The Secret Letter

Her mentioning Sophie made me think of the expression on her face when Danny had approached the toffee apple stall earlier.

‘What’s the story with her and Danny?’

‘Similar,’ Chris said, misunderstanding. ‘He works in finance, and the company he works for provides investment for public sector initiatives …’

‘Oh Chris, shush,’ Paula said. She looked at me through narrowed eyes. ‘Why do you want to know?’

I drank some wine. ‘Sophie was all smiley until he appeared,’ I said. ‘Then she looked annoyed and wouldn’t really talk to him.’

Paula nodded and Chris topped up my glass.

‘I was good friends with Isabelle – Sophie’s daughter,’ Paula said. ‘I was older than her, but we both liked the same kind of music and we got to know each other that way. We were always in touch but we reconnected after Bella graduated from university.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘You must miss her.’

Paula gave me a small smile. ‘I do,’ she said. She took a deep breath. ‘Paula met Danny at uni. They stayed in Manchester afterwards and set up home together. It was a mistake really. They weren’t love’s young dream. They were always breaking up and she’d come home, then go back to him five minutes later. She left him for good when Cara was a baby.’

‘How did she die?’

‘Ovarian cancer it was,’ Paula said. ‘Nasty stuff. Anyway, she got sick, and he, to be fair to him, came when she needed him. He started spending more time with Cara and when Isabelle went into the hospice, Cara moved in with Danny. I think he’s really stepped up and he’s a wonderful dad now.’

‘But Sophie’s not sure?’

‘I don’t think she can forgive him for making Isabelle’s life so miserable when she only had a short time to live it.’

I nodded. ‘That’s really sad.’

The doorbell rang, letting us know our dinner had arrived, and our talk of Danny and Sophie was forgotten.

On Monday morning, I went into school feeling full of beans. I’d really enjoyed the weekend and I was more positive and excited about the days ahead than I’d been for months. A year, even.

Until, after morning assembly, when I sat down at my desk and opened an email from the head of the council’s education department, a woman called Denise Deacon, asking me to ring her, urgently.

‘Uh-oh,’ I said out loud. ‘This can’t be good.’

I dialled the number on the bottom of her email and she answered straight away.

‘I’m not going to beat around the bush, Lizzie,’ she said when I’d introduced myself and we’d exchanged a bit of small talk. ‘As far as pupil numbers and budgets are concerned, the council can’t justify keeping Elm Heath open any longer.’

My stomach lurched and for one terrifying moment, I thought I might throw up all over my desk. I took a deep breath and tried to control my voice. ‘I see.’

‘It’s no secret that admissions are falling and with financial cuts the way they are, well …’

‘Times are tough,’ I said, sounding weak and quavering. ‘How long do we have?’

‘They’re looking at the end of the academic year. But I wanted to speak to you first because I thought it was important that you know it’s not definite. The axe is being sharpened but it’s not yet fallen.’

I was heartened – slightly – by that news. We still had the rest of this term, and two more, to change the council’s mind. If they were open to their minds being changed of course.

‘What can we do to stop this closure?’

She sighed. ‘That’s the million-pound question, isn’t it? I wish I knew the answer because Elm Heath is a lovely school.’

‘It’s an important school.’

There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘Listen, Lizzie,’ she said. ‘I think your best bet is to prove the school plays a vital role in the community. Maybe that it’s more than just a school; that it provides services that can’t be found elsewhere.’

‘Like what?’ I said, at a loss.

‘No idea, you’d have to get creative.’

I tapped the end of my pen on my desk. ‘We’ve got no breakfast or after-school club here,’ I said. ‘They were really well used at my old school.’

‘That’s exactly the sort of thing that I mean,’ Denise said. ‘As things stand, the kids can get the education they’re getting at Elm Heath from Blyton Primary. And the council have put a lot of money into that school – it’s in their interests to up the pupil numbers there.’

I snorted, but I was still thinking. ‘We had a police station at my old school. Like a community thing where the kids got to know the local bobbies. Obviously, things are a bit different round here, but it could still work? Or what about using the school hall for fitness classes? I bet there are local Zumba teachers and whatnot.’

‘It’s a start,’ said Denise.

I was on a roll, scribbling ideas down as I spoke. ‘Did you ever see that TV show where they took little kids into a retirement home?’ I said, thoughtfully. ‘What about inviting some local people to afternoon tea with the children?’

‘These are all great ideas,’ Denise said.

‘But?’

‘But I’m worried they don’t go far enough. You need to think about what makes Elm Heath unique.’

‘It’s very old,’ I said.

‘Well perhaps you can show that it’s of special historical interest. Anything that makes it important.’

‘More important than giving kids a good education?’ I said, slightly sulky that she’d dismissed all my ideas.

She gave a small, humourless laugh. ‘Quite,’ she said. ‘If you can come up with something then perhaps there’s a chance.’

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Then that’s what we’ll do. As well as all that other stuff.’

We ended the call and I sat for a second, thinking. So the axe was swinging above our heads after all. What had started as a project to save my career was suddenly a project to save a school. Was I up to the task? Was it worth it?

I glanced at the pile of corn dollies on my shelf, waiting for Jeff to put up a display for me.

‘We could do with a bit of that luck now,’ I muttered. I’d have to call a staff meeting, let everyone know what was going on. Urgh. Maybe I should buy some wine, to help the news go down a bit easier?

‘What would you do, Esther?’ I looked up at the photograph that I’d not yet managed to move. ‘Would you roll over and let them close the school or would you fight?’

Esther looked at me, her expression fierce, and I looked back at her, and a tiny idea took seed. She founded this school, I thought. Maybe she had a story we could use. Get us some publicity.

I studied her photo. She was staring, unsmiling, at the camera wearing a severe black skirt and high-necked white blouse with a sort of flouncy cravat-type creation. Her chin was lifted and she looked snooty, to my twenty-first-century eyes. She didn’t look like she was the type to put up a fight about anything.