The Red Oak (The Searight Saga Book 3)

by Rupert Colley

  A few moments later, Mark and Julie returned with the steaming coffees, Mark struggling with the heat of two polystyrene cups. ‘Here we are,’ he said to Tom, ‘yours is the only one with sugar,’ he said. Marginalised by a bloody cup of coffee, thought Tom.

  ‘Now then, Charlotte – my star pupil!’ Tom tried to smile. And so Moyes launched into his report: what a clever girl Charlotte was; intelligent, attentive, good worker, a tendency to daydream on occasions, but generally a fine girl. Tom noticed how Moyes spoke only to him; his eye contact totally focussed on him, never looking at Julie who sat quietly sipping her coffee. If Charlotte carried on with this much dedication, continued Moyes, she could expect a good grade at GCSE, but that was still a long way off. She mustn’t lose the momentum, got to keep going. Moyes pointed to Charlotte’s artwork on the wall. It was a copy of the painting he and Charlotte had seen in the museum – a line of soldiers, blindfolded, all victims of a gas attack, holding hands as they fumbled blindly onwards. ‘Isn’t it good?’ said Moyes. Tom agreed.

  ‘Charlotte is very excited by our Great War presentation but I do worry about her insistence on doing her bit solo in front of the whole school. She says she has no experience of performing or standing in front of an audience.’

  ‘What subjects are you doing next year?’ asked Julie.

  ‘We’ll be starting on the Romans in Britain, the coming of the Anglo-Saxons and...’

  Tom lost concentration as Moyes talked about the Vikings and Normans. He noticed that having been asked the question by Julie, they were forced to look at each other and both were finding it difficult. Julie gave way first and fiddled with her coffee cup, scraping away the pink line left by her lipstick under the polystyrene rim. ‘Er, another part of the curriculum is the erm...’ He stopped to think. ‘Ah yes, the Reformation and especially its effect in Britain.’ Tom stared at him. What did Julie see in him with his tatty chequered shirt, his floppy hair as Rachel described it, the thickset eyebrows. Why was she risking it all on this man? OK, he seemed all right, if a bit wet, and under other circumstances, Tom might have liked him. His stare was unnerving Moyes, he kept glancing back at Tom. ‘...Leading to Henry the Eighth and the Dissolution of the Monasteries.’ Would Julie leave him for this man, Tom wondered; was he looking at Charlotte’s future stepfather as well as her favourite teacher? Moyes was struggling, his cheeks flushed, his hand ruffling his hair. Whatever confidence he’d begun with had drained away during a two-minute résumé of a history curriculum. Empires rise, empires fall, thought Tom.

  ‘...And the development of Protestantism in Scotland, and er, finally... ’

  Tom had had enough. Enough of the history, enough of remaining silent, enough of being made a fool of. ‘Can I ask you a personal question?’ he asked.

  His interruption stopped Moyes dead. The teacher knew the question was not going to be curriculum related. Moyes looked at Tom, his expression etched with fear. ‘Yes, er, by – by all means.’

  But Tom remained silent. He could sense the anticipation in the empty room as Moyes and Julie waited, both staring at him, waiting for him to ask his question. They could hear the murmur of voices out in the corridor but in Moyes’s classroom itself, everything seemed so quiet, so still. Tom felt like a conductor taking his podium centre stage, while an orchestra and audience waited for the sound of the baton to click against the metal of the music stand. He looked at Julie, how vulnerable she looked now, and how pathetic. His orchestra and audience were getting impatient; it was time to wield the baton. He leant forward on the plastic chair and tapped his finger against the top of the Formica table.

  Keeping his eyes fixed on Moyes, he spoke quietly, even politely. ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking,’ he said softly, ‘but how long have you been having an affair with my wife?’ He held Moyes’s startled gaze, the three of them caught in a bubble that seemed to transcend the physical confines of the classroom walls.

  It was Julie who reacted first. Abruptly, she stood up. ‘Fuck you, Tom.’ Without looking at either of them, she collected her handbag, turned and marched quickly out of the room.

