Disturbing the Dust

By Pauline James

Jenny Tomlinson has complex feelings about her unusual childhood in England. She is teaching at a school in Australia, when memories of traumatic events, also concerning a dear friend Terry, surface, become intrusive and begin to threaten her emotional well-being. She knows she needs to examine them further and, on returning home, her subsequent quest to prove Terry innocent has unexpected repercussions.

This authentic and moving novel explores the psychological fallout from false accusations - on both the victims and the accusers - and the power of perseverance, forgiveness and love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Woodslane Press
• Release date: May 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9780994275455

Book preview

title

Disturbing the Dust

Pauline James

First Published 2015 by Classic Author and Publishing Services Pty Ltd

This edition published 2018 by Woodslane Press

© 2015 Pauline James

All rights reserved. No part of this printed or video publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

Editor: Ormé Harris

Designer / typesetter: Working Type Studio Melbourne (www.workingtype.com.au)

Digital Distribution: Ebook Alchemy

eBook Conversion by Winking Billy

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

Creator: James, Pauline, author.

Title: Disturbing the dust / Pauline James ; Ormé Harris,  editor;  Luke Harris, designer.

ISBN: 9780994275455 (eBook)

Subjects: Psychological fiction.

Other Creators/Contributors: Harris, Ormé, editor. Harris, Luke, book designer.

Dewey Number: A823.4

For Caroline, Stephen and Joanne

and in loving memory of Bruce and my parents

While this novel draws very loosely on circumstances of the author’s childhood and teaching life, all characters and events depicted, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Contents

One: Surfacing

Two: Recollecting

Three: Searching

Four: Recovering

Acknowledgements

Author Profile

Time present and time past

Are both perhaps present in time future,

And time future contained in time past.

…

Footfalls echo in the memory

Down the passage which we did not take

Towards the door we never opened

Into the rose-garden. My words echo

Thus, in your mind.

But to what purpose

Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves

I do not know.

Burnt Norton

T S Eliot

part1

Australia, 1973

Jenny didn’t know where her feelings had come from; they scarcely made sense. Yes, the staff had misunderstood her. Helen had accused her of lying. But surely her distress at the time was excessive. Speechless at the critical moment, she couldn’t even defend herself at first. Afterwards, still unnerved while trying to clarify, she hadn’t convinced anyone with that stammered explanation.

Alone in her apartment, Jenny was sitting slumped at the table, her half-eaten salad, wilting in the heat, resembling dying weeds from her garden, she thought. It would take another hour for this room to feel comfortable, even with a breeze blowing through her windows, importing its predictable scattering of dust. Struggling to her feet, she poured out some orange juice, cool from the fridge. Holding the glass to her furrowed forehead, she flopped on the sofa and curled her legs under her.

Perhaps she’d been simply too shocked to speak out, sudden anger in those faces rendering her helpless, as on witnessing an accident or when paralysed by fear. Or maybe she was just more tired than usual, after four frantic weeks of exam preparation; and it had been extremely hot in the staffroom. No, she’d gone to bed early the night before, taught in the labs under worse conditions and survived more alarming encounters than that.

The affair, though, had been deeply humiliating, being caught as if in a whirlpool of shame and bewilderment. The staff might suppose her incompetent now, as well as the traitor they imagined her to be. Or was she overstating the damage, making a mountain out of a molehill as her mother might say? She clenched her fists as if in defiance. She had to crush this negativity before it depressed her. This shouldn’t be hard to resolve tomorrow. But could she ever get along with Helen?

. . . . . .

Helen Trenter, who ran the debating and drama societies, had never been Jenny’s favourite colleague but, wishing she were as entertaining, Jenny had always admired her style. Earlier in the year, though, when Helen had rejected Jenny’s request that home-room staff remind the girls about lab coats and tying back hair for science, the atmosphere turned sour between them.

