Lessons at the School by the Sea, page 1
Dedication
To librarians.
Because you built me.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Characters
Introduction
Autumn
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Christmas
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Spring
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Summer
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise
Also by Jenny Colgan
Copyright
About the Publisher
Characters
Staff
Head teacher: Dr. Veronica Deveral
Head of English: Miss June Starling
Matron: Miss Doreen Redmond
Cook: Mrs. Joan Rhys
Caretaker: Mr. Harold Carruthers
Physics: Mr. John Bart
Music: Mrs. Theodora Offili
French: Mademoiselle Claire Crozier
English: Miss Margaret Adair
IT: Mrs. Margia Radzicki
Maths: Miss Ella Beresford
PE: Miss Janie James
Drama: Miss Fleur Parsley
History: Miss Catherine Kellen
Geography: Miss Deirdre Gifford
Pupils
Middle School Year Three
Sylvie Brown
Ismé Elgar-Phipps
Imogen Fairlie
Simone Pribetich
Andrea McCann
Felicity Prosser
Zazie Saurisse
Alice Trebizon-Woods
Astrid Ulverton
Introduction
Whoa. So, anyway, here is sequel to a book I wrote ten years ago. I know. This is so weird, I never quite thought we’d get here.
To those who kept the faith: thank you. You should know that we are picking up again five seconds after we left off, even though when we left off there was no such thing as Facebook or Snapchat . . . sigh. I miss those days.
Anyway, if you’re new, I would probably read Class and Rules first, which cover the first and second years. My publisher will kill me for saying that, but honestly, they’re meant to be read in sequence, and this is the third year of Downey House.
Here’s just to recap the history a bit:
A few years ago I wanted to read a boarding school book, having loved them when I was younger. But I couldn’t find one for grown-ups. So I wrote a couple.
We then decided (“we” being me and my publishers) to release them under a different name, Jane Beaton. I can’t remember why now. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Anyway, regardless, Class and Rules came out and they had lovely reviews but as it turned out absolutely nobody bought them at all, having never heard of Jane Beaton, which was perfectly understandable, but also made me very sad as I had loved writing them and was very proud of them.
As the years have gone on, though, people kept finding their way to them, little by little—they’ve never been out of print—and finally last year somebody wrote the publishers a letter saying, “Do please let me know what happened to Jane Beaton, as I kept checking the obituaries in case she died” and someone else wrote and said, “I’m going in for an operation and in case I don’t come round*, I would very much like to know what happens to Maggie and David,” at which point we thought, okay, ENOUGH IS ENOUGH—and so we reissued the first two, and now here is the brand-new one, and hopefully now I’ll get to finish all six and we will end up with a slipcase, which is pretty much all I dreamed of all along.
VERY WARMEST WISHES,
Autumn
Chapter One
Despite the summer sun outside, it was freezing in the long, dim hallway, and Maggie Adair was having the very worst day of her life.
It was the last day of the summer term.
The girls had all left, and the entire ancient, rambling building, with its four towers, was silent. The beautiful gray-stoned space did not suit being silent; it normally echoed to the sound of footfalls; girls shouting out; giggling and bells; rogue hockey balls bouncing down the old steps; distant choir practice.
All of that had gone, and the paneled hallway, hung with portraits of headmistresses past, was silent and ghostly. Maggie shivered.
Had it really only been that morning? How? How had she gone from getting on a train, on her way to Scotland to marry . . . Oh my God. Stan. Her sweet fiancé Stan, who would be waiting to meet her at the other end.
She sent off a text that just said, Missed train! Too expensive to get next one, will catch tomorrow! then quickly bundled her phone away and refused to look at it, even when it started buzzing and buzzing. She couldn’t . . . She had too many things to think about right now.
She tried to get it straight in her head.
She’d caught the train this morning as she’d always planned. The school year was over and she was heading back to Scotland for the holidays.
On the train she had met Miranda, the ex-girlfriend of David McDonald, the English teacher at Downey boys’ school, just over the hill. The man on whom . . . she’d had a crush. It sounded so ridiculous when she thought about it like that; just exactly like the schoolgirls she dealt with every day on Charlie Puth or Alfie Deyes or whoever it was this week.
But it had been more than that. Hadn’t it? Even though in two years they had shared just one kiss. That was all. And she couldn’t even think about that without a blush starting. But she had put it behind her. For Stan, and the long years they’d spent together.
