What Have I Done?

by Amanda Prowse

  Natasha had gone to work in a school just outside York, teaching kids with special needs, helping them develop through expression in art. Kathryn thought it suited her much better than the jab and thrust of life at Mountbriers. She had moved to Alne and was living less than a mile away from Francesca. Something stopped Kathryn from putting the two in touch. It was partly that she did not want to share her friend with anyone, knowing that she would have found it unbearable to hear of them having fun together without her. But there was also the unacknowledged fear that the two might sit over a cup of coffee or a glass of plonk and discuss her life. They might compare notes and between them reach the conclusion that nobody wanted to hear, especially not Kathryn.

  The day of Natasha’s arrival in her life was one that she would never forget. It had been an assembly day and the great and the good had gathered in Big Hall for the headmaster’s address and all the relevant notices. One or two pupils were decorated for achievements in music and foreign-verse speaking – the same four kids that were always honoured, in fact; kids whose talents were far reaching and renowned throughout the school. Kathryn was not convinced, however, that being able to speak Mandarin while fire juggling and completing a Rubik’s cube in record time was adequate compensation for having no mates. Mark had been rambling so much, loving the sound of his own voice and a stage on which to use it, that he had lost the pupils and most of the staff after about fifteen minutes, and she couldn’t recall the exact topic of his address now.

  As the staff filed out of the double doors and into the quadrangle, Natasha made a beeline for Kathryn, who was standing by herself, loitering and unsure of how quickly she could scuttle off without seeming impolite. These things mattered in a school like this; one had to be seen to be doing the right thing, at the right time and in the right way. Timing was everything.

  Kathryn watched the woman stride purposefully towards her and straightened her cardigan as she mentally prepared the answers to any questions that might be posed: ‘Can you tell me where to find Art block C? What time is break? Where is the nearest staff loo?’ But their first interaction could not have been more surprising.

  Kathryn saw both staff and pupils appraising Natasha as she walked away from them, quite unaware of the commotion she was causing – unaware or uncaring, Kathryn wasn’t so sure now. She wore a long, flowing, white cotton skirt and flat, clumpy sandals that looked like they had been made from recycled tyres and then painted pink. Her acid-green knitwear was unidentifiable as cardigan or jersey; it was more of a wool drape and was fastened at her shoulder with an enormous white flower. Her short brown hair was adorned with at least three hair clips, each with a sparkling butterfly attached – the sort of accessory you’d expect to find on a nine-year-old girl, but that was of no consequence to Natasha, who had seen them, liked them and so wore them. She was striking, different and fresh, and she looked lovely. It was as if she had not read the handbook of ‘What teachers in a school like this are expected to wear’ or, if she had, she had decided to disregard it. She made everyone and everything around her seem grey and dull and Kathryn would learn that this was something she achieved no matter what the occasion or the season. She was like light in a dark place.

  ‘Hi there, I’m Natasha Mortensen. Today is my first day, Art and Design.’ Her statement was confident and succinct.

  ‘Oh, yes! I knew you were coming, well, not you per se, but a new tutor. It’s very nice to meet you, Natasha. I’m Kathryn. Welcome to Mountbriers!’

  The two shook hands briefly, both a little uncomfortable with such a masculine greeting.

  ‘Thanks, Kathryn. I saw you in the hall and I have come to tell you that I’ve chosen you to be my friend because you look most like the sort of person that I would be friends with. Not like some of the antiques amongst that merry band. And what about that Mark Grade A Tosser Brooker! What an absolute arsehole! Does he ever shut up? Ye Gods – droning on and on. The kids were bored stupid, itching to escape, and I nearly nodded off twice! I can see that he and I are going to get along famously. Not!’

  Kathryn was so taken aback with Natasha’s directness that she couldn’t think of anything to say. She wracked her brains, trying to remember what it was she’d overheard Mark saying about the new art teacher the night before. ‘I’m rather over a barrel on this one,’ he’d complained. ‘Max Whittington has asked me to give her a go; he thought she was the strongest candidate by far. I think he took a bit of a fancy to her and, as much as it grates, I can’t risk him changing his mind about sponsoring the lower-sixth library refurbishment. Although if it was down to me, she wouldn’t have made it past the gate; I’ve seen her sort before – a frightful and subversive lesbian.’ Kathryn thought he was probably right on that last point – for once. Though Natasha was clearly far from frightful.

