Death of a Teacher (7 page)

‘H
ello, home,’ PCSO Ro Watson said on Saturday evening, as her car lurched on to the track which led down to the Burnside cottages. Although her weekend shift meant Ben was with his grandparents overnight, she never felt alone here. It was always a real delight to come back to Burnside. She wasn’t concerned about the fall in house prices, because she was never going to sell. There was recession here too, of course, but the rugged countryside and the matching doggedness of the locals offered her the security she badly needed. She had no illusions, either. Pretty scenery didn’t necessarily make for pretty behaviour – as you could see any Saturday night in Norbridge. But the area was still beautiful and she loved it.

Ro dumped her bag on the sofa and clattered downstairs to the kitchen. She filled the kettle and sat down at the table; then she looked out of the window and let the scenery do its work. It never failed to calm her. The sun was
dropping
over the other side of the valley, so the peachy colours of evening were already tinting the fells to the east, though it was barely six o’clock. It would be light until eight. The back of the house was sheltered, staying warm until late.

Peace. She needed time to think.

For a start, she had to face something embarrassing. She knew she was in danger of making a fool of herself over Jed Jackson. Her face reddened thinking about it, and the tight skin round her half-moon scar prickled. Why was she overreacting to him? Was it because respect for older women seemed in short supply at Norbridge Police Station? Was it the novelty? A form of maternalism? The fact he laughed at her jokes? Or was it the last kick of her ageing hormones? Her reaction was physical as well as emotional, as her pink face testified. Rose felt like a teenager when Jed spoke to her, and she hated herself at the same time as longing for his attention.

‘So who do
you
think vandalized the school?’ Jed had said that morning in the coffee shop. 

‘I don’t know,’ Ro had answered slowly. ‘There’s something odd about it. I thought the deputy head was too calm about it.’

Jed was quiet for a moment. ‘Mrs Rudder and Miss Hodgson both taught me at St Mungo’s. They’ve been there for years.’

‘Mrs Rudder was very composed. In control.’

‘Yes, she was. Just like her. Doesn’t like things to be out of place.’

‘But things
were
out of place. There was a great big hole in the window! And why break a window at the school, when you are so likely to be seen? Vandals don’t usually operate on a Saturday morning in broad daylight. I don’t want to let this go, Jed.’

‘So what do you want to do?’

‘I’d like to talk to the other teacher, the one in the background, the younger woman. She was there when it actually happened. I took her name and address. Miss Alison MacDonald. Will you come and see her with me? She’s away for the weekend but she said she’d be back on Sunday evening.’

And what did I really want? Ro asked herself, looking back at the morning’s meeting. To go and interview a teacher on a Sunday, my day off? To pretend to be a real cop? Or was it an excuse to be with Jed Jackson again?

Ro ran her fingers over the ridges of her scar. Much as she loved having her son racketing around, Mrs Carruthers had been right: it was good to be on her own and able to think. She would have to get a grip. Blushing every time Jed Jackson spoke to her was downright stupid, and there would have been no point even if he had been twenty years older. Since going back to Liverpool to live with her mother when Ben was a toddler, Ro had decided there was no room for men in her life; moving to Cumbria hadn’t changed that. For the last five years the only men she had met were doctors, Ben’s teachers and Mrs C’s husband, who was dentally challenged and enough to put you off the opposite sex for life. Maybe that was why Jed was having such an effect.

You’re an idiot, she told herself. You’re a wrinkled, middle-aged woman. There was only one cure. She opened a bottle of wine and decided to do the ironing. At least she could get the creases out of something!

At about the same time, Brenda Hodgson opened the gin bottle. Then, after thinking for a few minutes, she went into the sitting-room of her cluttered but shiny clean house and pressed the ‘quick call’ button for her brother.

‘Hello, Peter. Did you get anywhere with Phil Dixon on the chapel?’ she asked him.

Peter said, ‘I certainly hope so. I made the point most firmly. He must have understood my point of view.’

‘You know,’ Brenda said quietly, ‘I really think it might be better if the 
chapel were closed altogether. It has such nasty associations now. And there have been doubts cast on its validity, and the validity of the
Book
.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ her brother snapped. ‘It’s a vital piece of local history. Just because one silly rambler goes walking and falls and gets killed, it’s no reason to talk abut closing the place completely. You must never say such a thing again.’

