What Have I Done

Ten years ago



‘Morning, Mrs Brooker.’

‘Good morning, Mrs Bedmaker.’

The boys spoke simultaneously – only a knowing ear could decipher or distinguish between the two greetings. Both boarders smiled through their fashionably long fringes. Kathryn had much preferred it when regulations had required boys’ hair to be worn above the collar and over the ear, feeling that this better prepared them for the conformity of the workplace. But she knew enough about teenagers to keep such thoughts to herself.

The two ambled along in no hurry to get to wherever they were heading, vigorously bumping shoulders in order to send the other skittering off the path, which made them laugh. If one were to topple over, that would be hilarious. With grubby, dog-eared books in hands, shirts hanging outside their trousers, ties a little too loose about the neck and jersey sleeves rolled up, it told her all she needed to know about how they viewed her.

Had it been Mark or one of the stricter masters outside that morning, they would have been tucking and smoothing, hiding and straightening. Not for her, though; no such courtesy for her.

She smiled at them: two sweet boys. They had been at Mountbriers since they were in single digits and she had watched them grow into these teenagers full of life, fun and promise. As ever, a flurry of emotions swirled through her: she was happy that they saw her as ‘soft’ and felt relaxed in her presence, but sad that they felt able to mock her by calling her ‘Mrs Bedmaker’, probably considering her too slow to notice. They were wrong; she always noticed. Always.

She removed the dolly pegs from her mouth and smiled as though oblivious.

‘Good morning, boys! Lovely day today. On your way to lessons?’

They nodded.

‘What have you got first period, anything interesting?’

‘Classics, worse luck. Really boring.’ Luca answered for them both.

None of the trio heard Mark tread the shingle in his soft soles; he approached the washing line at which his wife laboured with something bordering stealth.

‘Boring, Mr Petronatti? Did I hear you refer to a fine and informative subject like Classics as boring?’

‘No, sir! Well, yes, I did, sir! It is, but not when you teach it!’ Luca scrambled to verbal safety using flattery as his rope and harness.

‘I am jolly glad to hear it, Luca. Am I right in assuming that you are both heading back to your boarding house to get properly dressed? Not sure Mr Middy would like to hear of extra duties being handed out to Peters House boys for inappropriate dress, and I’m quite sure he would not have let you come over to main school so shabbily attired. What did you do? Wait until he had finished roll call and then leg it out the back door after breakfast?’

The boys sniggered into their palms; that was exactly what they had done.

‘Thought as much.’ Mark nodded in jest.

Without a word, they turned a hundred and eighty degrees on the path. With straight backs and heads held high, they began retracing their steps.

‘Did you catch the match last night, boys?’ the headmaster shouted at their backs.

They turned their heads as they continued walking away.

‘Oh, sir! It was gutting. We were robbed!’

‘Aha! Just goes to show that even with all that fancy Italian footwork, we can still whoop you!’

‘You got lucky, sir, that’s all!’

‘Is that right? And by the way, boys, if you are trying to use the correct football lingo, it is “we was robbed” – only ever “we were robbed” if talking cricket. Got it?’

The two laughed even harder as they quickened their pace towards the dorms. They loved him. All the kids did.

Mark brushed past his wife and wandered towards the rose bed that formed the waist-high perimeter at the back of their private garden. With hands on hips he surveyed the scene in front of him. The house sat as a separate wing to the Upper School, with a large patch of immaculate lawn overlooking the main sports fields. The school itself was Gothic in places, but largely Georgian in construction. The main administration block reminded Kathryn of an oversized doll’s house with its four large, symmetrically placed square windows and panelled front door with lion’s-mouth knocker. She sometimes imagined removing the front completely and moving the little dolls around inside. The classrooms were spread around two main quadrangles and there was a beautiful early-nineteenth-century chapel.

It was one of those fine English establishments whose every angle offered a postcard opportunity and whose character and history were far more impressive than the day-to-day running would have you believe. It had a reputation for being elitist, proud and superior, and with good reason. Mountbriers Academy was a centre of excellence in many subjects, from science to art. Its alumni included high-ranking military men, prime ministers, scientists and medics of note; attending the school therefore carried its own pressures.

The school’s elaborate gold emblem, with eagle wings spreading behind it and the Latin motto beneath – Veritas Liberabit Vos; Truth Shall Set You Free – adorned not only all sports kit and blazers, but also bags, vehicles and even the school bins; everything was similarly stamped. The school did not miss an opportunity to advertise the elitist symbol that set its pupils apart. In Finchbury and its surrounds it was instantly recognisable as a badge of privilege that few could aspire to. Not that the paying parents minded; it was all part of a carefully orchestrated PR campaign to keep the fees rolling in.

Gone were the days when it was all down to a recommendation from an old boy and a strenuous entrance exam; days when many a titled family would pace their panelled hall and snap at the staff, waiting anxiously for the cream, crest-embossed envelope whose contents would either smooth their son’s path through life or hamper it.

Nowadays it was all very different. As long as your parents had the requisite bank balance, you too could run amok wearing a rugby shirt that would normally cost fourteen pounds, but once embroidered with the Mountbriers logo had to be purchased from the school shop for a shade under forty.

A more shocking fact for many Old Mountbrierens was that the school now allowed the female of the species to attend. The offspring of newly moneyed families desperate for social elevation, the children of oligarchs with their eyes on European prizes, and Trustafarians whose Right Honourable parents wore extra jerseys to stave off the damp in their crumbling, country piles – all now rubbed shoulders along the portrait-lined corridors and ivy-clad walkways, each step reinforcing just how very fortunate they were.



