The History Room (18 page)

‘That’s right. The people who’d moved into the house with us were not . . . sympathetic. As a lad I used to take my drawing things into the forest.’

I glanced down at what he was sketching. Trees, dark and foreboding. A slight figure, sex unknown, peering from behind a pine. ‘Who’s that?’ I asked.

‘A ghost,’ he said, smiling and sitting back in his chair. ‘What did you want to see me about, Meredith?’

‘Nothing in particular. Just checking that everything was in order for the entrance exams.’

‘Samantha has it all organized.’ He patted the pile of files. ‘She’ll be in tomorrow.’ He looked at me as though giving me permission to leave him and get on with
enjoying my day off.

‘I just saw Olivia. I’m still worried about her.’

‘She seemed fine when I saw her earlier on. Emily is looking after her.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Though perhaps that’s one of the things that’s worrying
you?’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s not much we can do. Olivia’s aunt can’t have her for the holiday and nobody else has invited her to stay with them.’ I felt a pang for Olivia. ‘So we
should be grateful that Emily is taking an interest.’

‘The cutting, self-harming . . .’

‘Appears to have stopped.’ He peered at me. ‘Cathy Jordan has been monitoring Olivia. She is good at counselling, you know.’

I had to push my prejudice aside and agree. Cathy seemed to have nipped a few cases of anorexia in the bud last term, I remembered. And had insisted on referring a more seriously affected girl
to a specialist in Oxford, despite her parents’ assertions that their daughter was just suffering from exam nerves.

But what about Emily, I thought. Cathy had no jurisdiction over her.

He was frowning at me. ‘Why are you so anxious, Merry? Why now?’

‘Why are you drawing again?’ I looked at him directly. Take the fight to him. ‘Or rather, why did you stop for so many years? I know you’re busy but there have been those
long summer holidays.’

‘Perhaps we both need our own displacement activities at the moment.’ I had to lean forward to hear him. ‘I don’t know what’s making me want to draw again. Perhaps
it’s normal, when you’ve lost someone, to look back to the earlier part of your life, to be the person you were then, before adult life swept you up.’

He’d given up his childhood as soon as he’d reached England, obtaining a scholarship to study German at university before going on to teacher training college. ‘Britain took me
in,’ he had always told me. ‘This was a generous country.’

But his painting had been discarded. Was he regretting this now? Perhaps every time he passed the mural in the entrance hall he asked himself why he’d let it go. Perhaps he was asking
himself whether the sacrifice had been a worthwhile one.

I sensed that the revived interest in drawing was a delicate flower. If I commented too much on it he’d give up. ‘I’d better go,’ I said. ‘I’m having lunch
with Simon. I’ll be back to sort out Mum’s things later.’

‘You’ve earned it,’ he said. ‘Seriously, Merry, I don’t think I’ve told you how grateful I am to you for all you’ve done for me and the school since
your mother died.’

‘It’s nothing.’ I sounded gruff. Anything else would have finished me off.

‘You might as well spit it out.’ Simon was on to his second glass of Merlot and let out the long breath of a teacher who wouldn’t be seeing any of his pupils
for a week.

I started to apologize again for being late for our lunchtime meeting, but he held up his hand. ‘No need for that, just tell me what you’ve been up to these last few days.’ His
eyes glinted with amusement. ‘I’ve hardly seen you and you’ve obviously got a guilty conscience, Meredith.’

I blushed. ‘I don’t know if you’ll approve.’

‘Try me.’

I told him about driving to Bellingham a few days earlier, tracking down Olivia’s aunt at her employer’s house. About Olivia’s reaction outside the kitchen when I’d met
her this morning. He frowned. ‘Not sure I do approve, actually. Does your father know you did this?’

I nodded. ‘He shares your opinion.’ My cheeks burned.

‘And the aunt denied having had anything to do with it?’

‘She looked flustered.’

‘Doesn’t prove she or Olivia had anything to do with the doll, though. She was probably just worried sick you’d be caught with her and her unpleasant-sounding employer would be
angry.’

‘But don’t you think it’s strange, the whole set-up, the aunt working her fingers off to keep Olivia here? I don’t know how she can possibly pay the fees.’

‘But she obviously manages. Perhaps Olivia has a bursary?’

‘I don’t think so. Dad’s never said.’

