Chapter 20
Story
“Miss MacIntosh, what are you doing?”
At the sound of the voice, my head jerks up, startled, and I hit the drooping branch. “Ouch.”
“Are you okay?”
Scooching around on my hands and knees, careful not to knock myself out, I find Max bent at the hip, hands on his knees, and peering at me curiously.
“Hello, Max, what are you doing?”
“I’m wondering what you’re doing?”
Nodding, I sit back on my bottom, and the cold, damp ground seeps into me. I already know I don’t have anything spare to change into. At least my trousers are black.
“Miss MacIntosh, what are you doing?”
“Right. Yes. Good question, good question. I’m looking for something I lost a long time ago.” Lost. Left here on purpose.
“Hmm,” he ponders, finger tapping his chin. It’s something he does a lot, I’ve noticed, and it always makes me smile. I get to relive all the little mannerisms Hendricks had. “Do you want some help?”
“That’s very kind, thank you. But I think break time is almost over, so perhaps another day.”
There won’t be another day because the tree is coming down tomorrow. It was a long shot anyway, and it’s not like they were Roman artifacts, but I kind of wanted to see if they’d survived even though I can’t remember what we left except the map.
“Okay then.” He stands up and holds his hand out. “Do you need help to get up?”
“Oh no, thank you.” I don’t think he notices me struggling to hold in the laugh as I pull on the branch to get my balance, and it’s not that I can’t stand, it’s that when I’m at my full height of five feet five inches, I hit my head.
It’s why I crawled in. There was definitely more space in here when we planted the map.
But his comment has set off the usual paranoia I have about getting one year older.
“Out of curiosity, how old do you think I am?”
He shrugs in that way five-year-olds do when posed a question they’ve never given any thought to before replying. “Fifty?”
“Do you know how old your daddy is? Or Uncle Miles?”
He shrugs again, shifting around a low-lying branch that I have to fully bend to avoid. “Fifty?”
I cancel the list of anti-wrinkle products I’m mentally compiling. “No, Daddy and I are a little younger than that. Miles is fifty, though.”
Max nods, and I almost feel bad, but then I think about Miles’s face of objection, and it warms my heart. Childish, yes, but also funny.
The bell rings as we make it out from under the giant horse chestnut, and play gradually stops, and everyone starts making their way back into school.
“Break time’s over, Max, if you want to hurry and change,” I say, brushing myself down and freeing all manner of twigs and leaves from my hair.
Crawling along the ground during school hours wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had, but I’ve been meaning to do it since Mrs. Benson announced the trees were coming down, and seeing Hendricks this morning reminded me.
Instead of him running off, a little hand slips into mine. “That’s okay. I’ll walk with you.”
“Oh,” I say, “thank you.”
“Then you’re not alone,” he adds, moving himself up into the top spot of my favorite children I teach.
In all seriousness, Maxwell Burlington is one of the sweetest, kindest children I’ve ever had in my classroom. Friends with everyone, conscientious, thoughtful. An old soul trapped in a five-year-old’s body.
Whatever Hendricks is doing, he’s doing it right, and it’s hard to begrudge his reasoning for putting Max first. Especially after everything they’ve been through. It’s what makes the fresh bruises around my heart hurt a little bit less.
“Do you have a dog?” he asks.
I smile. “Yes, I have a golden retriever called Oxford. Do you?”
“We have three. Dolly, Hamish, and Maud. And all the farm dogs, but I don’t have any that are just my own.”
“Dogs need a lot of looking after,” I reply only for Max to nod solemnly in agreement.
“You know that tree you were looking under?”
“Yes.”
“I found a treasure map there once.”
I stop walking, and Max stops with me, peering up. “Did you?”
“Mm-hmm. Harry and I found it together. It wasn’t a real map, though.”
“How d’you know?”
“We never found anything.”
“What happened to it?”
“It was in a bag with a bunch of boring stuff. Harry kept everything, and I got the bag. I keep my snails in it.”
“Snails?”
He nods solemnly. “Yes, Uncle Lando won’t let me have them in the house. I keep them in the bag, so he doesn’t notice.”
It’s a struggle to keep a straight face. “That sounds like a good idea.”
We start walking again. “Do you know my daddy?”
