thrusting their hands up to answer questions,
desperate to read parts. I felt their energy fill me. I laughed and debated with them. Perhaps there would be more of these mornings when my job absorbed me totally, even though it was drizzling
outside now, a fine grey English mizzle that soaked despite its tiny droplets. The pupils who passed me in the corridors smelled of damp uniform, but the bad dream of last night slipped from my
memory. I didn’t exactly whistle on my way to the dining room but my lips were almost remembering how to do it when my father came downstairs towards me, holding a sheet of paper in his
hand.
‘Meredith, a word in my office, please.’ His eyes failed to make more than a second’s contact with me. My stomach contracted. Bad news. Please God, don’t let it be Hugh.
Some severe setback. Perhaps another infection in the stump of the injured leg. But Dad’s rigid back seemed to speak more of anger than sorrow. What had I done? Someone must have complained
about my teaching. Or about me. Or the dog. Samson must have jumped over the garden wall again and chased a visiting parent’s car. Dogs were banned from school grounds.
‘He’ll always treat you more strictly than anyone else,’ Clara had warned when I’d first announced my intention of returning here. ‘You do know that, Merry,
don’t you? He’ll take anyone’s side against you, just to show he’s being impartial. For all his talk about justice.’
She’d been right. For a moment as I followed him I was that little girl who’d scrubbed at the precious mural, almost ruining it for ever.
It wasn’t until we were in his office that he turned and waved the white sheet at me. ‘I’d like an explanation for this, please.’
I took it from him. An order form from a company called Delicious Confections. My name and email address in the From field. It was an order: an order for a reborn doll, dated two weeks
ago.
Thirteen
‘I didn’t send this.’ I stared at the black print but the name of Meredith Cordingley and my email address were still there on the sheet. As was an order for
an Alexander Reborn Doll for £195 plus delivery. A boy, I noted.
He said nothing.
‘Why would I?’
Still nothing.
‘Dad?’
‘Shall we?’ He nodded at the leather sofa. I was to be treated like a naughty fifth-year. But he didn’t sit himself down at his desk. We perched on the sofa, slightly turned to
each other, like interviewer and candidate. Except that I was not in the mood for an interrogation. The best form of defence was attack.
‘Who gave you this?’ I waved the sheet at him.
‘I found it on my desk just now.’ He looked down at his folded hands. ‘Obviously if you tell me it’s a forgery I will accept that completely.’
But he’d needed me to tell him that I wasn’t responsible for the order; he hadn’t drawn the obvious conclusion himself. For God’s sake, I was his daughter. He
couldn’t seriously think that I was so mucked-up that I needed to stick a paperknife into a toy doll to make some kind of point. I’d had one bad week, just one, when it had all become
too much for me. It didn’t mean I’d flipped and become some kind of nutcase. My father was supposed to be the great hater of injustice. At Letchford he’d set up a disciplinary
system that presumed innocence above guilt, something he said he didn’t believe was taken for granted in all schools. He never made accusations without solid proof. Unless it was me. Clara
had been right to warn me off coming back here. It had always been like this, ever since I’d been a child.
But already my anger was passing, replaced by a burning need to work out who had done this. My brain was whirring, scanning an imaginary list of staff and students, trying to extract a name.
Almost certainly a student. A pupil , we’d have called them once. We’d stopped doing that at some stage, turning them into our equals, removing the distance that had once
desperate to read parts. I felt their energy fill me. I laughed and debated with them. Perhaps there would be more of these mornings when my job absorbed me totally, even though it was drizzling
outside now, a fine grey English mizzle that soaked despite its tiny droplets. The pupils who passed me in the corridors smelled of damp uniform, but the bad dream of last night slipped from my
memory. I didn’t exactly whistle on my way to the dining room but my lips were almost remembering how to do it when my father came downstairs towards me, holding a sheet of paper in his
hand.
‘Meredith, a word in my office, please.’ His eyes failed to make more than a second’s contact with me. My stomach contracted. Bad news. Please God, don’t let it be Hugh.
Some severe setback. Perhaps another infection in the stump of the injured leg. But Dad’s rigid back seemed to speak more of anger than sorrow. What had I done? Someone must have complained
about my teaching. Or about me. Or the dog. Samson must have jumped over the garden wall again and chased a visiting parent’s car. Dogs were banned from school grounds.
‘He’ll always treat you more strictly than anyone else,’ Clara had warned when I’d first announced my intention of returning here. ‘You do know that, Merry,
don’t you? He’ll take anyone’s side against you, just to show he’s being impartial. For all his talk about justice.’
She’d been right. For a moment as I followed him I was that little girl who’d scrubbed at the precious mural, almost ruining it for ever.
It wasn’t until we were in his office that he turned and waved the white sheet at me. ‘I’d like an explanation for this, please.’
I took it from him. An order form from a company called Delicious Confections. My name and email address in the From field. It was an order: an order for a reborn doll, dated two weeks
ago.
Thirteen
‘I didn’t send this.’ I stared at the black print but the name of Meredith Cordingley and my email address were still there on the sheet. As was an order for
an Alexander Reborn Doll for £195 plus delivery. A boy, I noted.
He said nothing.
‘Why would I?’
Still nothing.
‘Dad?’
‘Shall we?’ He nodded at the leather sofa. I was to be treated like a naughty fifth-year. But he didn’t sit himself down at his desk. We perched on the sofa, slightly turned to
each other, like interviewer and candidate. Except that I was not in the mood for an interrogation. The best form of defence was attack.
‘Who gave you this?’ I waved the sheet at him.
‘I found it on my desk just now.’ He looked down at his folded hands. ‘Obviously if you tell me it’s a forgery I will accept that completely.’
But he’d needed me to tell him that I wasn’t responsible for the order; he hadn’t drawn the obvious conclusion himself. For God’s sake, I was his daughter. He
couldn’t seriously think that I was so mucked-up that I needed to stick a paperknife into a toy doll to make some kind of point. I’d had one bad week, just one, when it had all become
too much for me. It didn’t mean I’d flipped and become some kind of nutcase. My father was supposed to be the great hater of injustice. At Letchford he’d set up a disciplinary
system that presumed innocence above guilt, something he said he didn’t believe was taken for granted in all schools. He never made accusations without solid proof. Unless it was me. Clara
had been right to warn me off coming back here. It had always been like this, ever since I’d been a child.
But already my anger was passing, replaced by a burning need to work out who had done this. My brain was whirring, scanning an imaginary list of staff and students, trying to extract a name.
Almost certainly a student. A pupil , we’d have called them once. We’d stopped doing that at some stage, turning them into our equals, removing the distance that had once
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