The House on the Cliff, page 16
‘Heavens. That’s not good. Is he worried?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him. But I know there’s a lot he’ll need to do and I know how hard he’s found previous inspections.’
Rosie takes a sip from her tea and looks thoughtful.
‘Look, it’s almost the end of teaching time, and it’s been quiet here today. Why don’t you head up to his office and see if he needs some support. I know you’ve worked in school admin and he might want someone to talk to who isn’t bloody Bede…’
Amanda smiles at her friend, who seems to know her better than she knows herself.
‘Thank you. That’s a great idea.’
Amanda leaves the medical room and walks up two flights of stairs to the management offices. As soon as she arrives on the corridor, she can sense nervous energy. Admin staff who usually work in a separate building are up here, crowding into a small room which is adjacent to the headmaster’s office. She recognises Christina Newton, the caustic woman who’d given her the brush-off when she’d gone to see if she’d be able to offer her any work. She’s in the midst of an intense conversation with another, younger woman, whose back is to Amanda. The door to the headmaster’s office, meanwhile, is closed. On the right further up is Brother Bede’s office, and his door is open. She can see him slumped in front of his computer screen. On the other side of the corridor is Mike’s office. His door is slightly ajar, and Amanda can see the back of her husband’s coat slung at an angle on a chair. She knocks.
‘Come in.’
She walks in. Mike is sitting back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck vigorously. He always does this when he is stressed.
‘Oh, Mandy. Hi.’
‘I came in case you needed help. Are you OK?’
His eyes dart towards the open door. He gets up and closes it, and sits back down at his desk, passing Amanda but not stopping to kiss or hug her.
‘Umm… not really. It’s all gone a bit mad here.’
‘Yes. Are they here already?’
‘Yes. They’re in the boarding houses. And then they’re coming up here to look at all our safeguarding policies and paperwork.’
And then Amanda sees it. It’s not just stress on her husband’s face. It’s fear.
‘What’s up?’ she asks.
He pauses, blinking several times as if he’s trying to wipe away the nightmare that’s currently dancing around his mind.
‘It’s my club. The rewilding club. I’ve heard them suggesting it’s linked to the incident in the cave.’
‘But you said it was a mix of boys who went?’
‘Yes. It was. But the ringleaders were in that group. I knew that. Of course they were. They’re the difficult boys, aren’t they? Anyway, they’re sniffing around it, checking my paperwork.’
‘Do you know who tipped them off?’
‘No. But word is…’ he says, staring pointedly in the direction of Bede’s office. ‘He’s never liked me. Or Paul, come to that.’
‘Are you sure that’s what’s going on? I mean, your club obviously has the naughtiest boys in it. That’s the point, isn’t it? And you’ve done such good things…’
‘Oh God…’ says Mike, his head in his hands.
‘Look, it’ll be OK. Shall I stay with you? We can work out a plan together.’
He looks up at her, his expression unreadable.
‘No, we can’t.’
‘Sorry?’
‘We can’t, Mandy. This is my job, and my situation to sort. You can’t help me.’
‘But I’ve always…’
‘Not this time.’
‘What? Why?’
‘I don’t have time for you at the moment. Let’s speak later.’
And then she feels the rage again. It bursts out of her like a vicious serpent, and once it’s out, there is no way she can contain it. She knows in the back of her mind that he’s going through a very stressful time and she should try to be patient, but the disrespect he’s showing her at this moment feels like the tip of an iceberg. He refused to believe she’d heard those cries in the night. He cancelled their family trip to London for his job. He went to mass rather than staying to help her after she was injured. She decides that she’s had enough. How dare he suggest she’s not knowledgeable or capable enough to be able to help him.
‘I am not a student who can just be dismissed,’ she says, sensing the heat of her own breath.
‘Look, Mand. That’s not what I meant.’
‘Of course it’s what you bloody meant. You’re far too important now to need your silly little wife, aren’t you?’