  Natasha continued, ‘Don’t look so stunned! I do that, Kathryn; I pick people to be my friends and they are stuck with me whether they like me back or not, I can’t help it. I have always done it and the reasons that I pick my friends are often most spurious. If you don’t believe me, you can ask Ellie Simpson and Hannah Hartley. I picked them at primary school and they are still stuck with me now!’

  ‘Why did you pick them?’

  ‘Ellie has the most amazing smile ever and shared sweets with me, I now know that she will always share anything with anyone, she is pure goodness and Hannah has dimples and laughed like a drain, still does!’

  ‘Why did you pick me?’ Kathryn was curious.

  ‘Mainly because you look like Mia Farrow, but more eye-catching. Plus you have something mysterious and aloof about you. Just by looking at your expression during assembly, I could tell that you felt the same as me about the whole carry-on; you looked like you wanted to be somewhere else.’

  Kathryn didn’t reply, pursing her lips tightly to stop herself from blurting out that her new friend was absolutely right: she always wanted to be somewhere else. She laughed, however, in spite of herself. Mia Farrow? She could only think of her in the sixties, elfin and gorgeous, and that suited her very well. She took it as the compliment that it was intended to be.

  Natasha hadn’t paused for breath. ‘So what do you teach, Kathryn, how long have you been here? Do you ever shorten Kathryn? It’s a bit formal for a boho chick like you…’

  ‘Kate,’ she offered, as she was trying to work out which question to answer first, what a boho chick was and whether she liked being one or not. It was strange that the nickname of her youth sprang so readily to mind, reminding her of the person she used to be.

  ‘Okay, Kate, yes, that’s much better. So what do you teach, Kate?’ Her new friend used the name twice, testing it out, making it familiar.

  Kathryn brought her hand to her mouth in embarrassment. A familiar feeling swept over her: that she had no right to be there; she wasn’t a teacher, she was merely an observer.

  ‘Oh! I don’t teach. Well, actually, I am qualified – English would be my subject – but I’ve never used it. Life kind of got in the way of my plans, babies and whatnot.’ She gave a small giggle, hating how trite she sounded. ‘No, I am in fact Mrs Grade A Tosser Brooker, Mark’s wife.’

  Most people would at that point have laughed, cried or covered their own mouth with embarrassment whilst apologising and over-explaining that it had all been a terribly misunderstood joke. But as Kathryn would discover, Natasha was not like most people. She put both of her hands on Kathryn’s shoulders and looked into her eyes.

  ‘Tough break, kid.’

  And for that reason alone, although there would be many others quickly learned, Kathryn thought that Natasha was wonderful and was very glad that she had been chosen as her friend.

  The rest of Kathryn’s day was spent in a whirl of chores that included cleaning the French windows in the dining room, refreshing the flowers in the hall and study, buying and preparing the canapés for the evening masters’ meeting and cooking the family supper. When these tasks were complete, Kathryn gathered her family laun
dry, ironed the sheets and placed them neatly in the linen cupboard to await their turn on the bed linen rota. By her reckoning, they would next be called for duty on Wednesday. Finally, just before 4.30 p.m., she sat at her dressing table and brushed her hair, then applied a little scent and rubbed some rouge into her pale cheeks. Then she changed into a rose pink linen skirt with a button-up cardigan, as per her husband’s instructions to look ‘feminine and understated’ at all times.

  Each afternoon at varying times, depending on the afterschool activity and season, Kathryn would sit at the white-painted dressing table with its triptych of mirrors and perform the task of making herself neat and pretty. The words of a sixties song would float into her head, unbidden, but with alarming regularity, like a pre-programmed alarm clock that she didn’t know how to switch off:

  Hey, little girl,

  Comb your hair, fix your make-up.