He put the phone down. It was the nearest they had come to a quarrel in a long time, but Brenda knew how touchy her brother could be. She sighed. She had said the wrong thing, so she would have to work on him a little harder. But he would come round to her way of thinking. He always did.

She flicked the pages of the novel she was reading but she felt lonely. Callie would be surrounded by her kids and no doubt Faye Armistead would be having an elegant dinner party in her beautiful Georgian farmhouse. In the past Brenda had often spent Saturday evening with Liz and John Rudder. Why not try again? After all, Liz used to talk to Brenda about everything, especially her marriage.

Brenda was totally trustworthy with secrets. Liz and John had had married quickly, just three months after meeting. Liz had told Brenda all about it – being seduced in John’s Ford Capri, then the worry about being ‘late’. To get pregnant was a disaster in those days!

‘In sickness and in health’ – what a commitment. And Liz said she had to do everything for John now. How awful and repellent, Brenda thought. No wonder Liz was touchy. When Brenda met John these days, he was all clean and tidied up – and Brenda wasn’t on her own.

‘Hello, Liz?’ she said breathlessly into the phone when Liz answered. She tried to ignore the irritated note in Liz’s voice.

‘Oh, hello, Brenda.’

‘I know we haven’t met for a while,’ Brenda said, sounding wheedling but unable to stop herself. ‘I’d like to see you. Just for a chat. I’ve had cross words with Peter and you know how much that upsets me.’

‘Really? What about?’ Liz sounded as if she couldn’t care less.

‘That silly chapel on Dixons’ land. I said I thought it ought to be closed permanently since that poor man was attacked there. But Peter got all upset. He’s very keen on the place, you know. He thinks it ought to be some sort of proper shrine.’

‘Oh, well, come over if you like,’ Liz’s voice was grudging. ‘I can tell you about the vandalism today at school. Teenagers have broken a window. Give me half an hour before you set out. Kevin’s just popped in; he’ll help me tidy John up. You know how messy John can be.’

Vandalism at the school? That was new. This time last year, Liz would have been on the phone about it to Brenda straight away. But Liz’s reluctant 
manner made Brenda cross. Once, she would have been Liz’s right-hand woman.

It was too warm for a mackintosh and too breezy for a cardigan, so when Brenda went out she put on her anorak as usual. She had her bag over her shoulder and sensible shoes for the walk. It was such a nice evening that she decided to walk down through Pell Marshes instead of round by the road. She would have avoided the marshes if they had been full of screaming kids, but they were mostly at home now, for their tea, computer games and Saturday night television.

She walked briskly along, aware that a cool breeze was blowing up from the sea. Two men who had been dumping a mattress saw her coming, and hared off back to their white van. A chap walking his dog whistled. ‘Here, Bonzo!’ he called.

Suddenly the marshes were quiet. The sun still shone, but there was a metallic edge to it. The wind blew up over the lip of the valley and down towards the river which ruffled as if a hundred knives had flicked over the surface.

Brenda strolled along the path, faster now, deep in thought, the gin making her angrier.

At The Briars in Tarnfield, Becky Dixon and Molly Spencer sat on Molly’s bed watching
High School Musical Three
.

‘This is rubbish,’ Becky scowled.

‘Yeah. I used to like it though,’ Molly said. ‘When I used to be mates with the others.’

‘And now you’ve only got me. You feel rejected and you’ve lost self respect. I’ve had counselling. I know about all that.’

‘Have you? Had counselling? Was it ’cos of your mother?’ Molly was curious. It was one of the many fascinating things about Becky.

‘Yeah, you know why. Everyone does. My mum took an overdose by mistake and died. “
She was a lovely looking girl, and got in with a bad crowd
”. That’s what Grandma says. But I think she must have been a bit weak. They never say that, but you don’t have to win the Nobel Prize to work it out.’

‘And what happened to your dad?’

‘Don’t know anything about him. He could be anyone. I’d really like to know, but I don’t suppose I ever will. And there’s another thing I’d be
interested
to know – like, when did my mum start her periods? That’s hereditary. I bet you’ll start soon Molly, ’cos you’re big. Tall is good.’

