The Secret Letter. Kerry BarrettЧитать онлайн книгу.
stared at me. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Google doesn’t lie.’
She raised an eyebrow at me.
‘Okay, Google sometimes lies, but the dates match up. I’m pretty sure it’s the same woman.’
Paula didn’t speak; she just looked so upset that I felt bad all over again.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘Let me do a bit more research. Maybe it’s not her. It does sound pretty unlikely.’
‘It does, doesn’t it?’
‘Why would a middle-class schoolteacher go to prison?’
‘Exactly.’
Paula looked at her watch and grimaced. ‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘Keep me posted on anything you discover?’
‘I will.’
Looking harassed, she hurried out of my office, leaving me alone. I looked out of the window at the autumn sunshine. All my best thinking used to be done while I was out walking. And when Grant’s actions made my whole life fall apart, I’d power my way round the commons of south London, working out solutions in my head. I’d go for a walk, I decided, and perhaps inspiration would strike.
As I left the school grounds, and pulled on my denim jacket though, I realised I was stumped. Back in London, I’d head to Wandsworth Common, or Tooting Common and follow the path round. But here in the countryside, I realised, I had no idea where to go. There was so much open space but I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to walk there. Surely the fields all belonged to people? Were there footpaths across them? How would I know? What if there were animals? I wasn’t keen on animals – I mostly just liked them from a distance. Especially scary ones like bulls.
Behind the playground was a patch of waste ground with the remains of a building on it and a broken fence. I’d seen teenagers out there in the evening, chatting and watching stuff on their phones, but it didn’t look like somewhere I wanted to be.
Beyond that was a neatly hedged field. I eyed it suspiciously. I couldn’t see a bull, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one there.
Making up my mind, I crossed the road and headed instead to the park. It was only small, with a couple of football goals, and a little fenced-in play area, but I could walk round that without fear of being gored and hopefully clear my head a bit.
I’d only gone a little way round the edge of the park when my energy deserted me and I sat down on a bench, watching the kids running round the play area. I was at a loss about what to do for the best. The ideas we had were good but I wasn’t stupid. I knew they were a drop in the ocean compared to our falling admissions and the squeeze on education budgets. It seemed like an impossible task to save Elm Heath Primary, but it also seemed really important.
The old me would have relished this challenge. She’d have swooped in like a super-teacher, told everyone what to do to improve results and foster a growth mindset in all the pupils, and then swooped off again. But my confidence in my own abilities had deserted me, and this was all just too … huge.
‘You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders,’ said a voice. I looked up to see Danny Kinsella smiling at me.
To my surprise, my heart jumped at the sight of him. Just a bit.
‘School stuff,’ I said.
He sat down next to me. ‘Spill.’
‘I can’t.’
He pinched his lips together tight and made a zipping gesture. ‘I’m the soul of discretion, me,’ he said. ‘And if there’s anything I’ve learned over the years, it’s that a problem shared really is a problem halved.’
I looked at him. ‘You have to promise not to tell anyone,’ I said. ‘Not Cara and definitely not Sophie.’
‘Sophie ignores everything I say anyway.’
‘Promise,’ I said.
Danny looked at me gravely and held out his little finger. ‘Pinkie promise.’
‘Danny …’
‘It’s the most binding promise there is, according to Cara.’
Feeling faintly ridiculous, I linked my little finger with his. His hands were warm and soft.
‘There,’ he said, shaking. ‘Now you can tell me everything.’
And so I did. I told him all about Denise Deacon telling me the school would close unless we could do something to stop it, and about the ideas we’d had. It felt good to unburden.
‘Those are all great plans,’ he said. ‘Sophie’s the perfect person to run the after-school club.’
‘It’s not enough though, is it?’
He shrugged. ‘Possibly not. But it’s a start.’
‘I also had the idea of proving the school was of historical interest, so I looked up Esther Watkins, who founded it back in 1912, and discovered she was a criminal.’
‘What?’ said Danny, delighted. But I wasn’t happy.
‘I feel like I’ve hit a brick wall,’ I said. ‘I can’t tell the rest of the staff because they’ll just look for other jobs and we’ll be left with no one. Paula’s devastated. And the one thing I thought might help – our history – is a non-starter.’
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