Their debate developed towards the end of recess, when face to face, they stood in the staffroom, a spacious but seemingly sterile area, painted in business-like cream and brown, but embellished with an intricate stuccoed ceiling—in Jenny’s view, rather like wedding-cake icing. She suspected a distinguished past for the place, as a drawing room perhaps for a wealthy family; and with large sash windows on two adjacent sides, it overlooked a burgeoning garden of gums, bottlebrush, wattle and banksia, glowing golden and red as the year progressed. Four landscape paintings adorned the walls, though not by artists Jenny knew, ignorant as she was of Australian painting. Bookshelves nestled below the windows, while hefty tables, neatly arranged around the room, provided set places for prep and marking but rendered socialising awkward. Jenny rarely felt comfortable here; and holding a private conversation required lowering her voice to almost a whisper. Jenny knew, with acute embarrassment, the remaining staff were bound to hear.

‘They need help in developing a routine,’ Jenny said, ‘of going to their lockers before coming to science.’

‘That’s your responsibility, not mine,’ said Helen, absent-mindedly scanning some papers in her hands.

‘They waste too much time if they forget. The laboratories are so far away.’

‘A salutary lesson they need to learn. Or they simply want to delay. Maybe they don’t like your subject.’

Jenny’s face felt hot. Having meant to preserve a calm exterior, she feared she’d now betrayed herself. She breathed deeply, allowing time to collect her thoughts. Helen’s dark eyes seemed to sum her up and, just for a moment, Jenny was struck with how odd they must appear to others: she, tall, slim, fair and slightly flustered, Helen, small and solid, cool and earnest, an almost comical image of heightened contrasts. Jenny pulled her concentration back. She had to focus, work with Helen.

‘Some may not but, given a reminder, they’ve no excuse,’ Jenny said.

‘I can’t imagine it would make any difference.’

‘No class forgets as much as yours.’

‘And that’s my fault, is it?’

‘No, I wasn’t suggesting that.’ Jenny shook her head, annoyed with herself. She knew her words implied a judgement.

‘So, what is your point?’

‘That staff reminders have proved useful, and I’d like your help in solving this.’

‘Well, I think it’s for you to address.’

‘I’ve told the girls to remind each other.’

‘Then I suggest you tell them again.’

Jenny felt her fists clench at her side. She’d never known anyone so uncooperative but she decided it was time to concede.

‘Okay, I see I’m getting nowhere here.’ Even if seething underneath, Jenny didn’t wish to appear unfriendly. She turned around, looking for support, but eyes were averted, heads in books, as though no one else had heard a word. But now she’d come to reflect upon it, she’d never seen anyone challenge Helen.

Thinking quickly on her feet, though, was not Jenny’s forte, especially while she was under pressure. She envied the arts and humanities graduates their fluency and skill in arguing a case. Yet why should she have to? Teachers ought to assist each other. Was this about the disdain for science she’d sometimes met with in schools before? Scientists were viewed as people apart, unable to appreciate the finer things of life. In her experience, scientists were interested in the arts and humanities, yet a reciprocal interest was rarely displayed. She recalled reading The Two Cultures at university, C P Snow’s observations on this delicate issue, and was struck by the match with her own experience.

Though most staff willingly helped her out, as they did her fellow scientists, and Helen’s enmity seemed quite personal, deeper than shared-responsibility concerns or any cultural divide between literature and science. Maybe Helen thought her a whingeing Pom. Well, if so, she would have to wear it. She always tried to be diplomatic but wouldn’t be intimidated into silence.

Then last week, on Friday afternoon, she had offended Helen again. Yes, that day too, she’d been feeling distracted, as though she were hardly present to herself. Was the heat dictating her mood, reducing her ability to act with purpose?

She’d been standing, she recalled, gazing round the lab, as if seeing the girls for the very first time. Sunlight was haloing tousled hair, red and grey uniforms shone like silk and a restless energy seemed to ebb and flow, as she answered questions and fielded protests. No, she hadn’t marked their exam papers. Perhaps it was too hot to work, but even so … The air felt cloying, melting her resolve. She would have much preferred to let them read but knew she’d feel guilty opting out. She cleared her throat and stood up straight.

‘I thought we’d have a kind of quiz today.’ Her voice seemed to come from far away, from a confident stranger—unlike her, though in class she knew she presented well, could usually summon the strength required.

