by Carol Wyer
I feel my heart begin to beat quickly. They are arguing about me. They are talking about what happened at Paul’s house ‘that night’. No one had believed my version of events. After Lucas screamed, Natasha had rushed upstairs. She hadn’t panicked but telephoned for an ambulance and rung her father immediately. She’d got a towel and covered his eye that was bleeding and soothed him as he cried out. She pulled Lucas’s trousers back on him and without a word to me escorted him downstairs, shutting me in my room. Afterwards, Paul had been furious with me and I’d never seen Mummy so cross. She shook me so hard I thought my head would fall off.
‘Why did you do it?’ she yelled time and time again. I tried to explain but she wouldn’t listen. She was more worried about what Paul would think of me than what had really happened. She accused me of lying to cover up my actions. She said I was a malicious child. Her words hurt. They cut through me. I threw my arms around her waist, cried and begged her to listen to me but she pushed me away. Just like that. She unfurled my arms, held me at arm’s length and told me to go to my room. Why didn’t she believe me? I was her daughter. I needed her. Lucas convinced them he’d come home early because he had a headache. He told them he had gone upstairs to bed and heard me crying. He claimed he had only come into my room to see if I was okay. When he did, I apparently hurled myself at him brandishing my pencil, screaming that I hated him and the whole family.
There were angry words between my mother and Paul. There were tears and tantrums and silences. Paul wouldn’t even look at me after the event.
Mummy told me I was a horrible little girl who was ungrateful for what I had. She kept asking me why I had done it but each time I explained she silenced me with a look and told me not to come up with the same old lie. She told me to apologise to Paul and Lucas but I refused and that made her even angrier. Why should I? Lucas should say sorry. A day after Lucas returned home from hospital, pale-faced with a white bandage wrapped around his head and eye, looking far less menacing than he had that night, Paul asked Mummy and me to leave. He couldn’t marry Mummy. He wouldn’t feel comfortable having me in the house. My mother didn’t speak to me for days. I hated every second of that time. If it hadn’t been for Mr Big Ears, I’d have gone mad.
* * *
I sit here on the landing and hope the grown-ups aren’t going to make me go through the events of that night. I don’t want to ever talk about it again.
Mr Big Ears hugs me and whispers that it’ll okay. Grandpa Clifford speaks, his voice calm and gravelly. It reminds me of Daddy’s voice and I feel a pain in my chest that Daddy is not here any more. Mr Big Ears squeezes my hand with his soft paw.
‘Of course we can understand. That’s why we’re only too happy to help out and have her over whenever you want. You need to move on and start life again. Except, and I say this with great affection, we think you need some assistance. We want to help you. You can’t keep struggling as you are. Alice’s shoes are way too tight. She needs new ones and when was the last time she had a haircut?’
‘How dare you! How dare you look down your nose at me? Don’t think I haven’t noticed the little looks that pass between you and Jane when I come to drop her off here. You think I’m a rubbish mother. You’ve always thought that. You never made me feel welcome here. It was always, “Josh this” and “Josh that” and you never really wanted to know about me. It was like I was just someone you had to put up with. I was never good enough for your precious son, was I?’
Grandpa Clifford speaks again. ‘Not at all. We just don’t want to see you struggle. Alice is our granddaughter, after all. And you don’t have any other family. We can loan you the money if you’d rather.’
‘I may not have any other family and thanks for bringing that up,’ she replies, eyes blazing, ‘but I can manage perfectly well, thank you. I might not have a fancy job but pulling pints brings in money. She doesn’t go without. Okay, so she doesn’t wear the latest fashion or have a shedload of toys but she’s fine. She gets fed and looked after.’
‘That’s not what we mean,’ says Grandma Jane. ‘We know how difficult it’s been for you, struggling after the death of your parents and then losing Josh. You’ve had such a lot to cope with. We understand that. We’re merely concerned that Alice is becoming increasingly withdrawn. She never talks about her friends. She’s lost weight and she has those large, dark bags under her eyes all the time and an almost haunted look. And she’s always cuddling the rabbit Josh gave her. Maybe if you could afford to move to nearer us…’
I can’t hear the rest of the sentence. It would be lovely to live near Grandma and Grandpa Clifford. They are Daddy’s parents and being here makes me imagine he’s still alive. There are photographs of him and Mummy and me everywhere, on walls, in the sitting room and even a large framed photograph in the hall. I like visiting Granny and Grandpa. They don’t hassle me. Usually they take me to the park or to the café in town and let me have a large milkshake or ice cream. Sometimes they buy me new clothes and the odd present but Mummy always gets ratty when they do that, so they don’t do it as often as they used to.
