The Secret Letter. Kerry Barrett

sounded proud and I forced myself to smile.

      ‘How nice. No uniform?’

      ‘I’m not officially working today, and actually, I’m based over in Whitechapel usually, but I have to pop in.’

      ‘I’m going the other way,’ I said hurriedly, though the quickest route to the house I was planning to visit would take me straight past the police station.

      ‘Then I’m afraid I have to say farewell,’ the man said.

      ‘Thank you for helping me. Someone stepped over me, before you stopped.’

      ‘I can well believe it.’

      He grinned at me again and I felt a tiny curl of interest in my lower belly.

      ‘I’m Joseph,’ he said. ‘Joseph Fairbanks.’

      ‘I’m Esther W …’ I stopped myself just before I told this eager young constable my real name – the name that appeared on my criminal record – and pretended to dab my nose again while I desperately looked round me for inspiration. My eyes fell on the painted bricks of the house opposite. ‘Esther Whitehouse,’ I said.

      ‘It’s very nice to meet you,’ Miss Whitehouse,’ he said. ‘I hope our paths will cross again one day.’

      ‘Likewise,’ I said politely, though inside I felt uncomfortable. How awkward it would be for him to find out the young woman he’d helped was fresh from jail and an enthusiastic suffragette? I wouldn’t want to put him in that position. No, I thought, it would be easier for everyone if I never saw Joseph Fairbanks again.

       Chapter 7

       Lizzie

       September 2019

      The first big event of the school year was, I discovered, the Elm Heath harvest festival. This was all new to me. At my last school our harvest festival had been pretty low-key. We’d sing about ploughing the fields and scattering, and the parents would send their kids in with a donation for a local foodbank.

      But at Elm Heath, it was a Big Deal.

      ‘We’re a farming community,’ Paula explained. ‘At least we were. Things have changed a lot but there are still pupils who live on farms. It’s an important part of life in Elm Heath.’

      I nodded.

      ‘Sounds interesting,’ I said. ‘What happens?’

      What happened, I discovered, was the school ran the whole show, apart from the traditional thanksgiving service at the church. Elm Heath Primary was the focus for a week of festivities. There was scarecrow making, and a corn-dolly workshop – I didn’t know exactly what a corn dolly was but I didn’t tell Paula. I thought I’d just google it later. There was a concert with folk dancing, which the kids then performed at the nearby care home for elderly people. And there was a country fair at the weekend, in the school playground, where locals would sell produce and crafts. It all sounded very wholesome, and a million miles from Clapham.

      ‘It’s a lot of work,’ Paula said apologetically. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t mention it before now.’

      ‘It’s fine, honestly.’

      I was actually quite pleased to have more to fill the hours when I wasn’t at school. Though I was enjoying being back in the swing of school life – more so than I’d anticipated, truth be told – I was finding life on my own to be, well … a challenge.

      More than once I’d thought about calling Grant and changed my mind. I didn’t want to open that can of worms, not after the way his flowers had unsettled me. I didn’t miss him exactly. It just felt odd doing this all by myself. When I had been head at Broadway Common Infants, Grant was just across the field in the junior school ready to offer advice (and opinions) whenever I needed. I’d never been in charge alone before. And, of course, I was going home from school to my little cottage, which was cute and homely – if not really to my taste – but echoed with emptiness. I was lonely; that was the truth.

      * * *

      So for the next couple of weeks, I threw myself into organising the concert. I found songs that even the littlest reception child could sing, and worked out cool dance routines for the sulkiest of the year-six boys. Considering we’d only had a short while to sort it all out, it was a triumph. They performed for their parents, and for the elderly residents at the care home, and on a makeshift stage at the country fair on the Saturday.

      ‘Are you crying, Miss Armstrong?’ Cara Kinsella, who was dressed as a corn-on-the-cob with yellow tights, a yellow T-shirt and her face painted to match, eyed me suspiciously.

      ‘Noooo,’ I said, subtly wiping away a small tear. The kids had all worked so hard and it had been lovely.

      ‘Maybe you have hay fever,’ she said helpfully. ‘Daddy has hay fever.’

      ‘That’s probably it,’ I said.

      ‘Do you want a toffee apple? My grandma has been making them.’

      She took my hand and dragged me through the throngs of people in the playground. There were all sorts of stalls, selling jams, bread, vegetables, sweets and even a few Christmas decorations though it was only late September.

      ‘Here,’ she said in triumph depositing me in front of a stand with brightly coloured bunting. ‘My grandma.’

      Cara’s grandma was the woman I’d seen dropping her off on the first day of term. Up close, she was elegant with chic greying hair, wearing a simple shift dress. She smiled at me.

      ‘You must be Miss Armstrong.’

      ‘I am,’ I agreed. ‘Are you really Cara’s grandma?’

      ‘I’m Sophie Albert,’ she said in a voice that had the faintest hint of a French accent.

      ‘Grandma is my mummy’s mummy,’ Cara explained. ‘That’s what a grandma is. Grandma, can Miss Armstrong have a toffee apple?’

      ‘Of course.’

      She handed me an apple covered in thick red toffee and wrapped in cellophane and waved away my attempts to pay.

      ‘Please, we’re friends now,’ she said.

      ‘Thank you.’

      She nodded at the chair next to her. ‘Sit down,’ she said and obediently I did, feeling suddenly very weary.

      ‘You must be tired after organising that wonderful performance.’ She smiled at Cara who bounced up and down on her yellow feet.

      ‘Did you like my bit, Grandma? When I said about looking after the trees?’

      ‘I loved it.’

      Cara saw one of her friends across the playground and darted off to speak to him while Sophie sat down next to me.

      ‘She has a lot of energy.’

      ‘She’s wonderful.’

      ‘So like her mother was at that age – it fills me with joy even as it breaks my heart.’

      Remembering what Cara had said about her mummy being dead, I wasn’t sure what to say so I just gave what I hoped was a sympathetic smile.

      Sophie looked distant for a second, then she focused on me again.

      ‘We are all very excited to have you here,’ she said. ‘Do you think they will close this school?’

      I was disarmed by her way of saying exactly what she thought.

      ‘Erm,’ I began. ‘I’m not sure …’

      She waved her hand.