The Warrior’s Princess. Barbara Erskine
enjoying her discomfort. She saw Zac call out and the old lady moved more quickly, hurrying away from them towards the shop. Perhaps she should go down and chase them away. What were they doing here anyway? The boys lived on the Constable Estate on the far side of the school. Almost as though he was conscious she was watching him she saw Ash move suddenly. He stepped out into the road where she could see him more easily and perhaps he could see her, and she saw him sketch once more the elaborate theatrical courtly bow in her direction. She saw Zac laugh and aim a half-hearted kick at his brother’s head, before Ash blew a kiss towards her house and both boys turned away, loping nonchalantly towards the Underground station and the busy High Street.
Jess backed away from the window. He couldn’t have seen her. It was much too far away. And he didn’t know where she lived. Correction: he wasn’t supposed to know where she lived. She felt herself grow ice-cold. He had done it. It was Ash and he was mocking her. Oh God, what was she to do? He was telling her what he had done; gloating; knowing she could never nail him for it. Daring her to try. That was why he bowed. Her best student. She had thought she’d won his trust and respect and this was how he had repaid her.
She phoned Brian Barker with her resignation on Monday morning. She told him she was ill; too stressed to teach any more. She cut off his protests by switching off her phone. Then she went to the doctor who confirmed that her memory loss could well be the effect of some kind of drug. She had gone for the morning after pill. She had not thought of the HIV test, the other tests the doctor insisted on; the doctor’s worried glance as she examined her. ‘If you don’t know who it was, Jess,’ she said gently, ‘you cannot take chances. The bruises, the muscle stiffness. You obviously weren’t a willing participant in this. You are right, you were raped and you should go to the police.’ On that point Jess had not changed her mind. She spent the rest of the day huddled in a miasma of depression and self-pity.
The doorbell rang at just after five. This time she opened it. It was Dan. After a moment’s hesitation at the sight of her white face, he strode past her straight into the sitting room, taking a seat in the armchair near the window. ‘So, what’s this I hear about you resigning? You can’t! The school needs you. I need you in my department. Besides, you have to give a term’s notice.’
‘I told Brian I was ill,’ she said after a moment’s pause.
‘And are you?’ He was scrutinising her face carefully.
She shrugged. ‘No. Yes. I have my reasons, Dan. I’m sorry to let you down.’ She met his gaze defiantly, then at last looked away. She had perched uncomfortably on the edge of the chair opposite him.
‘You are my best literature teacher. You’ve done wonders. You’re part of the team, Jess,’ he said carefully. ‘Can’t you tell me why you want to go?’ He narrowed his eyes, still studying her.
She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry.’ She shivered in spite of the warmth of the afternoon drifting in through the window with the roar of distant traffic from the High Street.
‘Come on. I need a reason. What can be so bad? Is it Will? I saw him pestering you at the dance.’
She shrugged.
‘Jess?’ He moved forward and reached out to put a hand on her knee as she sat across from him.
She flinched at his touch and he frowned, sitting back. ‘What’s wrong?’
She shook her head.
‘It was Will, wasn’t it? He did something to upset you.’ He stood up and took a few paces across the floor and back again. ‘Did he hurt you?’
She shook her head. She couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t tell anyone what had happened.
‘It was Will, wasn’t it?’ Dan repeated. ‘I’ve never trusted that arrogant bastard!’
‘He’s got nothing to do with it, Dan.’ She was shredding a tissue.
‘You were quarrelling with him at the disco. I saw you.’
‘Not seriously.’
‘It looked pretty serious to me.’ He narrowed his eyes. There was a moment of silence. ‘Why did you and Will break up?’
‘That’s none of your business, Dan. I don’t want to talk about this.’
‘He looked pretty pissed off when you left after the disco. He could have followed you and Ashley home.’ There was another long moment of silence. ‘It was Ashley! Ashley did something!’ Dan said softly at last. ‘The little bastard! What happened, Jess?’
‘Nothing.’ She clenched her fists. ‘Leave it, Dan.’
There was another pause. She was picturing Ash, by the railings near the gate to the square. The bow. The arrogant way he had looked up at the window of her flat. The blown kiss. She tried to force the image out of her head, but it refused to go. She had danced with him. She liked him; she had encouraged him. Perhaps she had given him the wrong idea. She sighed miserably. He was a lad with so much potential, set to get top grades. If she accused him and she was wrong and it wasn’t him a police enquiry would destroy him anyway. It would never go away.
‘So, you’ve made up your mind.’ Dan gave up asking questions. ‘You are definitely going to leave?’ He was watching her so closely she felt he was reading her mind. She nodded.
He continued to look at her for several seconds in silence. ‘OK. I’ll make it right with Brian.’ He seemed to have decided not to argue with her any more. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get a brilliant reference, I’ll see to that, if that’s what you want. Looking on the bright side, you’ll probably get a fantastic position in some private girls’ school. Just right for you.’ He gave a small sharp laugh and she frowned at the sudden bitterness of his tone. ‘Take the summer off, Jess,’ he went on. ‘Forget all about whatever it was that has upset you so much and start again in the autumn!’ Leaning forward, he patted her knee again. ‘Whatever it was, Jess, get over it. Don’t think about it. Put it all behind you.’
Stephanie Kendal was seated at the work table, painting designs onto a tray of small ornate mugs ready for the final glaze. Glancing up at the window, she frowned. The sunlight had gone from the garden. Long shadows were advancing across the grass towards the studio where she sat listening to the radio. Leaning forward she turned it off. In the sudden silence she could hear a thrush singing in the distance through the open door. Slightly shorter, slightly plumper and slightly older than her sister, Jessica, there was a definite family likeness in the two women, inherited from their mother. From Aurelia Kendal they also took their love of literature, their artistic talent, their charm and their unconventionality. As a reaction against their mother’s decision to live as a hermit in a small cottage in the wilds of the Basses-Pyrénées when she was not bestriding the world in her capacity as travel writer and journalist, both her daughters had gravitated to inner London after graduation and teacher’s training college. Jess was still there. Steph had caved in, turned her back on the bright lights and spent her latest divorce settlement on this Welsh dream, a small mountain farmhouse not very far from the place where her mother had once lived before she had decided to swap the hills of Wales for the mountains of France.
But she wasn’t sure any more if she had done the right thing.
Setting down her brush she reached for a paint rag and wiped her fingers, frowning a little as she did so. The sound had been so small she had barely heard it over the music on the radio. A click, no more, from the far side of the studio.
She scanned the shelves of pottery, the bags of clay, the jars of glaze, the tins of paint on the table by the wall. The rough stones of the old byre were white-washed, the medieval window slits glazed, the crook beams high above her head brushed, with here and there an ornate iron hook from which were suspended the light fittings and a