  Soon he will open the door.

  Don’t think because

  There’s a ring on your finger,

  You needn’t try any more

  She practised her smile in the mirror. She did this too on an almost daily basis, because she hardly ever wanted to smile naturally. She had long ago lost the desire or fancy to do so.

  Kathryn always expected to see her face sliding downwards on its bones, like Dali’s soft watch or fried egg, slipping and dripping into an unhappy pool of misery. She was always slightly surprised to find her face still fixed on its anchors, in place and as it should be. It was only the smile that was the problem; she could grin from the nose down, but her eyes refused to cooperate, remaining fixed and frightened no matter how hard she tried. She would just have to try a little harder. That was the answer, Kathryn: try a little harder.

  Five years ago

  The lawyer’s office was fusty, crowded with fat, dusty textbooks and what looked to Kate like ancient fishing gear. The wooden handles and woven holdall had both withered with age and looked entirely unable to cope with the thrash and slap of even the smallest fish. The window sill had become a magnolia-painted graveyard for spiders lying shrivelled on their backs like discarded currants. Particles of dust and minute fibres danced in the shafts of sunlight that crisscrossed the room.

  Kate felt the specks of skin and other airborne matter tickle the back of her throat. She tried to keep her mouth closed, but resisted asking for the window to be opened. It was probably best not to invite in the dirt and fumes of central London and besides, she was enjoying the quiet of Mr Barnes’ room.

  Kate had been out for three days and six hours. A free woman, having served almost five years of her eight year sentence and ready to face the world. Her biggest joy thus far had been the peaceful state of silence in which she had found herself on three occasions: in the taxi that had collected her from prison, in bed at the Kensington hotel in which she was staying and now in this grubby office in Knightsbridge, facing the man that Mark had trusted with his most precious thing. His money.

  The lawyer was old-school: red-faced, bloated and tweed-clad – and probably an Old Mountbrieren. The sort of man whose approval and friendship Mark would have courted. She could clearly picture this Mr Barnes retelling her story, trading it across the dining table between sips of claret and mouthfuls of game. She would be portrayed as that ‘frightful woman’ who had ‘done in’ the headmaster – an award-winning headmaster, no less.

  Did she care? Only in so far as such gossip might reach Lydia and Dominic up in Yorkshire, which bothered her enormously.

  Mr Barnes pushed his heavy, gold-framed spectacles up onto his bulbous nose and surveyed the papers in his hand. He was reading intently, as if the information contained within them was new to him. Maybe it was. It also provided him with the perfect opportunity to establish his superiority; he cared little that she might have other appointments to attend, or that her new-found freedom was being squandered in this dreary, airless room. He was happy to invite her to his offices and then let her sit in silence, waiting to learn of her financial fate, while he pondered the document. That he considered her so insignificant amused her. Unbeknown to him, she was quite content, not restless, keen or fidgety like others who’d sat in the same chair. She had all the time in the world.

  Finally, Mr Barnes placed the papers face down on the leather-topped bureau and removed his glasses.

  ‘I trust you are…’

  Kate waited for him to finish the sentence; he didn’t.

  ‘Yes, yes I am.’

  ‘Quite.’

  He gave a flash of his ancient yellowed teeth. They reminded Kate of tusks, quite fitting for this walrus of a man. She smiled patiently at the meaningless exchange.

  ‘Right, well, Kathryn—’

  ‘It’s Kate.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I’m not Kathryn Brooker any more. I never was, really; that was what Mark called me. I was Kate or Katie as a girl and Kathryn was a label Mark gave me. He took every part of me, even my name. So now I am back to Kate and my maiden name of Gavier. I won’t ever be Kathryn Brooker again.’

  Mr Barnes stared at the neat woman seated in front of him. He stretched his neck by protruding his lower jaw – an ugly mannerism. She was clearly completely bonkers and no doubt one of those bloody women’s libbers. In his day, a woman took her husband’s name and was jolly glad to have it.

