Judith pushed her glasses back up onto her nose. ‘Oh, but you are, Headmaster, quite brilliant.’
She stared slack-mouthed at Mark, as if she had forgotten that Kathryn was there. Kathryn could imagine her salacious, lewd thoughts.
‘That is very kind of you to say so, Judith. Have you come to escort me to the office?’
‘Well, yes and no! I mean, I will obviously escort you, but also I wanted to pick your brains about speech day refreshments and the siting of the marquee; we must prepare for the possibility of light showers!’
‘Ah yes, indeed we must. And there was me looking forward to a leisurely stroll to my office. Never mind. No rest for the wicked, isn’t that what they say?’
He turned and winked at his wife as the two of them left the kitchen, neglecting to shut the back door. Wicked indeed.
While stacking the dishwasher, Kathryn smiled to herself. Judith’s entrances always made her think of Natasha and how much she missed her friend’s visits. Natasha used to imitate Judith by entering with a much exaggerated ‘Only me!’, which would render Kathryn helpless with laughter. She thought back to one particular rainy Tuesday, when the two had been chatting in the school shop. Natasha was stocking up with pencils and Kathryn was putting up a notice about a fundraising event for the rugby first fifteen’s trip to South Africa.
Natasha had turned to her friend and asked, ‘Notice anything different about me today?’
Kathryn cast her eye over her friend’s striped tights, flared mini-skirt and pale pink ballet cardigan. ‘Not really. Should I?’
‘Yes! I am rosy and glowing with love! Well, lust actually, but in my cynical book they are one and the same.’
Kathryn felt her cheeks colour. She routinely avoided conversations around this topic, especially with Natasha, so as to evade any reciprocal questioning about the state of play in her own love life. Kathryn felt out of her depth and slightly uncomfortable with the whole subject.
‘Oh? Anyone I know?’ She prayed that it wasn’t anyone that she knew, not wanting the mental pictures that were threatening to form in her mind.
‘Actually you well might. Do you know Jacob Whittington, sixth former?’
‘Yes, nice-looking boy, off to Oxbridge…’ Kathryn wasn’t sure where this was heading.
‘Well, if you think he is a nice-looking boy, you should see his dad. He is hot! I mean, seriously hot! And a surgeon and divorced and shagging me! Aren’t I the lucky one!’
Kathryn stared at her friend and felt her jaw drop, quite literally.
‘Really? Dr Whittington?’
‘Yes, really! Dr Whittington – or Max, to those of us that get to see him butt-naked and making me cups of tea at three in the morning! God, don’t look at me like that, Kate. It’s like I’ve just told you that I’ve committed a heinous crime, you look so disapproving. Why are you looking like that? Is it because he’s so out of my league? You’re right, of course, he is and I know we are not supposed to fraternise with pupils’ parents, but he is really scrummy and I am rather keen, in fact super keen. I can almost guarantee that young Jacob will be getting the A star that he is so desperately seeking if it means I get to keep seeing Daddy! Kate, say something, anything…’
‘Are you not a lesbian?’ Kathryn blurted.
The question caught Natasha off guard and left her momentarily lost for a response, until eventually she screeched with laughter, her head thrown back, loud and unrestrained.
‘Am I not what?’
‘A lesbian,’ Kathryn repeated, feeling embarrassed at even using the word on school premises.
‘A lesbian? Oh my God! Why did you think that? Because I have short hair and wear men’s shoes?’
‘No! No, Natasha, not at all. It’s just that Mark said—’
‘Oh well, that figures. Mark wouldn’t know a lesbian if one came up and bit his arse! He is so keen to pigeon-hole everyone with his nasty clichés. Grrr, that bloody man! It’s not that I give a shit what he thinks about me, but he could really cause some damage with his mean little rumours and nicknames.’
She remembered suddenly that she was talking to not only her newest best friend, but also to Mark’s wife.
‘Sorry, Kate, no offence intended, but you know what I mean.’
‘None taken, and I’m sorry, I should never have supposed that his assumption was correct. I should have known better. And there was me feeling terribly cosmopolitan with my first ever lesbian friend.’
‘Ah, honey, I have really disappointed you, haven’t I? I’m sorry if I’ve let you down with my boring heterosexual practices, all that deviant sleeping with men.’
They both laughed and strolled off arm in arm. The shop staff watched them walk from the store and no one commented as Natasha playfully squeezed Kathryn’s bottom as they were about to round the corner.
‘Well, Kate, if they are going to talk, we may as well give them something to talk about.’
Kathryn had jumped and shuddered, not at the playful act of her friend, or even with embarrassment at the gossip it would create, but because Natasha had inadvertently pulled apart a cut that was trying to heal, breaking the skin and causing her to bleed.
Kathryn smiled at the memory. She closed the dishwasher door and focussed her attention on the task in hand. Tuesday, Tuesday… Think, what are the chores for Tuesday? She had had years to memorise the weekly calendar of chores, and yet increasingly she found herself forgetting. It must be her age. Ah yes, it was coming back to her now. Tuesday’s chores included removing all of Mark’s textbooks from the shelves in the study, dusting the shelves as well as each individual book and replacing them just so; stripping the children’s beds and washing and ironing their bed linen; weeding the flower bed at the back of the kitchen door; and cleaning both the family bathroom and the en suite thoroughly, ensuring that baths, taps, sinks and loos were all shiny. Finally, before going into the village to collect eight organic salmon fillets and the accompanying veg, she had to wax and polish the parquet flooring in the hallway. It was a day like any other, but a busy day nonetheless.
