The Secret Letter Read online

  ‘I know what happened,’ she said. ‘In your last job, I mean. You don’t have to explain.’

  Of course she knew. She’d been in my interviews; she must have read my application. Knowing she knew made me feel oddly relieved and embarrassed at the same time. I couldn’t bear her feeling sorry for me. It was the sympathy and the sad faces and the tilty heads asking ‘how ARE you?’ that had made life in London so completely awful.

  Paula rubbed my arm gently and then went round the other side of the desk and sat down opposite me. She pushed one of the mugs towards me and picked up the other one.

  ‘I think I should tell you just how thrilled we are to have you here,’ she said in a conversational tone. ‘I’ve read all the things you’ve written in Teacher magazine. And I was actually at your training day in Brighton.’

  This time I did manage to meet her eyes.

  ‘Really?’

  Grant had been the face of our schools. We worked together but he was the driving force. He was the one doing the Tedx talks, and writing for the broadsheet education supplements about his views on education policy, and his approach to helping young children learn. He was outspoken, handsome and funny, and he really knew his stuff, so he was very media friendly. He’d even been on Question Time once. In fact, I thought it was his profile that had led him to make the bad decisions he’d made. Education is a long game and seeing children through their years at school can sometimes feel like an age. Grant couldn’t wait for results, and so he had to fiddle them, because he couldn’t be seen to be failing. Apart from in our marriage, of course. He didn’t care about that going wrong.

  But I’d been passionate about what we were doing, too. I’d written a few articles for a teaching mag; I’d done a couple of seminars at training days. And it seemed Paula Paxton knew all about them.

  Now she smiled at me. ‘Ms Armstrong …’

  ‘Lizzie,’ I said. ‘Please call me Lizzie.’

  ‘Lizzie, Elm Heath Primary needs a boost.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’ve worked here for twenty years,’ Paula went on. ‘My daughter came here. It’s such a lovely school. We were just so thrilled when you took the position.’

  I smiled at her across the top of my coffee mug. It was nice to hear after so much bad stuff.

  ‘You’re so inspirational,’ Paula was saying. ‘You have such wonderful ideas about putting the children first in everything.’

  I felt a very small flush of pride. ‘Really?’ I said. That had always been my focus.

  Paula smiled at me again. ‘I read some of your husband’s articles too.’

  ‘Ex-husband.’

  She bit her lip. ‘He’s more about winning.’

  I’d taken a mouthful of the rather good coffee while she was talking and now I swallowed it all, making me cough.

  Still spluttering, I laughed for the first time in what seemed like weeks. It sounded slightly strange. ‘That’s Grant in a nutshell.’

  Paula grinned at me, then taking advantage of the friendlier atmosphere between us, she leaned forward. ‘Was it awful? Your break-up?’

  I shrugged. ‘You know when people say something’s ended not with a bang but with a whimper? It was like that, really. He let me down professionally and then – boom – it all just crumbled.’

  ‘That’s almost worse,’ Paula said and again I was surprised by her insight. I nodded, feeling another rush of self-pity and, sensing my mood, she smiled again.

  ‘I’ve organised a barbecue for you to meet all the staff,’ she said. ‘My house, tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Oh I’m not sure …’ I began. I was still finding my feet in Elm Heath and I wasn’t sure I was quite ready to meet my teachers.

  Paula waved her hand. ‘It’s all arranged,’ she said. ‘I’m only round the corner from you – I’ll send someone to collect you on the way so you don’t get lost.’

  I blinked at her, astonished. She’d arranged a party for me and she knew where I lived? In London I’d be suspicious of such overly friendly behaviour, but here it just seemed … nice. I thought briefly of boozy staff parties at the Three Crowns in Clapham High Street and then shook my head to clear the memories. My life was different now and I had to get used to it. And if it was totally overwhelming, then I’d stay an hour, make an excuse of doing more unpacking or something, and scarper.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, smiling. ‘That’s very kind.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Paula said. ‘Could I ask you to rinse out your mug and put it back in my office when you’re done?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She got up and turned to go. ‘Feel free to make the office your own,’ she said as an afterthought. ‘If you need more bookshelves, or chairs just let Jeff the caretaker know.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said again. I glanced round. It was a bigger office than the one I’d had in London and I was sure I could make it my own. My eye was caught by the portrait on the wall. ‘Paula, who’s that woman in the picture?’

  She smiled. ‘That’s Esther Watkins,’ she said, proudly, as though it needed no further explanation.

  I screwed up my face. ‘Sorry, I don’t know who that is.’

  ‘She founded Elm Heath Primary back in the early twentieth century,’ Paula said, as though she was reading from an information card at a museum. ‘We’re actually one of the oldest schools in the county. Esther Watkins dedicated her life …’

  ‘Maybe we should move her picture,’ I said hurriedly, interrupting her before I got treated to a lecture about a sour-faced spinster who probably thought children should be seen and not heard.