  Moyes called out her name. He got up too, his chair scraping against the floor behind him, his legs hitting the edge of the table violently as he rose. The table tilted forward and the half empty cups of coffee tipped over, spilling their contents over the carefully typed sheets. The table would have fallen back into place, but Tom purposely caught it and held it still, causing the cups and piles of coffee-stained paper to slide off and scatter to the floor. Then Tom let go and the table landed back down with loud clatter.

  ‘Bugger it,’ cursed Moyes as he crouched down trying to gather his papers. In his haste, he scattered them further across the floor and into the slopping coffee. He glanced back up at the door, but Julie had gone. He gave up on the papers, stood up with a sigh.

  At last, Tom stood up, satisfied with the immediate fall-out of his bombshell. He looked down at the mess of papers, stationery and polystyrene cups. Tom paused and savoured the moment with the air of the vanquisher over the vanquished.

  ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ he said. And with that, he walked out.

  The war was far from won, he thought, but how sweet the victory of battle.

  Chapter 6: The Departure

  Tom trotted down the school stairway, bumping into other parents milling about, clutching bits of paper and working out where to go, and outside across the floodlit playground with its painted white lines and red circles. He found Julie leaning against the wall next to the main school gates staring up at the stars, clasping a tissue. He rather hoped she’d walk home without him but realised she wouldn’t want to, not in the dark. It was a warm evening but she wore her new coat, dark blue and shiny with a large matching belt, her hair tucked into the collar. She turned and started walking without looking at him, hands deep in pockets. It was only a ten-minute walk from the school to home. Tom walked alongside her, waiting for her to say something – an admission of guilt, a declaration of regret, possibly even an apology – just something. But no, with her head down and her eyes focussed on the pavement, it was obvious she meant to maintain this sullen silence. A low-lying car passed at speed, its windows wound down, music thumping, the driver jerking his head in time with the frantic rhythm. A cat scuttled past, alarmed by the intensity of volume.

  Eventually as the bassline faded down the street, Tom spoke. ‘How long?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Year or so,’ she replied matter-of-factly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Usual reasons.’

  He tried to keep his voice steady. ‘And what are they, Julie, what exactly are the “usual reasons”?’

  ‘I don’t know. Adventure? Breaking the routine? Vanity? Take your pick.’

  A couple ambled along the pavement towards them, giggling and clearly drunk, their hands intertwined, their heads touching, their faces obscured by her long hair. They didn’t notice the forlorn husband and wife as they zigzagged past.

  ‘Is it still going on?’

  ‘No. Not any more.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because...’ she paused as if trying to grapple for a semi-decent answer.

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m tired. Can we discuss this another time?’

  ‘No! I want to know, tell me.’

  Julie stopped and glanced around as if worried that people might hear Tom’s raised voice from within their homes. Somewhere nearby a dog barked, a deep bark, a mixture of threat and apprehension. ‘Because it was a mistake,’ she said quickly. ‘Because I realised there was no real reason. Because I didn’t want you to find out. Because I didn’t want to hurt you.’

  ‘Bit late for that now.’

  ‘I know.’ She started walking again, slowly, her shoes shuffling against the paving stones. A street lamp flickered on and off. Tom followed a few paces behind. ‘How long have you known?’ she asked.

  ‘A week. You know when.’

  �
��Yes.’ She rubbed her eyes and for the first time turned to look at Tom. ‘What should we do? What will you do?’

  ‘What would you like me to do?’

  Julie swallowed. ‘To believe me when I say it’s finished, and, I know it’s a lot to ask, but to forget it ever happened.’

  ‘Simple as that, eh?’

  She shrugged her shoulders as if she really didn’t care. ‘It’s up to you.’

  Tom leant towards her, his voice filled with spite. ‘Did you forget we have a daughter; did you think of her while you were with him?’

  Julie shook her head. ‘I’ve had enough,’ she said, turning away from him and storming ahead.

