The Wrong Mother (22 page)

‘If Geraldine didn’t do it—if you can prove that—I’ll be able to carry on,’ said Bretherick. ‘For her sake and Lucy’s. I expect that sounds odd to you, Sergeant.’ He smiled. ‘I must be the first man in the history of the world to feel relieved when he realises his family has been murdered.’

 

 

St Swithun’s Montessori School is a Victorian building with a clock-tower on its roof and green-painted iron railings separating its playground from the enormous landscaped garden of the old people’s home next door. I can hear children through the open windows as I approach the front door—singing, chanting, laughing, calling out to one another. It sounds as if a party is being thrown in every room.

I stop, confused. It’s the summer holidays. I was expecting to find the place empty apart from the odd secretary. There’s a sign on the door that says ‘Action Week One—Monday 6 to Friday 10 August’. I wonder if it’s some kind of holiday childcare scheme, and have the automatic thought: what are parents supposed to do for the rest of the holidays?

I walk in and find myself in a small square entrance hall with a flagstone floor. Class photographs line all four walls: rows and rows of children wearing green. This startles me; I feel as if I’ve been ambushed by tiny faces. Beneath each picture is a typed list of names and a date. One, to my left, is dated 1989. I see Lucy Bretherick’s green dress, over and over again.

The sight of all these children makes me ache for mine. I found it harder than ever to drop them off at nursery this morning. I didn’t want to let them out of my sight. I kept asking for one last kiss, until Jake eventually said, ‘Go to work, Mummy. I want to play with Finlay, not you.’ This made me laugh; clearly he’s inherited his father’s diplomacy.

I didn’t go to work. I rang HS Silsford, lied to the disgusting Owen Mellish and came here instead. I’ve never phoned in sick before, legitimately or otherwise.

‘Can I help you at all?’ A soft Scottish accent. I turn and find a tall, thin woman behind me. She looks my age but better preserved. Her skin is like a porcelain doll’s and her short, sleek black hair hugs her scalp like a swimming cap. She’s wearing a fitted jacket, the thinnest pencil skirt I’ve ever seen and sandals with stiletto heels. On her ring finger there’s a pile-up of gold and diamond bands reaching almost to her knuckle.

I smile, open my bag and pull out the two photographs that I found hidden behind the ones of Geraldine and Lucy. When I look up, I see that the Scottish woman’s face has been immobilised by shock, and it’s nothing to do with my cuts and bruises. ‘I know,’ I say quickly. ‘I look like Mrs What’s-her-name on the news who died. Everyone’s been telling me.’

‘You . . .’ She pauses to clear her throat, eyeing me warily. ‘You know her . . . her daughter was one of our pupils?’

My turn to look shocked. ‘Really? No, I didn’t know. I’m sorry.’ I have no plan other than to keep lying until I come up with a better strategy. ‘I’m sorry if I sounded flippant,’ I say. ‘I had no idea you knew the family personally.’

‘So . . . you’re not here in connection with the tragedy?’

‘No.’ I smile again. ‘I’m here because of these.’ I pass her the two photographs.

She holds them at a distance, then brings them close to her face, blinking at them. ‘Who are these people?’ she asks.

‘I was hoping you could tell me. I don’t know. I just recognised the uniform as belonging to this school.’ Inspiration rushes to my aid. ‘I found a handbag in the street and the photos were inside it. There was a wallet too, with quite a lot of money in it, so I’m trying to find the bag’s owner.’

‘Weren’t there credit cards? Contact details?’

‘No,’ I say quickly, impatient with my own fictions. ‘Do you know who the girl is? Or the woman?’

‘I’m sorry, before we go any further . . .’ She extends her hand. ‘I’m Jenny Naismith, the headmistress’s secretary.’

‘Oh. I’m . . . Esther. Esther Taylor.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Taylor,’ she says, eyeing my wedding ring. ‘This is a bit of a puzzle. I know every child at St Swithun’s and every parent—we’re like a big family here. This girl is not one of our pupils. I’ve never seen the woman before either.’

The bell rings, making my whole body shake as if in response to an electric shock. Jenny Naismith remains perfectly still, unperturbed. Doors all around us start to open, and children pour out. They aren’t wearing the green uniform. Some of them are in fancy dress—pirates, fairies and wizards. Several Spidermen and Supermen. For a few seconds, maybe half a minute, they’re a flood of colour, sweeping past us and out into the playground. As soon as I am able to make myself heard, I say, ‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘But . . . why would a child who wasn’t at St Swithun’s be wearing the uniform?’