Mark hummed an excerpt from his favourite Tchaikovsky overture, ‘Romeo and Juliet’, the only one he knew. Stepping forward and removing a pair of nail scissors from his inside pocket, he snipped the head off a full-bloomed rose. It was one of Kathryn’s favourite varieties, a blushing pink called ‘Change of Heart’.

Kathryn tucked in her lips and bit down, a physical trick she employed to stem the words of dissent that often gathered behind her tongue. It was easier that way. She quietly winced, calculating that the flower would have remained beautiful for another week or so, maybe ten days at a push, without a rough wind to shake its darling buds. It would now wither and die within the hour. Mark tucked the cutting into his button-hole and lifted his lapel to inhale the scent; satisfied, he bent again and with great deliberation removed a second flower. Turning to his wife, he held out his hand, presenting her with the gift.

‘Amor vitae meae.’ His voice was low and clipped.

Love of my life. Kathryn didn’t lift her eyes from the ground, but took the proffered flower between her thumb and forefinger. Mark placed his index finger under her chin and raised her face until she looked him in the eye.

‘That’s better, my wonderful wife. Now I can see your lovely face properly. What do you say?’ he prompted. ‘What do you say for the gift of a rose?’

‘Thank you,’ she offered in a whisper.

He lowered her head and kissed the top of her scalp.

‘Oh my God, you two lovebirds, get a room!’

Their fifteen-year-old daughter mimed retching as she walked past, weighed down beneath a rucksack full of books. Her skinny legs appeared to dangle in their black tights, and her long, dark hair was full of knots and styling product; again, the correct look of the day, and not to be remarked on.

It amused Kathryn to see how far the children would go to push the limits of ‘acceptable uniform wearing’. To the untrained eye, even with a sleeve rolled up, a tie in an unconventional knot or a pair of non-regulation tights, all the pupils looked identical. No matter how scruffily they dressed or how they slouched and swore, they couldn’t shake the stamp of privilege and the whiff of money that followed in their designer-styled wake.

Kathryn ignored her daughter’s comment.

‘Are you home for supper, Lydia, or have you got art club?’

‘Dunno. I’ll let you know.’

‘Okay, darling. Fine. Have a great day. And please make sure you eat lunch.’

‘I’ll walk with you, Lyds. Hang on a mo, I just need to fetch my case.’

Mark was happy for the opportunity to catch up with his little girl. His hectic schedule meant time alone with either of their children was precious.

‘No, please don’t, Dad. I’m meeting Phoebe and it is just too uncool to arrive at lessons with you.’

‘Uncool? I’ve never heard anything like it!’ He feigned hurt. ‘I’m a very hip and happening dad, I’ll have you know!’ He laughed at her scorn.

‘Oh my God, please shut up! If you were either of those things then you would know not to say “hip” and “happening” for a start! You are both so embarrassing, firstly snogging in public and then trying to be my mate; it is just so cringey! Why can’t I have normal parents? Just for once I’d like a boring mum and dad like everyone else’s, ones that didn’t make everything so awkward!’

Her mother interjected. ‘It was hardly snogging, Lydia.’

No one heard her.

The head and his daughter disappeared around the corner. The echo of their playful banter drifted back in fragmented syllables, interspersed with squeals; it was all jolly good fun. Kathryn tucked in her lips and bit down hard.

Left alone in the garden to continue with her chores, Kathryn wondered what it must be like to have a place that you needed to get to – an office, a shop, a classroom – and what it might be like to be the kind of person that people would miss if you disappeared.

Aware of the flower in her hand, she squeezed the rose until the sap dripped from the petals and ran down her wrist, its heady perfume offering her a few seconds of joy. It wilted in the middle of her scrunched-up palm. Walking to the flower bed, where its siblings and cousins stood proud and tall, she scooped out a handful of soil, placed the rose in the hole, and buried it.

With her hands now free and wiped clean on her apron, she turned her attention to the laundry. She secured one corner of the sheet, then pulled the other end taut and fastened it with another wooden dolly peg.

The peg was one of a set that she had owned for ever, possibly since she was a little girl. She didn’t know for certain when they had been passed on to her, but she knew they came from her mother’s pantry. She could clearly picture the metal box in which they had been kept, with its image of straight-backed, marching toy soldiers on the lid. Her mother had in turn been given them by her own mother. For some reason Mark had allowed her to keep them; they were probably too insignificant to warrant his attention.

Over the years she had acquired and discarded many a set of lurid plastic pegs with fiddly little springs which often perished before the end of their useful life, but these long wooden splints with their bulbous heads and precision, hand-cut splits would outlive them all. She would in time hand them on to Lydia. The thought made her chuckle; she could imagine Lydia rolling her eyes at the prospect of inheriting a set of pegs. As a little girl, Lydia had shown an interest in them once, carefully selecting a random peg and using a big, fat, black felt-tipped pen to draw two dots for eyes and the upward curve of a smile. Kathryn had named that particular peg Peggy, and it still made her smile on a daily basis. Maybe when Lydia was older she would feel differently; goodness knows, her own views were now so very altered from when she had been her daughter’s age.

In the early days of her marriage, Kathryn remembered feeling comforted by the knowledge that she was probably the third generation to handle these funny little objects. She often considered the clothes that had been held fast; three generations of garments in which her family had slept, worked and loved. She would finger the end of the splint, wondering if it had touched her grandpa’s work shirt or her mum’s silk slip.

She often wondered if her mother and grandmother had derived as much joy as she did from a line strung full of clean laundry. The anticipation of gathering it in huge armfuls and inhaling its fresh, blown-dry scent was itself a unique pleasure. The folding and smoothing of clean garments was satisfying and used to give her a feeling of great contentment. The washing and ironing of clothes had been tangible proof of a family life lived in harmony.

