The Things You Didn't See(59)
I’m dressed in what’s become my daily uniform: a denim skirt from Fat Face and a thin jumper – comfortable clothes for a vigil beside a hospital bed in an overly warm room, but not suitable for Oakfield. I should go home and change into a dress and heels. I know you’d do this in my place, but I don’t have the energy.
Warm air spews from the vents, the only sound the ticking of the indicator as I overtake the car in front. Clouds scud low over orange fields, puffy as cotton wool, wet at the edges – like the dampened balls I used when Victoria was a baby, piled into an igloo by the side of the top-and-tail bowl as I washed her. The clouds hold weight, I can see that, dark with rain that will surely come.
I drive on in the warm silence of my own company. I can’t cope with the inane chatter of local radio: I usually have it tuned ready for Daniel’s show, but I switch it off and listen to the rumble of tyres on tarmac as the clouds close in. Norfolk has never seemed so far away. I sweat in my jumper, unable to turn the heating down or take my eyes from the road for fear that Daniel is right and I’m not capable of driving because medication is dulling my senses, or grief is.
Time drags, even as the miles pass. The same speed, second by second, minute by minute. I’m headed for Victoria. I know now, more than I’ve ever known anything, that she needs to come home. You understand that, don’t you, Mum?
Finally, I’m standing at the base of Oakfield’s stone steps, extravagantly wide, with the domed school building looming above me, as impossible and unavoidable as a boulder in the road. What if they don’t let me take her? But one advantage of private schools is that you can do things like this: you can take your child out of school for a day of tennis at Wimbledon or for a family holiday in Capri. Or for her grandmother’s funeral.
Daniel usually leads the way here. I simply can’t stand to return, and he’s good at smooth talk and handshakes and they all know him. But today I’m on my own.
I ring the bell and wait, then speak into the intercom when asked. ‘It’s Victoria Salmon’s mum.’ Finally, the door is released, and I can enter. The entrance is like no school reception anywhere: it’s like a five-star hotel, all polished oak and red carpet. I can hear the whisper and giggle of girlish voices as feet scamper along the first-floor landings, heading for the prep room or library – grand spaces where ladies once took morning tea and received callers. The dormitories are in an ugly modern extension, but in the main building are the dining hall and the long ballroom they use for assemblies and prize-giving at the end of each term.
I feel small and nip the back of my hand to remind myself that I paid for this polished floor, the red carpet beneath my feet, at least a tiny piece of it. I long to stand on the stairs and yell, ‘Victoria!’ or even ‘Tori!’ until she comes to me. I want to grab her hand and run.
Behind the wooden door, marked SECRETARY in gold paint, is a startled spinster. Not the same one who worked here when I was a pupil, but of the same type. I ask, politely, if I can see the headmistress, who’s seated in the adjacent office. The headmistress, Mrs Hollingsworth, is not a replacement. She saw me through four years of secondary school, and she welcomes me stiffly, offers tea.
‘Cassandra, how lovely! Earl Grey or Darjeeling?’
The secretary shuffles off to make it and Mrs H, as we always called her, takes her seat behind her massive mahogany desk, smooths the velvet lapels of her dogtooth jacket and flashes me a glimmer of overbite.
‘So nice to see you, Cassandra, though next time perhaps you could inform us in advance, so we can be better prepared. This weekend is always busy, with the pupils returning from exeats.’
The secretary makes a trundling return, head lowered as she hands me a bone china cup half-full of milky tea.
‘Thank you.’
It clatters in the saucer as I take it.
Mrs H peers at me, like she did the day I first arrived, and I feel fourteen again. ‘Nothing wrong, I hope?’
Courage sweats out of me, leaves me with a dry throat and no voice to say the terrible words, My mum died. As if saying it aloud will finally make it real.
‘Of course, Victoria’s trip home for half-term was cancelled and Mr Salmon did call to explain. I was sorry to hear you’ve been unwell. Are you recovered?’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ I shuffle in the warm leather chair, hemmed in by its steep sides, and wonder what he told her about me.
She places her hands into a bridge and peers at me, waiting. She’s an important woman and her time is precious. ‘So, how can I help you?’
‘I want to take Victoria home.’
Mrs H crinkles her brow in a way that is disapproving and makes me quake. ‘You mean for the night? Lessons start in earnest on Monday, and Victoria is now on the GCSE syllabus. She’ll have to be back tomorrow.’
Time to be strong. ‘I’m taking her home for good.’
The bridge of her hands collapses. ‘This is rather sudden. Victoria is doing so well here. She’s an exceptionally bright pupil, a real asset.’ She pauses, smiles silkily. ‘Just like her mother was. I do understand that you are in the process of opening a health spa, so if it’s a question of extending the holiday on the fees . . . ?’
‘No,’ I say, trying to hide the fact that this is news to me. I wonder how long we’ve not been paying. Money must be tighter than I thought – no wonder you were worried about the farm, Mum. ‘It’s not related to that. But if we can’t afford Victoria’s fees, then that’s even more reason for me to remove her.’