‘He’s always very discreet, though, isn’t he?’ Simon finished his glass. ‘I must be getting on. I promised myself a trip to Burford. There’s a second-hand
bookshop I need to visit.’ He looked suddenly shy. I thought he was about to ask me to go with him. After all, we had talked about the outing. But the invitation didn’t come. I noticed
how a little smile was fixed to his face these days.

‘Lovely drive.’ I gave up on my scallops, delicious as they were.

‘I’ve been looking forward to it.’ He reached for his jacket. ‘Just one thing, Meredith. What exactly are you trying to find out here? Olivia Fenton’s just a girl
from a poor family who are trying to give her the best education possible. That may mean they can’t see as much of her as you think they should, but that’s their choice. Olivia’s
well looked after here. Emily seems to be taking an interest.’

‘That’s what worries me.’ I spoke without thinking.

‘Why?’ He looked startled.

I shrugged. ‘Emily’s strange. I’m just wondering . . .’ I didn’t finish the sentence. I didn’t want to tell him what I’d started to suspect.

Simon put on his jacket but didn’t make a move towards the pub door. ‘What about Hugh? You haven’t mentioned him for ages. Have you heard anything?’

I told him about the text.

‘You don’t think that all this fascination with Emily and Olivia and the reborn doll is just a way of distracting yourself from the real issue in your life?’

He spoke so softly I couldn’t be angry with him. ‘Perhaps,’ I said, feeling suddenly lonely, wishing he’d ask me to go with him to the second-hand bookshop.

But he didn’t. ‘Go home and ring up your husband, Meredith. You know that’s what needs doing.’

I opened my mouth to dispute this, to tell him to mind his own business, but I closed it again.

As I walked up the lane from the White Oak my mobile trilled. I yanked it out of my pocket without even glancing at the screen. ‘Hello?’ I thought it might be
Simon, calling to suggest a drink later on, keen to dispel any awkwardness following our meeting.

‘Meredith.’

My husband’s voice made every muscle in my body contract. But he’d called me by my full name; I was no longer Merry.

‘Is that you?’ He sounded unsure of himself.

‘Yes.’ The sound came out as a kind of squeak.

‘I sent you a text this morning.’

‘I got it. Just haven’t had a chance to reply yet.’ But why lie? ‘Actually, I didn’t have a clue what to say. You caught me by surprise.’ I sounded more like
myself.

‘I know. After I sent it I was kicking myself for being such a damn coward. I should just have rung you.’

‘Like you’re doing now.’ In the past months I’d played a hundred possible conversations with my husband, thought up clever arguments and ripostes. Now they’d all
abandoned me and I couldn’t think of anything to say. I couldn’t even interpret my own reaction to hearing his voice after such a long time.

‘Can I come and see you?’

No
, I wanted to say.
Stay away, don’t upset me any more
. ‘I’m not sure,’ I muttered. ‘I need to look at my diary. I’m away from my desk at the
moment.’

He didn’t ask where exactly I was. ‘How are you, anyway?’ I went on. ‘What’s happening with the leg?’

‘The new one’s going to be fitted soon. It’s a new design, designed for more active pursuits. I’m still aiming for the skiing at Christmas. I’m doing lots of rehab.
Mum’s been driving me around.’ I felt a cold pain: jealousy of his widowed mother who had no other children apart from Hugh and who’d been at least as desperate about him as I
had. I felt ashamed of myself.

A pause. ‘The hand’s much better, too. I can type a little and it’s not much worse than it was before when I had all my fingers.’

I couldn’t help a laugh. ‘That’s not saying much.’

‘And it’s not just been my body that’s been healing, it’s my mind, too. I’ve had time to think.’ I had to hold the mobile right against my ear to hear the
words, so soft had his voice become. ‘There are things that need saying. But in person, not over a phone.’

‘OK.’ I could feel part of my resistance crumbling. ‘How mobile are you?’

‘I hope to be driving soon but in the meantime there’s always the train.’

‘I could pick you up from the station. It’s half-term this week.’

‘I know. I checked the website.’

‘Just don’t come on Thursday because there are entrance exams here and it’ll be heaving with kids and parents. Friday would work for me.’ Specifying a day made me feel a
little more in control.

‘I’ll ring you when I’ve checked the train times. It’ll be good to see you . . .’ He trailed off.

