Most of the time I love my job. I’ve worked at Fairbridge for nearly ten years and there is still a personal challenge to be found in most days. The majority of the children who attend the school come from wealthy backgrounds, and the naive might think this means their problems are lessened. Fairbridge students are fortunate in one way, sure, but when parents pay the kind of fees that the school commands, there’s added pressure to produce corresponding results. Money doesn’t stop parents from splitting up, or families falling out, or loved ones passing away. Add to all that the crises of isolation and self-confidence that are pretty much universal among teenagers, and there’s plenty for me to do.
Fairbridge employs me for three days a week, and I leave the other days free for the occasional private client and the more general chores of life. It’s my doing that Georgia and Zac are pupils at the school, because I insisted on using the inheritance from my parents. It caused friction between Callum and me in the early days, because Callum went to the local schools down the road and thought Fairbridge was above our station. However, I think it’s safe to say that I’ve been proved right in the long term. While Zac shines in the academic world, Georgia has also excelled within the strong sports focus, and it’s here that Callum has found his niche as a parent too. Not many schools offer mountain climbing and orienteering as part of their syllabus, and Callum’s name is to be found at the top of any parent-volunteer form that goes around.
I feel myself tense as I remember Callum’s harsh tone this morning, the accusation clear behind his words. He thinks I cosset the children, but surely today is different? Surely he understands something of trauma considering all the rescues he undertakes? Does he oppose me just to rile me, I wonder. I remind myself that he loves Georgia as much as I do. We just have different ideas about negotiating our way through a crisis.
We have different ideas about so much, nowadays.
I push my discomfort aside and concentrate on absorbing my surroundings, knowing that in a few hundred metres I’ll be off the stony path and onto the road. I like the freshness of September mornings – the clear, crisp air has a tinge of sweetness to it that will fade over the next six or so weeks. Autumn is my favourite season, even more than the promise of springtime. There is a peacefulness to it, a sense of inevitability as the leaves begin to brown and fall from the trees. The striving of spring has gone, along with the glory of summer, and life is busy buckling down for winter. It’s the season of preparation and reflection, of acknowledging what has come to pass and accepting what hasn’t.
As I emerge from the woodland path, Julia Johnson from the bakery beeps her car horn at me and waves as she drives by. When you have lived somewhere for twenty years it’s pretty much impossible to take a walk without coming across someone you know – or having them spot you and tell you a few days later. Sometimes it feels strange that although I know so many people I don’t feel I have many close friends here. Perhaps I’ve lost the time for those connections, while working and taking care of the kids. Helene and I joke about going away for a cheap girls’ holiday to Greece, but we’ve never pursued it. I wonder what it would be like if we did, and what we would have in common without our husbands and children around.
As soon as I think of Helene I begin to worry about Sophia again. As I walk I find my mobile and try Helene’s number, but she still doesn’t pick up. Instead I text Callum and ask him to let me know how things are when he reaches the hospital. I am distracted enough to cause a motorist to open his window and berate me for walking too close to the kerb. It shocks me to my senses – how can I be so absentminded after what I witnessed last night?
I don’t enjoy the final steep trek up the school driveway, and I’m huffing loudly by the time I reach the school. I buzz myself in through the gate and head for the staffroom in the main building, but I am intercepted by Mrs O’Neil, one of the administrators, who looks at me in concern.
‘I hope you’re okay today, Mrs Turner. Mrs Jessop asked me to watch out for you. Can you pop into her office for a second?’
‘Thanks, Mrs O’Neil,’ I reply. I’m used to these formalised ways of talking to each other while the children might be in earshot, even though it has always amused Callum no end. Years ago he had begun to call me Mrs Turner at home to tease me, which made the children laugh. I try to think of the last time he did that, but it was so long ago I can’t remember.
I head for Chris Jessop’s office and knock on the door. I can never come here without thinking of the previous head teacher, Roger Atkinson, and wondering how he’s going – he and his wife have been staying with relatives near the Royal Lancaster while he undergoes chemotherapy, and nobody seems to have recent news of him.
As soon as she opens the door, I see that Mrs Jessop appears flustered today. She is an excellent manager and a brilliant educator, but she hasn’t got the easy rapport with the students that some of the other teachers have. She waves me in. ‘Sit down, sit down. Are you okay? Sophia’s parents called me an hour ago. I wasn’t sure you would be coming in.’
‘I’m fine. Besides, being here means I can keep an eye on Georgia, since she insisted on carrying on as normal.’
‘She’s here as well, is she?’ Chris looks worried. ‘And how is she?’