  Paula looked horrified so I backtracked immediately.

  ‘I mean, maybe she needs to be seen. We could put her in the main office, perhaps. Or in the corridor.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Paula sounded doubtful. ‘I’ve always thought it was nice that she’s in here. This would have been her office at one time, you know?’

  I knew when I was beaten. I’d move grumpy Ms Watkins when I was settled in and had a quiet moment to myself.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ I said to Paula.

  She grinned at me, obviously pleased she’d convinced me to leave Esther Watkins where she was.

  ‘I’ll send someone round to get you about sixish.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ I said, forcing away the nerves I was feeling at being “presented” to all the staff at once. ‘Lovely.’

  Chapter 3

  Lizzie

  What did one wear to a village barbecue? I wondered, looking at my small selection of clothes later. When my life had fallen apart, I’d put most of my belongings into storage while I holed up at my mum’s house. And then, when I’d moved down to Elm Heath in the middle of deepest, darkest Kent, I’d realised I didn’t need all the stuff I’d accumulated over the years – it just reminded me of better times – so I sold it all, except for a few boxes of books.

  Now I had what might be called a capsule wardrobe. A very small capsule wardrobe. I decided to go casual, so I pulled on the pair of cropped jeans I’d been wearing at school yesterday and a floaty vest with little flowers on it, and put a cardigan in my bag in case it got chilly later.

  I was, I discovered when I was trying to draw a straight line with eyeliner, ridiculously and shakily nervous. What if everyone knew what had happened in London and they all thought I’d been involved? What if none of them wanted to work with me? What if – I gasped aloud and jabbed myself in the eye with the eyeliner pencil – they’d all wanted Paula to be the new head and were resentful that I’d got the job?

  With one eye watering, I wiped off the mess I’d made of my make-up and instead just dabbed on some lip balm. They’d have to take me as I was. I brushed my hair, then went downstairs to my tiny kitchen and took the bottle of Prosecco I’d bought out of the fridge. If all else failed, I’d bribe them with bubbles.

  I was ready and waiting when the doorbell rang, but it still made me jump because I was so edgy. I took a
deep breath, plastered a smile on my face and opened the door to find a woman maybe five years younger than me on the doorstep. She had bright blonde hair in a high ponytail and freckles and looked like a cheerleader in an American teen film.

  ‘Hello, I’m Lizzie,’ I said, then I paused. ‘Lizzie Armstrong.’

  She grinned at me, showing neat, white teeth. ‘I’d worry if you weren’t,’ she said. ‘Paula sent me to fetch you. I’m Pippa Davis. I teach years one and two.’

  I relaxed, slightly, in the face of such friendliness. ‘Nice to meet you Pippa,’ I said. I picked up my bag and the bottle. ‘Shall we go?’

  Paula was right, she did live just round the corner. I wondered if it was going to be odd living on top of all my colleagues and – more importantly – my pupils. Though we’d lived fairly close to our school in London, catchment areas were so small we didn’t have students as neighbours. This was going to be totally different.

  ‘Everyone’s so excited to meet you,’ Pippa said as she bounced down the side of Paula’s large detached house – I remembered what she’d said about her husband having clients and wondered briefly what he did – and into the big garden, me trailing behind like a sulky teenager.

  ‘She’s here!’ she sang. ‘Lizzie’s here!’

  The garden was full of people, chatting and laughing, but as Pippa made her announcement, they all fell silent and as one they turned and stared at me. I felt sick. I’d not wanted to arrive with a huge fanfare, like this.

  ‘Hello,’ I squeaked. ‘Hi.’

  Everyone chorused hellos and Paula rushed up to us and gave me a hug that surprised me.

  ‘So pleased you could make it,’ she said. ‘Come and meet everyone. Pippa, can you get Lizzie a drink?’

  My head spinning, I took the glass Pippa handed me and drained it without even looking at the contents.

  ‘So, Pippa you’ve met,’ Paula said. ‘And her best friend is Emma, who’s our school secretary. She keeps us all organised. They both went to Elm Heath Primary together – isn’t that lovely?’

  ‘Lovely,’ I echoed.

  I could hear Grant’s mocking voice in my head. He’d roll his eyes at the thought of people growing up here, marrying their childhood sweetheart, and staying put. ‘It’s so English,’ he’d say with a sort of superior chuckle. ‘So white, straight … vanilla.’

  I thought of Broadway Common School where we had kids speaking more than thirty languages, celebrated every festival going, worked hard to include the kids with two dads in Mother’s Day and the ones with two mums in Father’s Day, and I wondered if I’d miss that diversity.

  ‘This is Nate – Mr Welsh – who teaches years five and six,’ she said introducing a man about the same age as Pippa and Emma, who’d no doubt gone to school with them too.

  I shook his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said.

  Nate stifled a yawn. ‘God, I’m sorry,’ he said in horror. ‘That was so rude.’

  Paula looked at him with genuine affection. ‘Nate’s a new dad,’ she said.

