The History Room (4 page)

‘Right, you.’ The frying pan and I were old adversaries. This evening I was going to show it who was boss. I turned up the gas underneath it, heated spices and added chicken strips
and vegetables. The results didn’t look bad when I’d finished but the chicken strips felt like pencil erasers when I ate them, while the sweet potato pieces were like wood. I pushed my
tray away and turned on the Channel 4 news, switching it off when Afghanistan came on. When I’d washed up I found that my marking could be finished in half an hour. Still a whole night to
fill.

I ran a bath and lay back in it to let the bubbles do their work. Afterwards I gazed at a programme about a family of meerkats, reflecting on their similarity to a classroom full of chatty
third-years that I taught. When it finished I switched off again and stared at the blank screen. Still half an hour before I could reasonably go to bed and tick off another day. I was just about
willing myself to sort out the post when the ringing of my mobile roused me.

‘Meredith?’ Clara. An urgent tone to her voice. ‘What’s all this about a stabbed baby and why didn’t anyone tell me?’

‘It only happened this afternoon and it wasn’t a dead—’

‘I am a governor.’

‘It was only a doll.’

Silence.

‘A prank, Clara.’

‘How could it possibly be a doll? Surely even Simon wouldn’t be that easily taken in?’ She’d never rated him much.

‘It wasn’t just any old doll.’ I told her about the reborn, how it had seemed as though it might at any moment wave its tiny fist or start to cry.

‘How very peculiar.’

‘You’d have to see it to believe it.’ I could hear her tapping on the keyboard as we spoke. She’d be searching the Internet for the dolls. My sister never believed in
wasting time.

‘What did you say they were called?’

I told her again. ‘How did you find out, anyway?’

‘A friend’s got a girl in the sixth form. She texted her mother.’

Naturally.

‘My God.’ She’d obviously found an image of one of the dolls on the Internet. ‘How extraordinary. Who on earth would buy one of those? And who would stab it like
that?’

‘We have no idea.’

‘Well, I hope you’re going to find out and discipline them for it.’

‘It was probably just teenagers doing it for a dare.’ But then I remembered what Deidre had said about women with psychological problems turning to the dolls in times of distress.
‘I really don’t think it’s anything too serious.’ I hoped I sounded convincing.

‘We’re coming down at the weekend.’

‘That’s really good of you, but you’re busy and—’

‘Don’t try and put me off, Meredith. I have a responsibility to the other governors.’

I’d never been allowed to forget it.

‘And besides,’ she went on, in softer tones. ‘I want to see you. And Dad.’ I felt my eyes film over. ‘We both do. So do the boys. I was wondering if they could stay
with you?’

At some point over the summer a tradition had been established whereby Rory and Sam, aged six and eight, stayed in the stable block with their Aunt Merry and Samson, and had, as their mother put
it, a riot. They stayed up late and ate and drank things normally banished from their Clapham home-cooked diets. I suspected that these visits were designed as much to distract me as for the
convenience of my sister. It would have been entirely possible for the boys to sleep in the main house. But whatever the motive, it worked. While the children were with me I almost forgot Hugh. And
Mum.

‘Oh yes.’ I heard the enthusiasm in my voice. I was already mentally shopping for ingredients to make them their favourite breakfast of pancakes and milkshakes. I only had one lesson
on Saturday mornings. I’d take the boys swimming at the local leisure centre. Then make them monster sandwiches. And perhaps we could hire a DVD and make popcorn in the evening.

‘That’s so kind.’ She sounded pleased. My affection for her sons made up for many of my deficiencies. Even if I was incapable of cooking them a wholesome supper of
shepherd’s pie and apple crumble. Clara and I had been close as young children but from teenagerhood onwards Clara had drifted away from me. Or perhaps I’d started the drift.
She’d always seemed so sure of herself, of what she wanted to do, who she wanted to be with, where she wanted to live, how many children she wanted, and when. And everything had happened
according to plan.

Only when I’d heard the news about my husband and the explosive device in Afghanistan had I grown closer to Clara again. After I’d taken the phone call from the field hospital in
Camp Bastion she’d sat beside me for hours, holding my hand, saying nothing but letting me talk or stay silent as I preferred. Those quiet times together had washed away memories of teenage
spats: the time she’d accused me of ruining her new jeans, the time I’d thought she’d made a play for the sixth-form boy here I had my teenage eye on. Then Mum had died so
suddenly and we’d found ourselves clinging to one another again like two young girls.

