a librarian-style bun for as long as he could remember, hung long and straggly over her shoulders. It altered her completely – made her seem elderly. Part of him was repulsed, as though he had glimpsed her naked. Another part buckled with compassion to see his self-possessed mother so vulnerable and undone.
‘Would you like some candles, Mum?’
She shook her head. ‘Fire risk. I was about to turn in anyway.’
He bent forward and kissed her cheek. It was cold, papery, dry.
For reasons he couldn’t articulate, the whole scene unnerved him. Rowena Parry was respected and composed, not this shrunken old lady with parchment skin and bag-lady hair. It was as if her mortality had only then become apparent to him. He had just lost his father and at some point in the not too distant future, he would more than likely lose his mother as well. In the dim light from his phone, her expression was hard to read.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ he asked.
She replied with a half-smile he could just make out but which, for a fraction of a second, reminded him of Edward.
Across the landing was his own bedroom, unwelcoming and austere. He slumped on the hideous velour chair and buried his head in his hands. A long time passed before he got undressed and into bed. He lay awake, eyes fixed on the ugly lampshade directly above him, surprised at how incomplete he felt without his fix of porn. Perhaps he should limit himself to every other night, just in case. He didn’t want to become addicted, although there were worse things to be addicted to: crack cocaine, alcohol, gambling, cigarettes. No, it didn’t help to list them.
Begrudgingly resigned to a night without relief, he willed himself towards sleep. Ruth Rutherford floated into his consciousness – unexpected but more than welcome. Well-rounded breasts; haughty smile. Geoffrey took a long, deep breath and allowed his hand to drift towards his groin. She was in the cricket pavilion now, skirt up around her waist, her palm pressed firmly against a muscular chest. Geoffrey’s chest. She was on top, riding him hard, head thrown back, moaning with pleasure. He stifled a cry when he came, breathless and ecstatically relieved. How wonderfully perverse. Ruth Rutherford, of all people, had broken the bedroom curse.
Five
An ominous note poked out of Olivia’s pigeonhole. A4 paper folded into quarters; no envelope. She waited a moment before she opened it. Martin Rutherford requesting a meeting, his office, three o’clock tomorrow. Oh God. This would be about Ruth. Olivia felt physically sick – a horrible swirling sensation that she could taste – but then realised she couldn’t make the meeting anyway. Peter Havant had asked her to accompany him on a geography trip to Cheddar Gorge. They would be out most of the day, exploring giant caves, clambering up steep footpaths, feasting on cheese. That was how he had sold it to her, although he didn’t need to. She loved taking Edward and his friends to Cheddar Gorge. It had featured as a day trip in almost every school holiday. Happy memories, she reminded herself as an antidote to the unhappiness that had begun to close in on her.
When she had first arrived at St Bede’s, learning the job, getting to know the girls, the staff and the school regime had absorbed her. She hadn’t had much time to dwell on losing Downings or Manor Farm, or how Geoffrey could have allowed that to happen. He had introduced her to a standard of living far beyond anything she knew or expected, and once she had allowed herself to relax and enjoy it, he took it all away.
Now that she had settled in, although she was still busy (very much so), that overwhelming sense of newness had worn off, allowing more time to dwell on everything she missed. And while she longed for the comfort of Manor Farm, it wasn’t material loss that predominated, it was leisurely dog walks with Lorna, getting tipsy at book club, a long soak in the bath with a glass of wine. Hardest of all was being virtually incommunicado.
Olivia was a talker. Before her parents had left for Sydney, she spoke to her mum every night and her dad and Sam at least once a week. She and Lorna were used to sharing thoughts and occurrences at various points throughout the day and Olivia called a handful of old schoolfriends once or twice a month. She chatted to everyone she bumped into in the village, was on first-name terms with the postman, the receptionists at the doctor’s surgery, the dentist and the vet. Now, when she managed to log on to Facebook and saw that her friends’ lives carried on quite happily without her, Olivia felt even more aggrieved than when the Wi-Fi was down and she couldn’t log on at all.
