After a two-hour nap, Kersti and Jay have supper at the inn, in its traditional wood-beamed pub with planked floors, paneled wood walls, and knotty pine tables sturdy enough to endure centuries of pint-slamming. They both order the shepherd’s pie.
“I know we’ve talked about this,” Jay says, drawing closer to her. “But now that we’re actually here, are you sure you want to go see this creep tomorrow?”
“I need to see him,” she says. “I want answers.”
“You think he has them?”
“I think he has some,” she says. “At the very least, I want him to know I have his dirty little love notes. I want him to remember what he did, and know that I know. I want to see his face when he reads them in front of me.”
“He’s not the one who pushed her, though,” Jay says. “He wasn’t there. That much you know for sure.”
“Doesn’t matter. If it hadn’t been for their affair, Cressida wouldn’t have wound up a vegetable for life. The fact is she was sixteen when it started. Regardless of how selfish or callous she was, she was still impressionable. He was the adult, and he took advantage of her—”
“And you’re going to make him pay?”
“No one else did,” Kersti says. “Look around at this charming little village. He’s teaching at one of the most prestigious schools in England. It’s a storybook. Tell me how he’s ever paid for what he did?”
“I’m not disputing the fact that he’s a douchebag. I’m just saying I don’t want you to come away from this more upset or unsatisfied than you already are.”
“It seems to me like he got off scot-free,” she says. “I want to let him know I’m still out there and I know, and I’ll never forget, even if he has. Besides,” she adds, “I want to ask him flat out if he thinks his ex-wife might have pushed Cressida off her balcony.”
“He’s not going to tell you.”
“Not with words,” she says. “But he’ll have a tell.”
The next morning, Kersti leaves Jay sleeping in the lumpy four-poster bed and goes downstairs for a delicious English breakfast of eggs and bacon in the shaded courtyard. The sun is shining, though it’s weaving in and out of the clouds, not quite sure if it’s going to stay. A late spring breeze curls around as it passes through the courtyard, carrying with it the sweet fragrance of phlox from the inn’s garden. Kersti gazes distractedly at the footbridge, which she can see from where she’s sitting, her mind on Mr. Fithern.
You may not remember me, but I was Cressida’s best friend at the Lycée. . . .
She checks her phone for the time.
“More tea?” the server asks her.
“No, thank you,” Kersti says, lifting her new unwieldy body out of the chair. “Can you tell me what bus I take to get to the St. Alden’s School?”
“It’s just up the London Road a few miles,” she says. “I can ask Nigel to drive you. We’ve got a car.”
“That would be great,” Kersti says. “I appreciate it.”
St. Alden’s is much the same as London Colney—a secluded, picturesque English village of weeping willows and hobbit-style cottages clustered around its most precious jewel, the ancient abbey. The abbey itself sits imperiously on a hilltop, where it has watched over the tranquil village since the eleventh century. Its long nave inclines up toward the sky, like it’s proudly thrusting out its chin. The pomp and magnificence of the building, with its two turrets, central cross tower, and fabled setting, is breathtaking.
She walks along the hill toward the sprawling campus of St. Alden’s School, which faces the abbey on the west side. She easily finds the main building, a great stone and redbrick castle with white dormer windows and the words st. alden’s school main entrance carved into its fa?ade. In the front office, she tells the secretary she’s a former student of Mr. Fithern visiting from Canada and asks if there would be an appropriate time to see him today.
“Mr. Fithern’s on the field all morning for PE,” the secretary says. “He’ll be there till morning break. Best to wait out by the cricket pitch for him.” She points out the window to a vast field behind them. “See out past the rugby field?”
“I’ll find it. Cheers.”
Kersti strolls the grounds, not in any rush. She still has an hour before he’s done. She’s nervous and excited, still can’t quite believe she’s here and about to see Mr. Fithern. The Lycée legend and likely link to Cressida’s tragic ending.
When she reaches the cricket pitch, she sits down on one of the teak benches on the sidelines and scans the field. She spots him immediately, wearing Dockers and a light blue button-down, holding a clipboard and calling out to the boys who are running around in white uniforms. How anticlimactic, she thinks. She remembers his spiky black hair and Doc Martens boots from back in the nineties, and realizes what a disappointment aging is, what a status leveler. The sex symbol of her youth is now a balding cricket coach in Dockers.
He notices her sitting there and does a double take. She can tell he’s trying to place her—he’s squinting and straining—and then a shadow of recognition comes over his face and his lips form a pencil-thin line. He remembers her. Their eyes lock and he holds up both hands, letting her know he’ll be another ten minutes. Then he turns away, back to his cricket game, his mind probably racing. She watches him with his students, not surprised by how much they seem to like him. He has an easy way about him, he always did, and Kersti can see how well he relates to boys. She can hear them from where she’s sitting, bantering, teasing, arguing.
“Leadbetter’s just been in to bat, Mr. F.! How’s he up again?”
“Wait till they’ve bowled out and then you’ll be up.”
“Mr. F. I’ve been twelfth man since the beginning of the innings!”
“Wide ball!”
“Mr. F., that wasn’t a bloody wide ball!”
“Peters, get your head out of your arse and bowl!”
Kersti doesn’t have a clue what’s going on, but it looks like a cross between baseball and lawn bowling. The game finally wraps up and the boys all stampede off the field. Mr. Fithern approaches Kersti, his expression wary and serious.
“You were at the Lycée in Lausanne,” he says, as she stands up to greet him. She can see up close his teeth are a bit yellow. She used to think he looked like Sid Vicious, which seems absurd to her now.
“Kersti Kuusk,” she says. “I was Cressida Strauss’s best friend.”
He flinches at the mention of Cressida’s name. Kersti can’t quite read him, but guesses a lot of shit must be churning behind his impassive face—guilt, embarrassment, discomfort, curiosity. Or maybe he’s contemplating having her removed from the grounds. “You’ve traveled to England to see me?” he asks, sounding quite stupefied. “After all these years?”
“I’m actually on my way to Lausanne for their centennial.”
He doesn’t acknowledge either her pregnancy or the Lycée’s birthday.
“I really felt I needed to see you,” she tells him, as straightforward as she can put it.
“I’m, uh, shocked, to say the least,” he stutters. “You’ve rather caught me off guard.”