Chapter 7 #3
“He didn’t really try. I came up here last year to be closer to my mum, who’s still in Carlisle. My dad died a year ago, and it’s been hard on her. Andrew came up planning to get a job locally. He’s in real estate—there are plenty of job opportunities.”
“But?” Lucy prompted when Diana lapsed into silence.
“He didn’t like it here. I don’t blame him, not really. He’s a city boy, and West Cumbria is about as remote as you can get, unless you move to the Outer Hebrides.”
“I don’t even know where those are,” Lucy answered. She felt sorry for Diana; it had to be hard to be separated from your husband for five days out of seven.
“Well, anyway,” Diana dismissed with a smile and a shrug. “At least we’re both working. And this too shall pass, eh?”
Lucy thought of her mother’s scathing editorial, the endless blogs and articles that had covered the whole debacle. “Eventually.”
“And now I could really use a drink.”
A bunch of the other teachers were waiting at the bottom of the school yard, and they all headed down to the Hangman’s Noose. Despite the rather dour name, the pub was cheerful and cozy, with a couple of worn sofas and squashy armchairs set around a blazing log fire.
Lucy sat on the end of one of the sofas with a glass of wine and let the teachers’ chatter wash over her. They all knew each other well, and were catching up on their summers and school gossip, so while Lucy didn’t feel unwelcome, neither did she feel precisely a part of things.
Her mind drifted to Alex Kincaid. He ought to smile more, she thought, especially at the children.
She’d watched him give out the Head Teacher Awards at assembly that afternoon, and he had looked so stern.
But he’d been kind too, saying something specific about each child—although perhaps he’d been prepped by their teachers.
She wondered how his wife had died, and whether he missed her very much. What was his daughter Poppy like? Lucy had seen the Year Threes file into the hall at lunchtime, but she hadn’t been able to identify Alex’s daughter among them.
“So what do you think of our head teacher?” Diana asked, and it took Lucy a second to realize she was addressing her. Diana was looking a lot more relaxed; she’d kicked off her shoes and was leaning back against the sofa, sipping a large glass of wine.
“Umm . . . he seems fine,” Lucy said cautiously. She didn’t mind a good gossip, but she was pretty sure that saying anything indiscreet in Hartley-by-the-Sea was akin to taking out an ad in a national newspaper. And she’d had enough press coverage to last her a lifetime.
“Fine? Fine?” Tara, a just-out-of-college teaching assistant with the Year Twos, giggled into her near-empty glass. “I’ll say he’s fine.”
Liz Benson, the long-married Year Six teacher, slapped her on the thigh. “Be good, Tara.”
“Well, he is quite good-looking,” Lucy admitted, her tone still cautious. Surely stating the obvious couldn’t get her into trouble.
“Ooh,” Tara cooed, in the manner of one of her pupils, and Lucy flushed. Okay, maybe it could.
“Maggie told me he’s a widower,” Lucy continued.
Liz nodded seriously. “His wife, Anna, died two years ago now. Horse-riding accident. She fell and broke her neck, died instantly.”
“They’d only just moved here a few months before,” Diana contributed. “She was friends with Juliet, Anna was. Kept her horse behind Tarn House.”
“Did she?” Was that why Alex had hired her, because Juliet had been friends with his wife? It was strange, thinking of Juliet with a friend, a friend she’d lost. It made her realize all over again how little she knew about any of them.
“I don’t know if you’d call them friends,” Tara protested. She giggled into her glass again, a girlish gesture Lucy decided was annoying. “Does Juliet even have any friends?”
Liz made a shushing sound and Diana reached over to pluck Tara’s wineglass from her hands.
“Right, that’s you finished,” she said briskly, and Lucy forced a smile. It didn’t really surprise her that Juliet didn’t have any friends. She’d guessed as much already, but now she felt a twinge of sorrow anyway. Juliet had been living here for ten years.
The conversation moved on to summer holidays, and after a decent interval Lucy put her unfinished wine on the table and made to leave.
“Thanks, everyone,” she said, and half a dozen heads turned towards her, eyebrows raised, a few of the smiles a little guilty. “It’s been fun.”
She reached for her coat just as Liz reached for her hand, causing them to have an awkward little tussle. “Don’t take what Tara says to heart,” Liz said in a low voice. “She’s a bit of a radgee.”
Lucy stared at her blankly. “A . . . what?”
Liz smiled. “A radgee. Cumbrian for . . . I don’t know, a silly person.” She glanced at Tara, who was leaning forward, eyes bright as she gossiped with the Year One teacher. “Although maybe that’s a bit hard on the lass. She hasn’t had an easy time of it.”
“Tara hasn’t?”
“She got in with a wild crowd in secondary,” Liz explained, her voice low. “Ended up pregnant and alone at seventeen. Her mother wouldn’t have naught to do with her, or the baby, which was a terrible shame. So she got into council housing on her own, and saw herself through an NVQ Level One.”
“That’s impressive,” Lucy said, although she had no idea what an NVQ was. “What happened to the baby?”
Liz grinned unexpectedly. “She’s in Reception. Emma Handley.” She glanced back at Tara. “She doesn’t get out much, poor lass. She’s just trying to enjoy herself.”
Everyone had a story, it seemed, and not necessarily a happy one. “I don’t mind what she said,” Lucy told Liz. “Trust me, I know Juliet can be a little . . . prickly.” She immediately felt guilty for admitting that much, but Liz nodded in understanding.
“Juliet’s areet,” she said firmly, and it took Lucy a second to realize Liz meant all right, and that this seemed to be a compliment indeed. With a smile of thanks for Liz and another wave to the group at large, she headed out into the wet and windy night.
When she got back to Tarn House, she was feeling tired and also very slightly buzzed; Juliet had made a chicken pie and left it in the Aga’s warming oven.
Several walkers were in the sitting room in their thermal socks with glasses of sherry; not wanting to get drawn into a lengthy conversation about walking gear, Lucy stayed in the kitchen.
Juliet appeared a few minutes later, pausing for a moment in the doorway.
Lucy didn’t think she was imagining the tension that twanged between them, and she took a bite of pie to avoid it.
There was a reason she’d run all the way to England after her life had blown up. Confrontation was so not her thing.
But considering what she’d learned in the pub, and what Juliet had told her about Fiona . . . Lucy swallowed and smiled.
“Hey, Jul—”
“Apparently one of the guests is allergic to cotton sheets,” Juliet cut her off, not quite seeming to be addressing her.
“Could have told me, don’t you think?” She shook her head and went to fill the kettle.
“Americans. Sometimes they can be so picky.” She put the kettle on the Aga and stood there, one hand on the railing, her expression shuttered but also weary.
From this angle Lucy could see a few gray streaks in Juliet’s sandy hair.
“Would you mind walking the dogs tomorrow?” Juliet asked abruptly. “I’ve got an appointment up in Carlisle.” She didn’t look at her as she said it, and Lucy wondered if this was her sister’s idea of a peace offering.
“Sure,” she said, although Milly and Molly still made her nervous.
Their trembling terror of just about anything put her on edge.
She almost asked Juliet about her appointment, but her sister’s expression was so closed she decided not to.
She thought about saying something else, something about the way their dinner had ended last night, but she couldn’t quite make herself, and she didn’t know what she’d say anyway.
Why don’t you like me? seemed pathetic. And Why did you invite me, anyway? could possibly make her homeless. No, silence was better.