My mother’s voice, her newly rounded vowels still unfamiliar behind the kitchen door. “I told you, Mr. Straitley, we’ve had a difficult twenty-four hours and I really don’t think—”
Even then I sensed that he was uncomfortable with women. Peering through the crack in the kitchen door I saw him, framed by the night, head down, hands digging deeply into the pockets of his old tweed jacket.
In front of him, my mother; tensed for confrontation; all Paris pearls and pastel twinset. It disturbed him, that feminine temperament. He would have been happier talking to my father, straight to the point, in words of one syllable.
“Well perhaps if I could just have a word with the child.”
I checked my reflection in the kettle. Under Mother’s guidance, I was looking good. Hair neat and freshly styled; face scrubbed; resplendent in one of those new little outfits. I had removed my glasses. I knew I would pass; and besides, I wanted to see him—to see, and, perhaps, be seen.
“Mr. Straitley, believe me, there’s nothing we can—”
I pushed open the kitchen door. He looked up quickly. For the first time I met his eyes as my very own self. My mother stood close, ready to snatch me away at the first sign of distress. Roy Straitley took a step toward me; I caught the comforting smell of chalk dust and Gauloises and distant mothballs. I wondered what he would say if I greeted him in Latin; the temptation was almost too great to resist, then I remembered that I was playing a part. Would he recognize me in my new role?
For a second I thought he might. His eyes were penetrating. Denim blue and slightly bloodshot, they narrowed a little as they met mine. I put out my hand—took his thick fingers in my own cool ones. I thought of all the times I had watched him in the Bell Tower; of all the things he had unwittingly taught me. Would he see me now? Would he?
I saw his eyes flick over me; taking in the clean face, pastel sweater, ankle socks, and polished shoes. Not quite what he’d expected, then; I had to make an effort to hide a smile. My mother saw it, and smiled herself, proud of her achievement. As well she might be; the transformation was all hers.
“Good evening,” he said. “I don’t mean to intrude. I’m Mr. Straitley. Leon Mitchell’s form tutor.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” I said. “I’m Julia Snyde.”
10
I had to laugh. Such a long time since I had thought of myself as Julia, rather than just Snyde. And besides, I’d never liked Julia, just as my father had never liked her, and to be reminded of her—to be her—now was strange and puzzling. I thought I had outgrown Julia, as I had outgrown Sharon. But my mother had reinvented herself. Why couldn’t I?
Straitley, of course, never saw it. To him, women remain a race apart, to be admired (or perhaps feared) from a safe distance. His manner is different when talking to his boys; with Julia his easy manner stiffened a little; became a wary parody of its jovial self.
“Now I don’t want to upset you,” he said.
I nodded.
“But do you know a boy called Julian Pinchbeck?”
I have to admit that my relief was marred by a certain disappointment. I’d expected more of Straitley somehow; more of St. Oswald’s. After all, I’d already practically offered him the truth. And still he hadn’t seen it. In his arrogance—the peculiarly male arrogance that lies at the very foundations of St. Oswald’s—he had failed to see what was staring him in the face.
Julian Pinchbeck.
Julia Snyde.
“Pinchbeck?” I said. “I don’t think so, sir.”
“He’d be your age, or thereabouts. Dark hair, skinny. Wears glasses with wire frames. He may be a pupil at Sunnybank Park. You may have seen him around St. Oswald’s.”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“You know why I’m asking, don’t you, Julia?”
“Yes, sir. You think he was there last night.”
“He was there,” snapped Straitley. He cleared his throat and said, in a softer voice, “I thought maybe you’d seen him too.”
“No, sir.” Once more I shook my head. It was too funny, I thought to myself; and yet I wondered how he could have failed to see me. Was it because I was a girl, perhaps? A slapper, a pram-face, a toerag, a prole? Was it so impossible to believe of Julia Snyde?
“Are you sure?” He looked at me sharply. “Because that boy’s a witness. He was there. He saw what happened.”
I looked down at the shiny toes of my shoes. I wanted to tell him everything then, just to see his jaw drop. But then he would have had to know about Leon too; and that, I knew, was impossible. For that I had already sacrificed so much. And for that I prepared to swallow my pride.
I looked up at him then, allowing my eyes to fill with tears. It wasn’t difficult in the circumstances. I thought of Leon, and of my father, and of myself, and the tears just came all on their own. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t see him.” And now old Straitley was looking uncomfortable, huffing and shuffling just as he did when Kitty Teague had her little crisis in the Common Room.
“Now then.” He pulled out a large and slightly grubby handkerchief.
My mother glared. “I hope you’re happy,” she said, putting a possessive arm around my shoulders. “After everything the poor kid’s already been through—”
“Mrs. Snyde, I didn’t—”
“I think you should go.”
“Julia, please, if you know anything—”
“Mr. Straitley,” she said. “I’d like you to leave.”
And so he did, reluctantly, caught between bluster and unease, apologies on one side, suspicion on the other.
Because he was suspicious; I could see it in his eyes. He was nowhere near the truth, of course; but his years of teaching have given him a second sight where pupils are concerned, a kind of radar that in some way I must have triggered.
He turned to go, hands in his pockets. “Julian Pinchbeck. You’re sure you’ve never heard of him?”
Mutely, I nodded, grinning inside.
His shoulders slumped. Then, as my mother opened the door for him to leave, he turned abruptly and met my eyes for what was to be the last time in fifteen years. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said. “We’re all concerned about your father. But I was Leon’s form tutor. I have a responsibility to my boys—”
Again I nodded. “Valé, magister.” It was no more than a whisper, but I swear he heard.
“What was that?”
“Good night, sir.”
11
After that, we moved to Paris. A new life, my mother had said; a new start for her little girl. But it wasn’t that easy. I didn’t like Paris. I missed my home and the woods and the comforting smell of cut grass rolling over the fields. My mother deplored my tomboyish manners, for which, of course, she blamed my father. He’d never wanted a girl, she said, lamenting over my cropped hair, my skinny chest, my scabbed knees. Thanks to John, she said, I looked more like a dirty little boy than the dainty daughter of her imaginings. But that was going to change, she said. All I needed was time to blossom.
God knows, I tried. There were endless shopping trips; dress fittings; appointments at the beautician’s. Any girl would dream of being taken in hand; to be Gigi, to be Eliza; to change from the ugly duckling into the gracious swan. It was my mother’s dream, anyway. And she indulged it now; crowing happily over her living doll.