  Tom watched her as she approached and opened their front gate. He trudged slowly behind. He didn’t know what to think; all he knew was that his wife, whom he’d loved for so many years, had suddenly turned into someone he no longer knew. Someone he no longer liked.

  *

  The following morning, Tom was finishing his breakfast when Charlotte came down. He and Julie had already given Charlotte the feedback from the night before and told her in no uncertain terms that Miss Bullock and others expected better of her. She still looked apprehensive, as if expecting another blow-by-blow account of her misdemeanours at school, but Tom needed to get to work and left quickly. He felt tired. He’d slept in the spare bedroom with its bed that was too soft. He’d woken up at regular intervals, each time the events of the previous evening replaying in his mind. The showdown in the classroom, the polystyrene cups, the painting of the gas victims, the conversation with Julie on the way home, the drunken couple, Rachel’s interference. The vision of coffee spilling on the scattered pieces of paper.

  By the time Tom arrived at work, the open-plan office was still half-empty. He sat at his desk and gazed at the two photographs, their jolly faces smiling up at him. He switched on his computer, and while he waited for the machine to kick into life, his thoughts turned to the letter from France. He logged into his personal email, keen to see whether she’d responded to his message. There were six new messages: one that promised to wipe away his debts; another informing him he’d won $1,000; one offering the best mortgage deals in the States; one from ‘Angie – see me naked’; and another that promised him a penis extension. But there amongst the pornography and dubious American financial scams, was one from Maria Dubois. Tom quickly deleted the junk mail and eagerly opened Maria’s message, surprised by how excited he felt.

  Dear Tom

  Thank you for your e-mail. Yes, you must be the right Searight. I’m so pleased at having found you. My grandmother would be so happy. I have not read Guy’s diaries for the writing is too little and difficult. But grandmamma did say he had a false leg, so it must be the same family. I think she also mentioned a boy called Robert who was born with the name George. He must be an old man by now. I did receive a message from another Searight but they were for sure not of the same family.

  If you give me your address I can post the diary and the medals to you, but my husband thinks they may get lost in the post. If only we could meet, but I shall use the special postal service and hope for the best.

  I send you my best wishes,

  Maria.

  The office was beginning to fill up. Tom saw Clive go into his office and Gabrielle smiled as she sat down at her desk next to Tom’s. Slowly the idea formed in his mind, and the more he thought of it, the more it appealed. He decided to write straight back to her, and advise her not to entrust Guy’s legacy through the uncertainty of the Anglo-French postal service. He could just go without telling Julie, he had no need to justify or explain, the moral prerogative was still on his side. What about this weekend? No, too short notice. Perhaps the following weekend. No harm in asking, she might be pleased by his serious interest. Tom wondered what she’d be like. Young, attractive? Not that it mattered. He would stay in a local guesthouse or whatever they have in St Omer, go and have cup of tea, pick up the family heirlooms and leave, and have a nice, solitary weekend in the bargain. He clicked the reply button and started to type:

  Dear Maria,

  Your husband is quite right. It might be unwise to trust such an important package to the post. It would be tragic if it was lost after your grandmother looked after it all so carefully for all these years. As it was, I was thinking of coming to France over the next couple of weekends to look at the battlefields. I know it is very short notice for you, but I need not take up too much of your time if you’re busy.

  Regards

  Tom.

  He’d had no intention of visiting the battlefields but the idea of a day trip to France rather appealed. The exchange of emails cheered him up no end. It was like a beacon that shone out amongst the gloom that had suddenly engulfed him during the preceding week, and he was quite content to be guided by this French ray of light and to see where, if anywhere, it would lead him.

  Tom entered the password to access his design files and stared at the 3-D image on the screen in front of him. There was so much to fit in and it all seemed wrong somehow. The specification for the library counter took up far too much room, squeezing the children’s library into a corner and surely they were underestimating the amount of space needed for public computers. But most importantly, thought Tom, there seemed to be no provision for disabled access. The specifications he was working to wouldn’t meet the requirements of the 1995 Disability Discrimination Act.