I went to bed feeling that at least there was one thing I was good at being: an aunt. It mightn’t sound like much, but it was a start. One day I might make a good teacher, too. Then
there’d be two things.

I must have forgotten to set the alarm. I woke with light streaming round the edges of the blinds. Muttering swearwords to myself I dashed for the shower. No time for
breakfast. I fed the dog and pulled his lead off the hook by the door. He performed his usual happy dance. The morning was cool, reminding me that it really was autumn now. My still-damp hair felt
cold against my head.

I grabbed a beige baseball cap. ‘Bliss’ was written on the front, superimposed upon a palm tree. Hugh had bought it on a holiday to the Great Barrier Reef a few years back.

I was due in assembly in twenty minutes. Unlike me to oversleep. But I’d spent a night haunted by strange images: a baby in a cupboard cried at me. I’d opened a wardrobe to rescue it
and found Hugh’s bloody severed leg sitting on a shelf. My husband had appeared, shouting that I’d stolen his limb and ruined his life. Then my mother had walked in and told us to stop
our fighting: we were disturbing a Latin lesson. I’d woken and sat bolt upright, pulse racing. I hadn’t slept properly again after that.

I increased my pace to try and force the dreams from my mind. Samson, pleased at the acceleration, broke into a run, nose down to the dewy grass, zigzagging, picking up the scent of rabbits.

My hair was almost dry now. I stuffed the baseball cap into my jacket pocket, hoping my bob wouldn’t be completely squashed flat. Sometimes, standing in front of a group of teenagers,
I’d feel their eyes sweeping my appearance: appraising, judging, sometimes – rarely – approving. ‘You should be so lucky,’ Deidre had told me. ‘When they
don’t even bother checking you over, you know you’re just an old bat in their eyes.’

We reached the fence bordering the road, the boundary of the school grounds. I turned back. Seven minutes to drop the dog back home and change into something smarter. I started to jog, shouting
to Samson to keep up.

I was almost at the stable block when I all but bumped into someone standing with their back to me, staring out across the flowerbeds. Emily Fleming.

‘Hi,’ I said.

She turned. ‘I was just taking an early morning stroll.’ Her unusually light blue eyes moved from side to side. There was nothing banning staff from hanging around in this part of
the gardens, no signs saying it was private, but it was almost a given that this side of the house was for the family’s personal use. How could this young New Zealander know this if she
hadn’t been told? I didn’t blame her for wanting to spend precious minutes among the last asters and roses of the season. Winter would soon be here and the blooms would just be
memories. I felt nauseous, remembering the flowers at Mum’s funeral. Clara and I had bound sweet peas from the garden into a wreath. They’d been her favourite flowers, the
chocolatey-brown ones particularly. The day of the service had been warm and the scent had washed over us as we sat in the church. After that I’d let the sweet peas go to seed on their
trellis. Emily fixed her watery gaze on me with an expression I couldn’t decipher. Probably my squashed hair.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked. Memories of the sweet peas must have twisted themselves over my face.

‘Fine.’ I looked at her more closely. She was very slim, with long hair and those interesting eyes. She ought to have been very pretty, but ‘striking’ was more the
adjective that came to mind. But even that was too strong a word to describe her. ‘Thank you. What about you, Emily? Settling in OK?’ Something about her presence had disturbed me. She
must be homesick. Or unsettled by the silliness yesterday afternoon. Poor kid.

‘I’m good, thanks.’ Her voice gave nothing away. She flicked her hair off her face. She was wearing the same silky cardigan I’d admired yesterday. For a gappy, Emily was
certainly well dressed. Usually they arrived at the start of the school year apparently straight from the beach and had to be gently advised on a working wardrobe.

‘Best time of the day,’ I said. ‘Everything so fresh.’

She nodded very gravely. ‘I can see why it would be hard to leave this school.’ She was implying that I’d found it impossible to stay away from my childhood home. Perhaps she
was right.

‘I don’t know, there are other places in the world worth seeing.’ I sounded over-bright, forced. ‘I expect you’ll want to do some travelling while you’re over
here.’

‘Nowhere else could be like this.’ She fiddled with the petals of a purple aster. ‘No other school could be so beautiful.’