‘She wouldn’t.’ Jenny Naismith shakes her head. ‘This is very odd. Wait here.’ She points to a pair of brown leather armchairs against one wall. ‘I’d better show these to Mrs Fitzgerald.’

‘Who?’ I call after her.

‘The head.’

I start to follow her, but children are still spilling out of classrooms; by the time I’ve dodged the first lot I’ve lost sight of her.

I sit in a leather chair for a few seconds, then stand, sit then stand. Every time a door opens, I half expect a team of policemen to appear. But nothing happens. I stare at my watch and convince myself that the hands aren’t moving at all.

Eventually another bell rings, startling me as much as the first did, and the sea of children pours back into school. My legs get kicked so many times that eventually I pull them up on to the seat of my chair. The pupils of St Swithun’s seem to have selective vision; they see each other but they don’t see me. I could be invisible.

I look at my watch again, swear under my breath. Why did I let Jenny Naismith take the photographs away? I should have insisted on going with her.

I pick up my bag and walk along a series of corridors decorated with children’s artwork, large watercolour paintings of birds and animals. A passage from Geraldine’s diary comes into my mind. I don’t remember her exact words but it was something about spending her days enthusing about pictures that deserved to be shredded. How could she say that about her own daughter’s drawings? I’ve kept every work of art Zoe and Jake have ever produced. Zoe, being organised and imaginative, has a real eye for colour and composition, and Jake’s more casual paint-splats are no less attractive, as far as I can see, than the output of many a Turner Prize-winner.

I walk and walk, getting more lost as I move deeper into the building. St Swithun’s is a maze. How long must it take a child to learn his or her way round? I end up in a big hall with white tape stuck to the floor and wooden climbing frames covering one long wall. Blue mats are arranged in lines that are slightly askew, like stepping stones. This must be the gym. It’s also a dead end. I turn to leave, to go back the way I came, and bump into a young woman wearing red tracksuit bottoms, white pumps and a black Lycra vest-top. ‘Oops, sorry,’ she says nervously, twisting her high ponytail around her hand. Her forehead is large and flat, which gives her a severe look, but overall her face is pretty. Her breath smells of peppermint. When she notices my face, she backs away.

I haven’t got the energy for a repeat performance, so I say, ‘I’m looking for Jenny Naismith.’

A pause. Then, ‘Have you tried her office?’

‘I don’t know where it is. She said she was going to find the head, Mrs Fitzgerald. That was about ten minutes ago. She’s got two photographs of mine and I need to get them back.’

‘Photographs?’ She says it so quietly, I almost have to lip-read. ‘Are you a relative?’

‘Of the Brethericks? No. I know—there’s a strong resemblance. It’s a coincidence.’

‘You obviously know . . . what happened. Are you a journalist? Police?’ In spite of her soft voice, she’s persistent.

‘Neither,’ I tell her.

‘Oh.’ Disappointment all over her face: there’s no mistaking it.

‘Who are you? If you don’t mind . . .’

‘Sian Toms. I’m a teaching assistant. You said two photographs? ’

I nod.

‘Of . . . of Lucy and her mum?’

‘No. Another woman and girl. I don’t know who they were. The girl was wearing a St Swithun’s uniform, but Jenny Naismith said she definitely wasn’t a pupil here.’

I see a flash of—could it be triumph?—in Sian Toms’ eyes. ‘Jenny won’t tell you anything. She’ll have thought you’re another journalist. They’ve been all over—you can imagine. Wanting us to talk about Lucy and her family.’

‘And did you?’

‘No one asked me.’

‘What would you have told them?’ I hold my breath. I wonder if anyone has ever been as keen to hear what Sian Toms will say next as I am now, and I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing—making the moment last.

‘The only thing that matters.’ Her voice vibrates with suppressed anger. ‘Geraldine didn’t kill Lucy—there’s no way on earth she did it.’ She pulls at her ponytail. A few strands of hair come loose. ‘Never mind how sorry we all are, how devastating it’s been for the school community, what about getting the facts right? I’m sorry. What am I doing?’ She seems astonished to find herself in tears, sinking to the floor in front of a woman she has never met before.

 

Ten minutes later, Sian and I are both sitting on one of the gym’s dusty blue mats.