Keeping things bottled up was completely alien to her. She believed the reason she had struggled after Edward was born wasn’t because of postnatal depression – helpfully diagnosed by Rowena and confided in hushed tones to anyone who asked after her – but because the harsh winter had stopped her getting out and about. Impossible to push a buggy through a foot of snow. Lorna popping round out of the blue that first afternoon had saved her. Olivia missed her terribly. Snatched phone calls from the quad weren’t the same as their long, impromptu ramblings about everything and nothing. Nor did they help remove the splinter embedded in the skin of their friendship; Olivia sworn to keep Johnny’s secret, Lorna frustrated by their dogged insistence nothing was wrong when instinct told her that there was.
And then Olivia had left for St Bede’s. Talking was the oxygen of their friendship; necessary at all times. The network dead zone had starved them of oxygen.
‘Something interesting?’
Lisa Pearce peered over Olivia’s shoulder at the contents of the note, prompting Olivia to fold it up again and put it her bag.
‘Something about the Christmas newsletter,’ she said, unsure how much Lisa had seen.
The bell rang, giving Olivia an excuse to rush off.
Silly that she felt so nervous about seeing Martin. She was a grown woman, for goodness’ sake, and hadn’t done anything wrong. But when she thought about the lies Ruth could have fabricated, her heart quickened to the point of pain. And how could Olivia defend herself without telling him the truth? Ruth certainly didn’t deserve her silence but Olivia wanted no part in destroying the Rutherfords’ marriage; their family. What would that do to the girls? No, irrespective of the consequences for herself, Olivia couldn’t tell Martin what had really happened in the cricket pavilion.
Claire Heather passed her in the corridor, laden down with school brochures. She had been a regular visitor at the Rectory over the years, particularly in the weeks following Ronald’s death. Claire’s husband, Arthur, died of a heart attack too, a year before he had been due to retire from Downings. Geoffrey had never taken to him. He thought him ‘shifty’ – not the most inspiring quality in a bookkeeper – but with his wife being one of his mother’s closest friends, and Arthur having worked at the factory for over twenty years, there wasn’t much he could do about it. When they compared notes, both Geoffrey and Olivia agreed that the Heathers didn’t like them. Arthur let it be known he thought Geoffrey was an ‘upstart’ and Olivia felt disapproved of by Claire, although without any hard supporting evidence. Olivia’s suspicion resided in the appraising way Claire looked at her, in the impression of stilted tolerance. Olivia often wondered what Rowena said about her over tea and scones at the Rectory, but then remembered her mother’s wise words. If you worried what people thought of you, you’d never leave the house.
‘Is the headmaster in?’ asked Olivia.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘Tomorrow, but I’m on a field trip with Mr Havant, so I need to rearrange.’
‘Right. Well, if you wouldn’t mind waiting, I just need to drop these off.’
Olivia went along to the anteroom which led to Martin’s office, aware that she was due to listen to the first-formers read in twenty minutes so couldn’t hang around. She was about to write a note, explaining, when Martin’s door opened.
‘Olivia?’ he said, looking around. ‘No Mrs Heather?’
‘She popped out with some brochures.’
‘Is there some
thing I can help you with?’
‘I need to reschedule our meeting. Mr Havant has asked me to go on a field trip to Cheddar Gorge.’
‘Oh yes. Alice and Maisie are going.’ He checked his wristwatch; old-fashioned with a flat gold-rimmed face and worn leather strap. ‘I’m free now if you are?’
The knot in her stomach twisted a little tighter. ‘I’m supposed to be hearing the first-formers read.’
Claire Heather bustled in, dismayed to see an arrangement being made without her intervention.
Martin addressed her directly. ‘Would you make Olivia’s excuses to—?’ He looked to Olivia to fill in the name.
‘Mrs Roache.’
‘Mrs Roache,’ continued Martin. ‘And hold my calls, please, if you would.’
He stood to one side and gestured for Olivia to enter his office.