‘Oh Christ, Mand, I don’t have the time for…’
‘Exactly. You don’t have the time for me at the moment. Like you said. Not just today, but generally now. Am I right? Not now I’m almost invisible to everyone except other women of a certain age. Do you look at me and wonder where your wife went? Well, let me tell you, I’ve thought about you almost every day since we moved here. I’ve done nothing but think about you and how stressed and tired you are. How overwhelmed. I’ve worried about you constantly, even though I hate our minuscule flat and I miss our kids more than I ever thought possible.’ They stare at each other in silence for a few seconds, their battle lines clearly drawn. Then Mike opens his mouth as if he’s about to speak, but he decides against it. He simply looks away, at his computer screen, and stares at it fixedly. ‘Right, well. I’ll go. And I’ll be out when you get back later. Whenever that is.’
Amanda turns on her heel and slams the door behind her, not waiting for Mike’s response. And then she flies back down the corridor and the stairs, buoyed up by her own rage.
‘Rosie,’ she says, as she re-enters the medical room. ‘Rosie, I need your help.’
‘So he said he didn’t have time for you?’
It’s two hours later, and Amanda is sitting in Rosie’s cosy sitting room in a cottage in a village a couple of miles inland from the school. She’s nursing a large glass of red wine.
‘Yep. And I just… blew up. I couldn’t help myself.’
‘I really don’t blame you. Not on top of everything else you’ve been telling me about.’ Rosie is sitting on the opposite end of the sofa. She leans over and holds out an open bag of crisps, and Amanda takes a handful.
‘Do you think I overreacted?’ Amanda asks. The fog of her earlier rage has begun to clear, and she’s realising her reaction wasn’t at all rational. But then, she thinks, he’s never spoken to her like that before, has he? He was so off-hand, as if she was an irrelevance. ‘Maybe it’s just these damned perimenopausal symptoms…’
‘Well, you have every right to be angry, if you ask me,’ says Rosie, gulping down a mouthful of wine. ‘They can’t get away with blaming everything on our hormones. If my ex-husband had spoken to me like that… well, he did, I suppose. That’s why we’re divorced.’
Amanda feels a tug somewhere inside her and fights a wave of nausea that races through her. Divorce, she thinks. We can’t get divorced. Not Mike and me.
‘He’s been so stressed since we arrived,’ she says, feeling suddenly defensive. ‘He’s so on edge. I mean, it’s a big job. Bigger than either of us had imagined. The school is in a precarious state. Sorry, I shouldn’t really be telling you this…’
‘It’s all right. No one who’s worked at the school for a while could be at all surprised. I mean, that’s why they had the shake-up at top, appointing the new head and bringing Mike in. They couldn’t let Bede take over. He’s part of the problem.’
Amanda nods. Mike’s told her that Bede has consistently refused to go along with changes he’s suggested, and even Father Paul’s ideas. There have even been shouting matches in their meetings.
‘He’s almost unrecognisable from the man I knew, you know,’ she says, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘Mike is… Mike used to be… different.’
‘In what way?’
‘He was… caring. He’s sensitive. Not that you’d know it to see him in action at school, of course, but he’s always cared deeply about his students, his colleagues, me, our kids… He went through a lot, growing up. Things weren’t easy at home.’
‘Oh… I see.’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t have to tell me anything. It’s OK. I know I’m another member of staff and…’
‘It’s all right. You’re my friend, and I trust you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘The thing is, Mike never really got over his brother’s death. He had an older brother, you see – Olly. Five years older. He idolised him. But he committed suicide when he was seventeen. It hit Mike very hard. His parents, too, and that was awful for Mike. It’s like Olly’s death was a massive earthquake. Olly’s death split the family up, and they’ve never got back together. Mike and his parents have been shouting at each other across the resulting fault ever since.’
‘Goodness. I had no idea.’