‘And my chest hurts, and I feel sick a lot. And my hair has gone all ratty. But it needn’t be hereditary from your mum. You could take after your granny, or an aunty or someone. And it’s nothing to do with size.’ 

‘You might be right there. Lily Smith’s got bigger boobs than anyone, but she hasn’t started.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I asked her!’

‘Becks! How could you? You’re amazing!’

The two girls started to giggle and rolled about on the bed until the fit passed. Then suddenly Becky sat bolt upright.

‘Why do you think Jonty’s hammer missed me?’

‘Who says he was throwing it at you? It could have been me.’

‘It was me.’ Becky scowled. ‘And that old Rudderless bitch knew that. She hates me. So does Cow McFadden. I hate her too. And Jonty. He’s a creep. He’s got an evil face. I think Mrs Findley was going to have a baby and it died inside her. Maybe Jonty McFadden looked at it,’ Becky growled.

Molly started to laugh again, the rising wave of hysteria collecting in her throat.

‘No, Molly, I mean it,’ Becky said leaning forward and staring into Molly’s eyes. ‘It’s not funny. Jonty McFadden is evil. I can tell these things.’

The two girls stared at each other until the rest of the room went into a blur. Then Molly said, ‘Let’s watch
The Dark Knight
again, Becky. It’s a classic now. We can see it before supper. It’s ages yet. Or we could go out for a walk. It’s the first really nice evening of the year.’

‘Walking’s boring. Why don’t we take a couple of bikes? I bet you haven’t been out on your bike for weeks.’

‘I’m too big for my bike now. I’ve outgrown it.’

‘Well then, I can go on yours and you can go on your brother’s. Come on, you need to get fit, Molly.’

In the kitchen, Suzy Spencer heard Molly and Becky crashing down the stairs. Why can’t they just place one foot at a time? she thought irritably.

‘We’re taking the bikes out for a ride,’ Molly called. ‘I’m going to ride Jake’s. I don’t mind the crossbar. We won’t be long. Promise.’

‘Molly, wait…’ Suzy was sorting out potatoes and carrots for a casserole. Having Becky to stay meant Suzy felt compelled to make a bit more effort with the family meals in a sort of fruitless competition with fiercely
domesticated
Judith Dixon.

‘You must be back in half an hour,’ she called. ‘Wear your helmets. And don’t speak to anyone you don’t know. And don’t go on the main road, OK?’

‘All right,’ Molly yelled back. She and Becky were already making for the garage where the bikes were kept.

‘And put your jackets on …’ Suzy shouted.

‘Let them be, Mum,’ said Jake in his deep voice. ‘You always say people are tougher on girls.’ 

Suzy carried the vegetables to the sink. ‘OK, OK. So how about peeling these?’

Jake shrugged and slammed the microwave shut on his popcorn. ‘Where’s the potato peeler?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. I’ve just been looking for it.’ Suzy rummaged in the drawer. ‘Robert!’ she called. ‘Have you any idea where it is?’

‘Where what is?’ Robert pulled himself away from reading his book on Canada. Suzy glanced at him guiltily. They had hardly talked this weekend, what with the window incident and having Becky to stay.

‘Robert, look at me. Read my lips. Where is
the potato peeler
? I can’t find it anywhere. I’ve been losing a lot of things lately.’

‘Is it your age?’ Robert asked mildly, and then had to duck to miss a plastic plate that went flying past his ear.

‘Now you’ve lost that too,’ he said.

Brenda Hodgson looked at her watch as she walked. It was only 6.30, but the marshes were deserted. Behind her was Pelliter village, and then the spread of the Pelliter Valley estate. From a distance it looked neat – rows of red-brick semis with patches of garden, flat windows and sloping roofs. It was only close up that you could see the junk – broken bikes, old TVs, furniture with the stuffing coming out. Brenda tutted as she passed the mattress which had been abandoned only a few minutes earlier.

Suddenly she felt something career into her back and the shock took her breath away. Her first reaction was that kids had run into her and she had to stop herself falling. She stumbled forwards and the heels of her hands hit the damp ground, making a ridge in the earth.

At the same time the first kick hit her in the small of her back. Then there was an almost businesslike silence. I’m being attacked, she thought, and for the first few seconds she felt no pain, only outrage.