‘Please sit,’ he said, pointing to the chair on the other side of his desk.
A gilt-framed photograph of Ruth and the girls took pride of place. Olivia crossed her legs and tidied her hands in her lap. Her heart felt too big for her chest as she waited for Martin to speak.
‘This is rather difficult,’ he said.
He put his forefinger to his lip, his thumb on his chin, and frowned. ‘It’s been brought to my attention that you and Mr Dubois had,’ he paused, squirmed a little in his chair – ‘a liaison in the cricket pavilion.’
So she had been right about Ruth’s tactics. How dare she put her in this position. Olivia feared Martin would interpret the rising colour on her face and neck as guilt, when really it was anger.
‘Would you care to comment?’ he said.
‘It was completely innocent. We did go to the cricket pavilion, to talk about Edward. Mr Dubois and I bumped into each other outside while trying to get some signal on our phones, and I took the opportunity to explore options about Edward’s French. He’s fallen a bit behind this term.’
Martin nodded, his forehead creased.
‘I see. And did you?’
‘Did we what?’
‘Explore options about Edward’s French.’
Olivia uncrossed her legs and then crossed them in the other direction. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
She looked at the photograph again – carefree girls, smiling parents, something green and very English about the background – to underscore the reason she couldn’t tell the truth.
‘Mr Dubois remembered an appointment,’ she said, hearing how feeble it sounded.
Martin leaned forward and rested his clasped hands on the desk. ‘It has also been reported to me that a man’s voice was heard coming from your quarters. You do realise it’s strictly against school rules to entertain men, don’t you?’
Men? What did he take her for? And who had done the reporting? Did Ruth have someone watching her, spying on her? Only when she exhaled did she realise she had been holding her breath.
‘It was Geoffrey. He arrived early for Edward’s match and there was a matter we needed to discuss. A private matter.’
Martin nodded. ‘Ah, yes, I remember seeing him. We spoke briefly in the quad.’
Thank goodness. Even so, she had broken the rules so apologised, insisting it was an isolated incident and wouldn’t happen again. Martin took off his glasses, produced a folded handkerchief from his pocket and gave each lens a good wipe. When he spoke, his tone was rather less formal than before.
‘Look, Olivia, I’m very pleased with how you’ve settled in and I know that as well as all your good work with the boarders, you muck in and help out whenever you can.’ He put his glasses back on and folded the handkerchief into a neat square. ‘So on this occasion I’m willing to overlook any indiscretion on your part.’
Olivia opened her mouth to protest but Martin raised a hand to stop her.
‘As long as I have your absolute assurance there will be no further cause for concern. We are, first and foremost, a Christian school, governed and guided by the Christian ethos.’
He paused again in a way that made it clear the meeting was about to come to a close. No. Olivia could not – would not – leave that room with Martin believing she had behaved in some sleazy, un-Christian way.
‘Headmaster.’ Her tone was calm but firm and she looked him in the eye. ‘I accept I may have made an error of judgement going to the cricket pavilion with Mr Dubois, and another when I spoke with Geoffrey in my flat, but I can absolutely assure you, I am not guilty of any indiscretion.’
For the avoidance of doubt, she had copied Martin’s very deliberate inflection.
‘So your relationship with Mr Dubois is purely professional?’
‘In so much as I have a relationship with Mr Dubois, yes, it is purely professional. We’ve only spoken on a handful of occasions.’
This seemed to satisfy him.
‘Good.’ He stood up and took a few long strides to the door.
‘Listen,’ he said, his hand on the doorknob. ‘Ruth is having an Alpha meeting at the house this afternoon – her first; a bit nervous I daresay. I know she’d feel a lot better if you could go along.’
Olivia intended to avoid Ruth at all costs, not sit meekly while she offered instruction on Christianity and the Bible. Such staggering hypocrisy. Olivia was barely able to contain her contempt for the woman. Was Martin really that much of a dolt? Did he not know his wife at all? Olivia needed to breathe some fresh, clean air.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said.