‘No. He hardly ever talks about him, even with me. But I know Olly is on his mind a lot. He was a troubled boy, Olly. That’s partly why he’s been working so hard with the boys here, with the rewilding club… I think his brother’s experience… It fuels him.’
‘I see.’
‘But now this… this issue with Ofsted. I think it could destroy him. He’s worked so hard for this, to get where he is. And now it might just tumble down around him…’
‘It might be OK, you know. The Ofsted inspection. I’m sure he had all of the required paperwork in place.’
‘For the club, maybe. But if the school is doing everything right then how did all those boys get out without being spotted, so late at night?’
‘They’re teenage boys. They’ll always find a way.’
Amanda takes another sip of wine.
‘I suppose so.’
‘One thing is certain. There’s nothing you can do about the Ofsted situation now. Mike, Bede and Paul – whenever he comes back to work – will have to sort it themselves. You need to look after yourself. You’re going through a tough time. It’s hard enough moving locations, starting a new job and having your kids leave home. It’s even harder when you’re going through the perimenopause, and your hormones have no idea what they’re doing at any given time.’
‘Isn’t that the truth,’ says Amanda, grabbing another handful of crisps. ‘Thank you so much for letting me stay here tonight.’
‘No problem,’ Rosie replies with a smile. ‘What are friends for?’
20
THERESA
10 July 1966
‘Call the RNLI, Rob,’ shouts Father Crispin into the raging storm. ‘Do it now. Run.’
The janitor doesn’t need to be asked twice. He’s halfway up the steps and racing back towards the school before Theresa even starts to process what might have happened. She watches him disappear over the top of the cliff and then turns her attention back to the headmaster and the two other men, who are now pacing up and down the shoreline and along the jetty, searching the water at their feet. She sees Crispin bend down and pick up the sodden blazer and run his fingers over it, as if he’s checking its authenticity.
‘Can you see anything?’ he shouts to Theresa, turning towards her. She’s taken aback, because she hadn’t thought he’d noticed her. ‘I’ve left my glasses at the school. Can you see anything out there? A boat?’
There’s pleading in his voice, like that of a small child asking for a treat.
‘Oh, umm…’ she replies, loudly, not containing her surprise. Then she scans the horizon, looking for anything that looks unusual. But all she can see through the spray is grey wave after grey wave, rolling in ever increasing arcs, relentlessly barrelling towards the shore.
‘No. Nothing, sir.’
Father Crispin doesn’t reply. Then the two men who’ve been combing the shore return from their forays empty handed. Theresa sees them all exchange words, before they turn and head towards the steps.
‘What are you going to do now?’ she asks as they pass her.
‘We’re going to look from the top of the cliffs,’ Father Crispin shouts. ‘And then,’ he says, leaning in so she can hear. ‘And then, we are going to pray.’
The hours that follow will be etched into Theresa’s memory for the rest of her life. The ever-growing crowd of both staff and students at the top of the cliffs, standing there in defiance of the storm; the sight of the RNLI lifeboat from Newquay, making slow, painful, dangerous passage around the headland, seemingly tossed around in the waves like a toy; the storm finally ending, giving way to an achingly beautiful sunset; and then the RNLI boat returning to base, finding nothing but a single floating lifejacket and one size eight lace-up shoe. After that, the crowd drifts back to the school buildings, none of them aware of what time it is, whether they are hungry or thirsty, or even where they’re going and what they’ll do when they get there.
Theresa returns to her room on autopilot, and it’s not until the door is closed that she allows herself to consider what seems to have just happened. Up until this moment, the possibility that those precious boys, John amongst them, and of course their teachers, might be lost, and not just them but… Trystan. That thought has not been granted lodging in her space. But now… now that she’s alone and the boat remains unaccounted for, that soaking-wet blazer haunts her. Did it somehow end up separated from its owner? she wonders. Is that boy still alive, trying desperately to float in that violent sea? Perhaps he took his jacket off? And if so, are they all still alive? But if they are, how are they coping without those life jackets?
