The Secret Letter. Kerry Barrett
href="#ulink_ad7044d8-af3d-5d6f-a825-fba9e6ff783a">Chapter 4
I was at school at the crack of dawn on the first day of term. I had always been an early riser, and when I was nervous I could never sleep.
I thought I’d be the only person there, but Emma was already in the office.
‘Morning,’ she sang. ‘Ready for action?’
I grimaced. ‘As I’ll ever be.’
She put a hand on my arm. ‘You’ll be great. Cup of tea?’
‘Yes please.’
Emma headed to the corner of the reception area where there was a sink, a little fridge and a kettle and busied herself finding mugs.
‘I’ll let you get on,’ she said over her shoulder as she filled the kettle. ‘Some things arrived for you. I’ve put them all on your desk.’
I thanked her and headed into my office. I’d come in every day for a couple of hours and made it more homely. I’d put books on the shelves, and brought in my stationery. But Esther Watkins still glowered down at me and the whole room was still pretty bare. At least it had been. Now there was a stack of post on my desk, a huge bouquet of flowers, a box of chocolates and two bottles in shiny presentation bags.
‘Oh my God,’ I breathed. ‘What’s all this?’
Emma had come up behind me, holding my tea. ‘Everyone’s very pleased you’re here,’ she said. ‘The big card and the chocolates are from the staff, but I think all the other bits are from parents.’
She handed me the mug. ‘I’m going to go and check all the classrooms,’ she said. ‘See you in a little while.’
Overwhelmed, again, I sat down on the chair and stared at the pile of gifts. I couldn’t believe how welcoming everyone was being. It was not what I’d expected and I almost felt guilty that they were being so nice when I was seeing this job as a step on my road back to normal life. A means to an end, rather than an end in itself.
I took a deep breath and a swig of tea and started opening the cards. They were all full of lovely good luck messages.
‘Wishing you and Elm Heath Primary lots of luck for the future,’ one said. ‘Love Sarah, Gary, Olivia (y6) and Rosie (y4).’
‘Let’s hope this is an exciting new chapter for Elm Heath Primary,’ read another. While another said, in a child’s handwriting: ‘Hello Mrs Armstrong! From William, Luke, Charlie and Emily.’ The kids had all signed their names individually and drawn little pictures of themselves and it was so adorable I could forgive them calling me “Mrs Armstrong”.
There was even one from Danny and Cara Kinsella. ‘Good luck, MISS Armstrong,’ Danny had written, which made me smile even while I prickled with irritation. ‘See you soon.’
I arranged the cards on the shelves, put the wine to one side to keep for drinks with the staff on Friday – I thought we’d probably need them – and opened the big card from the staff.
They’d all written personal messages to me, telling me how much they were looking forward to working with me, and how they thought this was the start of good times for Elm Heath Primary. I felt guilty all over again as I read them, given that I was approaching this job as a sort of gap year. A sabbatical. A way of pressing the reset button after a blip in an otherwise high-flying teaching career, no matter how many sweet pictures the kids drew, or how many messages of support the staff shared.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ I said to Esther Watkins as she stared down at me.
I drained my mug of tea and turned my attention to the flowers. They were peonies – my absolute favourite and very hard to come by in early September.
With a slight sense of misgiving, I pulled out the envelope that was tucked inside the cellophane wrapping and slid my finger under the flap to open it.
‘Queenie,’ the card read. I winced at the stupid nickname that I’d not heard in a long while. ‘Missing you fiercely but wishing you lots of luck. Gx’
My stomach twisted. How could he do this? I was just getting to the point where I didn’t think about him every hour of every day and now he’d wormed his way in again.
‘Sod off, Grant,’ I said out loud. I screwed up the card and threw it in the bin, then reached in and took it out again.
It had been such a shock when I’d discovered the extent Grant had gone to in his career. The risks he’d taken and the questionable practices he’d employed and not even for the good of the kids, simply to make himself look better – for his own gains. I’d been shocked by his deception, and by the fact that he’d not been the person I’d thought he was.
And then I’d been shocked all over again at how easily he’d sacrificed our marriage. His only concern was looking after himself; I didn’t seem to count for anything. It had been a long, hard year for me, living with Mum, coming to terms with what had happened, applying for jobs and having to explain why I’d left London over and over again. But it looked like Grant didn’t appreciate that at all.
‘Sod. Off,’ I said again. This time I ripped the card up into tiny pieces, shredding it on my desk like ironic confetti.
A knock on my door made me jump and I swept the bits into the bin, just as Paula stuck her head round.
‘Morning! The kids are about to arrive,’ she said. ‘Thought you might like to stand in the playground with me while they come in?’
I didn’t really. I wanted to hide in my office and pretend I wasn’t there, but I knew the sight of all the children would boost my spirits. I glanced at the cards on my shelf – I also knew the parents would be expecting to see me.
‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’
* * *
When the kids were all safely in their classrooms, I felt much happier. They’d all been so excited, skipping into school, shouting greetings to their friends. Cara had arrived, gripping the hand of an older woman I assumed was her grandmother, and gave me a cheery wave.
‘They’re a good bunch, by and large,’ Paula said as we strolled back to the office together. She taught reception and the littlest children weren’t starting until next week, so she was donning her deputy-head hat today.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing them all together in assembly later.’ I paused. ‘There aren’t many of them,’ I said carefully. ‘I knew the school was small, but …’
Paula bit her lip. ‘I noticed that too. I knew numbers were dwindling but …’
‘More so than you expected?’
Emma looked up as we entered but didn’t interrupt, obviously sensing the tone of the conversation.
‘I think so. It’s hard to tell in the playground.’
‘I’ll have a look,’ I said. ‘I should have admissions from the county by now. Come with me.’
Paula followed as I went into my office, sat down, and opened my emails. I was used to lots of movement in the days before term started; London had a population that was always changing with people arriving and leaving often, so getting final admission numbers at the last minute didn’t faze me in the slightest.
I found the right email and clicked on it. It was automatically generated by the council and had a list of pupils who had been withdrawn before the start of term. I scanned the names – there were about twenty of them. I turned my screen round so Paula could see.
‘Oh bugger,’ she said. ‘That’s four year sixes, a handful of year fours and fives, and lots of year threes.’
‘And you have eight starting in reception