The pleasure she used to take in doing the laundry had, however, been removed from her the day she got married, seventeen years and five months ago. These days there was no joy in this daily ritual, none at all. Apart from her two children, there was very little joy in her life, full stop.

Kathryn knew that her nickname was Mrs Bedmaker; she had known it for some time, having heard it muttered behind cupped hands and seen it scrawled in chalk and pen on various surfaces, including the underside of a desk and the back of a loo door in the junior common room. She was called it regularly by the more daring children, each hoping that she would not hear and would not comment. Of course she never did ‘hear’ or comment, giving them the confidence to continue. She didn’t mind too much; she had more to worry about than that on a daily basis, much more.

On better days, she could find humour in the fact that the rumour mill among the pupils had it laid down as fact that she was a sex maniac who insisted on indulging in a wild and frantic love life on a nightly basis. Why else would there be the constant need for the laundering of bed linen? Nudge, nudge, wink, wink… Saucy Mrs Brooker, lucky Mr Brooker. Was that why she always looked so exhausted, so weak, and he so happy, so smug?

She would sometimes stare at her reflection, pondering her skinny frame and nervous expression, her pale demeanour, the dark circles under her eyes, her cellist’s fingers with their square-cut nails and her blunt-bobbed haircut. Pulling her olive-coloured cardigan over her linen skirt, she would think, That’s me, a regular sex kitten.

Kathryn wandered back into the kitchen, reluctantly abandoning the warmth of the early-morning sun, and started to clear the breakfast things from the scrubbed pine table that dominated the room.

A marmalade-smeared plate and an empty coffee mug were the only evidence that her son Dominic still lived under their Georgian roof. Their interactions were minimal, so she welcomed these little reminders that he was still around, living in the same space, even if she hadn’t actually seen him. At the moment he appeared to be playing the role of a reluctant lodger who sought the solace of his own room at every opportunity. The truth, she suspected, was that he was probably sneaking off to the comfort of someone else’s room at every opportunity, someone in the girls’ dorm. She was pretty sure it was Emily Grant who was the latest object of his affections, but there was no point commenting or getting involved – it would be another identikit, glossy-haired lovely in a few weeks’ time. This seemed to be how it worked nowadays.

There were many aspects of her son’s life, not just his courtship rituals, that Kathryn simply did not understand. Far from disapprove, however, she was in fact happy for him, happy for both of her children. Delighted that they were living busy, joyful lives, full of fun and excitement, with a host of possibilities ahead. She needed to know that this was how it was and that there was a whole world out there for them to grab with both hands and run with; otherwise, what was the point?

The Brooker family had lived in the house for seven years, having moved there in the September when Mark had been promoted from head of year to headmaster. It was a wonderful achievement, the youngest head of school ever to be appointed. It meant a happy life for her and her family; this had to be true because everyone had told her so, even her sister, Francesca. Kathryn had detected the vaguest hint of jealousy and for Francesca to be jealous, it most certainly had to be true.

She knew that the outside world saw her as the fortunate Kathryn Brooker, living a fulfilling life in a lovely two-hundred-year-old house with her perfect family and a rosy future. Many envied her charmed existence, her prestige and her material wealth. Not to mention that she had bagged the rather handsome Mark Brooker – the girl had definitely been punching above her weight on that day. This amused Kathryn, knowing that if they walked in her sensible shoes for a day and a night, they would be clamouring to escape, clawing at the flint stones until their fingernails ripped away, scrambling over the walls until knees were raw, and digging with bare, bloodied hands at the very foundations to make a tunnel. They would try anything and stop at nothing to be free of the charmed life she led.

There was something about living in a school house on school grounds in a building that was joined on to the school that meant that she never quite felt like it was hers. Which was quite right – it wasn’t. The majority of the time, Kathryn felt more like a curator or custodian than a home-maker. She took extra care of the blackened range, original window cording and parquet flooring, as if she would be judged on the state in which she kept this venerable property and the state in which she handed it back. This of course is exactly how history would have judged her, had some other more significant and somewhat more shocking event not occurred, rendering the cleanliness of her windows and their dust-free cording quite irrelevant.

The children had been young when they moved in and it had taken a while for them all to get used to the new set-up. Lydia could no longer run around ‘nudey dudey’ after her bath, not with masters and pupils dropping in unannounced. And Dominic had had to say a reluctant goodbye to his beloved pet chickens, Nugget and Kiev; the prospect of having to repeatedly retrieve them as they pecked around the cricket crease could not be countenanced. Once had been enough to cause much annoyance to the visiting Millfield eleven, who to this day were convinced it had been a clever tactic to divert and conquer.

Those youngsters were now teenagers, Lydia fifteen and Dominic sixteen. Being the headmaster’s children meant that you were either extremely popular or unpopular for all the wrong reasons. Thankfully for the Brooker children, they had already been at the school for a number of years prior to their dad’s appointment as head honcho, so they were established and accepted. It also helped that they were both considered attractive by their peers. They had inherited Kathryn’s rangy physique and the striking face of their father translated very well onto those sharp, young cheekbones. They were funny, cool kids who were well liked, regardless of their parents’ status.

Mark, of course, flourished in such an environment, constantly in character and always ready to perform. He engaged in banter with the children and displayed the jovial camaraderie that made him a hit with the masters. He appeased and buttered up the parents, offering a firm handshake to the wealthy fathers and all the time in the world to discuss minutiae with the coiffed and toned mummies. He was in complete control of all he surveyed, a very happy man.

