The History Room (30 page)

She rocked backwards and forwards on her heels, thinking it through, trying to keep calm.
You have a choice as to how you respond, Emily
, that’s what the anger management counsellor
had told her a year ago. She breathed deeply, letting the breath go down into her. She made her shoulders relax. She could walk away now. Limit her actions to talking to the press, kicking up some
bad publicity for the school.

As she stood up the dog barked at her, eyes blazing with fury, the fur standing up on its neck.

She changed her mind about not harming him. She opened the fridge and reached for some bacon. He stopped the noise and pricked his ears. She threw a rasher towards the back of the living room
and he shot past her to retrieve it. She was at the front door a second later, by which time he’d gulped down the bacon and was running towards her again. She showed him the second rasher,
tore it in half and threw one bit behind her, down the stairs to the garden. It was hard to throw accurately with her back to the stairs but when she turned to watch him he was standing by the main
door, bolting down the bacon. One piece left. She threw it from halfway down the steps. It landed in the courtyard and that gave her free access to the front door.

Samson would probably hang around the courtyard waiting for someone to let him back in but there was a chance he’d wander off. The road was busy at rush hour and traffic moved quickly.
She’d already seen the dog standing on his hind legs, trying to scale the fence. He’d wanted to get to the car in which she’d sat with Sofia, trying to reassure her following
Meredith’s visit to Bellingham. Now the dog would be free to jump onto the road if he wanted.

Emily examined her watch. Just enough time to return the key to Simon’s cottage. She had his spare key, too. He hadn’t noticed it was missing, Or perhaps thought that he’d
given it to Meredith at some point. They were always doing one another little favours, those two. Simon hadn’t asked Emily if she wanted a key to his cottage, not even after that time
she’d slept with him. He was still ashamed of that event, even though she wasn’t a pupil and there was nothing illegal or even particularly unethical about it. He kept muttering about
taking advantage and how much younger she was. She’d been about to correct him on that score but had remembered just in time that she was supposed to be barely nineteen, not twenty-two. Thank
God she’d always hated the sun and all the hearty outdoor activities New Zealanders made such a fuss about.

Tracey Johnson’s lack of years hadn’t put Simon off having a brief fling with her, either. Truth was, as Tracey had probably also discovered, Simon was in love with one woman only.
Meredith. Adored her. Everyone else was just for fun. Meredith and the papers and photos in the history room cupboard, that was all Simon wanted. ‘History is my passion,’ he’d
told Emily. For him the past meant old papers and creaky houses. For her it meant something else. Blood history.

The dog was still busy with the rasher and paid Emily no attention as she walked past him. The idea came to her like lots of her ideas: suddenly and vividly. It would take pluck. She was scared
of Samson. Her hand went to the belt on her jeans and she unbuckled it. Quick, while he was still chomping. She walked up to him and willed herself to do it. She looped the belt through his collar
while his head was still down, trying to be confident in her movements. ‘We’re going for a walk.’ It felt better now that she had him under control. She tugged at the belt and he
looked at her inquiringly, licking his lips. Perhaps he thought she was a friend, after all.

‘Off we go, doggy.’ She walked towards the woods with him. There must be somewhere she could tie him.

Her boldness with the dog had set her imagination free. If she could do this, there was more she was capable of doing. Forget just going to the newspapers and planting an embarrassing story
about the head. But what?

The bell rang in the distance. Emily walked faster, the dog keeping pace in easy strides. She was due in the drama department to carry out the last alterations to costumes for the play. The
play. The audience.

Waiting for something dramatic.

Like the apparently murdered baby in the history room.

That reborn doll hadn’t entirely exhausted its possibilities. Only twenty or so pupils had seen it. Olivia had said she’d seen it in Charles’s study.

Then the idea shot through her mind. She laughed out loud and the dog wagged his tail.

It would be a performance all right. A night nobody would forget. And all for Toby. And Mum and Dad.

She must have jerked the dog’s collar; he turned his head to her. Funny to think she’d been scared of this stupid animal. There was nothing she couldn’t do now.