Groans from a few; smiles from others. She felt a pang of irritation. Would nothing interest some of them? Still, she was glad she’d planned this task. She gestured towards the mineral samples, neatly labelled A to L and placed along the window benches: malachite, glistening green, quartz crystals, brassy-coloured iron pyrites (fool’s gold for fans of cautionary tales about judging by appearance only), white nodes of calcite, other, rather dustier, specimens.

‘Try to name and match each sample with rocks in which it’s generally found and its chemical composition. Lists of these are on the handout. Work in pairs for half an hour, consult your books and then we’ll check who’s got most right.’

A welcome breeze whispered through the room as noise and bustle surged around her: urgent voices, legs and arms in constant motion, a surreptitious yawn or sigh. Was that mimicry she heard, a copy of her English accent? A patch of sunlight held the quartz in shimmering, pearly luminescence. Where had she seen that once before? Caught also in a splash of light, some azurite shone royal blue. She looked away, feeling strangely disconcerted. Merely déjà vu perhaps: that trick of the mind, when consciousness may lag behind impressions at a deeper level. Or was it that those plays of light had conjured up fleeting memories of objects sighted long ago? So now they seemed like needle pricks, jolting her towards recall but lacking strength to take her there.

Her reverie soon ended, though, for Helen, this group’s home-room teacher, was crossing the lab to Jenny’s desk.

‘Sorry to interrupt this hive of industry.’ Helen’s tone seemed faintly mocking, as if suggesting, Jenny feared, that studying science wasn’t worth the effort. ‘We’re about to have a fire drill. It’s not on Monday. Miss Kay doesn’t think we work on Fridays. The bell could go at any time.’

‘But we’re in the middle of something,’ Jenny said.

‘Well, it’s not my fault. I was simply told to warn you. Just obeying instructions.’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean …’ Concerned and wounded, Jenny tried to repair the damage, but Helen had left—maybe choosing to misunderstand, Jenny couldn’t help reflecting.

The siren wailed, her class complained and, while ushering them to the playing fields through crowds of discontented others, Jenny brooded again on Helen’s ill will, and wondered how it might be softened. Perhaps she could ask Helen what was wrong. No, too potentially bruising, she thought. Better—well, easier—to avoid her for a while. She had been intimidated after all.

. . . . . .

Jenny’s other discomfort, she realised, was loneliness, seeming to surround her in a bubble of pain she rarely emerged from except during classes. She had travelled to Australia with her friend, Sophie; but, after patching things up with a loved ex-boyfriend, Sophie had recently returned to England. After the closeness of shared adventures and the confiding of every dilemma and triumph, her recent departure had hit Jenny hard. How could she cope alone without Sophie, who could talk to strangers with ease, draw people out and had a knack for defusing awkward moments? Jenny’s only friends now were her colleagues at school, with their social circles already in place; and Jenny loathed butting in when not invited.

Jenny, though, had chosen to stay. Would her return have been admitting to failure, showing she was fearful of living alone? Yes, opting not to go into battle—deciding not to come to Australia—was quite different from yielding too soon. She had her pride. Nor did she want to leave her students—not in the middle of their academic year. And somewhere in her, barely conscious, was a sense that staying might be crucial: a means to amplify her views, cultivate a better person, redraw the map defining self. Laughingly, she’d begun to wonder whether she was flirting with notions of destiny, though one she would have to work to fulfil. But seriously, she knew: now she would have to learn to be different, develop those skills that Sophie had mastered and take more risks in relating to others, even if getting it wrong at times.

The idea of travelling to Australia had been seeded one busy, bleak, February day, at her comprehensive school near London. The central heating had broken down, and on joining her friends for lunch in the staffroom, she’d found them huddled in heavy overcoats, their fingers coiled around mugs of tea.

‘Have you seen this photograph?’ Sophie said. ‘It’s torture to look at in this kind of climate.’ On an Australian beach in brilliant sunlight, several, handsome, copper-coloured men were smiling broadly towards the camera. ‘But you seem okay,’ she said to Jenny. ‘Fur-lined lab coats, is it, now?’