It was his parting shot that left her speechless. ‘She really is very fond of you, you know.’
*
Olivia relived the whole humiliating episode with Geoffrey that night as she shivered in the quad. She wasn’t supposed to leave her post, even when the boarders were tucked up in bed, but Matron said she’d keep an eye on them for ten minutes.
Olivia tried to explain how being gossiped about had induced a horrible sense of injustice and isolation. She didn’t know who she could trust. The staff would believe the headmaster’s wife and even if they didn’t, they wouldn’t be foolish enough to say so. Ditto with the mothers. Lisa Pearce told her the Alpha meeting had been well attended – a chance to curry favour with the headmaster’s wife.
They were a tight-knit group, the St Bede’s mothers – a coterie, Geoffrey called them – and Ruth’s status put her at its centre. Olivia’s status was less clear-cut. She was a St Bede’s mother herself, of course, but now she was a houseparent too – an employee. That was a game changer; another one of Geoffrey’s expressions. It was common knowledge they had lost their business and their home. A few of the mothers referred to their change of fortunes directly, but most commiserations took the form of a brave smile, a well-meaning squeeze of the arm, and, on one notable and humiliating occasion, a pledge to offer up prayer.
When Edward had started at St Bede’s – pre-prep, four years old, adorable in his uniform – the other mothers mistook Olivia for an au pair. It made her feel very proud to tell them Edward was her son. The surprise on their faces spoke volumes. She could almost see them calculating how old she must have been when she had him. A teenager? Actually she had been twenty-one, at least a decade younger than the average St Bede’s mother. Many of them had gone to university, had careers, become established before they started families. That Olivia had done none of these things rather set her apart. It didn’t help that she was petite and pretty with abundant straw-coloured hair that tumbled down her back in soft, lustrous waves. St Bede’s was not a yummy-mummy type of school. It was small and rural and devoutly Christian.
In an effort to fit in, Olivia had joined the weekly Alpha classes run by Teddy Clarke-Bowen’s wife, Caroline. Olivia’s parents weren’t religious and she had only become a churchgoer when she moved to Compton Cross. Ronald had delivered wonderful sermons, full of love and hope. He didn’t dwell on the darkness in people, the demons that drove them to sin. Ronald believed more in forgiveness than judgement: in God’s mercy, not his wrath. How sad that his determination to see on
ly the good in people had caused so much suffering. When Olivia thought about what had happened to Johnny, it made her sick to her stomach. She had begged him to tell Lorna, or to let her tell Lorna, but he was adamant no one must ever know.
It was hard for Olivia to go to church after that. She had never been sure she believed in God, but she did believe in being decent, helping others, telling the truth, or a version of the truth that did the least damage. That her personal values were also Christian values was a happy coincidence. It placed her firmly within the ethos of St Bede’s, irrespective of her theological beliefs. At Alpha she had learned about Jesus and the Bible, and over Sunday lunch at the Rectory, she and Ronald had enjoyed many a spirited discussion. He was patient with her questions, explained the things she didn’t understand. She wished he were here now. He would have known what she should do, other than keep your head down – Geoffrey’s only piece of advice.
It was a terrible line, crackly and distant, as though they were in a tunnel or underwater.
‘What do you think your father would have said?’ asked Olivia.
‘Turn the other cheek?’ said Geoffrey uncertainly.
No help at all. She looked up when a light went on in the dorm.
‘Sorry – I have to go.’
She let herself in, locked the main door behind her and ran up the stairs, two at a time. Matron was squatting by Alice Rutherford’s bedside, talking to her quietly. Olivia slipped off her coat and went over to relieve her.
‘Sorry,’ she whispered, touching Matron on the shoulder.
She stood up. ‘Maisie came to get me. Alice was crying.’
‘Thanks,’ said Olivia. ‘I’ll stay with her.’
Alice had her thumb in her mouth. Edward had abandoned thumb-sucking a few months before his third birthday. Alice was nine.
‘What’s wrong, sweetheart?’
An Unsuitable Marriage Page 8