Meredith

Most women seemed to look twice at the tall athletic man beside me in the audience in the school hall. I had to remind myself that I couldn’t yet be sure he was really a
permanent part of my life. One step at a time . . . I tried hard to relax, to make myself forget about Samson. It had been two days now and still there was no sign of him. He hadn’t been in
my flat when I’d returned at lunchtime to take him for a walk. Again I asked myself if I’d left the door open when I’d left after breakfast. Again I was pretty sure I
hadn’t. Where was my dog? December had continued bone-chillingly cold. I tried to push away the thought of him hurt and outdoors for the second night.

The first scenes of
The Crucible
were going well. As far as I could tell nobody had fluffed a line or forgotten a cue. Olivia entered as Mary Warren, returning from a day out at the
trials and standing up against her master, John Proctor. Olivia’s character gave John Proctor’s wife a little doll she’d made. The calculated intent flashing over Olivia’s
face as she did this made me shiver. It didn’t help that the object was a doll, of course, even though it was simply a small sewn-fabric object. Hugh nudged me. ‘Something fishy about
that doll, if you ask me.’

‘I’ve had enough of dolls,’ I whispered back.

Jenny had made some cuts to the play, which would otherwise have run for three hours or so, but the first act still went on for just over an hour. I noticed Hugh rubbing the leg joint and
wondered how long he could sit before the pain became too strong. I bit my tongue, not wanting to fuss, but seeing the relief on his face when he rose as the curtain came down for the interval.
‘Glass of wine, Merry?’ He moved stiffly across the hall towards the table at the back where members of the parent–teacher association were selling glasses of Pinot Grigio and
Merlot. ‘Olivia’s quite chilling,’ he told me as we queued. ‘I’m impressed.’

‘So am I. It’s not a big part but she’s made something of it.’ Over his shoulder I saw Sofia, shyly clutching a programme. I waved to her. ‘Come and join us,’
I called. She approached, still looking cautious. ‘Olivia’s wonderful,’ I told her. She gave Hugh a shy look and nodded. ‘This is my husband,’ I told her. She held out
a hand, smiling.

‘Your niece is making me nervous. In the best possible way,’ he told her.

She smiled with pride. ‘Thank you.’

‘Come on.’ I put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Let’s get back to our seats.’

The backstage team was obviously working hard to put things in order for the second act. I could hear scenery moving against floorboards. The curtains swished as though about to open. The
audience hushed. But nothing happened for a second. I thought I made out the outline of someone running to the side. Then the curtains swung back with a jerk, the rails swaying under the force.
‘Whoops,’ Hugh muttered, ‘a little over-enthusiastic.’ We were gazing at the stage. Nobody said a word. Then a woman screamed. I stared until I thought I was going to be
sick.

A baby hung by its distorted neck from a rope, looped around the top of a set of ladders. It wore the linen gown and cap – again. ‘It’s all right,’ I said.
‘It’s just a doll. It’s a prank.’ I looked for Jenny, for my father, for someone to take control. Nobody was moving. I rose to my feet and pushed past Hugh, making for the
stage, anger pulsing through me. I’d reached the steps when the voice spoke.

‘Sorry for the interruption to the play.
The Crucible
will continue in a few minutes. First I’d like to take the opportunity to tell you all a story.’

Emily. Speaking in a low, confident, tone. But still the stage was empty. Except for the doll swinging from the rope around its neck.

‘This is the story of two men. The first man was regarded as highly successful. He had done well for himself, building up a first-rate and popular school.’ The back of my neck
prickled. ‘He was married with two healthy daughters. The other man also had a respected position and two children he doted on: a girl and a boy.

‘But his son was born with a rare heart defect. No surgery was available in Britain. Without treatment the boy would die before his first birthday. But the father had done his research and
discovered a clinic in the States where a surgeon was pioneering treatment with more than a sixty-per-cent success rate.

‘The family sold their house. But still they couldn’t raise the money for airfares and a long and expensive stay in Philadelphia.’ I was on the stage by now, looking for the
source of Emily’s voice. The stagehands shrugged.

‘We don’t know where it’s coming from,’ one of them hissed.