Kathryn, however, upon taking up residence in the ‘big house’, had felt her refuge diminish until it was non-existent. Earlier in Mark’s career, when they had lived in rented accommodation in Finchbury, she at least could spend the daytimes away from his obsessive gaze. Until he returned from school, there was no one to watch her, no eyes waiting to see how she did things, what she wore, what she said or ate, who she sat with, spoke to, when she arrived and when she left. Life in the head’s house was very different; the list of things that were forbidden, permitted and expected was long and ever changing. It was in this fluid environment of constant scrutiny that she existed. ‘Existed’ was the word Kathryn used when thinking about her situation – ‘lived’ would imply that she had a life, and she did not. Kathryn had no life at all.

As she scraped the breakfast detritus into the bin and loaded the plates into the dishwasher with the rest of the china, her mind flitted back to the early hours of that Thursday morning in June, nineteen years ago. She had been twenty-one, her sister Francesca nineteen. They were both still living at home with their parents, occupying adjacent bedrooms in the cramped, semi-detached house.

Kathryn had padded into Francesca’s room and gently shaken the blanket-wrapped shoulder of her sleeping sibling. She hadn’t wanted to wake her, but knew if she didn’t share the news that was threatening to burst from her, she would very probably explode.

‘Francesca, are you asleep?’

‘Mmmmnnnn… Go away…’ Francesca mumbled.

‘Wake up! I really need to tell you something.’

Even in her semi-conscious fog, Francesca knew from her sister’s tone that resistance was futile. She reached out an arm and snapped the lamp on the bedside table into life.

‘For God’s sake, Katie, this better be good.’

Rubbing her eyes, she focussed on her sister’s blushing face.

‘Well, go on then!’

Francesca’s irritable prompting rather robbed her of her moment, but she proceeded nonetheless.

‘Guess what?’

‘What?’

‘Francesca, you’re supposed to guess! Come on!’

‘For God’s sake, Katie, you’re really annoying me now! We’re not children any more; it’s three o’clock in the bloody morning. I’ve got to be up for work in three hours. So, you either tell me now why you’ve woken me up or bugger off and leave me alone!’

‘Okay, grumpy, you are not going to believe this, but Mark has asked me to marry him!’

Kathryn clapped her hands together and let the news hang in the air. Francesca reached over and located her glasses, perching them on the tip of her nose. She leant forward as though improved visual focus would help her mentally focus as well.

‘He has asked you to marry him?’

‘Yes! Can you believe it?’

Her sister thought for a few seconds. ‘Frankly, no. I thought you were going to say you’d shagged him.’

‘Oh for goodness sake, Fran, you are so gross! Isn’t it wonderful?’

‘Truthfully, honey? I don’t know.’

‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’

‘I mean… Look, Katie, I love you, but you are a bit like a character in a Famous Five novel who doesn’t realise that there is a big bad world out there. Even though I’m the youngest, I’ve always felt as if you needed my protection. We all do, in fact.’

‘Do you?’ It wasn’t exactly news to her that Francesca felt that she was a total idiot, but her parents as well?

‘Yeah, kind of. And this Mark… It’s great that you’re so happy, but he’s your first proper boyfriend, you’ve only known him five minutes, and you haven’t even, you know… Sex is very important!’

‘Oh for goodness sake, there has to be more to a relationship than sex!’

‘There does? Okay, don’t look like that, I’m kidding, kind of. I am happy if you are happy, but I don’t think that you should be rushing into anything.’

‘Actually we have been going out for three and a half months and I love him, Fran, and he loves me.’

Kathryn chose not to divulge the frenzied kissing and aggressive smooching that left her more excited and alive than she had ever felt. This she knew boded well for a satisfying love life in the future.

‘Blurgh! Pass the bucket!’

Kathryn punched her sister on the arm.

‘I’m truly chuffed for you, sis, but there’s something about Mark that I’m not quite sure about…’

‘What do you mean?’ Kathryn’s voice was a high-pitched squeal, she looked close to tears.

Francesca decided to backtrack.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s just that I haven’t got to know him yet or maybe he isn’t relaxed with us because it’s all new for him as well.’

These words caused Kathryn to brighten again. Yes, that would be it.

‘All I am saying is, Katie, why don’t you have a long engagement, get the sex out of the way, get to know each other a bit and see how it works out. Worst-case scenario, you get to keep the rock; best-case scenario, you end up with the love of your life!’

‘I don’t have to wait or have a long engagement. Mark is the love of my life, he is so gorgeous and he feels the same, we just know.’

‘How do you “just know”? Do you remember how much you loved jacket potatoes when you were little and then you discovered pasta and that became your favourite? Maybe Mark is your jacket potato?’

‘Oh for God’s sake, he is not my jacket potato! I can’t explain it, but we do know. Mark says why wait if we have found what we would only spend our future searching for. It would be like wasting years, only to reach the conclusion that we were right all along!’

‘Well, mate, when you put it like that!’

‘I know you’re taking the mick out of me, but I don’t care, Fran, not tonight.’

‘Katie, I am pleased for you, but can’t you just have a nice little love affair and see if it wears off? Just in case?’

‘Mark says we should jump in while the water’s warm!’

‘“Mark says”, “Mark says…”. Blimey, Katie, you want to be careful there.’

‘What do you mean, “be careful”? Why?’

She couldn’t hide the slight irritation in her voice; she was in the first stages of love and any negativity directed at the object of her desire felt like daggers being plunged into her heart.

‘Because you are a strong, smart girl and I don’t want you to lose any bit of yourself, ever. No man is worth that.’

This was a phrase that Kathryn replayed in her mind many times in the coming years. She should have listened to her baby sister, wise and prophetic beyond her years. She wished she had listened.

She replayed it now as she studied the hand-painted mug in her hand. ‘I don’t want you to lose any bit of yourself, ever.’ What would she say to her sister now? She imagined trying to phrase the words. They saw each other so infrequently that when they did meet up, there was always an awkward hour or so when they had to relearn how to act in the other’s company. It was so different from being with a friend or a colleague; being with a sister was unique.