And then she remembers the RNLI boat sailing past the headland, empty after hours of searching, and that vain hope begins to fail her. And another dreadful image comes into her mind, of a keel of a boat lingering for a moment above the surface, before sinking with an apparent grace so discordant from the maelstrom around it, taking all on board with it.
And… Trystan. Trystan at the helm. Oh, Trystan.
She falls forwards onto her bed and weeps, openly and without caring if anyone hears her, for both the man she loves and those poor boys and men, who only wanted a nice day out. The boys and men she’d seen leaving, full of joy and excitement, only at lunchtime.
Half an hour later, there’s a knock at her door. Theresa pulls herself out of bed with some difficulty and goes over to the sink and quickly splashes water on her face. Then she answers the door. It’s Michelle, matron of Amadeus House.
‘Oh, hello, Theresa. I’m sorry, did I wake you?’
‘No… No. It’s OK.’ Theresa realises with a start she can never tell anyone how well she knew the captain of the missing boat. It must be her secret, she thinks. Her own private grief.
‘Oh, good. It’s just I’ve had a sick boy with me all day. And he’s asking for you.’
‘I see. Who is it?’
‘It’s John Stark.’
‘But I thought he was on the boat trip? I thought…’
‘Oh, no. He was too poorly. He woke up with a migraine, I think. I mean, he won’t talk to me much, but then, he never does.’
John is still alive, thinks Theresa, relief flooding through her. The fact that one life has been saved from this horrible, horrible accident, fills her with unexpected joy and relief.
‘Give me two minutes to clean myself up, and I’ll be with you,’ she says, a burst of energy pulsing through her. She runs to her mirror and brushes her hair, ties it back neatly, pats her face dry and changes her uniform, which is soaking wet from the hours she’s spent outside. ‘Does he know about the… incident?’ she asks, as she does this.
‘The boat going missing? Yes. I told him. He heard boys talking about it in the corridor. Some of them were crying.’
When Theresa is ready, she follows Michelle through the network of corridors and through a series of locked doors into Amadeus House.
‘He’s in here,’ says Michelle, pushing open a door on the ground floor. Theresa knows this is the house’s sick bay, used to accommodate any boys who are off school and in need of additional care.
‘John?’ she says as she enters. For a moment, she can’t see him. Despite the long summer evening, the room looks out on a bare brick wall, and so it seems like twilight in here. Then, slowly, as her eyes become accustomed to the semi-darkness, she makes out his outline in the bed. He’s curled up in a foetal position, with only his nose and the top of his head visible under the covers.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ says Michelle, before retreating. She shuts the door softly. Theresa understands from her quick exit that she has found looking after John something of a struggle.
‘John, it’s me. Miss Murphy. Mrs Turner-Smith told me you wanted to see me.’ She hears snuffling under the sheets, but he doesn’t say anything, so she tries again. ‘What’s up? Do you want to tell me? Is it about… the boat going missing? Are you worried about your friends?’ Still no response. She decides to sit down on the edge of the bed and wait until he’s ready to talk.
She spends the next few minutes trying to shake off at least some of the horror of the day. She knows there’s no way she can tell anyone at school about her relationship with Trystan, and so she needs to put as brave a face on things as possible, despite the gnawing ache she feels inside. And then she thinks of the boys, of Stephen and Christopher, of their wonderful bright young brains, the futures they had ahead of them. Because surely they must have passed away, no matter how many prayers everyone in the school has been saying. Surely they have, given that terrible, almost biblical, freak storm. She looks around to try to distract herself and takes in the room’s sparse furnishings: the porcelain sink and mirror in the corner, the upright plastic chair, bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. What a room to go to when you’re poorly, she thinks. Most children are able to convalesce in their own bedrooms, with soft toys, books and trinkets around them and regular visits from their mothers, mopping their fevered brows. This room, she realises, feels more like a prison.
‘Miss Murphy?’
The sheets rustle as John pushes himself up in the bed.
