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.’