Chapter 13
Story
“Miss MacIntosh?”
The voice is deeper than one I’m used to calling me Miss MacIntosh, but it’s needed over a classroom of rowdy children who are yet to settle in their seats.
Mrs. Benson, the headmistress, peers around the doorframe. Her presence, however, has no effect on the class. They’re still too young to realize Mrs. Benson is in charge and commands a level of respect plus a healthy dose of fear that I still carry from my school days here.
I clap my hands together, at least giving my boss the pretense I have some kind of control.
“Class, let’s find our seats, please.” It’s my schoolteacher voice. I keep it gentle but firm, though some mornings are harder than others. “Seats, everyone, please. Put away the games and let’s tidy up. Once we’re done, let’s say good morning to our guest, Mrs. Benson.”
By my estimation, it’s a good three minutes until everyone’s settled, by which point Mrs. Benson stands leaning against the doorframe, beaming at anyone who looks at her.
“Good morning, Mrs. Benson.”
“Good morning, R1 class. How wonderful. What a lovely beginning to my day. I’ve come to borrow Miss MacIntosh for a moment. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Are you bringing her back?” asks Tilly, a small girl with blond ringlets who’s already designated herself as class leader.
“I am, of course.” Mrs. Benson’s smile widens, and she chuckles heartily, making her sound a little like Father Christmas. “Miss MacIntosh, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Not at all.” I glance at Katie, my classroom assistant. “Could you . . .?”
But she’s already standing by the desk.
“Everything okay?” I ask once I’m standing in the corridor.
Aside from the initial interview, when I think she was too desperate to fill the role to delve much into why I was taking it, and the staff meetings, I haven’t had much face time with Mrs. Benson.
It’s alarming how little she’s changed since I left Valentine Prep nearly fourteen years ago.
Still the same haircut, still the same beady eyes peering over her glasses, and still the same penchant for drowning herself in insanely sweet perfumes.
“Yes, yes, but let’s go to my study, shall we? Talk in private.”
I can’t help it. The idea that a teacher wants to talk to me alone will forever and always fill me with anxiety.
That I’m about to get a dressing down for something I’ve done wrong.
I’ve never been able to shake it, and I’m racking my brain the entire way we walk—brusquely, obvs—while Mrs. Benson talks and I pretend to listen.
I’m none the wiser when we get there, but at least leaving the door open is somewhat of a positive sign that I’m not about to get a massive bollocking.
I only came here twice as a student—once after the Valentine Fair following the incident with Annabel and Mary, and once when I was made head of my schoolhouse.
Nothing’s changed. Same wide mahogany desk, same huge arched windows looking out onto the playing fields, and beyond that the bank I used to escape to at breaktimes, the horse chestnut tree . . .
“Now,” Mrs. Benson begins, steepling her fingers together as she leans across the desk, “how are you finding things here? Coming up on three weeks now. It must be odd to be back.”
“How am I . . .” There’s no way she pulled me out of class for a chat about whether I’m enjoying my job. “It’s good. Great. I’m . . . it’s lovely to be back. Good to see what’s changed. What hasn’t.”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
My mouth rolls together, and my hands ram between my thighs to stop the jittering.
“Anyway, I wanted to discuss your contract. You’re signed until July, and I wanted to understand your plans for returning to Australia. If you are, in fact, returning, or if you would consider extending your contract for a year or so.”
My brows shoot up. Wow. Okay.
“You’re offering me a long-term job?”
“Yes, you’ve been doing great work since you began. I know it’s only been a short time, but Miss Scott sings your praises, and I can tell the children are very happy in your care.”
Well, I wasn’t expecting that. I also don’t expect the lump in my throat or the stinging in my eyes that I need to bite back. Staying here wasn’t a long-term plan, but I don’t have one either. I never did.
Then I think about Hendricks. Aside from my family, he’s the one thing keeping me here and, ironically, the only thing that would make me leave.
There’s no denying things between us have been fairly shit at best, even during the committee meeting the other night—although that veered more into awkward territory. We’ve become strangers who barely know what to say to each other.
I think about the secret valentine Max mentioned, which brushed over me at the time, but do I really want to be here if Hendricks is in a romantic relationship with someone else? When I thought the blonde was his wife, I would have quite happily locked myself in my bedroom and never left.
If I stay, can our relationship be fixed? What would it look like?
“Thank you,” I say eventually. “That’s lovely to hear.”
“And how’s your father?”
I laugh. “Back on his feet. Thankfully, he’s having rehab. Though he’s a little unsteady, it’s hard to keep him away from the cows.” I know full well that by the time my contract is up here, he’ll be back running the place like nothing happened.
“What about Australia? Do you have plans to return?”
“Yes. I do.”
It’s the truth. All my things are there, and I was only planning a two-week visit. I’m lucky the landlord in my apartment building can keep an eye on things, but no matter what happens here, I’ll still need to go back at some point. Even if only to pack.
“I see, and when will that be?”
I nod. “I’m going back to Australia at Easter, my flight’s early April.”
“Right. Well . . .” Mrs. Benson’s eyes leave mine, and she focuses on something over my shoulder.
Turning around, I see what she’s looking at.
Or rather who. My spine straightens. Whatever has happened in the forty minutes since I saw Hendricks, he’s riled.
I have the strangest feeling he was glaring at me before I turned around, and though he acknowledges me with barely more than a flick of his gaze, I’m certain it narrows as it passes.