It didn’t matter what either of them achieved or how much time passed, it was hard for Kathryn to play the role of contented grown-up, to deceive. Not when they shared so much history. Francesca knew her sister back to front, inside out. There were so many fond memories that they used to retell over and over until they became hysterical with laughter. Kathryn’s favourite was about one night during a childhood holiday, the two of them top-to-toeing in a rusty Cornish caravan, aged six and eight. They had eaten so much chocolate that Kathryn threw up out of the window, only to discover that the window was closed. Her parents spent the best part of the next day hosing Caramac from the velour interior of their rented home.

Part of their awkwardness now was down to the fact that Mark never left them alone for a second; it was as if he was monitoring them, making them mindful of their conversation. He was careful to steer them onto topics that he felt were appropriate, and he was always slightly anxious until after her sister left. His nerves were not obvious to anyone else, but Kathryn noted that he spoke a little quicker than usual and laughed a little too loudly. He needn’t have been concerned; she could never have told. She would never have told.

It was all too difficult. What would she like to say to her sister? ‘You were right, Fran, I should have listened to you because I haven’t just lost a bit of myself, I have lost all of myself. I wish I’d listened to you, but I didn’t, did I?’

It was so easy with the wonderful gift of hindsight to be the judge and juror of her past decisions and choices. So easy to look at the person that made those decisions and the person that she had become and spot the cracks, pondering on how she might have done things differently. Of course I should have listened to my sister! But I thought that I knew different, I was giddy, blinded and thought that I knew best. What would hindsight say? It would say, ‘You definitely did not know best, Kathryn, you could not have known best, you were too busy fighting a tide of raging hormones and infatuation.’

Kathryn closed her eyes tightly to try and erase the memory of the last telephone call she had had from her sister. Three weeks later, it still weighed heavily on her mind and she wondered if she would ever be able to repair the damage.

‘Kathryn.’ Mark’s voice had summoned her.

She had been peeling the potatoes for supper, but instinctively she rose from the chair at the sound of his voice, a soldier trained to stand to attention upon the arrival of a superior. After all these years it was now automatic.

‘It’s your sister on the telephone.’

He flashed a short flickered smile that appeared and disappeared in a matter of seconds. It told her that he was not happy to have Francesca on the end of the telephone at all and was even more irritated to have had his ‘study time’ interrupted by having to answer the call and come and inform her.

She nodded and walked over to the wall-mounted phone above the dishwasher.

‘Hello?’

She waited for the click of the receiver being replaced into its cradle in the study, but it never came. Mark was listening and would continue listening to their entire conversation, as was customary. It had been two months since the sisters had been in touch and now with her husband’s monitoring, Kathryn knew that the conversation would again be stilted and uncomfortable as she would have to censor all that she said. She knew her sister would pick up on this and think that she was being aloof. Kathryn once again felt trapped and more than a little tearful.

Francesca had accused her of being a bit ‘off’ in the past, which had rendered Kathryn dumb, unable to explain that there was so much that she wanted to say, but couldn’t, for many reasons. The first being that their conversation was never private; Mark would be listening and, more importantly, judging.

‘Oh, Kate, I had to call you—’ Her sister’s voice immediately broke away in a sob.

‘It’s okay, it’s okay. Oh goodness, Francesca, don’t cry! What on earth is the matter?’

Kathryn could hear rain against a window and the whoosh of water as tyres sped along wet tarmac. She pictured Francesca sitting in her car with her cardigan around her shoulders to ward off the North Yorkshire chill.

She waited while Francesca blew her nose loudly.

‘Oh Kate, something terrible has happened!’

‘What’s happened? Is Luke all right?’ Kathryn’s first thoughts were always of her own children; the worst thing that could happen would be something affecting them, and so naturally she thought immediately of her sister’s child.

Kathryn recognised in her sister the slight guilt of a mother who had pushed her son to achieve; it was always with a dose of pressure that he would be encouraged to study for exams and cram for extra credits. The fees that they paid quarterly for his education were hard to come by and his time at school was for them in lieu of foreign holidays, new carpets, even trips to the hairdresser.

Kathryn admired the sacrifice but knew that Francesca wanted something in return: good grades, a place at a top university or at the very least a voice that was crystal clear with rounded vowels, and the correct pressure of handshake in the right circles. Luke didn’t disappoint, he was diligent and industrious, a lovely boy.

It would be unfair to describe Francesca as jealous, but Kathryn knew she was conscious of her own position as wife of the head teacher at one of the country’s top public schools. It was important for her sister to feel every bit her equal when they chatted about school life in general at any gathering, knowing that her Luke was just as good as his cousins.

Kathryn laughed at the idea that her family considered her to lead a charmed life in her subsidised house with her attentive man and her perfect children. If only they knew…

‘No… No, thankfully it’s nothing like that, no one is hurt, but the business has folded. We tried so hard, Katie, we’ve been keeping the bank and all the suppliers at arm’s length for a while and it’s finally collapsed. I’m so disappointed for Luke, for us all. Gerry and I thought we were building for his future, but we have lost everything.’

Francesca paused to gulp back a sob.

