The Secret Letter. Kerry Barrett

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СКАЧАТЬ your nose,’ he said. ‘I’ll pick everything up.’

      ‘Thank you.’ I was grateful to him for coming to my aid and for the handkerchief, which seemed to have stopped the bleeding.

      He scooped up my dresses, and a book that was in the gutter, and helped me put them all back in my bag.

      ‘I’ll let you get those bits,’ he said, gesturing with his head towards my underwear and avoiding my eye.

      Quickly, I gathered them up and stuffed them in too. ‘If I hold my bag in my arms, nothing can fall out,’ I said.

      He smiled at me. He was rather nice-looking, I thought, with dark blond hair falling over his forehead and a mischievous glint in his eye.

      ‘Very enterprising,’ he said.

      ‘I try my best.’

      ‘Where are you off to?’ the young man asked. ‘I’m just on my way to Lambeth Police Station. If you’re going that way, I can walk with you. Make sure you don’t come a cropper on the way.’

      My stomach twisted in alarm. ‘The police station,’ I said, trying to sound light-hearted. ‘Are you in trouble?’

      ‘Good Lord, no,’ he said, raising his eyebrows high on his forehead. ‘No, I’m a constable.’

      He sounded proud and I forced myself to smile.

      ‘How nice. No uniform?’

      ‘I’m not officially working today, and actually, I’m based over in Whitechapel usually, but I have to pop in.’

      ‘I’m going the other way,’ I said hurriedly, though the quickest route to the house I was planning to visit would take me straight past the police station.

      ‘Then I’m afraid I have to say farewell,’ the man said.

      ‘Thank you for helping me. Someone stepped over me, before you stopped.’

      ‘I can well believe it.’

      He grinned at me again and I felt a tiny curl of interest in my lower belly.

      ‘I’m Joseph,’ he said. ‘Joseph Fairbanks.’

      ‘I’m Esther W …’ I stopped myself just before I told this eager young constable my real name – the name that appeared on my criminal record – and pretended to dab my nose again while I desperately looked round me for inspiration. My eyes fell on the painted bricks of the house opposite. ‘Esther Whitehouse,’ I said.

      ‘It’s very nice to meet you,’ Miss Whitehouse,’ he said. ‘I hope our paths will cross again one day.’

      ‘Likewise,’ I said politely, though inside I felt uncomfortable. How awkward it would be for him to find out the young woman he’d helped was fresh from jail and an enthusiastic suffragette? I wouldn’t want to put him in that position. No, I thought, it would be easier for everyone if I never saw Joseph Fairbanks again.

       Chapter 7

       Lizzie

       September 2019

      The first big event of the school year was, I discovered, the Elm Heath harvest festival. This was all new to me. At my last school our harvest festival had been pretty low-key. We’d sing about ploughing the fields and scattering, and the parents would send their kids in with a donation for a local foodbank.

      But at Elm Heath, it was a Big Deal.

      ‘We’re a farming community,’ Paula explained. ‘At least we were. Things have changed a lot but there are still pupils who live on farms. It’s an important part of life in Elm Heath.’

      I nodded.

      ‘Sounds interesting,’ I said. ‘What happens?’

      What happened, I discovered, was the school ran the whole show, apart from the traditional thanksgiving service at the church. Elm Heath Primary was the focus for a week of festivities. There was scarecrow making, and a corn-dolly workshop – I didn’t know exactly what a corn dolly was but I didn’t tell Paula. I thought I’d just google it later. There was a concert with folk dancing, which the kids then performed at the nearby care home for elderly people. And there was a country fair at the weekend, in the school playground, where locals would sell produce and crafts. It all sounded very wholesome, and a million miles from Clapham.

      ‘It’s a lot of work,’ Paula said apologetically. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t mention it before now.’

      ‘It’s fine, honestly.’

      I was actually quite pleased to have more to fill the hours when I wasn’t at school. Though I was enjoying being back in the swing of school life – more so than I’d anticipated, truth be told – I was finding life on my own to be, well … a challenge.

      More than once I’d thought about calling Grant and changed my mind. I didn’t want to open that can of worms, not after the way his flowers had unsettled me. I didn’t miss him exactly. It just felt odd doing this all by myself. When I had been head at Broadway Common Infants, Grant was just across the field in the junior school ready to offer advice (and opinions) whenever I needed. I’d never been in charge alone before. And, of course, I was going home from school to my little cottage, which was cute and homely – if not really to my taste – but echoed with emptiness. I was lonely; that was the truth.

      * * *

      So for the next couple of weeks, I threw myself into organising the concert. I found songs that even the littlest reception child could sing, and worked out cool dance routines for the sulkiest of the year-six boys. Considering we’d only had a short while to sort it all out, it was a triumph. They performed for their parents, and for the elderly residents at the care home, and on a makeshift stage at the country fair on the Saturday.

      ‘Are you crying, Miss Armstrong?’ Cara Kinsella, who was dressed as a corn-on-the-cob with yellow tights, a yellow T-shirt and her face painted to match, eyed me suspiciously.

      ‘Noooo,’ I said, subtly wiping away a small tear. The kids had all worked so hard and it had been lovely.

      ‘Maybe you have hay fever,’ she said helpfully. ‘Daddy has hay fever.’

      ‘That’s probably it,’ I said.

      ‘Do you want a toffee apple? My grandma has been making them.’

      She took my hand and dragged me through the throngs of people in the playground. There were all sorts of stalls, selling jams, bread, vegetables, sweets and even a few Christmas decorations though it was only late September.

      ‘Here,’ she said in triumph depositing me in front of a stand with brightly coloured bunting. ‘My grandma.’

      Cara’s grandma was the woman I’d seen dropping her off on the first day of term. Up close, she was elegant with chic greying СКАЧАТЬ