Anne Mather - Castles Of Sand

The corridor emerged on to a railed landing, overlooking the entrance hall below. The school had originally been formed in the eighteenth century by linking together two town houses, and although the buildings had been added to since that time, the atmosphere of a close community remained. There were lots of halls and curiously winding staircases, and low beams to catch the unwary, but as the boys it accommodated were only five to thirteen years of age, it seldom troubled them. It was a small school, only a hundred and fifty pupils, but its record was excellent, and its results ensured a permanent register of pupils waiting to receive a place.

As she hurried down the stairs, Ashley wondered how Hussein had been admitted. Had his name been entered since his birth, as many of the boys’ names had, or had someone in authority pulled some strings? She could hardly believe the former, and although the latter seemed more likely, what unknowing chance had prompted Alain to choose this school?

Malcolm Henley, the present headmaster of Brede School, had his study on the ground floor, in a room which had once been used as a reception parlour. It was not a large room, but the ceiling was high, and the bookshelves that lined the walls drew one’s eyes upwards rather than pointing to its limited proportions. It was a comfortable room, a masculine room, with rather austere furnishings and fittings, but Ashley had always felt at ease here, and during the five years she had been working in the school, she and Malcolm had become close friends.

Now, she knocked at the door, and having been bidden to enter, stepped on to the worn brown carpet. Malcolm had been seated at his desk, but at her entrance he rose politely to his feet, and with a warm smile came round the desk to greet her.

‘Well, Ashley,’ he said, as she closed the door behind her. ‘Have you satisfied yourself that everything is as you left it?’

Ashley forced a faint smile. ‘Yes. Yes, I’ve done that,’ she answered, withdrawing her hand from his enthusiastic hold. ‘And—and I checked over the new register of pupils.’

Malcolm nodded, pulling his pipe out of his pocket, and examining the bowl with a knowing eye. ‘You’ll see you’ve got fifteen boys this year,’ he remarked, searching his pockets for some matches. ‘I’ve agreed to take on an extra pupil, one who is slightly older than we usually take them, but an intelligent boy for all that, or so I believe.’

‘Hussein Gauthier,’ put in Ashley tightly, and Malcolm acknowledged this as he struck a match.

‘Gauthier, yes, that is the boy’s name,’ he agreed, smiling as he dropped the spent match into the already overflowing ashtray. Then a look of mild concern crossed his lined, yet still handsome, face. ‘Is something wrong, Ashley? You look—disturbed.’

Ashley indicated the chair at the opposite side of the desk. ‘Can I sit down?’

‘Of course.’ Malcolm walked to resume his seat. ‘Need you ask?’ He frowned. ‘You’re not ill, are you?’

‘Physically, you mean?’ suggested Ashley, a vaguely hysterical note lurking in her voice. ‘No. No, Malcolm, I’m not ill. At least, not in any way that you can see.’

Malcolm rested his elbows on the desk and regarded her thoughtfully across its littered width. ‘You are upset, aren’t you? What is it? Is there anything I can do?’

Ashley lay back in the worn leather armchair and wished desperately that there was. But she didn’t see what anyone could do—except herself. She and Malcolm had never discussed her past. Oh, he knew she had been married, and that her husband had died within a few days of that marriage, but that was all. She had never discussed his identity, or their relationship, and as she had reverted to her maiden name of Gilbert, the rest of the staff were no wiser.

‘Would you like a drink?’

Malcolm indicated the decanter on the filing cabinet by the window, but Ashley shook her head. ‘It’s only eleven o’clock,’ she protested, and Malcolm shrugged his shoulders.

‘Perhaps you need one,’ he suggested, and remembering her own thoughts of only a few minutes ago, Ashley acquiesced. Maybe it would be easier to say what she had to say with a little dutch courage inside her. She didn’t honestly know what she was going to say, but something had to be said, that was certain.

With a glass containing a measure of Scotch whisky in her hand, Ashley strove to find a way to explain herself. ‘I—I have to offer you my resignation,’ she said, clearing her throat as Malcolm stared at her aghast. ‘I—I’m sorry. I know it’s an awkward time for you, the beginning of term and everything, but—I—I’m sorry.’

She buried her nose in the glass as Malcolm digested what she had just told him. Characteristically, he did not immediately deny her claim, but sat there quietly smoking his pipe, watching her with the same assessing intentness, with which he appraised the boys.

‘I assume you do intend to tell me why you’ve come to this decision,’ he said at last, when Ashley had choked over the raw alcohol and set her eyes streaming. ‘You do realise that I care about you, and am concerned about you, and that whatever it is that’s troubling you is better shared?’

Ashley expelled her breath shakily. ‘You’re very kind, Malcolm, but—–’

‘I’m not kind!’ he retorted briefly. ‘I’m concerned. That’s a completely different thing.’

Ashley sighed. Malcom was kind, whatever he said. Kind, and understanding, and had she never known another kind of loving she might easily have succumbed to his affectionate attentions. But when she first came to Brede School to work, she had still been raw from her experiences with the Gauthiers, and she had made it plain that so far as men were concerned she preferred them to keep their distance. In consequence, the association which had developed over the years between her and Malcolm was compounded of a mutual liking and respect, and if, as a bachelor of almost forty years, Malcolm still hoped for a closer relationship, Ashley was not to blame. Nevertheless she did not want to hurt him, and she was loath to destroy what she had built up without due cause.

‘I have to leave,’ she said now, choosing her words with care. ‘Something—something’s happened. I—I can’t stay on.’

Malcolm tapped out his pipe in the ashtray, spilling smouldering shreds of tobacco over the scarred surface of his desk, so that he had to rescue several papers from ignition. Then, turning an unusually taut gaze on Ashley, he said:

‘Why? Why can’t you? You seemed perfectly all right when you arrived this morning. Why, we waved to one another across the quadrangle. For heaven’s sake, if you were thinking of leaving, why didn’t you warn me then?’

Ashley shook her head, looking down into her glass, and with sudden perception Malcolm brought his fist down hard upon the desk. ‘I have it!’ he exclaimed. ‘You weren’t thinking of leaving then, were you? It’s something else. Something that’s happened this morning. Something to do with this new form you’re taking—–’

‘No—–’ began Ashley, realising he was closing on the truth, but Malcolm wasn’t listening to her.

‘It must have to do with the boy,’ he finished at last. ‘What was his name? Gauthier—Hussein Gauthier! Of course,’ this as Ashley turned a stricken face towards him. ‘Why didn’t I realise it before? You identified him immediately, as soon as I mentioned a new boy. I should have connected the two things sooner, only I was more concerned about you.’

Ashley set down her scarcely-touched glass with a weary hand. What was the point of denying it any longer? she thought. Malcolm was no fool. He could demand a satisfactory explanation, he deserved a satisfactory explanation. So why pretend she could just leave here without arousing his suspicions?