  The phone interrupted his thoughts. ‘Is that Tom Searight? It’s Adrian from Dunstone, Cutler and Maine.’

  ‘Hello, Adrian, unexpected call, how can I help?’ He wondered whether Adrian’s beard was still blue.

  ‘You can help all right. By butting out.’

  ‘What? I’m sorry, what are you talking about?’

  ‘I think you know; I’m talking about Rachel. She’s told me all about you coming round to her place, about your little liaisons and I’m warning you to keep your nose out, all right?’

  ‘No, hang on a minute...’ But Adrian had rung off. Tom stared open-mouthed at the telephone. He decided it was about time he and Rachel had a little chat.

  It was also time to discuss the library plans with Clive; it was, after all, part of Clive’s job to advise and encourage. But Tom knew that Clive would be of little use. He was all right on seeing the ‘big picture’ and could talk for hours on grand visions and long-term objectives, but when it came to the small stuff, the detail, he got bored. He was not a man for the minutiae. And, more annoyingly, whenever Tom set up a meeting to see Clive, the man always cancelled; something else always “cropped up”. The only way was to bulldoze in and demand his attention there and then. Tom did just that. As usual, Clive talked in monosyllables while stuffing his face with crisps. Tom showed him his plans to date. Clive gave them a cursory flip through, muttering the odd approving sound, spluttering bits of crisp over the paperwork. Whenever he had to think, he ran his short chunky fingers through his stubbly hairline. Tom expected nothing but begrudging support; it was far easier to give everything a casual nod of consent than be bothered about thinking through possible changes or improvements.

  Eventually Clive looked up. ‘Don’t know what you’re worried about, looks fine. Go for it.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  Clive shrugged his shoulders. ‘What else is there?

  ‘Well, I’m worried about disabled access. I’m not sure how to address the provision for it. I mean, a lift for example, would have to be worked out in conjunction with the other departments.’

  Clive rubbed his hair. ‘No need to bother. Like you say, it has to be a centralised thing. Claudette’s probably dealing with it.’

  The phone rang and Clive seized the opportunity to answer it. It was obvious that Tom had used up his time and he wouldn’t get anything else out of him, so with half-hearted thanks, he left and made his way back to his desk.

  Soon after 10.30 am, Claudette breezed in; wearing another variation on her masculine suits, and headed for her office. As usual, her
corkscrew hair bounced in time with her purposeful stride. Tom hated to admit it but she was damn attractive.

  Tom gave it half an hour before deciding to go speak to Claudette about the disability access. The blinds had been pulled down. He was about to knock on the glass-fronted door when he heard her voice from inside. ‘They’ve given us a date for the presentation – Friday, three o’clock... Yeah, of course I can do it... I’m worth a lot more than that... If you like; it’s for you to discuss but I’m not risking it for less...’

  ‘Eavesdropping, Tom?’ Tom jumped. It was Clive.

  ‘I was going to ask Claudette about the disability stuff.’

  ‘Relax man, she’s doing it. Anyway, you know she doesn’t want to be disturbed when the blinds are down.’

  ‘Suppose. I’ll try later.’

  Tom didn’t get to see Claudette and it was time to go home. He couldn’t face it but equally where else could he go? Forty-five minutes later, he opened the front door with a heavy heart. This wasn’t going to be easy, he thought. Angus welcomed him home. He could smell dinner and could hear the television blaring. He popped his head around the sitting room door where Julie and Charlotte were watching an early evening soap opera. Without turning away from the screen, Julie told him there was some cottage pie for him in the microwave. Tom went into the kitchen and looked at his dinner but wasn’t the slightest bit hungry. He sat down at the kitchen table and glanced at the post. The anniversary flowers were still in their vase, next to Julie’s mobile. He picked the phone up but on hearing Julie’s footsteps in the hallway, quickly placed it back on the table. She came in, her arms folded tightly, avoiding his gaze. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ she said.

  Tom switched on the microwave as Julie rinsed out a couple of mugs and dried them.

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’ve mended your Arsenal mug.’