“Ah, Hendricks. Hello. How can I help?”
“Sorry to interrupt, but could I have a word, please? It’s important.”
“Of course, we were finishing up,” she simpers, and I guess that’s my cue to stand. Her eyes flick from Hendricks to me. “Must be strange for you to have Sophie back, teaching young Max. Not that long ago, it was the two of you together in the classroom.”
“Long enough,” Hendricks snaps, which I feel is directly aimed at me.
What’s his problem? Surely, he can’t be annoyed about Max’s secret valentine remark. If anyone should be annoyed, it’s me, and I’ve decided not to be.
I’ve decided to be the bigger person.
My guess is he’s not waiting for a response, so I take it upon myself to make everyone—me—more comfortable and go back to my classroom.
“Miss MacIntosh, have a think about what I said, please.”
“I shall do. Thank you.” I smile, taking one last glance at Hendricks, who’s now glaring at me. “Bye, Hendricks.”
“Story.”
I don’t even get to eavesdrop on their conversation because the moment I’m out in the hallway, he slams the door behind me.
In true fashion, I find it virtually impossible to concentrate for the rest of the day.
My thoughts flip-flop between the task at hand—practicing the songs for the Valentine Fair, and it’s going to take a lot of practice—wondering whether I should accept the longer contract and stay at Valentine Prep for the next year—my position varies in accordance with how many tears are being shed at any one time—and Hendricks.
Thought one is manageable. Thoughts two and three are less so, yet innately tied together.
Six years ago, I left for Australia to get away from everything Valentine Nook, everything Hendricks.
I didn’t plan to stay six years. I didn’t plan much at all, but I did, and I found a life there.
I found a boyfriend and then a fiancé, albeit the wrong one, but a fiancé nonetheless.
More importantly, I found myself. At some point. Kind of. At least, I found someone separate from the girl whose life revolved around Hendricks Burlington. The few times I returned to Valentine Nook, up to and including the last one, I came for myself, not him.
And I might still be in love with Hendricks, but I’m not lost in him.
By the end of the day, I know I can make a decision without my feelings clouding my judgment.
I stay at school later than usual, but tomorrow is Friday, and I want to prepare for the following week. With the Valentine committee getting into full swing, there’s a lot to do. By the time I leave, it’s started to rain, and rain clouds completely obscure the full moon.
“Well, the weather certainly isn’t a reason to stay,” I grumble to myself, thinking about the thirty-degree temperatures in Sydney right now.
I’d also planned to run home this evening, which was me being full of good intentions this morning, but it’s so cold.
I moan about it all the way through getting changed, packing my bag, and lacing up my trainers.
I thought I might be able to talk myself out of it because I couldn’t recall packing my high-visibility vest, but it’s there at the bottom of the pile of running clothes.
It takes five minutes of trudging along the lane away from the school before I find any kind of rhythm, and another mile of cursing what a stupid idea it was to run in the pitch-black and rain, before I begin enjoying myself.
Something about the coldness of the air kicks you up the arse and breathes a little more life into you.
But as I turn the corner, I pick up a sound that fills me with dread.
A noise, bleating, but frantic, deeper almost.
“Hello?”
There it is again. Crying. Whatever’s making the noise is in pain. My heart is already racing from my run, but that noise causes it to beat harder. This is exactly how horror movies begin. In the dark lane, alone, with rain.
But I clearly have no sense of self-preservation when I pull out my phone and switch on the torch to follow the sound. Especially when I end up in the ditch on the opposite side of the lane.
The bleating gets louder, enough that I know it’s an animal of some kind. Not distinguished enough that I can tell what it is or whether I want to get close enough to find out. But as my eyes adjust to the dark and torchlight I see where it’s coming from.
Shit.
“Churchill?”
The whites of his eyes bulge in his mud-covered face, and whatever he’s struggling against is making it worse. He’s not getting anywhere.
All thoughts of being murdered vanish as I scramble down the bank, slipping quicker than expected thanks to the rain switching from drizzle to downpour, and rush to him as quickly as I can. Thick squelchy mud sucks me in like quicksand, along with one of my trainers.
“Shit and fuck.”
Trying not to scare Churchill so he doesn’t hurt himself more, I approach him as calmly as possible.
“Hey, Churchy, it’s okay.” I don’t know if he remembers me—and in all honesty, given the amount of toast I’ve fed him recently, I’d be insulted if he didn’t—but his struggling seems to slow once I’m close enough to stroke him. “Shhhh. It’s going to be okay.”
His head pokes through the hedge, and his body appears to be in the field on the other side, but it’s hard to tell.
Taking the torch and peering down, it’s nearly impossible with all the rain hammering my face, but as I crouch, I think I can make out barbed wire looped around his foot and back leg.
There’s so much of it I can’t tell where it begins or ends.
But given the amount of blood pouring down him, I’d say it was a lot.
“Oh buddy, how’ve you gotten yourself into this mess?” His cry in response nearly sets me off too, especially when his head leans into my hand as I stroke him. “It’s okay. I’m going to help you.”
It doesn’t take my long-forgotten girl guide skills to figure things out.
I need something to cut the barbed wire, I need enough muscle to lift a fifty-kilo goat, and I need a car.
But mostly, because I know I can’t do this alone, I need a vet.
I pray I have enough cell reception to google the number for Valentine Nook vets, and when I do, I add another, hoping it’ll be my lucky night and someone else will answer.
But it’s not, and they don’t.