And then. And then . . .
Oh my God. What had happened? Just as the train had been pulling out, David had vaulted the barrier and started running toward the carriage she and Miranda were sitting in.
And in a split second that had changed—and potentially ruined—her life forever, she had reached up, slowly, almost as if her hand was under someone else’s control—and pulled the emergency cord.
Chapter Two
The entire train had staggered. An old lady had fallen over, which Maggie felt absolutely awful about. She had rushed to her aid, but the lady had flapped her away. A lot of other people appeared to be swearing at her. There was shouting and consternation, and it had lasted a long time. Meanwhile, Miranda was leaning out of the open window screeching, “David! David!”
But neither of them got to see him. As soon as he’d vaulted the barriers, an alarm had gone off, and the police who patrolled even Devon railway stations these days had tackled him, sending him sprawling to the floor, then handcuffed him and bundled him away at the speed of light, Maggie craning her neck to catch a glimpse of him.
The next second, the train was besieged with railway staff, Miranda had somehow disappeared and Maggie found herself completely alone, standing next to the cord, waiting as a very angry-looking guard bore down on her.
AFTER BUNDLING HER into a little room off the main concourse to give her an extremely stern talking-to about whether she realized that everyone had thought they were going to blow up the train, and how she absolutely couldn’t behave like that, and how she’d thrown off the entire network, and how the fine might just be the start of it, Maggie had broken down in sobs, completely, and they’d asked if they could phone someone on her behalf, but it couldn’t be David, of course, and oh God, how could she possibly explain this to Stan, and everyone else had dispersed for the summer, which was why they had eventually got in touch with Dr. Deveral, the headmistress of Downey House, and why she had been deposited by the British Transport Police back where this had all started.
It was hard to believe it was barely lunchtime.
In the corridor, she buried her face in her hands. She had never felt more alone. She was a grown woman, engaged to be married, who had embarked on a flirtation . . .
No. That didn’t sound right. That wasn’t what she had had with David, not at all. It wasn’t some grubby Facebook affair; it had been more than that. Something deeper and more serious. She tried not to picture him: those dark eyes with their long lashes; that grin that came and went at unexpected moments; his long frame striding across the hills with his dog Stephen Dedalus . . .
A crush, that was what she’d had, she told herself firmly again. A crush like half of the upper fourth also had on him, desperate for glimpses when the classes got together for drama or concerts. She had a deep, passionate crush on a teacher. Not something that had happened to her when she was at school; something that had waited until she was grown-up and a teacher herself. She was just a late developer, that was all. And what did she tell her girls when they got helpless, passionate crushes on pop stars or YouTube stars? It’s normal, it’s part of growing up, it will pass and help you to form real adult relationships; proper ones with proper adults with genuine flaws and complexities who see you as you are, rather than an unrealistic, idealized state of romance . . .
But still, how could she help what she was feeling? And what she was feeling was so very, very strong. It hadn’t dampened down, hadn’t settled at all. She had thought of him every second that summer term, wondering what he was doing; every sleepless night, twisted in the bedclothes of her single bed in her turret rooms.
And he had come for her. Hadn’t he? Or was it for Miranda? She didn’t even know. Her phone was buzzing buzzing buzzing—but not from him.
Oh God. A wedding planned. Invitations sent. Stan waiting after she had sworn to him, sworn to his face on the lives of her beloved nephews Cody and Dylan, that this was it, that she would never, ever get caught up with David again. A dress hanging on the back of a door.
Her stomach was ice water. How had everything gone so wrong? This was such a mess.
Chapter Three
Wallet, keys . . .”
The policeman looked askance at David’s keys as he filled in the discharge form; they were ancient, heavy things.
“Where do you live, a dungeon?”
David tried to smile, but couldn’t. Dr. Fitzroy, his headmaster, was waiting right outside. This wasn’t going to be remotely pleasant.
“A school, for now . . .”
The policeman looked up at him, narrowing his eyes, then shook his head as he ticked off the list.
“Right, that’s your lot.”
David blinked.
“And my phone?” he said.
The policeman looked in the bag.
“No phone here.”
David cursed. He hated his mobile phone at the best of times. But the one thing it did have was absolutely the only thing he needed: Maggie’s number. If they couldn’t find it, what would he do? If he couldn’t get in touch with her . . . couldn’t call her . . . He had to explain.
