Night School

‘I knew it. Allie, I hope you believe me. I didn’t mean what you thought I did. Not at all. I hate the snobs at this school. I won’t be one of them. Can we start over?’


Something in her didn’t trust him. But then, she thought, something in her didn’t trust anyone. And what was the point of dragging this out?

‘Sure,’ she said finally.

‘Good. Now we’re at the beginning again.’ Looking out over the garden he said, ‘Right. Well, that was short and sweet. Looks like they’re getting somewhere. We better get started.’

He jumped down from the tree, landing smoothly, and turned to help her down. As she slid to the edge of the branch, he reached past her outstretched hand and put his hands on her waist, lifting her off the tree with ease. She was surprised at his strength.

‘Off to work we go,’ he said, turning away to pick up the rakes. Watching his loping stride, she followed him into the graveyard.

The gravestones gave little away (‘Emma Littlejohn, beloved Wife of Frederick Littlejohn and Mother of Frances Littlejohn 1803–1849 God grant ye Reste’) but she found herself unable to pass one without reading it and thinking about the occupant, wondering if they’d had happy lives and what had brought them to this place.

Forty-six. Not really that old, she thought. Her own mother was probably at least that now.

The mowers had already made a pretty good start on the long grass, and Carter handed Allie a rake and began combing the grass and leaves expertly into large piles. She joined in raking as best she could, and whispering an apology to each grave.

Sorry to disturb you, Mrs Coxon (1784–1827). I’ll just be a moment.

But her pile was a mess and she lost half of the grass on the way to the stack.

‘You’re really great at this,’ Carter said sardonically.

‘Shut up!’ She laughed. ‘Give me a break. I’ve never done this before.’

‘Never done what? Raked?’ He looked genuinely surprised.

‘Yeah, I’ve never raked.’ She shrugged.

‘How have you never raked? Don’t your parents make you do anything?’ His tone was disapproving.

‘I live in London, Carter. We don’t have a garden, we’ve got, like, a patio with lots of pots and some flowers around the edge. I’ve swept it plenty of times, but I’ve never raked.’

He worked in silence for a few minutes then shook his head. ‘London must be full of kids who’ve never done anything like this. That is so weird to me. I can’t imagine not working outside, getting my hands dirty.’

Leaning against her rake, she marvelled at how efficiently he worked.

‘Where are you from?’ she asked.

He made a sweeping gesture at the land around them. ‘You’re looking at it.’

‘What, you live around here?’

‘I live here. Here is home.’

Puzzled, she raked for a few minutes then stopped again, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes.

‘But where did you live before here?’

‘Nowhere. This is where I grew up. My parents worked here as part of the staff. I’m here on scholarship. I’ve never lived anywhere else.’

‘Your parents are teachers?’

Still working, he answered her without looking up. ‘No. My parents were part of the staff.’ He emphasised were and staff.

‘So,’ Allie worried the grass with her rake, ‘they don’t work here any more?’

‘No.’ His voice was cold. ‘They don’t let you work here after you’re dead.’

Allie froze. He worked furiously; she could see the muscles move under his shirt.

Here lie Mr and Mrs West. At peace.

‘Oh God, Carter. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

He kept raking. ‘Of course you didn’t. How could you? Don’t worry about it.’

Dropping her rake, she walked over and touched his arm.

‘I’m really sorry.’

Jerking his arm away, he glared at her. ‘Don’t be. And, seriously? I don’t want to be here all day, so would you help?’

Stung, she picked up her rake and walked a few graves away. For twenty minutes they worked in silence. Allie’s back and arms ached, but she’d made several impressive piles of leaves and grass. She looked over at Carter several times, but he never stopped.

Gradually, the awful buzzing of the garden equipment declined, and after another ten minutes or so it stopped altogether as the last grass trimmer was turned off and returned to Mr Ellison, who was carefully organising the returned supplies.

‘I think we’re done here.’

Allie was so lost in her work that Carter’s words startled her and she dropped her rake. As she picked it up, the strand of hair escaped again, and she brushed it back again absently.

‘Here,’ he said, ‘turn around.’

She looked at him doubtfully but after a moment’s hesitation did as he asked. Standing behind her, he smoothed the errant lock, gently winding it into her clip. She stood very still. His light touch on the nape of her neck gave her goose-bumps. After a few seconds the touch stopped, but he said nothing.

When she turned around, he was walking to the chapel carrying both rakes. She hurried after him, tripping over a tuft of grass.