I thought of when I’d seen him after he’d come out of his coma, and found himself in a hospital ward in Selly Oak. He’d screamed at me to go away because he’d thought he
was still in danger. I’d held his hand and talked to him until the black circles that were his pupils contracted back and he stopped shaking. Then he’d clutched my hand with his
uninjured hand and I thought he’d crush my bones. ‘Look forward to it.’ My voice trembled. ‘Text me the time your train gets in.’ I ended the call before I could give
myself away.

I was trembling. All the buttresses I’d built to prop me up: new job, new friends, new surroundings, had proved themselves to be as fragile as the late asters swaying in the
flowerbeds.

I walked deliberately slowly over to the big house, making myself take in every detail of the October afternoon to distract myself. Sun already low so that it stroked the front of the building,
bringing the shapes of the bushes into sharp relief. A pheasant coughing behind me in the woods. Again I found myself missing the pupils: their breath steaming in the cooling air as they ran in
from rugby or hockey, boots pounding over the grass.

Neither my father nor I had been able to face Mum’s clothes until now. I opened the heavy oak door. As I walked inside Dad was standing at the top of the stairs, holding something in his
hand. At the same time as I entered Olivia and Emily came into the hall from the back of the house, passing in front of the mural. Dad looked down at them. He made a low exclamation and dropped a
photograph. It fluttered halfway down the steps.

‘I’ll get it for you, Mr Statton.’ Olivia ran up the stairs. As she stretched out her hand to pick up the photo I saw she was wearing a red elastic band around her wrist.

‘Charles?’ Samantha came out of the apartment behind my father, a frown on her face. ‘What is it? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

He took the photo from Olivia and blinked. ‘Thank you.’ He seemed to give himself a mental shake and switched on his headmasterly smile. ‘What brings you to the house?’
Olivia looked at Emily, as though waiting for her to give the right answer.

‘I left my laptop in the staffroom,’ Emily said. ‘We just came in to get it.’

He stood back to let them pass him on the stairs, still gazing at Olivia. I followed them up to where my father was standing.

‘Charles.’ Samantha sounded sharp. ‘Are you all right?’

He blinked. ‘Just a little weary suddenly. Excuse me. Here’s the photograph. It came out fairly well, though you’ll notice that my daughters didn’t succeed in scraping
off the top layer uniformly.’

She took the photograph. I was close enough to look over her shoulder at it. Years fell away and I was ten again, staring at the forbidden woman on the wall. I felt my spine grow cold as the
emotions of that day washed over me. Mum and Dad, so angry. My sister so anxious about the parental anger. Myself, half curious, half penitent.

Samantha turned to me. ‘I never knew that there was something underneath that mural before today, when your father told me.’

‘I hope he didn’t tell you how it came to be uncovered.’

She looked puzzled. Dad simply laughed. ‘Perhaps that story’s for another time.’ I was surprised he’d shown her the photograph. I hadn’t known he’d taken it.
He’d been so keen to cover up the hidden woman.

After the big telling-off on the day, nothing more had been said about our terrible act of vandalism, as my father referred to it. I had kept expecting a punishment but it hadn’t come. It
was as though the shock caused by the paintstripping had shaken everyone so much that nobody could act. I’d heard my father in his office making calls but because it was Saturday nobody
seemed to be there to speak to him. Later in the evening the art teacher had been called in to advise on what we should do. ‘. . . Sand down the worst of it and simply repaint over it,’
I heard him say to my father.

Clara and I had lain in bed too miserable to talk. At least, I was miserable. It was hard to tell with Clara. Sometimes she went silent for reasons I couldn’t understand. ‘She needs
to be alone with her own thoughts,’ my mother would say. ‘Not like you, you chatterbox.’ Tonight I didn’t feel like chattering. The woman on the wall was on my mind. I
waited until Clara’s breathing became slow and even and slipped out of bed. My father only locked the apartment door when he and my mother went to bed, so it opened to my careful touch. I
crept downstairs. The hall light was on and I could see the painted woman clearly. There hadn’t been time to study her properly before. I’d thought of her as dangerous when I’d
first seen her, but now, at night, she seemed to wear an expression more poignant than menacing. ‘You look sad,’ I told her. ‘They’re going to paint over you, you
know.’ The wind blew against the windows and the hall seemed suddenly lonely and at the same time filled with the presence of the past. And now the woman’s eyes seemed to hint at
something beyond my understanding, something I could feel but not describe.