It was Julia\u2019s habit to stay on an hour or two after the end of school, long after the commotion in the playground had died down. She had the small office to herself, a glass box portioned off in one corner of the new library.\u00a0 When her eyes were tired at the end of the day, she\u2019d turn to the small pile of new acquisitions, dressing the paperbacks in their plastic jackets, stamping the blue crescent of St Stephen\u2019s Prep School, it\u2019s tiny curled-up lamb, onto the title page, a page from the middle and one from the very end of the book – a ritual she\u2019d inherited from her predecessor and adhered to with loyal superstition.<\/p>\n
The library had been moved five years ago, from the damp ground floor of the original Victorian building, where they now kept the banks of computers, up into the new wing.\u00a0 Once the children were all gone, the dusky afternoon turned to the mirror-black of winter evening, Julia could imagine she was on a cruise ship; not the Titanic – though that is how she pictured life below: white linen, golden chandeliers – but a Mediterranean cruise, one that would take in the Greek islands, the temples to Aphrodite, the tinkling of goats\u2019 bells.\u00a0 It had been a long-time dream of her mother\u2019s, and one, which, one day, she very much intended to fulfil.<\/p>\n
Six was her favourite hour: something so satisfying about the way the little and big hands, having chased around all day, pointed away from each other, tense, charged, Strictly Come Dancing<\/i>. \u00a0Julia\u2019s window, on the far corner of the first floor, looked out over the half a dozen bays in the senior playground reserved for staff parking, and from here she\u2019d noticed a pattern.\u00a0 Somewhere between five-forty and six, Mr Baines, Head of the lower school, would stride out from the double swing doors, the metal toe-caps of his shoes striking a distinctive drill across the netball pitch towards his invisible BMW, which as he opened a back door, would light up from inside – a soft, glowing moon – as if with joy to see him.\u00a0 He\u2019d set his briefcase carefully onto the back seat, straighten up, turn, now<\/i>, she\u2019d think, craning forwards, lifting her chin; for this was the moment when, like a moth to the flame, he might glance up to the single pulsing oblong of light, and know that she was there, tidying up, finishing off. \u00a0Whether or not he could see her from that angle, she\u2019d often remove her specs, and, lifting from her swivel chair, raise a hand to him and smile.<\/p>\n
It wasn\u2019t as if she were angling for promotion \u2013 there was nowhere she could go \u2013 she just liked to keep on top of things.\u00a0 So, when, at tea-time that Friday afternoon, she\u2019d come down to the staffroom with the tartan hold-all, packed and ready to go, she was sure that one of them (Celia, Isobel and Brian were all at their preferred stations) would have something to say.<\/p>\n
\u201cGoing somewhere?\u201d Celia asked.<\/p>\n
Julia knelt to post the bag out of harm\u2019s way between the legs of her usual chair. \u201cI\u2019ve got a train to catch, after tea,\u201d she said. She clambered up from the floor, straightening her skirt.\u00a0 Celia was holding a thin, orange biro as if it were a cigarette; she puckered her lips and exhaled. Julia made for the kitchenette, pulled open the cupboard where the mugs were kept. Someone had taken her new mug again. \u00a0She scanned the L-shaped counter. No sign. It was on the tip of her tongue to say something, but she clenched her jaw: not today, she was nervous enough about the journey ahead, she didn\u2019t want an argument. \u00a0Deliberately, she brought down one of the free medical ones they used for visitors, GlaxoSmithKline.<\/p>\n
\u201cBunking off?\u201d Celia said, in a sing-song designed to capture the room\u2019s attention.<\/p>\n
\u201cI never go early,\u201d Julia protested.\u00a0 (She\u2019d bought that mug from a National Trust shop, it was just the size she liked.)<\/p>\n
\u201cKeep your hair on,\u201d Celia said. \u201cWe won\u2019t tell.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s nothing to<\/i> tell.\u201d Julia had been practicing breathing for such occasions: Celia was as bad as the year nines.\u00a0 Breathe. She unscrewed the top from the milk and poured the remnants of the carton straight in, jiggling the tea-bag about between her fingers until the colour was right. \u201cIt\u2019s a family thing,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
Celia Beckwith-Jones had been at the school almost as long as Julia, but was ten years younger, and currently worked only three days a week. It seemed to Celia that it was the first time Julia had ever mentioned doing anything over a weekend, or, for that matter, having any family other than her dead mother.\u00a0 \u201cWhat\u2019re you up to?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n
Well<\/i>, Julia thought, savouring for a moment that twitch of genuine curiosity.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy brother,\u201d she said, making her way over to her chair.<\/p>\n
Imperceptibly, Celia raised her eyes to Isobel Baker. \u201cOh,\u201d she said.\u00a0 She was wearing her clingy lime blouse, exuding, when she spoke, wafts of sweet-smelling perfume.<\/p>\n