‘The father borrowed some money from his successful friend. The friend had promised his support. But then he brought in a third man, a retired maths teacher who fancied himself as a bit of
a bookkeeper. This new arrival decided that fraud had occurred. He urged the headmaster, for that is who this friend was, our very own headmaster, to sack the father. Who now worried that the
police would be involved, that he’d be charged with a crime he hadn’t committed. And then what would happen to his family?’

‘Draw the curtains,’ I hissed at the stagehands, who appeared to be paralysed. The voice seemed to be coming from above my head. Hugh was beside me now, scrutinizing the hanging
doll. ‘The curtains,’ I hissed again. At last the green velvet drapes swung back together, separating us from the stare of the audience.

‘Let’s get that thing down,’ I whispered, forgetting about Hugh’s leg. ‘Go on,’ I urged. Surprise flashed over his face but he clambered up the ladder and
unhooked the rope from the top, letting the doll fall to the ground. Even then I found a moment to note how smoothly he was moving. Still the voice was continuing with its litany.

‘. . . leave the country immediately. With a baby still in desperate need of treatment. America was out of the question, they needed to go somewhere where the authorities wouldn’t
track them. The baby’s condition was now too severe for the operation to save him. The mother was distraught and the bursar knew she wouldn’t cope if he were sent to prison.
That’s right, the bursar. Letchford’s bursar back then. Threatened with prison for taking money that the head had said he could take. But how was he to prove this? No contracts had been
drawn up. It had been a gentleman’s agreement.

‘Eventually the family found their way to New Zealand, where doctors did their best for the baby, now very weak. He died, ladies and gentlemen.’ She paused. ‘The child who
might have been saved was my brother. On the stage you see his facsimile. When the baby died, part of my mother died with him.

‘Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you all this. But sadly this incident was not the only occasion on which Charles Statton has shown himself to be heartless and self-absorbed. In 1968
he was—’ I stood on the doll. The voice stopped briefly. ‘. . . student involved in the Prague Spring,’ it resumed. ‘He abandoned a pregnant girlfriend who was
unwell.’ It was still just about audible, but much quieter since I’d trodden on it. ‘. . . so that he could save his own skin, left her to the mercy of the Russian invaders,
ladies and gentlemen. And not once did he ever enquire about her and her child, not even when the Velvet Revolution had taken place and it was perfectly safe for him to return to his homeland. And
now he has a granddaughter who he’s never acknowledged either—’

I trod on the doll again. The voice fell silent. I pulled off its gown and ripped at the stitches in its cloth body that hid the recorder, a small black object. When I’d switched it off, I
walked through the curtains and addressed the audience.

‘Thank you for your patience.’ I gave what I hoped was a confident smile. ‘Our apologies for this interruption.’ I nodded at Jenny, standing, hand over mouth, in the
wings.

‘The show will now continue. Please give us a moment to set up the stage.’ I went back inside the curtains. Actors and backstage team were still gazing at the recorder in my hand.
Finally people started moving onto the stage. The ladder was pulled to one side. I kicked the doll into the wings and threw the rope after it. Jenny was whispering to the actors. I walked off stage
to find Olivia. What had she heard? Everything, probably, if she was waiting in the wings with the others. She sat, composed, hands in her lap.

‘Are you all right?’

She nodded. ‘I always knew she was mad.’ She sounded dismissive. ‘She said she was going to do something memorable. I never thought she’d do it at the play,
though.’

I knelt so that I was at her level. ‘You should have told us, Olivia. We’d have put a stop to this.’

She shook her head. ‘I told you, she’s crazy. If it hadn’t been this it would have been something worse. She pushed me down the stairs when I said I didn’t want to help
her.’ Something flickered over her pale face. ‘Have you found your dog yet?’

I shook my head.

‘Everything’s ready,’ Jenny whispered. ‘Let’s make it the best we can, everyone. Let’s show how professional we are.’

‘Break a leg,’ I told them in a low voice. ‘Sock it to them.’

‘We’ll do it for your dad.’ The voice was very quiet; I had to peer into the gloom to see who had spoken. A small first-year boy, an extra in one of the courtroom scenes.
I’d never heard him say anything before that wasn’t in his script. I remembered his name. James Perry. The first-year who’d kicked a football through a windowpane.