Jenny laughed. ‘Oh, I’ve had the Bunsen burners on. There are some advantages in being a scientist.’

Within two hours, the problem was fixed, but Sophie, who couldn’t forget that beach, and after quarrelling with her boyfriend, began to spruik the benefits of travel, trying to persuade a reluctant Jenny to accompany her on a learning experience.

‘Fabulous weather, glorious beaches, an egalitarian society—and think of that photograph. We could easily pick up casual teaching, move on whenever we want to and maybe apply for permanent positions.’

‘But it’s so far away—from my sister, my nieces, my mother, my friends.’

‘Wasn’t London an attempt to escape your mother?’

After four university years, Jenny had returned to live with her mother and had taught at a local grammar school. Her father had died a few years earlier, and she’d wanted to make her mother’s life easier, but then she began to feel bored and trapped—in gossamer with steel-like threads, she’d thought. Her mother, while often criticising Jenny, had also started making a point of praising young women who remained at home, caring for their elderly parents forever; and transforming into her mother’s mirror-image—given their different temperaments and interests—seemed too high a price for the approval Jenny craved. Jenny soon realised she’d have to break free.

‘I can’t live too close,’ Jenny acknowledged, ‘but prefer to be within easy reach. My sister Jean’s family isn’t far away but, still, I feel responsible and …’

‘Come on, Jen. Be adventurous. If you don’t go now, you never will.’

Sophie knew, Jenny suspected, she’d hate to be seen as unadventurous.

‘It’s all right for you. Yes, I should try to conquer the shyness but …’

‘I’ll be there, Jen. We’ll make friends together. And you know the problems for you and Ben, teaching still in the same department. If you’re going to shift schools, get away from him, why not change countries to see what it’s like?

Ben had shared a flat with Jenny. They’d even contemplated marriage but, along with his refusal to help with housework—though a standard flaw, according to her female friends—their tastes were different. Films, plays, music, books: they rarely met on common ground. So he’d moved out and Sophie had joined her.

‘Jen, we’re almost thirty … a final fling … maybe we’ll even want to stay.’

Eventually, Jenny had agreed, and after much form-filling, waiting and organising, they’d headed down under with hope and enthusiasm. But now she feared she’d been too amenable, too dismissive of doubts and fears. They’d talked of Australia as a Shangri-La, where all would be magically set to rights, where foibles and faults would cease to matter and soon they’d be happy, successful people. This was their moment, the climax of their lives.

With expectations like that, wasn’t disappointment assured? They found the heat oppressive. The beaches were superb but they hadn’t time to go to them. Society appeared to be more free-wheeling yet was not egalitarian in ways they’d imagined. They’d applied to work in government schools but, delayed by lost forms, settled uneasily for the private system, concerned about the privilege their schools conferred.

Even more important, neither found a reputable man to fall in love with. Holiday romances dwindled into nothing and, however enjoyable Jenny found her work, the idea of only teaching forever, a prospect looming as the months rolled by, was very discouraging, to say the least.

. . . . . .

She had to stop worrying; there was work to be done. She rose from the sofa, washed her few dishes and planned a lesson for the following day. Her mind became clearer and ideas began to flow, calming and diverting her from overcharged emotion. Next, she turned to a set of exam papers, but the breeze had dropped to scarcely a breath and concentration again proved difficult. How had the last few days’ events led to that anger explosion in the staffroom? Had what occurred been partly her fault and Helen’s reaction almost as inevitable as that when potassium is added to water?

The affair had begun on Tuesday lunchtime when worries about her mother resurfaced. Jenny had been marking papers in the prep room and laughing aloud at one of the answers.

‘Boyle’s Law—that a watched pot never does,’ she read.

She muttered something like, ‘Why do I bother?’ but continued to chuckle at the wit of the line. Perhaps she’d give it a bonus point, for entertainment value if nothing else. No, that wouldn’t be fair to the others. Her pen hovered briefly over the paper. ‘Your wit never fails to amuse, nor your ignorance of science to disappoint,’ she wrote. Immediately regretful, though, she brooded on the sting in the tail of the compliment and whited out the offending clause, hoping it wouldn’t be inspected closely.