Isobel had appropriated the leatherette armchair, and was clucking over a wodge of knitting. \u201cI didn\u2019t know you had a brother?\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
\u201cJonathan,\u201d Julia pronounced, as if this were proof.<\/p>\n
\u201cOlder or younger?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYounger,\u201d Julia said. \u201cBy seven years.\u201d<\/p>\n
Celia, for want of anything better to do or say, was affecting interest.\u00a0 It had probably never occurred to her, Julia thought, with a shot of satisfaction, that she too might have family. \u201cYou must come round,\u201d Celia was always saying, \u201cmeet the tribe.\u201d The Beckwith-Jones\u2019s lived in a farmhouse with three or four children, two red setters, about six miles out of town.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat about you, Brian?\u201d Isobel asked. \u201cGot any plans?\u201d<\/p>\n
Brian grunted from where he sat at the table littered with his week\u2019s marking.\u00a0 He was proficient at zoning out of the chat, hovering over the open pages of an exercise book as if he were about to spear a fish.<\/p>\n
\u201cRob and me are doing quiz night,\u201d Isobel said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI,\u201d Brian grunted, without looking up.<\/p>\n
\u201cI what?\u201d Isobel asked. She had her elbows propped on each side of the chair, paused to wind the wool around her needle \u2013 impossibly big, childish needles – she was knitting everyone scarves for Christmas.\u00a0 Brian Gross, both she and Celia agreed, was on the spectrum.\u00a0 She turned to Celia now, \u201cI\u2019ve told Rob, I think he\u2019s addicted. He\u2019s kept me up half the night on rivers and lakes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy don\u2019t you take Brian along?\u201d Celia asked.\u00a0 \u201cI bet you\u2019re good at quizzes Brian. I bet you\u2019d be good in a team.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot my bag, thanks,\u201d Brian said.<\/p>\n
Isobel tugged at a strand of multi-coloured wool. \u201cGood job too, Brian. It\u2019s fully booked. You have to be vetted to get in.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cVetted?\u201d Celia asked. \u201cYou make it sound like MI5.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019ve got a professor from the Uni on our team,\u201d Isobel said.<\/p>\n
Julia was shuffling with her fingers in the biscuit tin – the broken, soft bits, anything to make the tea go down – when the door from the main corridor was thrust open and Mr Baines appeared. He didn\u2019t often grace the staff room, and they all, in their various ways, jumped to attention.\u00a0 Celia rolled back her shoulders, puffed out her chest.\u00a0 Mr Baines looked almost as if he\u2019d made a mistake, but persevered, turning to close the door behind him in a studied way, standing erect, shooting his cuffs from his blue jacket, before fully entering the room.<\/p>\n
\u201cNot interrupting am I?\u201d<\/p>\n
All eyes blinking their not-at-all<\/i> as he walked the walk-of-the-watched over to the kitchen sink.\u00a0 When he turned back, holding the plastic kettle in one hand, he blenched at their expectant faces.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnyone for a top-up?\u201d he asked. He looked – to Julia at least – heroically flustered.\u00a0 They shook their heads in sequence, \u201cNo thanks,\u201d, \u201cnot for me,\u201d and pretended to be otherwise engaged.\u00a0 He fumbled at the tap.\u00a0 The kettle was too tall to fill from underneath.<\/p>\n
\u201cTake the lid off,\u201d Isobel suggested, pausing in the middle of a row.\u00a0 \u201cIt\u2019s easier,\u201d she added with a smirk.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou have boiled a kettle before?\u201d Celia asked.\u00a0 She was glancing through the OK!<\/i> that had been stuck in the staffroom all year.<\/p>\n
\u201cThank you, um, Celia.\u00a0 I can manage,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
Celia was on one of the adjustable admin chairs.\u00a0 She spun around to face Julia. \u201cWhere does he live, then, your brother?\u201d<\/p>\n
Julia had a mouthful of biscuit.\u00a0 She sucked the sticky mixture from behind her teeth. \u00a0\u201cBrecon,\u201dshe said before she was quite ready to. She was aware that Mr Baines might be listening, that he might even be looking at her.<\/p>\n
\u201cBrighton?\u201d Isobel asked, helpfully. \u201cSounds like a dirty weekend.\u201d<\/p>\n
Typical of Isobel, who always brought it back to Rob. It wasn\u2019t an image Julia relished, but sex, in a seaside postcard sort of way, was what, when faced with the ruddy, comfiness of Isobel, most often popped into her mind.<\/p>\n
\u201cBrecon,\u201d Julia repeated, blushing. \u201cIt\u2019s in Wales.\u201d<\/p>\n
Celia dropped the magazine, propelled herself around in the chair, lifting her feet from the floor, hands flapping in horror, \u201cWales?\u201d<\/p>\n