* * *
Kathryn clicked the kettle on to boil. The salmon fillets were herb encrusted and roasting nicely, the asparagus and ribboned courgettes sat in their steamer and there was ten minutes before she had to make herself ‘neat and pretty’. She extracted the thin book from its hiding place between two cookery books. She knew no one would consider looking between Jamie’s Italy and Jamie Does … . Kathryn thumbed open R. K. Narayan’s Tales from Malgudi.
When he came to be named the oldest man in town, Rao’s age was estimated anywhere between ninety and one hundred and five. He had, however, lost count long ago and abominated birthdays; especially after his eightieth, when his kinsmen from everywhere came down in a swarm and involved him in elaborate rituals and with blaring pipes and drums made a public show of his attaining eighty. The religious part of it was so strenuous that he was laid up for fifteen days thereafter with fever.
The snippets of books that she managed to devour were enough to transport her, to give her the means of escape in the spare minutes of her day. The time constraints allowed her little more than eighty words at any one reading, but those eighty words were her salvation. For the next few hours, her mind would be full of questions. How old was Rao? Where did he live? How did he die and at what age?
Kathryn took her cup of tea upstairs to the dressing table and sat in front of its triple mirrors, angled to show her whichever way she glanced. There was no escape.
She placed her finger against the cool glass of the mirror and traced the reflection of her nose, eyes and mouth. She stared at the image in front of her, the face of a sad lady trapped inside the mirror who needed to practise her smile. Kathryn was unable to decide which the real image was. Was it the flat, cool face that stared back at her or the bewildered, lonely mask from behind which she viewed the world? Withdrawing her hand, she realised that it didn’t matter. The flat-featured woman that stared blankly from t
he glass and the veiled lids through which she saw were one and the same.
At such moments Kathryn felt she was living in a state close to madness. She figured that as long as she recognised how she lived was indeed ‘mad’ then there was always hope.
She combed her sticky hair and placed a marcasite clip in the side, to try and distract from the texture. What had Dominic said that morning? ‘You look like a mental patient.’ Any nasty statement hurt, but its impact was doubled if not trebled when it came from someone you loved.
She applied a little rouge to her cheeks and sprayed scent along her décolletage. As usual, the words of the song entered her head and spun around until she listened and gave them an audience:
For wives should always be lovers too.
Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you.
I’m warning you.
Four years ago
The house on the Cornish cliff could best be described as ‘rambling’. It had been constructed at the beginning of the twentieth century when there had been no shortage of local building materials and was a collaboration between an extravagant and whimsical architect who had a fancy for New England, and a wealthy tin baron who wanted a home befitting his station. The result was corridors that led nowhere in particular and a property that boasted not one but three Gothic-style turrets and innumerable church-style windows that let little light into the small square rooms that they graced. A decked terrace ran along the front of the property, held up with thick porch posts and gabled arches that gave the whole place a feeling of New Hampshire.
A wooden swing-seat just big enough for two adults of close acquaintance had been suspended from a length of industrial rope and hung in pride of place to the left of the front door. In the summer it would be padded with comfortable striped cushions, making it the perfect place to while away the warm evenings. Kate pictured herself with a glass of wine in hand and her toes rocking back and forth on the deck; it would transport her back to those hot Caribbean evenings, with the sound of the waves and chirping crickets confirming that she was in paradise. The only thing missing would be the dulcet tones of a certain reverend, whom she would happily have budged up for.
The front of the house was half timbered and one of Kate’s first jobs had been to restore the wood and paint it a pale duck egg blue. This ensured that Prospect House blended perfectly with the sea and sky against which it sat.
The phone rang on the desk in the study. It was perched on a stack of papers, all awaiting her attention with varying degrees of urgency. Kate hadn’t realised there would be quite so many administrative hoops to jump through before she could make her dreams a reality. She figured that if the demands were that pressing, the topic would come to light again, a bit like cream rising to the top or a bobbing apple in a busy Halloween bucket.
‘Prospect House.’ Kate still felt a certain thrill at saying the name. She balanced the phone between her head and her shoulder, crooked to one side.
Kate loved the place in which she now lived. When she had sat in the car park on the harbourside five months earlier with the windows rolled down and the unforgiving Cornish wind buffeting her car, it had been the name that had initially drawn her. She had looked out across the harbour wall and thought of Simon as she sometimes did, wondering how his construction project was coming along. He was often never more than a small reminder away.
The estate agent’s details had fluttered in her palm, the third or fourth set that she had flicked through; the name made her do a double-take, immediately pushing it higher up the list than ‘Jasmine Cottage’ and ‘The Lodge’.
Her pulse had quickened. ‘Surely not!’
But there it was in black and white: ‘Prospect House’, on the market and, miraculously, excitingly within budget.