She returned to assessing more conventional answers, but the heat seemed stifling, suffocating reason, as odd associations formed and dissolved. She wondered briefly about the proverb, A watched pot never boils: what her mother had sometimes said when Jenny was idly looking on. She’d heard it then as a mild rebuke for having nothing else to do. Or was it her mother’s attempt to share that sense of powerlessness in waiting, when time may seem so slow in passing? Or was she advising her not to fret?

Impossible not to worry, she thought. Yesterday, a letter arrived from Jean. Their mother had complained of tightness in her chest. Refusing to see the local doctor, she’d described it to Jean as indigestion. Jenny tried to recall a previous illness—a serious one—other than a simple cough or cold. Yes, her mother was ill when Jenny was young, but Jenny couldn’t quite recall the problem and even felt irritable trying to remember it. She’d seemed in excellent health fifteen months ago, just before Jenny had left for Australia. Though, how old was Gran …? No, this was pointless. She wouldn’t even let herself finish the question.

Jenny looked briefly around the room. Rows of reagent bottles lined the walls and a clutter of props for future lessons lay on a bench in disarray. Glassware gleamed in a shaft of sunlight and, where the bench was bare, dust had settled—like flour, she thought, and looked away. Her mother would want to clean this place.

Papers on her desk scattered without warning and she weighted them down with books from her briefcase. The gusts of fresh air felt pleasant though, dispelling a faintly acrid smell—like that of the river close to home—the remains of a recent chemistry lesson. A confetti shower of wisteria petals obscured her view through the windows for a moment, reminding her of lilac blossom, with its heavy scent and conical blooms, and an English garden long ago. Yes, that was her home for a time in childhood and in spring they’d filled the house with lilac. But it wasn’t a place to go now, she chided, staring hard at the lawn outside, with its eucalypts, its native shrubs and its colourful flowers of more tropical climes. Recalling that period always unsettled her, though why that was she’d no idea.

She marked another science paper, annoyed by then at wasting time. Yet once again the air hung heavy. Still, it was a joy to have this place: a quiet refuge—both from the inhospitable staffroom and the students’ leisure areas. The laboratories formed a separate wing, some distance from the colonial mansion central to the school’s main buildings. Interruptions here were rare. But then she heard footsteps, pounding the boardwalk, and they appeared to be closing in.

‘M…may I speak with you, Miss Tomlinson?’ Despite the stammer, Jenny felt an urgent beat in the voice.

With great reluctance, Jenny turned, towards a prefect from her chemistry class, and realised this was not good news.

‘I felt you should know,’ Katie said, perching now on the battered chair that Jenny’s hospitality offered.

Jenny wasn’t at ease with Katie, couldn’t warm to her as she did to others, suspecting the girl’s uncertain manner mirrored her own rather diffident approach, at least with her more distant colleagues—a thought she didn’t care to dwell on.

‘So, what should I know?’ Jenny asked. Yes, of course, she had to ask but frankly didn’t want an answer—not with lessons about to start and needing time to compose her thoughts. It sounded ominous, an issue needing prompt attention. She wasn’t in crisis-handling mode.

‘Last week … two girls near the back of the room … their science exam … my sister’s class, a year-ten group … they’re all talking about it … spiteful gossip … one of them slid a note to the other … there’s such bad feeling … someone saw them.’ Katie laid the phrases out, like jagged, coloured pieces of cloth that might eventually form a quilt. ‘I didn’t know what to do,’ she added.

‘Well, I’m pleased you told me,’ Jenny said, anxious to reassure her guest while privately wishing it otherwise. She added, with loaded understatement, ‘But who actually slid this note to whom? For if I’m to act, I need more detail. I’ll have to compare the two girls’ papers.’ She heard her voice becoming testy.

Katie named the girls: Beth and Judy, the bane of teachers’ and prefects’ lives; yet they’d seemed to enjoy her classes and passed mid-year with flying colours. But maybe through dishonest means, Jenny couldn’t help reflecting. No, this story didn’t add up. They weren’t afraid of being wrong; they joined discussions, seemed so open. Would girls like that resort to cheating? Or was she being too naïve?