‘You get some children—not many—who are a dream to teach,’ she says. ‘Lucy was like that, always keen, whatever she was doing. She’d volunteer for everything, help organise the other children: boss them around, basically, parroting words and instructions she’d heard us say. Used to make us laugh—she was six going on forty-six. We all used to say she’d probably end up as Prime Minister. After she died, we had a special assembly to pay tribute to her. Everyone was in tears. Lucy’s classmates read poems and stories about her. It was horrible. I mean . . . I don’t mean I didn’t want to remember Lucy, but . . . it was like, all we were allowed to do was say nice things about her and how much she’d meant to us. Geraldine’s name wasn’t mentioned. No one said anything about what had
happened
.’

Sian pulled a tissue out of her sleeve and twisted it into the corners of her eyes. ‘Lucy could just as easily have died of . . . I don’t know, some illness, from the way people here talk about it. Teachers, I mean. It really freaks me out. They’re trying to be tactful, but you can tell they all believe what they’ve heard on the news. They’ve forgotten that they knew Geraldine, personally, for years. Haven’t they got minds of their own?’

‘A lot of people haven’t,’ I tell her, thinking of Esther, of her automatic disapproval before she’d given me a chance to explain. ‘How . . . how can you be so sure Geraldine didn’t kill Lucy? Did you know her well?’

‘Very. I take the minutes at the Parents and Friends meetings. Geraldine joined the committee when Lucy started at the school’s nursery nearly four years ago. We always go for a drink afterwards, and sometimes a meal. We knew each other really well. She was a lovely person.’ Sian presses the tissue into her eyes again. ‘That’s what’s doing my head in. I’m not allowed to say I’m upset about Geraldine being dead—they’d all think I was betraying Lucy’s memory. I’m sorry.’ She covers her mouth with her hand. ‘Why am I telling you all this? I don’t even know you. You look so much like her . . .’

‘Maybe you should speak to the police,’ I say. ‘If you’re so sure.’

Sian snorts contemptuously. ‘They haven’t noticed I exist. I’m only the teaching
assistant
. They talked to Sue Flowers and Maggie Gough, Lucy’s teachers. Never mind that I’m in the classroom too five mornings a week. I work as hard as anyone. Harder.’

‘You’re the teaching assistant for Lucy’s class?’

She nods. ‘What could I have told them anyway? They’d never have understood. They didn’t see the way Geraldine’s eyes lit up whenever Lucy was there. I did. You get some parents who—’ She stops.

‘What? Go on.’

‘It’s usually the mums, especially the ones who use the after-school club,’ she says. ‘You see them waiting at the gates at half past five—they’re standing there, chatting away, and when we let the children out, just for a second you can see the strain on their faces; it’s like they’re gearing up for . . . some kind of obstacle course. Don’t get me wrong, they’re pleased to see their kids, but they’re also dreading the hassle of wrestling them into the car.’

I nod eagerly.
Sounds familiar.

‘Then of course the children get tetchy. They don’t want their mums to be tired, they want them to be excited and energetic. Well, Geraldine always was. She was raring to go—it was as if being with Lucy gave her this special energy. And she’d always arrive early for pick-up; usually by twenty past three she was hopping up and down outside the classroom. She’d peer through the window, waving and winking like a teenager with a crush or something. We used to worry about how she’d cope when Lucy left home. Some mums go to pieces.’

‘You could tell the police all that,’ I say. ‘Why do you think they wouldn’t listen to you? It sounds as if you know what you’re talking about.’

Sian shrugs. ‘They must have a reason for thinking what they think. I’m hardly going to change their minds, am I?’ She looks at her watch. ‘I’ve got to go in a minute.’

‘The photographs Jenny Naismith’s got, the ones I brought in, they came from Lucy Bretherick’s house,’ I blurt out, not wanting her to leave yet.

‘What? What do you mean?’

I tell Sian an edited version of the story: the man at the hotel who pretended to be Mark Bretherick, my trip to Corn Mill House, finding the frames with the two photographs hidden beneath ones of Geraldine and Lucy. I’m hoping she’ll be flattered that I’m telling her so much, that it’ll make her feel important, make her want to stay and carry on talking to me. I don’t mention that I stole the pictures. ‘Did Lucy’s class go on a school trip to the owl sanctuary at Silsford Castle?’ I ask. It didn’t occur to me to ask Jenny Naismith.