‘You make it sound like she failed an exam.’
‘She grew agitated when I mentioned your name. She didn’t want to talk about you. Can you think of a reason?’
‘No.’
‘Nothing occurs to you?’
The hoe is poised above his head with his fists gripping the handle. ‘Why are you really here, Mr O’Loughlin?’
First names have been dropped.
‘Miss Robinson the school counsellor said it was you who encouraged Sienna to come and see her. Did Sienna tell you what was troubling her?’
Ellis relaxes a little. He takes a small packet of tissues from his pocket and wipes the corner of his lips. Gazes past me at the treetops.
‘Sometimes you can tell when a child is struggling. Sienna was quiet. Anxious.’
‘You saw this?’
‘It was a day last summer. We’d just started back at school after the holidays. It was hot and nobody was wearing a sweater except Sienna, which I thought was odd. Then I noticed a smear of blood on her palms, which had run down from her wrist. She kept her arms folded so nobody would see. She’d cut herself and was still bleeding.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘No. And she wouldn’t go to the infirmary. So I collected some bandages and slipped them into her schoolbag. She didn’t say anything, but I think she knew it was me.’
‘Did you report the incident?’
‘No, but after that I kept an eye on her. She joined the drama club. Over time she grew to trust me. We talked.’
‘What about?’
‘She was having problems at home with her father.’
‘What sort of problems?’
‘Do I have to spell it out, Mr O’Loughlin? I encouraged Sienna to see the counsellor. And when she didn’t want to see a therapist, I helped convince her.’
‘She trusted you?’
‘I guess.’
‘Why was that?’
He blinks, suddenly angry. ‘Maybe I was willing to listen.’
‘Did she tell you she was being abused?’
‘No. I just knew it. You teach for long enough and you learn to recognise the signs.’
Resting the hoe against the fence, he picks up a rake and begins smoothing the soil, breaking up the larger clods and creating channels for drainage. Across the fence, a neighbour is pegging her washing, the whites, sheets and towels.
Gordon returns her wave.
‘Sienna needed my help. I wish I could have done more.’ The words seem to catch in his throat.
‘Did you know that Sienna was pregnant?’
Ellis pauses for a moment, the rake suspended in mid-air. Tension ripples across his shoulders. Then he exhales and shakes his head.
‘I know she had a boyfriend.’
The neighbour has finished with her washing and is calling her dog. ‘Here, Jake, c’mon boy. C’mon, Jake.’
Ellis is staring at me now, resting the rake handle on his shoulder.
‘Did Sienna have a crush on you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You admit it?’
‘It happens.’
‘It doesn’t worry you?’
‘On the contrary - I take it as a compliment. It’s a sign that I’m doing my job pretty damn well.’
‘Doing it well?’
‘You’ve got to understand the process of teaching. If I do my job properly I can change the way a student thinks about himself or herself. It’s a process of seduction, but it’s not about sexual conquest. It’s about creating an interest and a passion where none previously existed. It’s about getting students to want something they didn’t know they wanted.’
‘You make them fall in love with the subject?’
‘I make them feel excited, energised, provoked and challenged.’
‘So you encourage crushes?’
‘Yes, but not to feed my ego. Instead I turn the focus back on the student. I encourage them to use their new-found curiosity and passion, to run with it, indulge it, let it take them places . . .’
‘And what happens when a student sexualises their crush?’
‘I take a step back. Let them down gently. Sienna didn’t get a crush on me because she wanted to be with me but because she wanted to be like me. I brought out her best. I made her feel special. This has nothing to do with physical attractiveness. It’s a meeting of minds.’
He makes it sound so obvious that nobody could dispute his logic. He’s a passionate teacher, possibly a brilliant one, but what adolescent girl knows the difference between seduction and persuasion, love and infatuation?
‘Did you know Ray Hegarty?’
‘We met once or twice.’
Ellis looks at the garden with a weary smile. ‘If I don’t get these planted soon, we won’t have vegetables for the summer.’
A sharp gust of wind scatters his words.
‘How is Sienna?’
‘She’s traumatised.’
‘Is the baby . . . ?’
‘She miscarried.’
He nods sadly and raises his eyes to the pearl-grey sky. ‘That may have been for the best.’
Something rises in my stomach. Burns. I swallow hard and find myself saying goodbye, retracing my steps across the lawn to the side path.
Out of the corner of my eye I notice the garage again and the sports car.
‘What sort of car does your wife drive?’ I ask, turning to Ellis.
He gives me a wry smile. ‘Natasha’s not really interested in cars. They just have to get her from A to B.’
‘So what does she drive?’
‘A Ford Focus.’
19
Sometimes we know things even if we don’t know we know them. Maybe all we have is a fluttering sensation in our stomachs or a nagging sense of doubt or an unexplained certainty that something has happened.
Call it intuition or perception or insight. There is no sixth sense - it is a simple mental process where the brain takes in a situation, does a rapid search of its files, and among the sprawl of memories and knowledge it throws up an immediate match, a first impression.
That’s why on trivia nights it’s often best to go with the first answer that pops into our heads, because that initial thought is based upon a subconscious cue; a knowledge that cannot be articulated or defended. Ponder the same question for too long and our higher brain functions will begin to demand proof.
The trick is to train your mind to pick up the cues. Trust your first response. My gut tells me that Sienna Hegarty didn’t kill her father. My gut tells me that she’s protecting someone. My gut tells me that Gordon Ellis knows more than he’s letting on. My gut tells me that there was something between them - teacher and student - a friendship that crossed a boundary.
For the past four days I have wrestled with this problem, going back over the details of Sienna’s interview and Ellis’s reaction. Another image keeps coming back to me: Gordon Ellis on stage during the rehearsal, looking into the eyes of a teenage girl, putting his finger beneath her chin, tilting her face towards his. She wanted to be kissed . . . wanted to surrender . . . he wanted control.
I can see Ellis’s eyes travelling from the girl’s dilated pupils over her flushed cheeks, down her exposed neck, across her under-defended body. Was it the look of a practised manipulator or a committed teacher? Was it a predator’s leer or a harmless piece of theatre?
It’s Saturday morning in Bath. I’m sitting in Café Medoc, overlooking Pulteney Bridge and the riverside path running north past the Bath Library arcade. The weir is downstream, turning brown water into foam. Ducks paddle above the falls as if waiting for a ramp to be delivered.
Annie Robinson takes a seat and puts her brightly coloured hippy shoulder bag at her feet. She’s wearing a quilted jacket over a shirt and thin woollen tights.