‘We sank every penny into the new building company. We thought Luke would step into his dad’s shoes when the time was right, we thought it was going to set him up for life, but the developer was a charlatan, Kate, a total con artist. I still can’t believe it! We might even lose the house…’

‘Oh, Fran! That’s terrible; I know how excited you all were…’

Kathryn knew that her sister’s share of their parents’ legacy had been the primary funding for Gerry’s business. Their dad had worked so hard all his life. Infrequent trips to the seaside at Abersoch were his treat, but beyond that he had saved and saved to finally own a three-bedroomed semi-detached slice of Croydon, now all gone…

What to say next, Kathryn? What she wanted to say was, ‘My poor darling, my poor little sister, that is the most terrible news. Come here for a few days, all of you and let me look after you and spoil you. We can drink tea and make a plan. Nothing is as bad as it seems right now and whilst I can’t make it all go away, it will be good if you can get away from it all. Luke can spend time with Dom and Lyds and we can stay up late like we used to and drink wine and chat. It will all be okay, darling, because I am your big sister and I can make it feel better…’ Instead, she heard a faint sigh from Mark, losing patience at the end of his receiver in the study, and she heard herself speak, staccato and automatic.

‘Well if there is anything you need, do shout. Mark and I will of course do anything we can to help.’

Kathryn used Mark’s name to ingratiate herself, hoping he recognised her loyalty. She listened to her sister’s silence. She could picture Francesca replaying her words in her head with incredulity: ‘Do shout?’

She tried to fill the void with the first thing that popped into her head.

‘What’s the weather like in York?’

Her words were banal and regretful. A small tear trickled down her cheek. She willed her baby sister to hear her unspoken apology.

Francesca could not contain her surprise or disappointment.

‘What’s the weather like in York? Did you not hear what I said, Kathryn? We have lost everything! Everything! And you want to talk about the bloody weather?’

‘I… I…’

Kathryn’s tears fell thick and fast as she tried to find the words, the words that would please everyone, the words that would appease and comfort her darling sister in her moment of need and would not incur the wrath of her husband. Sadly, there were no such words.

‘You know what, Kate, forget it, forget I called and forget my news. We will manage just fine. You sit tight in your four-bedroomed Georgian splendour and enjoy your bloody coffee mornings and your view of the cricket pitch and we will figure this out for ourselves!’

‘Francesca, I—’ She tried to interrupt her sister.

‘No, don’t bother saying another word. I am finished with you, not that either of us will notice much difference. You haven’t been there for me for years; I guess I’m not in your league. Do you know what, Katie? I never thought that I would say this, but you think you are so high and mighty. You may have an idyllic little life, but I really don’t like who or what you have become…’

Francesca let the phrase hang in the air as she ended the call. One small push of a button and she was gone, just like that.

Kathryn held the receiver between her palms and hung her head forward. She whispered through her tears, though no one was listening.

‘Neither do I, my darling. Neither do I.’

Mark came through into the kitchen and placed his hand on her shoulder, alerting her to his presence and causing her to stand up straight and swallow her tears.

‘Is everything all right, Kathryn? That sister of yours not been upsetting you, has she?’

She stared at his face, which did not betray the slightest indication that he had heard the whole exchange, and shook her head.

‘No, Mark.’

‘Well I’m jolly glad to hear that. We are very busy people with a great deal of responsibility and I don’t want you worrying about anything that doesn’t directly concern us.’

It was almost an instruction. He leant forward and kissed her long and hard, crushing her to him with his arm across her lower back. Her tears had caused her breathing to lose its natural rhythm; she had no choice but to hold her breath while he covered her mouth. Her head felt light, the threat of a faint pawed at her senses. It felt endless.

Finally, he released her.

‘I tell you what, darling, why don’t you pop upstairs and make yourself look neat and pretty and then you can put the kettle on and we shall have a cup of tea.’

Again she nodded, knowing that his suggestion was actually a direct order. She slowly climbed the stairs and tried to stem the flow of tears. Taking up her position at the dressing table, she replayed her sister’s words in her head, ‘You may have an idyllic little life, but I don’t like who or what you have become.’ Oh yes, thought Kathryn. I have an idyllic little life.



‘Only me!’

Judith’s voice interrupted Kathryn’s reliving of that dreadful phone call three weeks earlier. Mark’s PA always announced her arrival in this way. She came through the back door and into the kitchen, which irritated Kathryn but was only one of a thousand things about Judith that irritated her. It was actually one of her smaller misdemeanours. Judith’s chief offence was the way she referred to Mark as ‘Headmaster’, as though he were a person of such venerableness and status that he could be addressed in this way, like the Pope or Madonna. If only she knew what he was really like.

Judith was in her late forties, single and extremely overweight, but without any of the embarrassment or awkwardness that people of her size sometimes displayed. There was no clever dressing to minimise the contours, no opting for black, long or layered, oh no. Judith would happily wear a vest and a pair of khaki shorts, enjoying the stares and double-takes that came her way from pupils and staff alike. She would mistake their glances as interest and not revulsion.

‘Morning, Kathryn! Lovely day!’

Kathryn nodded but didn’t speak, looking up only briefly from the washing-up. She didn’t feel like engaging, bantering with this woman about nothing. She didn’t have the inclination or the energy; she figured correctly that the less she said, the quicker the exchange would be over.

‘Headmaster has asked me to pop over to remind you that there is a masters’ meeting tonight, dans la cuisine! So the usual, please: dips, chips, plonk et cetera and of course gluten-free for Mr Middy; we don’t want a repeat of the swollen tongue and loose bowel episode that almost blighted the fifth-form careers fair last month. We’ve only just managed to get the carpet tiles in the junior common room replaced. Anyhoo, thought I’d better give you the heads up. All okay?’

‘Yup, perfectly.’

It was the best Kathryn could offer. She disliked the way Judith treated her, as if she were an extension of Headmaster’s retinue. It made her feel more like the hired caterer than the wife of said Headmaster. It didn’t anger her any more; in fact she was almost glad of the diversion, knowing that to have her time filled with something – anything – was better than having time to think.

‘Headmaster is in a rather jolly mood this morning. He’s had several admiring comments about his floral accessory from the faculty. Whatever you gave him for breakfast, same again tomorrow please! Makes my life easier when he hasn’t got his sore bear-head on!’