But then surely, now, that would be the last thing she would want. He thought of her face, staring blankly at him even as Miranda was screaming something. He still didn’t know who had pulled the emergency cord, still didn’t know who had caused the ruckus; it had all been so fast, so confusing, and he had, as usual, ruined everything—absolutely everything—with his idiocy. What had he been thinking?
“Oh, you’re right, here it is,” said the policeman, pulling something from underneath the counter. “Sorry about that. It’s such an old model, I don’t think the young plod realized what it was, to be honest.”
He looked at it.
“Can you get, like, the internet on that?”
“No,” said David, staring at it.
“It’s amazing it still works.”
Now that he was leaving, the policeman was positively chatty; rather a contrast to how everything had been just a few hours before.
“Right,” he said, sliding some pieces of paper across for David to sign. “It’s up to Network Rail whether they charge you or not.”
“I realize that,” said David.
The policeman shook his head.
“For a lady, right?”
David winced.
“Well,” said the man. “I’ve been married twenty-eight years, and I tell you, they all look the same after a bit.”
There was a very long pause at that. Finally, “Can I go?” said David.
“Oh yeah, right, fine,” said the policeman, pressing the button on the wall that buzzed open the heavy door. Dr. Fitzroy was standing there, wearing a facial expression the pupils of Downey Boys had long learned to dread: irritation mixed with profound disappointment.
“Mr. McDonald,” he said solemnly.
THE RIDE BACK to school was completely silent and very, very long. Dr. Fitzroy didn’t speak at all, merely heaved a sigh from time to time. Meanwhile David picked up his phone, wondering what the hell there was to say, then put it down again.
Maggie was getting married. This entire thing, the grand gesture . . . He was a fool. An utterly ridiculous fool.
The boys had all left now, the last coaches just departing and the sun getting lower in the sky. It seemed incredible to David that it was the same day, that he had awoken that morning so sad, then suddenly so full of a ridiculous, crazy hope. And now . . .
Dr. Fitzroy told him abruptly to get changed and report to his office.
“I don’t know if they’re going to press charges . . .” David had started.
“They are,” said Dr. Fitzroy shortly. “They called the school and left a message.”
“Oh,” said David, his heart sinking even further.
They entered the headmaster’s office. In contrast to the clear gray stone and four turrets of Downey House, Downey Boys was of a later vintage: Victorian, and built with many curlicues and bits and pieces of ornamentation all around. The head’s study was entirely wood-paneled, and much of the original Victorian furniture remained. The view from the many small windows was straight down the valley, to where Downey House could just be spied, nestling in the headlands a mile or so away.
Dr. Fitzroy waited until the heavy oak door had finally shut behind them. Then he turned round.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he shouted in a voice he rarely used but which could make the windows rattle. David flinched, feeling more like one of the pupils than a teacher of many years’ standing.
“I wasn’t,” he muttered, looking far younger than his thirty-four years.
“Have you any idea how difficult it is to find good male English teachers? Who can handle a class and inspire their pupils? For Christ’s sake, David, you were one of the good guys. You know I had you in line for head of department?”
David swallowed. He had resisted all attempts to put him in a more administrative role, but now wasn’t the time to mention it.
“So . . .” he began.
“You’ll have a conviction!” shouted Dr. Fitzroy. “I don’t think you understand what’s going on here.”
It was true. Until that instant, all his thoughts had been of Maggie. It hadn’t even occurred to him.
“I’m going to lose my job?” he said, going white suddenly. It couldn’t be more than a misdemeanor, surely.
“You’ll have a conviction!” said Dr. Fitzroy. “You have to see I have absolutely no choice in the matter.”
“For trespassing in a railway station?” said David. “I mean, surely it’s not that—”
“It’s a prevention-of-terrorism offense!” said Dr. Fitzroy.
“Oh,” said David, startled.
“You’re lucky you weren’t shot.”
“I’m so sorry, sir.”
“Yes, well. Bit late for that,” said the headmaster. “Just as well it’s the end of term.”
They sat in silence. David felt an utter failure. He had brought this on himself. Of course he had.
He looked out at the old buildings, through the window with its beautiful view of the sparkling sea, promising a glorious summer ahead.
