‘Remember what I said about reading aloud.’ Desra approaches and stepping onto the stage behind me, gently begins rubbing my shoulders. ‘Relax, clear your mind. Now a breath, not into your chest, but deeper.’ She takes my hand and places it on my lower abdomen. An image of Michael lying naked next to her, his head on her lap, bursts into my mind and makes me snatch my hand away in disgust.
I pick up my notebook. On the page in front of me is an innocuous poem about Celtic myths that I have been working on half-heartedly for the last few days. I find myself flipping to the last page instead: my secret poem. It is a work of fury and spite; an exploration of utter pain, one that I had never imagined reading aloud.
‘I’m fine, Desra.’ I wait for her to retake her seat, and then I begin.
Moonlight lingers
on the pale abandon
of
your
skin.
Bodies entangle,
contort,
the greedy tendrils
of
your
Sin
Unnatural lovers
Distort
The shifting moonlight
Into slivers
Of sharp-toothed night.
And deep under water
where no fish swim,
He
Still
Lives
I am the bone deep, lone keep
custodian of his light.
I am Witiko
Unblinking avenger
Who will not sleep this night.
I am every god and goddess,
Every fate and justice
I am tireless, resolute
A sleeping shark
A pay back in the dark.
I am here. Waiting. I am Diving Fish.
I know my piece is shocking, unexpected, and I think I have failed, but peering into the gloom, I spot Desra, frozen to the spot, her gaping mouth reminding me of my stroke-ridden mother at mealtimes. Then, as if having been shaken by the shoulders, she seems to collect herself and resumes her duties.
‘Wonderful, Kate, wonderful.’ Her voice sounds far away, ghostlike. ‘You really have come a long way.’
Maybe it is the mental image of Desra and Michael together, or maybe the fact that this is the last day of summer school and I haven’t achieved half of what I set out to, but there’s no time to falter. No more waiting.
‘I’ll let Findlay offer some feedback,’ Desra adds, forcing a smile. She steps back into the shadows and is gone.
‘Very interesting use of metaphor and repetition,’ begins Cardew, but I’m not listening.
‘Did you see the look on her face?’ whispers Julia, as I sit down beside her.
I catch the familiar sent of musk and then someone whispers in my ear.
‘Was it something you said, chérie?’
38
I wait until after lunch before returning to the Ishutin Building. A banner has been placed across the front with the words Lennoxton Summer Lecture Series in large letters. A catering van is parked outside, and a steady stream of workers are transporting boxes of wine glasses, frozen canapés and prosecco into the building. As I step inside, I can hear one of the festival organisers giving instructions to the group of volunteers.
‘Make sure you work the room,’ the woman says. ‘And no more than two glasses of plonk per person. The budget on this event is tight.’ I scan the backs of their heads, searching for one in particular. ‘Back here at five p.m. precisely, where you’ll be given your station for reception drinks and canapés. Attire is black trousers, shoes not trainers, and a clean white shirt or blouse.’ The group begins to break up and she is forced to yell above the noise, ‘And don’t forget to collect your waistcoats from Jeremy on the way out!’
I step back outside and watch as a cluster of people passes. At last, the person I have been waiting for approaches.
‘Becky?’
The blonde American looks over in surprise. ‘Mrs Hardy,’ she says, giving me one of her automatic smiles.
I smile in return. ‘May I speak with you for a moment?’ We wander over to the water fountain. ‘Excited about tonight?’
The teenager shrugs. ‘I’m just handing out glasses of cheap prosecco.’
‘Nice,’ I say, pointing to the gaudy tartan waistcoat she is holding that all the catering staff are forced to wear.
‘Atrocious,’ scowls Becky. She slips the waistcoat over her t-shirt, where it hangs loosely.
‘I think you can adjust it at the back so that it fits better.’ I step behind Becky and slide the buckle to the left, pulling the cloth ribbon through to tighten it. ‘Better?’
‘A little,’ says Becky. ‘Thanks.’
I take a breath. ‘There’s something I want to ask you,’ and the rest of the words come spilling out, ‘and I hope you don’t think I’m sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong.’
Becky can’t disguise her curiosity. ‘Go ahead, Mrs Hardy.’
‘I’m not sure if you know that I’m a nurse, and that I’ve worked with young people in schools, clinics. Safeguarding. That sort of thing.’
Becky tilts her head sideways as if scrutinising me from a different perspective. ‘And what does that have to do with me?’
‘Not so much you, as Turner.’
‘Turner? What about Turner?’
It’s clear I have hit a nerve. ‘I really don’t know how to put this—’
‘Put what?
This is proving a lot harder than I imagined. ‘I’m a little concerned. About Turner. About his relationship with Dr McKinley.’
‘What relationship?’ She sounds defensive, almost hostile.
‘It’s just that, well, we’ve all noticed how close they seem.’ I watch as the colour slowly rises from her neck, past her chin and settles on her cheeks. I can’t stop now. ‘That alone isn’t a worry I suppose – I mean what student doesn’t like a strong connection with his teacher?’
‘A strong connection!’ Becky cries. ‘What do you mean by that?’
I look around. ‘Calm down, Becky. There’s nothing to worry about.’
‘Nothing to worry about! You’ve just suggested to me that my boyfriend is having some sort of relationship with his teacher!’
‘That’s not what I said at all.’ I employ the slow, easy tone I use with patients. I need to keep things under control, for the moment anyway. ‘I was just concerned about what appears to be their unusual closeness. Is this typical, would you say?’
‘Turner’s friendly with everyone,’ snaps Becky, but there is little conviction. ‘That’s just the way he is.’
‘But all these trips to
