Kerry Barrett - The Secret Letter

I found the right email and clicked on it. It was automatically generated by the council and had a list of pupils who had been withdrawn before the start of term. I scanned the names – there were about twenty of them. I turned my screen round so Paula could see.

‘Oh bugger,’ she said. ‘That’s four year sixes, a handful of year fours and fives, and lots of year threes.’

‘And you have eight starting in reception next week?’

Paula nodded.

‘How many do you normally have?’

‘About twelve,’ she said. ‘Sometimes as many as fifteen.’

‘Is there a waiting list?’ I said, knowing the answer. Paula just laughed without humour.

‘Where are they all going?’

She shrugged. ‘The big primary in Blyton, I imagine.’ Blyton was the nearest town and had a newly built primary school.

‘It’s quite a distance.’

‘It is, but it’s a good school. It’s a modern school with lots of bells and whistles. Some parents obviously think the journey is worth it.’

I picked up a pen and tapped out a rhythm on the desk, thinking. ‘What went wrong here, Paula?’

She sighed. ‘I think we all got a bit set in our ways.’

I met her eye. ‘All?’

‘As you know, the old head was quite old-fashioned,’ she said diplomatically. ‘We’re looking forward to you shaking things up.’

I smiled, even though I had that knot of anxiety and guilt in my stomach again. I didn’t mind shaking things up, but I hadn’t had any idea that pupil numbers were falling so fast. It didn’t sound good, to me. ‘Any ideas about what we should do?’

‘Lots,’ Paula began, then paused as Emma knocked on the door.

‘There’s a phone call for you, Paula,’ she said. ‘Lily Johnson’s mum. She says Lily’s been having nightmares about starting school and she wonders if you can pop in and see her?’

Paula smiled. ‘Bless her,’ she said. ‘I’ll sort it out. Sorry, Lizzie.’

She went off to take the call, leaving me marvelling at the thought of a teacher popping into to see a nervous four-year-old before she started school. It was a privilege, I thought, to be able to look after the kids like that. This was a lovely school.

Above my desk, Esther Watkins looked down at me, her expression unreadable.

‘Oh, shut up,’ I said.

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