Mummy and me now live in a block of flats in Nottingham. It’s a small flat and much smaller than our old flat. It has a sitting room and tiny kitchen and we have to share a bedroom. We can hear the neighbours’ television through the thin walls but Mummy has now got a job in a nightclub and says when we get enough money, we’ll leave. I hope that will happen soon. I don’t like the place and the lifts that always smell of pee.
Grandma Jane suddenly starts to cry. ‘We’re concerned, damn it! You shouldn’t leave Alice alone at night. She’s far too young. What if there’s a fire or something?’
Back on the landing, I look at Mr Big Ears and squirm. Mummy will be mad at me for letting slip to my grandparents that I’m now left alone at night while she goes out to work. I didn’t mean to say anything but Grandma Jane was quizzing me about all sorts of things and I wasn’t thinking when I answered her. I was enjoying my strawberry smoothie and panini in the café and it just came out before I could stop it. Mummy told me it was to be our secret. I hadn’t wanted a babysitter. Not after the last time. I screamed and screamed when Mummy suggested getting one for me and insisted I could look after myself. I’m happy to go to bed when Mummy goes out and I just read until it’s time to go to sleep. I never want another babysitter. I have Mr Big Ears. I don’t need anyone else. Mummy gave up in the end and said it was just as well because babysitters are expensive and made me promise not to tell anyone.
‘It’s illegal,’ says Grandma Jane firmly after more muffled raised voices. ‘And it’s not right. She’s only just turned ten years old. We could report you, you know. We could tell the authorities…’
The voices all begin shouting at the same time. It’s becoming too much for me to bear. I’m to blame for whatever is happening in the kitchen. I shouldn’t have blurted out the secret. I hear Mummy’s voice shouting that it is none of their business what she does and how she brings up her child before Grandpa says something that makes them all lower their voices. I catch snippets of words, spoken in harsh voices.
‘What do you think, Mr Big Ears?’ I ask. He stares down the staircase, a forlorn look on his face, then suddenly the kitchen door is thrown open with a smack as it bounces against the wall. Mummy yells at me to hurry up because we have a train to catch. I descend obediently, reluctant to leave this house where I feel safe and loved. Mummy is standing at the bottom of the stairs, hands on hips, face unreadable but as I approach, I can feel the anger emitting from her.
Grandma Jane is crying quietly and won’t look up. Grandpa Clifford has a gnarly hand around Grandma’s shoulder and looks really, really sad.
‘Please,’ Grandpa Clifford calls as Mummy grabs my hand and marches me out of the house. ‘There’s no need for this. Don’t go.’
Mummy ignores his pleas and stony-faced continues down the path. I twist my head to look back at my grandparents on the doorstep. Both look so very old and frai
l. I try to wave but I’m holding Mr Big Ears in one hand and Mummy has a tight grip on my other as she hustles me down the street.
‘When will I see them again?’ I ask after a while, a strange tightness in my chest.
Mummy doesn’t reply but picks up the pace. Her silence says it all. I’m never going to see my grandparents again.
6
The leaden skies that had threatened all morning now opened up and fat drops of rain hurled themselves into Robyn’s windscreen, making it almost impossible to see the road ahead. She navigated the car away from the sides and peered into the gloom where large puddles of water appeared from nowhere.
Mary Matthews was right to be concerned. Her husband could be involved in something bigger than he realised. Robyn needed to learn more about the friends in Thailand in case Lucas had two passports and had scarpered abroad. She had managed to contact Nick Pearson-Firth, the head of the music department where Lucas worked, and he had agreed to a meeting. Dark fields whipped past the Polo’s windows. Blinkley Manor was in the middle of Derbyshire countryside away from towns and villages. She wondered idly what had made Lucas teach at a public school when he had clearly hated his own.