What should she say to that? ‘It makes all our lives easier, Judith. You have no idea, Judith, of just how bad his sore bear-head can make my life. Leave me alone, Judith, you vacuous woman; leave me alone because you have no concept of what my life is like, of how I live.’

Instead, she smiled.

‘Will do, Judith.’

She wasn’t entirely sure what she was agreeing to, but knew that it would be enough to appease Judith, to make her feel that her errand and her messages had been understood, loud and clear.

In her meaner moments, Kathryn would think unpalatable thoughts about her unpopularity or her sickening fawning over Mark. This, however, would be quickly followed by, How dare you offer up these thoughts when your own situation is so dire? Then another thought would creep in: I must be as thick as Mark says I am, otherwise how did I get myself into this bloody mess? I’m like one of those little bugs caught by a Venus flytrap and the irony is the more I wriggle the deeper I become entrenched. I am trapped.

Kathryn wished that someone would offer her an escape, a way out. She often dreamed of freedom in a different time and place. She could only bear to contemplate a solution that was simple, having no capacity or inclination for anything complex. Yet no matter how hard she tried, a simple solution would not present itself. Every idea, every permutation, left her homeless and away from her children. Homeless she could just about manage, but living without her children and not being there to defend them, should… if… That she could not manage. Her kids would always be an extension of her own heartbeat, the best thing she had ever done. She could not, would not contemplate a life without them.

Kathryn’s grandmother had been an upright, slender harridan whose clothes and manner anchored her firmly in the Victorian era. Despite her humble beginnings and a life of hard graft in the East End of London, she exuded an air of grandeur that belied the poverty in which she had been raised. Kathryn remembered giving her the news that she was to marry Mark Brooker. Her granny’s response had made her laugh although it didn’t seem quite so funny now.

‘My dear, think very carefully about this match. You should of course always make sure that you marry outside your postcode, but never outside your class. Your father went to university and that makes you a somebody. I’m afraid that just because young Master Brooker has ideas above his station does not instantly make it so. It makes things so much neater when you know the same people and have the same standard of table manners.’

It was still funny in one sense, that Mark’s lack of understanding of what cutlery to use, that he regularly said ‘tea’ instead of ‘dinner’ and expressed a preference for UPVC over timber-framed windows was actually the least of her concerns.

Kathryn thought as she often did of Natasha; even the memory of her gave her mood a lift. Natasha had been a rare commodity in Kathryn’s life. For nearly three years, she had been her friend, her only friend. She was sure that it was Natasha’s recent move to another school at the other end of the country that was partly responsible for the ever blackening cloud that seemed to hang over her head. She felt like a cartoon character who, when everyone else is bathed in sunshine, sits under their own portable rainstorm and, were it not for Acme umbrellas, would be soaked right through.

Natasha had gone to work in a school just outside York, teaching kids with special needs, helping them develop through expression in art. Kathryn thought it suited her much better than the jab and thrust of life at Mountbriers. She had moved to Alne and was living less than a mile away from Francesca. Something stopped Kathryn from putting the two in touch. It was partly that she did not want to share her friend with anyone, knowing that she would have found it unbearable to hear of them having fun together without her. But there was also the unacknowledged fear that the two might sit over a cup of coffee or a glass of plonk and discuss her life. They might compare notes and between them reach the conclusion that nobody wanted to hear, especially not Kathryn.

The day of Natasha’s arrival in her life was one that she would never forget. It had been an assembly day and the great and the good had gathered in Big Hall for the headmaster’s address and all the relevant notices. One or two pupils were decorated for achievements in music and foreign-verse speaking – the same four kids that were always honoured, in fact; kids whose talents were far reaching and renowned throughout the school. Kathryn was not convinced, however, that being able to speak Mandarin while fire juggling and completing a Rubik’s cube in record time was adequate compensation for having no mates. Mark had been rambling so much, loving the sound of his own voice and a stage on which to use it, that he had lost the pupils and most of the staff after about fifteen minutes, and she couldn’t recall the exact topic of his address now.

As the staff filed out of the double doors and into the quadrangle, Natasha made a beeline for Kathryn, who was standing by herself, loitering and unsure of how quickly she could scuttle off without seeming impolite. These things mattered in a school like this; one had to be seen to be doing the right thing, at the right time and in the right way. Timing was everything.

Kathryn watched the woman stride purposefully towards her and straightened her cardigan as she mentally prepared the answers to any questions that might be posed: ‘Can you tell me where to find Art block C? What time is break? Where is the nearest staff loo?’ But their first interaction could not have been more surprising.

Kathryn saw both staff and pupils appraising Natasha as she walked away from them, quite unaware of the commotion she was causing – unaware or uncaring, Kathryn wasn’t so sure now. She wore a long, flowing, white cotton skirt and flat, clumpy sandals that looked like they had been made from recycled tyres and then painted pink. Her acid-green knitwear was unidentifiable as cardigan or jersey; it was more of a wool drape and was fastened at her shoulder with an enormous white flower. Her short brown hair was adorned with at least three hair clips, each with a sparkling butterfly attached – the sort of accessory you’d expect to find on a nine-year-old girl, but that was of no consequence to Natasha, who had seen them, liked them and so wore them. She was striking, different and fresh, and she looked lovely. It was as if she had not read the handbook of ‘What teachers in a school like this are expected to wear’ or, if she had, she had decided to disregard it. She made everyone and everything around her seem grey and dull and Kathryn would learn that this was something she achieved no matter what the occasion or the season. She was like light in a dark place.

‘Hi there, I’m Natasha Mortensen. Today is my first day, Art and Design.’ Her statement was confident and succinct.