I thought of all the other beautiful old schools in their acres of grounds. But I wasn’t going to argue with Emily if she thought that Letchford was the most blessed. It was only what I
believed myself.

‘You’ve just arrived,’ I told her. ‘You won’t have to say goodbye until July next year. Plenty of time to grow sick and tired of Letchford. And of us.’

‘Perhaps.’ She gave me her curious half-smile. It didn’t make her thin face look any more cheerful. ‘Better make a dash for assembly, I guess.’

‘Utterly bizarre.’ My sister finished her decaffeinated coffee and signalled with a nod to her husband that it was time to go. Clara and Marcus were staying in the
spare room in Dad’s apartment in the main house. Marcus had just finished blowing up the air-bed in my own guest room for Sam. Rory was to sleep on the sofa-bed.

‘Your father knows there’s nothing really to worry about.’ Marcus still spoke in the breathless tones of one who’d expended litres of air blowing up a large inflatable
object. ‘This doll business is just kids mucking around.’

Clara snorted. ‘I wish he’d calm down.’ Her features softened. She reminded me again of the big sister I’d grown up with. ‘What do you think, Meredith? Should we be
worried? I just don’t know why it’s bugging him so much.’

I shrugged. I could have mentioned that she herself had reacted strongly to the news of the doll. But I didn’t. ‘Perhaps we’re still on edge. After Mum.’ For a few
seconds I didn’t trust myself to say more. ‘I know I am.’

She shifted her position on my small sofa so that she was sitting nearer to me. Her warmth was comforting. I was drawn to move even closer to my sister but restrained myself. ‘I wish
he’d put the blasted doll away,’ I said. The box was sitting on Dad’s desk, though the drama department had reclaimed the costume.

Marcus shuffled in his armchair. ‘It’s getting late. The boys probably need to turn in.’

I jumped up. ‘Of course. I’ll bring them over to you in the morning when they’ve had breakfast.’

‘Ah.’ Clara looked indulgent. ‘The traditional Aunt Meredith breakfast.’

‘The eggs are all ready. Pancakes and milkshakes, my only two culinary successes.’ I stopped, thinking about the maple syrup that was to go with the pancakes, a present from a
Canadian officer Hugh had befriended on a Defence Academy course. I wondered whether Hugh still liked to cook himself something special on Saturday mornings and hoped my face didn’t betray
this thought. Apparently my husband was spending every minute at the physio or in the gym, building up his wasted muscles. Probably monitoring his diet carefully to make every bite count.

My sister shook her head in mock despair. ‘Just as well I keep them on porridge the rest of the week.’

Marcus caught my arm as Clara gave the boys their final orders. ‘You must look after yourself, Meredith.’

I looked at him sharply. But his eyes were only full of kindness. ‘It sounds silly now, but perhaps I can see why Dad was bugged by it. And . . .’

‘And?’ He looked at me.

‘Nothing.’

He continued to look at me.

‘Perhaps I’m more bothered by it than I want to admit. It’s just . . . I . . . I miss them both, I suppose. Mum, I mean, particularly.’ The words toppled out of my mouth.
‘Obviously Hugh’s not actually dead.’ I let out a high-pitched laugh. ‘And who knows what’ll happen. Perhaps he . . . well . . .’ I’d said too much,
embarrassed Marcus. But he reached for me and hugged me. It was strange to feel a man’s body holding me again, even if it were that of my brother-in-law. A man’s body with all its
limbs. Whole. For a second I wanted to prolong the embrace, just for the feeling of being held.

‘Tough times.’ He spoke with feeling. ‘You’ll get through, Meredith.’ He released me.

I realized I hadn’t asked him about his own job. ‘How’s the world of property law?’

‘Let’s just say nothing much is moving at the moment.’ He spoke quietly.

I thought of the large house in Clapham, the expensive prep school for the boys. ‘I’m sorry.’

He gave a shrug. ‘We’ll get through.’

Sunday teatime. The remains of summer had abruptly packed their bags and shipped off. The school-uniform-grey sky might have belonged to December.

Even Samson gave the air an initial cautious sniff as I took him out for a quick turn through the trees. We reached the edge of the wood and strode along the fence beside the road.
Samson’s energy began to fizz through his body. He bounded from one scent to another. Tempting to take him for a run on the hockey pitch. But dogs were out of favour on school property.