“I do, yes.” I stick to facts because I have no idea what Hendricks has told Max about me, if anything. Max only knows me as Miss MacIntosh, and I’m not about to change that without Hendricks’s approval.
“How do you know him?”
“Has he ever told you?”
Max shakes his head. “No.”
“Did you know your daddy used to go to this school, just like you?”
“Yes, with Uncle Miles.”
“That’s right, and I was also at this school.”
“Oh,” he replies, as we reach the main doors along with the stragglers, reluctant to leave the playing fields. “Do we have singing now?”
I ease my hand from his. “We do.”
His head flops back. “Urgh. I hate singing.”
“Do you think we should double the practice sessions?”
Celeste, for all her eternal optimism, constant smiling and generally cheerful demeanor, looks truly beaten.
“If you think it’ll help.”
“Nothing will help,” she groans, and it’s so pitiful that I dissolve into laughter. “It’s not funny.”
“It is. They’re five- and six-year-olds, not King’s College Choir.”
“Henry tried to stick his triangle baton up Maria’s nose,” she wails.
“Kids do stupid things,” I counter, handing over a cup of tea. “It’s a cute choir. They don’t need to be perfect, and it would be weird if they were. Everyone’s going to love it, especially when they’re all dressed up.”
She stays slumped in her chair. Even the sip of tea doesn’t perk her up.
“Come on, it’s nearly the final bell. I’m going back to class to finish getting them ready.”
Sixteen pupils sitting at their desks, blazers and caps on, greet me, waiting for the moment they’re allowed out. “Thank you,” I mouth to Katie, my classroom assistant.
As a last form of order before they’re unleashed on their parents, the class lines up in alphabetical order and files out one at a time to wait by the gates.
They’re not allowed to leave the area until a parent has come to collect them.
The usual early-bird parents sweep off with their charges, and the rest congregate and make plans for playdates, coffees, and yoga.
I don’t realize how eagerly I’m waiting for Hendricks until Miles walks around the corner with Clementine.
Disappointment knocks the wind out of me.
Outside of the Valentine meetings and the day we erected the stand, we don’t talk much except on drop-offs and pickups. Easing into our new friendship.
“Uncle Miles. Auntie Clem,” he cries, taking off before remembering the rules, at which point he grinds to a halt and turns around, yelling, “Miss MacIntosh, Uncle Miles and Auntie Clem are here. I’m going.”
Miles catches him at full pelt and swings him in the air. “Hi, buddy, let’s go and get in the car.”
“Where’s Daddy?”
“He went to London with Granny. But guess what, we’re going to Foxleigh—”
“CHESTER,” Max screams, wriggling until his feet are firmly on the ground again so he can run off.
“Hang on, Maxy.” Clementine pulls him back. “I want to say hello to Miss MacIntosh.”
Clementine steps toward me, and I wonder if I’m about to be on the receiving end of the same treatment Miles usually aims my way.
I was close to Clemmie, but only in the way you’re close to your best friend’s siblings.
When I left Hendricks, she was at university, and our ties were cut.
So the hug she yanks me into takes me by surprise.
“It’s great to see you, Story.”
The tension I’m carrying softens against her. “Good to see you too, Clem. You look really well.”
“Thanks, so do you. Let’s go for a drink and have a proper catch-up, though. I want to hear all about Australia.”
I glance at Miles, who’s seconds away from tapping his foot. “Yes, I’d like that.”
“Clem, let’s go.”
She frowns at Miles, who’s yet to acknowledge me. “I’ll catch you up.”
He huffs, like it’s my fault Clementine is standing here, but doesn’t move away.
“Do you want to take my number, or I can get yours? I can ask Hendricks if he has it.”
Miles tuts. It’s followed by another long huff.
“Calm down, Milo. No one’s stopping you from going to the car. Why are you in such a mood all of a sudden?”
“It’s me.” I force my voice to stay calm, but honestly, he’s such a dick it’s amazing to me he shared the same egg with Hendricks. “He’s still annoyed he got punched in the face.”
I’m facing Clementine, but the words are directed at Miles, and he knows it. The starter pistol goes off.
“You think that’s why I don’t like you? Typical. You’re so fucking conceited, Story.”
“Uncle Miles, you said a bad word again.”
He peers at his nephew. “Sorry, Maxy. Cover your ears.”