It had turned into a momentous day: not only did the property match the one that had existed in her head for a while, but she immediately realised that it was not meant to be just a holiday house. Penmarin could actually become the place she called home.
The house had been named for the amazing sea view from its prime cliff-top position. For Kate, however, it was the dictionary definition of ‘prospect’ that most inspired her: Possibility of something happening soon, a chance or the likelihood that something will happen in the near future, especially something desirable.
This was the definition she shared with all newcomers to the house, in the hope that they might believe in the possibility of a better future, for Prospect House was all about hope.
Kate tried to concentrate on the voice on the end of the phone while she prodded at the pile of paper with her pen, hoping it might topple into the bin and disappear for good. No such luck.
A workman’s drill stuttered to life in the old stable. She plugged her ear to try and block out its drone. The staff would have their own quarters in the converted buildings to the side of the property, across a courtyard; far enough away to give the girls their independence, but close enough to be on site in a matter of seconds. As yet, though, no staff had been hired. Kate wasn’t sure how to find exactly what she was looking for. It was one more thing waiting to be crossed off her ever growing list.
She turned her attention back to voice on the end of the phone.
‘Yes, I understand completely. I think we’ve complied one hundred per cent: fire doors, new escapes and so forth. All work was recommended and approved by the Cornish fire service… My certificate?’ Kate stared at the pile of papers; it had to be hidden somewhere. ‘Yes, I have it right here!’ she lied. ‘I’ll pop a copy in the post immediately!’
She added it to her list and replaced the handset in its cradle.
‘I need some fresh air!’ Kate threw her hands in the air and shouted into the empty house.
It was one of the first glorious days of summer and Kate was relishing the novelty of living on the coast, bringing new adventures every day. The sun warmed her through the window as she dawdled in the post office, browsing the jars of homemade preserves. She wondered if it would be undiplomatic to ask who made them, so that she could go direct to the source and save a few bob. As far as possible, she wanted organic, homemade produce for every meal. It was all part of establishing Prospect House as completely distinct from her residents’ previous lives, in which Kate could almost guarantee that most of the food they ate came fast or shrink-wrapped. She had hated the plastic trays on which the prison food was served. An indentation for stew and another for custard meant that one slip and the courses would slop and merge together like the contents of a toddler’s pelican bib; it was disgusting.
‘You just bought the big house on the top.’
It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t answer, but instead stared at the young man who stood to her right, clutching his pot noodle and a packet of chocolate bourbons. She estimated him to be about thirty, with the high tan and weathered face of someone who had grown up and worked his whole life in the outdoors.
‘We’re not ’appy about your plans.’
This also did not merit a response, causing him to redden slightly under her silent scrutiny, but not enough to deter him from repeating his phrase.
‘I said we’re—’
‘Yes, yes, I heard you the first time. I am just trying to figure out two things before I answer you. Firstly, who is the “we” in question, and secondly, what do you or anyone else know about my plans?’
He shifted his weight onto his other foot. Kate noticed one of his legs was considerably shorter than the other, the deficit made up by an unwieldy built-up boot.
‘We is the whole village, all of Penmarin really.’
Her eyes widened. She placed her hand on the cameo brooch at her neck, feigning shock.
‘Is that right? The whole village? Goodness, I don’t think I have spoken to more than four people since I arrived and yet the whole village is unhappy with me? That’s quite an achievement.’
‘It’s not you personally; it’s what you are going to do up there, bringing all sorts o
f undesirables into this little place. Most of us have lived here our whole lives and there are kids and old people to think about…’
‘Where is it exactly that I am communally discussed?’
‘You what?’
Kate shifted her shopping basket on her arm and repeated her enquiry.
‘Where is it that everybody talks about me and my degenerate plans to corrupt your children, destroy your community and life as you know it?’
His nervous stutter told her all that she needed to know.
‘In… In the pub mainly…’ He looked at his feet. Had he divulged a secret?
‘Great! Well, you can tell the great “we” that I will be in the pub tonight at seven thirty, to discuss my plans and I’ll be happy to answer any questions that anyone might have. I’m Kate by the way.’
She held out her hand. He took it and smiled.
‘Tom, Tom Heath.’
‘Lovely to meet you, Tom. I’m sure I will see you later.’
With that she swept past him and the counter where the postmistress was listening and watching, mouth agape. Kate’s appetite for preserves had suddenly abated.
She marched the two miles home; the winding lane with its steep incline was no challenge for her determined stride, she was a woman on a mission. Despite her strong resolve, hot tears pricked her eyes. Why did everything have to be a bloody battle? The warm, salt-tinged breeze irritated rather than soothed. Kate cared little for the sprouting cow parsley and red campion as she kicked at the hedgerows, sending the heads scattering onto the scorched tarmac. Slamming the kitchen door behind her, she plonked her basket in the middle of the kitchen table and gave a guttural yell.
‘UUUrrgghhh!’
‘Why don’t you just swear? It is so much more satisfying,’ said the voice from the breakfast bar.
Kate laughed, but chose not to take up the suggestion.
‘I didn’t know you were back. How was Truro?’
No Greater Love - Box Set Page 49
