Second Time Around by Marcia Willett

Sorry.’
    â€˜Nothing to be sorry about. Look, I’ve got to go. I’m a bit late for work. Only I don’t like to leave you. Is there somebody you could phone up? I could give you a lift.’
    â€˜No.’ Isobel shook her head and attempted to control her trembling lips. ‘I’m OK. You’ve been great. Honestly, I’ll be all right.’
    â€˜Well, if you’re sure …’
    He tucked his chair under the table and she followed him out on to the beach, raising a hand to him as he climbed into his car and disappeared up the track. Keeping her eyes resolutely away from the empty house, Isobel wandered down to the sea. The sun shone in her eyes and a gull cried mournfully as it drifted above her, white wings outstretched. She thought of Mathilda, of the fear that she must have known during the long cold night, and the tears streamed unchecked down her face. She tried to imagine her own life without
Mathilda; without her dry humour or her companionship; without the refuge she had given her against the storms. Now she had no one. Isobel sat down on a rock and, bending her head towards her knees, gave herself up to grief.

Nine
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    SUNDAY MORNING. THE JUNE sunshine slanted through the arched windows of the chapel, touching the heads of the smaller boys in the front rows and lingering on the bowl of yellow roses placed at the altar. The drowsy peace was briefly disturbed by the frantic fluttering of a butterfly as it beat its tortoiseshell wings against the glass. Abruptly it abandoned its struggle for freedom, dropping down to rest on the stone sill. The scent of the roses drifted faintly on the warm air and the headmaster’s scholarly voice was soothing—almost soporific—as he read the gentle words of St John …

    â€˜Behold what manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us, that we should be called the sons of God … Little children let no man deceive you … He that committeth sin is of the devil … For this is the message that ye heard from the beginning, that we should love one another …’

    Matron, ever vigilant from her vantage point in the choir, watched the small boy opposite. His face was dreamy and peaceful as he unobtrusively slid his fingers under the thigh of his even smaller neighbour and pinched the bare flesh. The cry of anguish was frozen on his victim’s lips as she leaned forward to look sternly at both of them. They stared back at her with innocent guileless expressions—but she saw the sharp jab of an elbow in retaliation and smiled to herself.

    â€˜ …My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and truth …’
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    Matron sighed deeply; thirty-five years in the company of boys between the ages of eight to thirteen had given her a rather cynical outlook. The first twenty years of her career had been at a boys’ preparatory school in Dorset. When the headmaster retired she decided that she, too, should make a change and she had come here to this small school on the edge of the New Forest. It was the right decision and she had been very happy. A succession of little boys had passed through her capable, caring hands and, after they left, she continued to learn of their achievements through the pages of the school magazine and their occasional visits. How she would miss them! She looked down into the body of the chapel and wondered how she would cope with retirement. Her glance picked out the familiar head of the History master. She knew without looking how he would be sitting; hands in his pockets, legs crossed at the ankles and thrust out into the aisle, chin on chest. He was unconventional, sometimes outrageous, an inspired teacher—and the boys adored him. She had regulated her love for Tony Priest so that only she knew of it. It was so humiliating to have such feelings when one was over fifty; especially if the object of one’s desire was a married