‘Oh, yes! I knew you were coming, well, not you per se, but a new tutor. It’s very nice to meet you, Natasha. I’m Kathryn. Welcome to Mountbriers!’

The two shook hands briefly, both a little uncomfortable with such a masculine greeting.

‘Thanks, Kathryn. I saw you in the hall and I have come to tell you that I’ve chosen you to be my friend because you look most like the sort of person that I would be friends with. Not like some of the antiques amongst that merry band. And what about that Mark Grade A Tosser Brooker! What an absolute arsehole! Does he ever shut up? Ye Gods – droning on and on. The kids were bored stupid, itching to escape, and I nearly nodded off twice! I can see that he and I are going to get along famously. Not!’

Kathryn was so taken aback with Natasha’s directness that she couldn’t think of anything to say. She wracked her brains, trying to remember what it was she’d overheard Mark saying about the new art teacher the night before. ‘I’m rather over a barrel on this one,’ he’d complained. ‘Max Whittington has asked me to give her a go; he thought she was the strongest candidate by far. I think he took a bit of a fancy to her and, as much as it grates, I can’t risk him changing his mind about sponsoring the lower-sixth library refurbishment. Although if it was down to me, she wouldn’t have made it past the gate; I’ve seen her sort before – a frightful and subversive lesbian.’ Kathryn thought he was probably right on that last point – for once. Though Natasha was clearly far from frightful.

Natasha continued, ‘Don’t look so stunned! I do that, Kathryn; I pick people to be my friends and they are stuck with me whether they like me back or not, I can’t help it. I have always done it and the reasons that I pick my friends are often most spurious. If you don’t believe me, you can ask Ellie Simpson and Hannah Hartley. I picked them at primary school and they are still stuck with me now!’

‘Why did you pick them?’

‘Ellie has the most amazing smile ever and shared sweets with me, I now know that she will always share anything with anyone, she is pure goodness and Hannah has dimples and laughed like a drain, still does!’

‘Why did you pick me?’ Kathryn was curious.

‘Mainly because you look like Mia Farrow, but more eye-catching. Plus you have something mysterious and aloof about you. Just by looking at your expression during assembly, I could tell that you felt the same as me about the whole carry-on; you looked like you wanted to be somewhere else.’

Kathryn didn’t reply, pursing her lips tightly to stop herself from blurting out that her new friend was absolutely right: she always wanted to be somewhere else. She laughed, however, in spite of herself. Mia Farrow? She could only think of her in the sixties, elfin and gorgeous, and that suited her very well. She took it as the compliment that it was intended to be.

Natasha hadn’t paused for breath. ‘So what do you teach, Kathryn, how long have you been here? Do you ever shorten Kathryn? It’s a bit formal for a boho chick like you…’

‘Kate,’ she offered, as she was trying to work out which question to answer first, what a boho chick was and whether she liked being one or not. It was strange that the nickname of her youth sprang so readily to mind, reminding her of the person she used to be.

‘Okay, Kate, yes, that’s much better. So what do you teach, Kate?’ Her new friend used the name twice, testing it out, making it familiar.

Kathryn brought her hand to her mouth in embarrassment. A familiar feeling swept over her: that she had no right to be there; she wasn’t a teacher, she was merely an observer.

‘Oh! I don’t teach. Well, actually, I am qualified – English would be my subject – but I’ve never used it. Life kind of got in the way of my plans, babies and whatnot.’ She gave a small giggle, hating how trite she sounded. ‘No, I am in fact Mrs Grade A Tosser Brooker, Mark’s wife.’

Most people would at that point have laughed, cried or covered their own mouth with embarrassment whilst apologising and over-explaining that it had all been a terribly misunderstood joke. But as Kathryn would discover, Natasha was not like most people. She put both of her hands on Kathryn’s shoulders and looked into her eyes.

‘Tough break, kid.’

And for that reason alone, although there would be many others quickly learned, Kathryn thought that Natasha was wonderful and was very glad that she had been chosen as her friend.



The rest of Kathryn’s day was spent in a whirl of chores that included cleaning the French windows in the dining room, refreshing the flowers in the hall and study, buying and preparing the canapés for the evening masters’ meeting and cooking the family supper. When these tasks were complete, Kathryn gathered her family laundry, ironed the sheets and placed them neatly in the linen cupboard to await their turn on the bed linen rota. By her reckoning, they would next be called for duty on Wednesday. Finally, just before 4.30 p.m., she sat at her dressing table and brushed her hair, then applied a little scent and rubbed some rouge into her pale cheeks. Then she changed into a rose pink linen skirt with a button-up cardigan, as per her husband’s instructions to look ‘feminine and understated’ at all times.

Each afternoon at varying times, depending on the afterschool activity and season, Kathryn would sit at the white-painted dressing table with its triptych of mirrors and perform the task of making herself neat and pretty. The words of a sixties song would float into her head, unbidden, but with alarming regularity, like a pre-programmed alarm clock that she didn’t know how to switch off:

Hey, little girl,

Comb your hair, fix your make-up.

Soon he will open the door.

Don’t think because

There’s a ring on your finger,

You needn’t try any more

She practised her smile in the mirror. She did this too on an almost daily basis, because she hardly ever wanted to smile naturally. She had long ago lost the desire or fancy to do so.

Kathryn always expected to see her face sliding downwards on its bones, like Dali’s soft watch or fried egg, slipping and dripping into an unhappy pool of misery. She was always slightly surprised to find her face still fixed on its anchors, in place and as it should be. It was only the smile that was the problem; she could grin from the nose down, but her eyes refused to cooperate, remaining fixed and frightened no matter how hard she tried. She would just have to try a little harder. That was the answer, Kathryn: try a little harder.