The Turn of the Key(65)

My stomach turned over. It was the kind of thing every safeguarding manual warned about—the nightmare scenario you hoped never to encounter. But . . . was it? What girls was Ellie talking about? Herself and Maddie? Or some completely different girls? And who was the “he”? Bill? Jack? Or someone else entirely—a teacher or . . .

But no. I pushed away the image of the wild grief-stricken face staring out of my phone screen at me. That was pure fantasy. If I went to Sandra with something like that, she’d be entitled to laugh in my face.

But . . . could I go to Sandra with something like this? When Ellie would deny what she said, and when it might be nothing at all? There was nothing that I could pinpoint, after all, to say, “This is definitely worrying.”

I was still staring after Ellie, biting at the edge of my nail, when a noise from the hallway made me jump, and I turned to see the door opening, and Jean McKenzie standing on the doorstep, taking off her coat.

“Mrs. McKenzie,” I said. She was neatly dressed in a woolen skirt and a white cotton blouse, and I suddenly felt very conscious of my own state of undress, in a dressing gown, with not a great deal beneath.

“You’re up early,” was all she said, and I felt the prickle of her disapproval. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or the leftover anxiety from Ellie’s words, but my temper suddenly boiled up.

“Why don’t you like me?” I demanded.

She turned to look back at me from stashing her coat in the hall cupboard.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. You’ve been completely off with me ever since I arrived. Why?”

“I think you’re imagining things, miss.”

“You know full well I’m not. If it’s about that business on the first day, I didn’t shut the damn door, and I didn’t lock the children out. Why would I?”

“Kindness is as kindness does,” Jean McKenzie said cryptically, and she turned to go into the utility room, but I ran after her, grabbing her arm.

“What the hell does that even mean?”

She pulled herself out of my grip, and suddenly her eyes blazed at me with what I could only call hatred.

“I’ll thank you not to handle me like that, miss, and not to swear in front of the bairns, either.”

“I was asking you a perfectly reasonable question,” I retorted, but she ignored me, stalking away to the utility room, rubbing her arm with exaggerated care as if I’d given her a friction burn. “And stop calling me miss,” I called after her. “We’re not in bloody Downton Abbey.”

“What would you prefer me to call you then?” she snapped over her shoulder.

I had turned on my heel, preparing to go and wake up Maddie, but her words stopped me in my tracks, and I swung round to stare at her expressionless back, bent over the utility room sink.

“Wh-what did you say?”

But she did not answer, only turned on the taps, drowning out my voice.

*

“Goodbye, girls!” I called, watching them through the school gate as they traipsed into their classrooms. Maddie said nothing, she just trudged onwards, head down, ignoring the chatter of the other little girls. But Ellie looked up from her conversation with a little redheaded girl and waved. Her smile was sweet and cheerful, and I felt myself smile back, and then down at Petra, jiggling and gurgling on my hip. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the warmth of a beautiful June day was filtering through the leaves of the trees. The fears and fantasies of last night—the memory of that twisted, grief-racked face peering out from the screen of my phone—all of that seemed suddenly preposterous in the light of day.

I was just strapping Petra back into her car seat when my phone pinged, and I glanced at it, wondering if it was something important. It was an email. From Sandra.

Oh shit.

Paranoid thoughts flitted through my mind—had she seen the camera footage of me almost hitting Maddie, or the endless stream of treats I had been bribing the girls with? Or was it something . . . else? Something Jean McKenzie had said?

My stomach was fluttering butterflies as I clicked to open, but the subject header was matter of fact enough: Update. Whatever that meant.

Hi, Rowan,

Sorry to email but I’m in a meeting and can’t talk, and I wanted to send you a quick update with how things are going here. The trade fair has gone super well, but Bill has been called away to Dubai to do some troubleshooting out there, which means I’m going to have to take over on the Kensington project—not ideal as it means I will be away for a little longer than I had hoped, but it can’t be helped. I should be back by next Tuesday (i.e., a week today). Are you managing okay? Does that sound doable?

In terms of the children, Rhiannon finishes school today. Elise’s mum has kindly volunteered to collect both girls (they live down near Pitlochry so have to drive past anyway) and Rhi will be back at Heatherbrae any time from about twelve onwards. I have texted her, so she knows what’s going on, and she’s excited to meet you.

Jack spoke to Bill yesterday and mentioned that you are getting on very well with the girls; I’m very glad to hear it’s all going okay. Do call if you have any concerns—I will try to ring tonight before the girls’ bedtimes.

Sandra x

I shut down the email, unsure whether my overriding emotion was one of relief, or trepidation. I most definitely was relieved—not least about the fact that Jack had apparently put in a good word for me. But another week . . . I had not realized until I read Sandra’s words how much I had been counting on her arrival back this Friday, ticking off the days in my head like a prison sentence.