The Care and Management of Lies by Jacqueline Winspear

were inhabiting her physical body. Though sometimes labeled a “quiet one” while at Camden, she had never been what might be called shy, never a precious flower of a girl—but she had never imagined feeling the welter of anger that often assailed her now. She suspected London might have something to do with it. There she was, teaching children of the well-heeled, earning a sufficient wage to live in comfortable, clean lodgings for women of good reputation. The mothers of her charges arrived at school in chauffeur-driven motor cars, or a carriage and pair, and could be heard talking to each other about how much better it was to have children at school, where they could mix, rather than having a governess at home. And Thea had thought, Mix? And the children in their uniforms would come into the class and do as they were told, when they were told, though there was always the one. Wasn’t there always the one, wherever you were a teacher? Yet if she had been a teacher in the East End, or south of the river, there would be more than the one—there could be three or four or eight or nine little thorns in the side, and every one bearing the welt of a clip around the ear for some infraction committed before they’d left what passed for home, and with no shoes on their feet, while thinking themselves lucky if they’d had bread and a scrape of lard inside them before setting off for the parish school down the road. Bread and scrape for breakfast, bread and scrape for dinner and then again for tea. She’d been to those houses—volunteering her time to help the poor by delivering discarded clothing, shoes, warm blankets, and the like from wealthier homes—and most of the time there were no plates, knives, forks, and spoons, because anything that came to the table was mostly eaten with the fingers. On Sundays a big pot of broth would be put out, with any scraps floating on the top that could be picked up off the street after the costers passed on their way home. She’d see the children running to claim the odd leaf of cabbage, or a floret of cauliflower as it fell to the ground when the horse and cart clattered over the cobblestones. For a few pennies the butcher might have a pig’s knuckle or a rabbit head—oh, how the brains were treated as a rare delicacy, white and curled, as if the mind of the animal had caused ripples of thought to run across the membrane. If the father was in work—and even if he hadn’t a job to go to—he’d have the best of whatever came to the house. These were the poorest of the poor, and Thea did everything within her limited power to help them. Was it any surprise, really, that so many lads wanted to go to war, when every day was a battle anyway?
    But there was another Thea, the Thea who knew that, even though she worked for people she despised for their place in the social strata, and where they lived, and their ignorance about those who had nothing, she loved the children. Children brought her joy, whoever they were. It wasn’t the fault of these young ones, her pupils who went to their own beds at night after a warm bath and with a cup of hot milk served by the nurserymaid. It was their good fortune that they had been born to plenty. They were innocent, and—she knew this—so were their parents. They’d simply never had cause or perhaps the opportunity to learn. This Thea, the Thea who understood human nature because she understood children, saw her chance in the latest letter she’d received from Avril. Then she made ready for school, smiling into the mirror when she put on her hat before leaving the house, as if to remind herself that her face could be arranged in such a way.
     
    A bout a fortnight following her return from London, Kezia set off for the village shop. Driving the gig was now well within her capability, and she depended less upon Mrs. Joe to make decisions regarding where to stop and which way to go. She considered it fortunate that the horse appeared to have a fine