  ‘Congratulations.’ I smiled at him. ‘Is your wife here?’

  Nate looked at me with a hint of mischief in his eyes. ‘My husband Marc is over there with our baby, Leia,’ he said.

  I turned to see an athletic man, a bit older than Nate, expertly bouncing a baby on his knee, while holding a bottle of beer and chatting to another man.

  I screwed my face up. ‘Sorry,’ I whispered, feeling a tiny flush of triumph. Ha, Grant! I thought. Village life is interesting.

  Nate chuckled. ‘Don’t be. It must be hard for you coming from London where people aren’t as liberal.’

  He was joking, I thought. But I blushed anyway.

  Nate introduced me to another teacher – Celeste – who was a dead ringer for a young Michelle Obama, right down to the enviable upper arms. I slid my own bingo wings into my cardie as I spoke to her, feeling self-conscious and not just about letting myself believe that everyone in Elm Heath was a boring stereotype.

  Paula’s husband Chris was on the barbecue and their daughter Chloe, who was in sixth form, handed out drinks. It was all very pleasant, just a bit – overwhelming. Trying to make a good impression on so many new people was hard work.

  Needing a moment to myself, I slunk across the garden to an empty deckchair and sat down. To my left, Paula’s husband Chris was flipping burgers. He was engaged in what seemed to me to be a fairly heated discussion with the man who’d been talking to Nate’s handsome husband. The other man was shorter, stockier, and more dishevelled than Marc, but also very attractive in his own way.

  Both Chris and the other man looked quite cross and I was intrigued. I leaned slightly to the side and tried to eavesdrop on their conversation.

  ‘I think you’re being unrealistic,’ Chris was saying. ‘Idealistic.’

  The other man frowned. He looked worried. ‘I thought perhaps, I could just see it as business …’

  ‘Are you the new headmistress?’ a voice at my elbow said, interrupting my earwigging. I turned to see a small girl – year three, I guessed with my expert eye – with a gap-toothed smile and wonky bunches.

  ‘I am,’ I said.

  She fixed me with a serious stare. ‘Are you a nice headmistress or a strict headmistress?’

  I thought about it. ‘Could I be both?’

  ‘S’pose.’

  ‘Then I will be both.’

  ‘You don’t look like a headmistress.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You look like a mummy.’

  I smiled, a genuine, not-nervous smile. ‘Do I look like your mummy?’

  ‘My mummy is dead.’

  I stopped smiling. ‘I’m sorry.’

  The little girl grinned at me. ‘I have a daddy.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  I shifted awkwardly in my seat. Obviously, I considered myself to be good with kids, but I was off my game this evening and this small child was unsettling me.

  ‘What is your name?’ she asked.

  ‘Ms Armstrong. What’s yours?’

  ‘Cara,’ she said, frowning. ‘What is Mizzzzzzz?’

  ‘It’s a title, like Mrs or Miss.’

  Cara shook her head, her lopsided bunches bouncing. ‘I think you’re getting muddled,’ she said kindly, patting my hand. ‘Miss means you haven’t got a husband or a wife, and Mrs means you have. Mizzzzzz is just pretend. Do you have a husband or a wife?’

  I swallowed. ‘No, I don’t have a husband.’

  ‘Do you have a wife?’

  ‘No.’

  She nodded. ‘Then you are a Miss,’ she said, speaking clearly like I was elderly and hard of hearing. ‘MISS.’

  ‘Cara, are you being a nuisance?’

  The attractive man who’d been talking to Chris was standing in front of us. He flashed me a smile and for a split second I felt a flicker of interest and not just in his conversation. He was wearing a rumpled T-shirt and jeans and his hair was sticking up, but there was something about him that I liked.

  ‘I’m chatting to MISS Armstrong,’ Cara said. ‘She is the new headmistress and she is nice and also strict and she doesn’t have a husband or a wife.’

  I felt myself flush as the man raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Strict, eh?’

  Urgh. ‘I have my moments,’ I said. Where on earth did that come from? Was I flirting?

  The man put his hand on Cara’s head. ‘We need to go, angel,’ he said. ‘It’s late.’

  ‘But Daddy, it’s a party.’

  ‘And now it’s finished.’

  Cara rolled her eyes and I couldn’t help but chuckle.

  ‘Nice to meet you, MISS Armstrong,’ the man said. ‘I’m Danny Kinsella, by the way.’

  ‘Are you a teacher?’ I said, running through the list of names Pippa had bombarded me with in my head.

  ‘God no. Just a friend of Paula and Chris.’

  ‘And a daddy,’ Cara said.

  He smiled down at her. ‘And a daddy.’

&nbs
p; ‘See you at school then, Miss Armstrong.’

  He waved at me, and he and Cara wandered off down the side of the house and out on to the road. I stared after them feeling slightly off-balance. There was definitely more to life in Elm Heath than I’d imagined.

  Chapter 4

  Lizzie

  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.