She drove past several attractive cottages in dark stone and a pub with a welcoming chalkboard offering special-priced meals. She pulled into its car park to call Ross. His voice was crackly.
‘I hope you’re having more luck than me,’ he said. ‘I’m getting nowhere.’
‘Not sure about luck but I have a couple of leads for our elusive husband. The wife is concerned Lucas will be in trouble for having images of young girls on his computer. Certainly, if the police get hold of the computer and discover worse than I saw, then he might face charges. They were mostly photographs of girls in uniforms. Still dodgy though. Mary’s convinced it’s all some sort of ghastly mistake and is having difficulty in believing her husband is into that sort of thing. She even came up with the idea that he might be trying to play detective and has discovered one of his work colleagues or pupils is guilty of downloading this stuff and now has got into trouble while tracking them down. I got the number for the head of the music department at the school where Lucas works. I’m going to have a word with him now to see if he can shed any light on Lucas’s whereabouts. Apparently, Lucas doesn’t have many friends but he and Nick Pearson-Firth have known each other for a long time and have even travelled to Thailand together in the past.’
‘Okay. Let me know if you need me to steam over and help you out. I’m dying of boredom here.’
The entrance for Blinkley Manor Preparatory School for three- to thirteen-year-old boys and girls was well concealed and had it not been for her sharp eyes spotting a small, smart, maroon sign screwed to a tree beside the turning, Robyn would have passed it. Once into the grounds, she drove on a pristine tarmac road that undulated past woods filled with oak trees. Soft green moss carpeted the floor. Some tall foxgloves stood at the woodland edge ; their pink-purple heads a cheerful contrast to the deep green. The woods gave way to the school grounds, huge playing fields of immaculately mown grass, a large lake and the school itself. She whistled in appreciation. This was a far cry from the village school she had attended.
Robyn drew up to the car park in front of the school. She breathed in the air cleansed by the recent rain. The building itself was a Georgian Palladian country house with an imposing portico, cursive and round domes, chamber, pillars and a magnificent south front. A double spiral staircase led up to a rectangular balcony and a pillared entrance to the main hall. Following directions to the music department, she climbed the staircase and into the hall, once a living area in the building. The room was now filled with trophy cabinets, a large oak table and dominated by two imposing fireplaces and a glass chandelier.
A small cough diverted her attention from the gardens below. ‘Might I help you?’
Robyn turned to face the plump man whose round-rimmed glasses filled his face.
‘I’m looking for the music department. I have an appointment to meet Mr Pearson-Firth.’
‘I’ll take you. I’m headed that way myself.’
Without further conversation he opened the back door and ushered her through, down the stairs and into a tunnel that led into the main school.
‘It’s a devil to find the first time you come here. You’ll soon get used to the layout though. All the parents do.’
He pointed out the office, gave a brief nod and left her. She wanted to correct him and explain she wasn’t a potential parent but it didn’t seem worth it. Instead she knocked on the door.
Nick Pearson-Firth was not what Robyn expected. He was in his early forties, slim built, about five foot ten with dark curly hair and dancing brown eyes that sparkled with vitality.
‘Miss Carter?’ he asked, holding out a manicured hand that gripped hers firmly. ‘I’m Nick Pearson-Firth but please call me Nick. Come in.’
The office was a light airy space containing only a desk, chairs and a large piano. The walls were filled with framed certificates. He dropped back into his chair, a sense of restlessness about his body as he swivelled slightly from side to side. She sat in one of the seats opposite and gazed out beyond him onto the manicured lawns she had spotted earlier.
‘So, how can I help you?’ he asked, cutting straight to it.
Robyn was about to reply when the silence was punctuated by a fine soprano voice singing ‘Un Bel Di Vedremo’ from Puccini’s Madame Butterfly. The notes rose and fell against the adjoining wall. Robyn was transported to Butterfly’s world. It was one of the most breathtaking arias in the whole operatic repertoire with syncopated rhythms representing Butterfly’s longing for her lover Pinkerton, a beautiful melody, and a high B flat at the end. A memory of watching a performance of the opera with Davies rose with the music but she forced it away. This was not the time for such indulgences.