  ‘Whichever. It’s of little consequence—’

  ‘To you maybe.’ She wasn’t going to let this go. ‘But to me it’s of huge consequence, so it’s Kate from now on.’

  ‘Yes, I got that. Shall we move on?’

  ‘Please do.’ She nodded.

  Mr Barnes restored his reading glasses and turned over the papers. Kate smiled at the theatricality.

  ‘Kate.’ He paused after more or less shouting her name, point made. ‘Mark has left you very well provided for. He not only had a sizeable pension that has performed rather splendidly, but was also prudent enough to have taken out life insurance, as well as a couple of other investments that we have redeemed on your behalf. Yours is a most unique situation and not one that I have been faced with before. There has been much discussion between myself and the insurance company in question and I confess to seeking counsel from more than one of my colleagues, but it would appear that all is in order in accordance with the law.’

  She nodded. His tone was more than slightly accusatory and if she had to be honest, it did feel slightly odd to be the beneficiary of a life-insurance policy when it was she that had ended that life.

  ‘Had you committed murder then things would be rather different, but as it stands, I am obliged to inform you that the figure is as follows…’

  The way he accentuated the word ‘obliged’ told her all she needed to know.

  He slid the top sheet across the desk, his fingers sticking slightly, causing the paper to lift. His podgy digits were coated with the residue of a roast chicken lunch followed by a quick pee, after neither of which had he troubled to wash his hands.

  Kate’s eyes were instantly drawn to the bottom right-hand corner, where the numbers had been totted up. The total was just short of a million pounds. Kate felt her stomach clench in surprise. She had no idea, how had Mark managed to accrue such a sum? She felt her mouth go dry as her mind whirled with the possibilities of what this might mean for Dominic and Lydia…

  ‘Is this in line with what you were expecting, Kate?’ Again he almost spat her name.

  She nodded and half shrugged, unsure of how else to respond. She had given little consideration to money matters while she had been in jail and never in her wildest imaginings could have guessed at such a considerable sum. Whatever the amount, a million or a billion, nothing could adequately compensate for the life that she had led with Mark and for her estrangement from her beloved children. She would have traded every single penny of it to have seen them at the prison gates upon her release.

  Kate stood, indicating that the meeting was over.

  ‘Do you have a plan for the money?’ Mr B
arnes’ tone was sharp.

  She found his comment impertinent and unnecessary. It was nothing to do with him, not any more. She really wanted to say, ‘Yes – the whole lot on the two forty at Kempton methinks.’ But she didn’t.

  ‘Well, first on my agenda is a holiday with my kids, just the three of us whiling away the days in the sun. I can’t wait. Thank you for asking, Mr Burns.’

  ‘It’s Barnes.’

  ‘Whichever, it’s of little consequence.’ This she delivered over her shoulder as she left, relieved to escape the fusty atmosphere at last.

  * * *

  Kate lay on the bed in her hotel room staring at the ceiling. London traffic revved and hooted below. Her legs were crossed and rested vertically up the wall. She wiggled her toes inside her new, soft grey socks – one of many small luxuries that thrilled her. A cup of strong Earl Grey and two almond tuille crisps sat on a little tray beside her on the mattress. She wound the curly flex of the telephone handset around her fingers: it was fantastic to be able to just pick up a phone and make a call, exhilarating to have a window she could open, a door to walk through for a lungful of outside air.

  ‘Hello, Yorkshire, we are all set!’

  Kate’s excitement bubbled from her as her sister answered the phone.

  ‘Oh God, Fran, I can’t believe it, I really can’t. It’s going to be so perfect, although to be honest I’d be happy to see them anywhere – Blackpool, Weston-super-Mare, you name it. It will of course be all the more perfect because we will be in the sunshine, but all that really matters is being able to talk, without distraction. I can’t believe I’m going to see them! I can’t believe it! Do you know what the best thing will be? Going to sleep under the same roof as Dom and Lydi and seeing them all sleepy and mussy-haired in the morning. Do you know how many years it is since I’ve done that! I feel like it’s Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve and every single birthday all rolled into one—’