Brian glanced from the two exercise books at present perched on either thigh. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong with Wales?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t tell me you\u2019re Welsh?\u201d Celia said, \u201cPlease<\/i>.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mr Baines was leaning back against the counter uncomfortably.\u00a0 He knew it was important, every now and again, to show his face in the staff room. In his experience, every school he\u2019d ever worked in, there\u2019d been that same whiff of discontent \u2013 state, private, it made no difference.\u00a0 It was brown-coloured and stale, like the tins of instant coffee; the place where, in the old days, everyone used to smoke, where now, however many times the walls were painted over, the smell, the stain, was impossible to get rid of.<\/p>\n
\u201cMiss Fitzgerald\u2019s got a brother,\u201d Celia said. \u201cShe\u2019s going away for the weekend.\u201d<\/p>\n
The kettle clicked and steamed and Mr Baines sprung forwards as if surprised that it had finished its business so soon.\u00a0 \u201cA brother?\u201d he asked, absently, addressing the kettle, not sure what to do next.<\/p>\n
\u201cTea bags above your head,\u201d Isobel interjected, leaning round helpfully, motioning upwards with her chin. He\u2019d been in post six months, six months since he and Valerie had embarked on what she\u2019d called their \u2018trial separation\u2019, and there was still something about the daily demands of domestic activity that floored him.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019s leaving the country,\u201d Celia confirmed.\u00a0 \u201cShe\u2019s going to Wales.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWales?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know,\u201d Celia said.<\/p>\n
\u201cNot permanently, I hope?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
Julia was floundering.\u00a0 \u201cMy brother \u2013 \u201c she began. How ridiculous Celia was. \u201cNo,\u201d she said, \u201cJust for the weekend.\u00a0 It\u2019s not actually terribly far.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDriving?\u201d Mr Baines asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t,\u201d Julia said.\u00a0 \u201cThere\u2019s a train.\u00a0 My brother\u2019s going to pick me up at the station.\u201d The words sounded so wooden, so far from anything she\u2019d imagined saying to him. \u00a0(Don\u2019t be long, Darling<\/i>, as he went up on deck to have a cigar under the stars to work out how he was going to propose.)<\/p>\n
\u201cHave you got anything nice on, Mr Baines, this weekend?\u201d Celia asked.<\/p>\n
Mr Baines moved his neck under scrutiny like a turkey, in and out.\u00a0 He plucked at his collar. \u201cOh, this and that,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cNothing special?\u201d Celia asked, cocking her head to one side.<\/p>\n
She was an English teacher and he found her impossible to get to grips with.\u00a0 He was no linguist, but the word d\u00e9shabill\u00e9<\/i> sprung to mind. Her hair was raised on the top of her head, and held in place precariously by two laquered chopsticks. There was no taming her. She was one of those types he\u2019d come across in London, who gave the impression she didn\u2019t have to do it for the money. His name for her \u2013 he had names for them all – was Wuthering Heights.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo tell us what you\u2019re<\/i> up to, Celia?\u201d Isobel asked, on behalf of them all. \u201cYou and your exciting life.\u201d<\/p>\n
Celia rested her eyes on Mr Baines\u2019 midriff and delivered a catlike smile. \u201cWe\u2019ve got people coming over\u2026 Friends<\/i>. I\u2019ve no time to get the place decent.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI thought that was what the au pair<\/i> was for?\u201d Isobel said<\/p>\n
\u201cOh my God,\u201d Celia flashed her eyes, \u201cDon\u2019t! She\u2019s ten times worse than the last one! She\u2019s worse than the children.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mr Baines was looking perplexed. Julia would have loved to take him aside, tell him about Johnny; how when her brother was little, it was she who\u2019d looked after him; how she understood about heartbreak, about needing someone to share the agony; how families could be worse than judge and jury, the way they carry on.\u00a0 Her chest hurt as if she\u2019d swallowed pebbles.\u00a0 She removed her specs and huffed onto the glass, began to polish with the remains of a hankie.<\/p>\n
When she hooked them back on, she found Isobel peering at her, wrinkling her nose, \u201cTrouble is,\u201d she said in a stage-whisper, \u201cCelia judges them all by the photos.\u201d She had stopped knitting.\u00a0 Julia was lost. \u201cAny that are too good-looking,\u201d Isobel said, \u201cshe bins.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWretch!\u201d Celia drew out a chopstick from behind her head and aimed it straight at Isobel. The chopstick redounded from Isobel\u2019s plump knee and landed on the brown carpet between them.\u00a0 Celia reached up and drew out the other stick so that her hair fell, red and crinkly over the lime-green acres of her blouse. \u00a0As she shook her head her scent was like a veil across the room. She pouted at Mr Baines, who\u2019d knelt to retrieve the first chopstick for her, kneeling as if \u2013 as if (Julia was in a cold sweat) – he were about to propose marriage. \u00a0From where she was sitting she could see the eczema behind his ears.\u00a0 As he rose, it flared like lichen on a gravestone.<\/p>\n
