You try to interrupt, but she continues. ‘Doesn’t say he didn’t actually write his book, the whole point of it all, but spent his free time doing teaching plans and researching new ways of inspiring his class in History, English, even bloody Geography; finding field trips and teaching resources, even what kind of music helped kids concentrate best. He still talks about them all. He still calls them “his” class.’
Her fingers are sweating; smudging Jenny’s face.
‘And here our kids are, not likely to see the inside of a private school unless they’re lucky enough to teach in it, or more likely clean it, with our eldest starting in September at the local thirty-in-a-class failing primary. But even so, I’m still really proud of him. For being the best bloody teacher that school could have.’
Aggression is pressing up against her words.
‘His friends from Oxford are all having these high-flying, highly paid careers in media and law,’ she continues. ‘While he is – was – just a primary school teacher. Not that he ever got any credit for that. It’s a private school, so not even considered worthy. You think it’s any wonder he went and sounded off at your prize-giving?’
A child has come to join her. She holds the little boy’s hand. ‘That’s where I met him,’ she says. ‘At Oxford. I was just working as a secretary there. I was so proud to be with him. I couldn’t believe it when he chose me; married me; made those vows to me.’
Is that what this is about? For richer for poorer; to lie for and cover for.
Such undeserved and unreturned loyalty.
‘He’s a good man,’ she continues. ‘Loving. And decent. There’s not many you can say that about.’
Does she believe her version of her husband? Or is she, like Maisie, presenting an image to the outside world, no matter the cost to herself?
‘It wasn’t Silas’s fault, what happened to that boy in the playground. It was-’
You interrupt; you’ve had enough. ‘Where was he yesterday afternoon?’
‘I haven’t finished telling you-’
‘Where was he?’ Your voice angry, loud; frightening the child.
‘I need to tell you the truth. You need to hear it,’ she says.
‘Just tell me.’
‘With me and the kids,’ she says, after a moment. ‘All afternoon.’
‘You said he works on building sites,’ and your tone implies she’s a liar.
‘When there’s work, yes, he does, but there wasn’t any work for him yesterday. So we went to the park for a picnic. He said we might as well make the most of him not being in work. And it was so hot indoors. Left here together about eleven, got back around five.’
‘A long time.’ Your disbelief is clear.
‘Nothing to come back for. And Silas likes playing with them outside, giving them rides on his back, playing footie, he’s devoted to them.’
Jenny said he’d pretended to be running an after-school club so he could avoid coming home. This picture of a family man that Natalia is painting doesn’t exist.
‘Did he ask you to say this, or did you come up with it yourself?’ you ask and I am relieved you’re challenging her.
‘Is it so hard for you to believe that a family like ours could have an afternoon out together?’
I think by ‘like ours’ she means a family in a flat not a house with no money and the dad working on a building site. And no, of course, it’s not hard to believe a family like that could enjoy an afternoon in the park. But she’s keeping something from you, I’m sure of it. She has been from the moment she opened the door to you.
‘Did anyone see you in the park?’ you ask her.
‘Loads of people, it was packed.’
‘Anyone who’d remember?’
‘There was an ice-cream van, maybe that guy would remember.’
A hot July afternoon in a park, how many families with small children did he see yesterday? How likely is it he’d remember?
‘Who did your husband get to lie for him?’ you ask. ‘To say they’d seen Adam?’
‘Sir Covey?’
That pet name infuriates you but I think her surprise looks genuine.
‘Who did he get to blame my son?’ Your anger hurling the words at her.
‘I’ve no idea what you’re on about,’ she says.
‘Tell him I want to speak to him,’ you say. You turn to go.
‘Wait. I haven’t finished! I told you, you need to hear the truth.’
‘I have to get back to my daughter.’
You start to leave but she comes after you. ‘The accident in the playground was Robert Fleming’s fault, nothing to do with Silas.’
You hurry on, not listening. But for a moment I think of eight-year-old Robert Fleming, who bullied Adam so horribly.
You open the car door and one of Adam’s knight figures slips out of the door pocket.
‘Children can be little bastards,’ she says, catching up with you. ‘Evil.’ She holds the car door so that you can’t close it. ‘You made Mrs Healey fire Silas for not supervising the playground properly, didn’t you? You wanted him out.’
‘I don’t have time for this. Have a go at other parents if you need to, but not me. Not now.’
I can smell her hostility, like a strong cheap perfume around her.
‘You got the Richmond Post to print that crap about him, to make sure he was pushed out.’
You yank the car door out of her grasp and slam it shut.
You’re driving away and she’s running after the car. She bangs her fist on the boot and then we turn from the street.
Maybe she should seem more like a victim to me. After all, in return for her love and loyalty Silas lies to her and bad-mouths her to teenagers. But her spikiness and aggression means she can’t be pigeon-holed so neatly. Is her rage because she genuinely thinks that Silas has been wronged? Or is it the anguish of a woman who knows she made a terrible mistake in the man she married?
15
The pain has gone. It stopped the moment I stepped into the hospital; as if this white-walled building offers me its own skin.
My mother is sitting next to Jenny. I know she won’t have left Addie on his own; a friend or a nurse must be with him. Amidst the shiny hard equipment she looks so gentle in her cotton skirt and Liberty-print blouse. Her hand hovers over Jenny, as yours often does, unable to touch her.
You go up to Sarah, who’s standing a little distance away – giving Mum time with Jen while still fulfilling her obligation to you to protect Jenny. I’m still not sure if she thinks it’s necessary or if she’s just doing it to make you feel better.
‘Hyman wasn’t there,’ you say to her. ‘And his wife would do whatever the bastard asked.’
Then Mum sees you. ‘Is there any more news on Gracie?’ she asks.
‘Not yet,’ you reply. ‘I was meant to have a meeting with her doctors earlier, but I got called away.’ You don’t say you were called away because Jenny’s heart stopped. You haven’t told Mum about the three weeks.
‘They’ve said they might not have time now today,’ you continue.
‘But surely they could make the time?’ Mum says, as if time was one of her tapestries, minutes stitched onto canvas in flower-coloured yarns.
‘Apparently there’s been some awful coach crash, so it’s all hands to the pumps.’
And for one moment this hospital isn’t all about us. There are others too, God knows how many; all that anguish and anxiety compressed into the bricks and glass walls of this one building. I wonder if it leaks out of the windows and roof; if birds fly a little higher overhead as they pass.
Trying to think this to avoid ugly, awful thoughts.