Clementine gasps, but I’m reeling. “I’m conceited? Miles, there’s literally no one on this planet more arrogant than you.”
“The difference between you and me is, I own it. I don’t pretend I’m Little Miss Perfect, then go around destroying people’s lives.”
“Miles—” Clementine warns.
“No, Clem, this has to be said—”
She shakes her head, mouths, “Sorry,” to me, and holds her hands out to Max. “Max, come on, come and hang with me. Let’s go and see if any crocuses are coming up yet.”
He dutifully takes it and asks, “Auntie Clemmie, are you fifty?” as they walk away.
Miles steps in closer, enough so that the parents still collecting their children can’t hear. He’s thoughtful that way. “I was the one who had to pick up the pieces when you left. Me.”
“You don’t get to blame me for everything that happened, Miles. Hendricks was just as complicit. And you can include yourself while you’re at it—”
“He was never cruel. He doesn’t have a cruel bone in his body, and he would never”—his hand slashes through the air—“have cut you out of his life as callously as you did to him. Never.”
Guilt bubbles under the surface of my skin. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because I want to know what your plan is.”
“My plan?”
He stares at me like I’m supposed to know what he’s talking about. “Yes, your plan. For being here. For leaving. Your contract is until July, yes?”
My arms cross tight over my chest, and I clench my teeth. God, this fucking place where everyone knows everything.
“And then what are you doing?” he continues, like he has every right to know.
“Why do you care?”
He scoffs, and his entire face screws up, making it clear he thinks I’m an idiot, and I’m this close to punching him. “You’re so naive, Story. I don’t care. I just want to be prepared—”
“Prepared for what?”
“You leaving again. I want to know when it’s happening. Your contract is until July, but Hendricks thinks you’re leaving at Easter. So which one is it?”
“I’m sorry—” My hip pops, arms tighten, lips roll. “What?”
“Which one. Is. It?” he enunciates, like I’m hard of hearing. I’m hard of something, that’s for sure.
“Who says I’m leaving at Easter?”
“Hendricks heard you tell Benson—”
It takes a significant amount of brain-racking to recall the specific conversation I had with Mrs. Benson because I’ve had many conversations with her over the weeks.
And then I remember the first, how Hendricks interrupted us.
The day Churchill was stuck, the day we almost kissed, two days before he decided we’d be better off as friends.
Hendricks was right. We are fucked up.
“All my stuff is in Australia. I was only planning to visit here for two weeks. If I’m staying, I need to pack it up, don’t I? Unlike you, I don’t have lackeys to do the grunt work for me. Us peasants have to do it ourselves.”
Only the twitch in his jaw—the same one Hendricks gets when he’s stressed—makes this entire interaction bearable. Being wrong isn’t an experience Miles used to enjoy, and it doesn’t seem he’s gotten any better at it.
“You’re staying?” he grits out, and the more annoyed he is with himself, the bigger my smile.
“I’m leaving at Easter to pack my things up.”
“That’s not a yes to my question,” he shoots back, like he’s caught me in a lie.
“I’m staying.”
If I hadn’t already decided to stay, it would be worth doing so simply to annoy the fuck out of Miles and prove him wrong.
But I have. It’s something I’ve mulled over since Churchill’s accident, and now that I know the reason for Hendricks’s abrupt one-eighty, I think I may be able to prove him wrong too.
We can be more than friends.
“Then I’ll leave it up to you to tell Hendricks,” he says finally, “but do it soon.”
“I’ll do it in my own time, Miles.”
Eyes narrow, he glares at me, and I glare back.
Parents walk past us. A few of them stare because obviously a teacher having a standoff with a parent is weird and, unless they looked closely at Miles’s Foxleigh Park jacket with his name embroidered on it, they wouldn’t be able to tell who I’m glaring at.
“Don’t make me regret telling you this, Story.” Miles breaks eventually, and I’m tempted to do a little jig on the spot. Winner. “But for what it’s worth, it’s only ever been you for him.”
He turns on his heel and sprints over to where Clementine and Max are playing, and I stand there watching as the three of them head to the car together, Miles’s words still ringing in my ears.
For what it’s worth, it’s only ever been you for him.
I can’t be sure, but I think for the first time ever, in his own weird way, Miles just gave me his approval.