\u201cI haven\u2019t seen him for years,\u201d Julia blurted.\u00a0 \u201cHe\u2019s got three children.\u00a0 There\u2019s one of them I haven\u2019t even met.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWow,\u201d Isobel declared, and she paused long enough to wind and pass over another stitch.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe lost touch,\u201d Julia said. She could feel the heat in her face. \u201cBecause of the age gap.\u201d<\/p>\n
Celia was sitting bolt upright, away from the back of the chair, one toe pointed like a ballerina.\u00a0 \u201cThank you, sir<\/i>,\u201d she said, accepting the chopstick, setting its tip between her teeth as Mr Baines rose uncertainly to his feet.<\/p>\n
He was reeling from the white tobacco plant that shrouded her, the buttons of her shirt, ready to pop, their threads tugging at the capillary tubes that pulsed between his legs.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m leaving early, today,\u201d Julia announced hastily.\u00a0 \u201cI hope that\u2019s all right? I\u2019ve a train to catch.\u201d He didn\u2019t appear to have heard her. \u201cI don\u2019t usually,\u201d she began.<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course. Absolutely. Good job.\u201d<\/p>\n
Good job<\/i>, what could he mean?<\/p>\n
\u201cSend us a postcard,\u201d Isobel said. And it seemed as good a time as any for Julia to take her leave.\u00a0 She gathered her bits and pieces, her hankie, her Dorothy L. Sayers from Brian\u2019s table, and zipped them into the front pocket of the bag, pulling it out from under the chair, lifting it, as she got to her feet, with a heavy heart.<\/p>\n
Mr Baines walked as far as the door and opened it for her, pulling it towards him so that he didn\u2019t see at first the two blond girls from year six, standing there, fists raised, about, they gabbled, to knock for Miss Baker.<\/p>\n
\u201cSorry, sir,\u201d they said as Mr Baines looked them up and down and then turned to where Isobel sat poised in the middle of a row. \u201cMiss Baker?\u201d he prompted.<\/p>\n
\u201cCan\u2019t it wait?\u201d she snapped.<\/p>\n
\u201cMiss asked for us,\u201d they protested, as if Mr Baines were the police.<\/p>\n
Julia nudged her way between the girls, could hear them behind her re-petitioning their case. As she progressed along the corridor, a boy with his shirt hanging out came haring past, whooping. He, by the rumble further off, was the advance guard: it was home time for the infants, and before she could reach reception they were flooding down the main stairs, making a sound like gulls, not a language she\u2019d ever spoken or understood.\u00a0 They carried her along, sweeping her out through the doors, a sea of bodies milling into the playground, bearing her in an oscillating motion out towards the large iron gates.<\/p>\n
In the staffroom Isobel was collecting up the mugs. Celia produced one from behind her back. It was an off-cream with \u2018HER LADYSHIP\u2019 in old- fashioned type.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe didn\u2019t say anything!\u201d Isobel said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou could see it in her face,\u201d Celia said. \u201cShe was dying to.\u201d Celia made her sniffy laugh. \u201cDo you think she made it up?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAbout the brother?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy would she do that?\u201d asked Mr Baines.<\/p>\n
\u201cCan you imagine a male<\/i> version?\u201d Celia asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cOo,\u201d Isabel answered, with a look of prospective glee, as if quiz night were already upon them, \u201cone of those munchkin things from Harry Potter?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cRonnie Corbett?\u201d Brian suggested, dourly.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh My God,\u201d Celia said, returning the glint in Mr Baines\u2019 eye. \u201cRonnie Corbett. You\u2019re so right!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI see her up there,\u201d Mr Baines said, warming to the subject, \u201con my way home. She\u2019s like an owl.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cLike a Brown Owl,\u201d Celia said, elated.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow did you guess?\u201d he asked. \u00a0As if she could see straight through him! God he had to get a grip.<\/p>\n
\u201cDob, dob, dib, dib,\u201d Brian said. \u201cYou know, I always wanted to be a cub.\u201d He flipped over the cover on the last exercise book. \u201cJob done,\u201d he said, laying his pen down with finality like a sword.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
It was Julia\u2019s habit to stay on an hour or two after the end of school, long after the commotion in the playground had died down. She had the small office to herself, a glass box portioned off in one corner of the new library.\u00a0 When her eyes were tired at the end of the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":85,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[304,303],"tags":[],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n