‘Is that a CD?’ she asked. ‘The singing,’ she added.
A relaxed smile stretched across his face. ‘That’s my daughter, Sophia. She’s practising with her mother. My wife is a singer too and an accomplished pianist. You might have heard of her – Katarina Pearson.’
Robyn nodded. Of course she had heard of Katarina Pearson, the well-known soprano who had shot to fame on a television talent show in her thirties. A tiny, frail woman, the watching public had been first amazed at the purity and strength of her voice and then reduced to tears at her rendition of ‘O Mio Babbino Caro’.
‘I have her album, Greatest Arias. I should have put two and two together,’ She said. ‘Of course, Pearson-Firth.’
Nick looked pleased. ‘Katarina always wanted to keep her maiden and professional name and Firth on its own sounded boring, so we put them together when we got married.’
‘Do you sing too?’
‘I’m more of a brass man. I play trumpet and tuba but can also play piano and violin. I’m not a great singer. Sometimes I accompany my wife or Sophia. You like classical music?’
‘Some. I like opera. Madame Butterfly is one of my favourites.’
His head bobbed up and down in agreement. ‘One of the most enduring tales of unrequited love,’ he murmured. ‘So, what can I tell you about Lucas?’ he continued, steepling his fingers.
‘How well do you know him?’ she asked.
‘Well enough. As well as one knows one’s colleagues. He’s worked here for nine years – all the time I’ve been head of the department. He’s a peripatetic tutor rather than full-time; he comes in four times a week and teaches at homes as well as at school. He doesn’t hang about after lessons in the common room with any of the staff. He’s an excellent musician. He always gets involved in school musical performances and is in charge of the school orchestra. The pupils like him. He has a high success rate. And there’s not much else I can add other than he sent me his resignation last week and I’m now looking for a replacement for him. I’ve got my work cut out trying to find a substitute teacher with similar qualifications at such short notice. He really dro
pped me in it.’
‘He’s resigned?’ Robyn said.
‘Yes. I was as surprised as you. I thought he’d stay here for life. He’s never given me reason to think he’d leave. He gets on with all the kids too. I don’t know if his leaving is anything to do with his dad passing away. I have a feeling Lucas might have come into some serious money. His father was an actor – Paul Matthews. In his heyday Paul was as popular and talented as Leonardo DiCaprio or Tom Cruise and was headed for the big time. I’m not sure what happened and there were a lot of rumours circulating at the time in the press but he just gave it all up and dropped out of the scene. He became a recluse. Hid in his massive house in Staffordshire. I believe he lived off investments he’d made when he was doing well with his acting. He was heavily into fitness and ran around the reservoir near where he lived every day. A few days ago, he had a heart attack while running and died. There was a piece in the newspaper about it otherwise I wouldn’t have known. Anyway, I suspect Lucas no longer needs to work. His resignation letter was very brief.’
‘I understand you went with Lucas to Thailand on one of his trips,’ said Robin. There it was: a flicker in his eyes. She’d been expecting it. His voice adopted an even more casual tone. ‘That was a while ago. We were invited by the parents of one of the lads in his final year.’
‘Is that normal?’ she asked. ‘For parents to invite you on holiday?’
He casually threw one leg over the other and thought for a moment before responding. ‘Miss Carter, this is a private school. The pupils live here during term time and we are in loco parentis. We are like one gigantic family. It is not unusual for us to develop healthy relationships with our pupils and their parents especially when we have taught them over several years. Max Devlin was one such pupil. He was head boy and a fine music scholar. We had watched him grow from an immature boy into a confident young man and attain a music scholarship to a prestigious senior school. Although his parents lived in Thailand, they attended as many end-of-term performances as possible and came to all the major school calendar events so obviously we got to know them. When Max left the school, Jo and Stuart Devlin invited both Lucas and me to their home in Thailand on a holiday as a thank you. Katarina was too busy to come and Mary, Lucas’s wife, apparently hates flying so it was just us chaps. I haven’t been since though – too humid and noisy for me. I believe Lucas has been a few times as he worked with Max far more than I did. He was Max’s personal tutor.’