Katie shifted in her chair. Were surprise and disbelief signalled now on Jenny’s face? She had to take this seriously.

‘Who supervised the exam?’ she asked.

‘Miss Trenter, their home-room teacher.’

Jenny gulped. Well, of course, just her luck. She felt her pulse rate start to surge—as if her car were skidding towards a looming rock face. In search of calm, she shifted focus. ‘Did Meg, your sister, tell you this?’ Meg, this group’s star student, wasn’t prone to fuss unduly.

‘The girl who saw them talked to Meg … asked for advice … but didn’t like to dob them in … maybe doing more harm than good,’ Katie said, with hesitation. ‘And Meg’s been sworn to secrecy … but then she asked what I would do.’

‘So Meg told you this—when?’

Katie reddened. ‘Yesterday, but I didn’t want to cause trouble either.’

‘Well, that’s understandable,’ Jenny sighed. ‘Though, why come and see me now?’

Katie began to speak more quickly, as if to revive her sense of urgency. ‘Someone else must have seen … a few were whispering … They accused the girls directly. Meg intervened to stop a fight. I thought I ought to come to you, in case it all gets out of hand.’

The bell rang. ‘Thanks Katie. I will look into it, so please don’t worry. You and Meg have tried to right a wrong—though being a whistle-blower isn’t easy.’

Jenny thought of current scandals (Watergate, the Pentagon Papers). Should she align the sisters’ act with disclosure about world events? No, time was far too precious now, too short to analyse the issues. Jenny had often mused on what she’d do: remain the loyal, trusted one, despite convinced the cause was wrong, or take a stand, against a strong majority view and face the social condemnation. She feared she’d never have the courage.

She moved to gentler, easier thoughts. ‘But perhaps the note was innocent. Anyway, whatever I find,’ Jenny heard her voice turn breathy, ‘I’ll speak to Miss Trenter about the fighting.’

Jenny stood, and Katie, looking much relieved, as if exiting a potential minefield, left the room to a troubled Jenny.

. . . . . .

At home, while continuing to mark, Jenny reflected on what she’d been told. Not that she fully believed the story. Feuding cliques, petty squabbles, jealousies, rivalries: the accusations were probably malicious or, as she’d implied to Katie, the result of a silly misunderstanding. Yes, their quarrelling sounded serious but, as for cheating: unlikely, she decided.

Telling Helen was a priority but, after tidying the lab that evening and searching rooms that Helen frequented, Jenny couldn’t find her and assumed she’d left. Jenny felt a surge of relief. Informing Helen her class was in turmoil through offences Helen had failed to observe wasn’t the easiest task to envisage. Helen might imagine that Jenny blamed her. Anyway, bringing bad news was rarely pleasant, given the shooting-the-messenger phenomenon, a not unusual emotional response, as she herself had found with Katie.

Jenny knew she must check those year-ten papers. She’d avoided the issue for far too long. Reluctantly, she began the comparison. The multiple-choice section: no clues there. The short-answer section: nothing suspicious. Then she saw, with increasing annoyance, for a question, worth a mere three marks, two identical, wrong definitions. Yet the error might be in their books, she thought. She’d collected these at the end of their lesson. Hastily fumbling through the top-heavy pile, she found the decorated, ink-smudged volumes and, tensely, scanned the pages. One definition was incorrect but word for word as written on both papers. The other was faultless. The only possible conclusion to reach: the note’s recipient was misinformed.

Jenny slumped in her chair, cursing to herself. Loyalty, it seemed, had clouded judgement, for the girls involved as well as her—if one had asked the other for help. Yes, why did she tend to resist the notion that people might be guilty, as charged, or assume that rumour had no basis in evidence? She could have maintained an open mind. Certain people should be exposed and negative gossip wasn’t always slander.

She reflected briefly on the origins of blind spots: beliefs, prejudices, hard to dispel. Yes, she’d sometimes been blamed unfairly at school but, probably, most people had. There was an issue her family wouldn’t speak of but, on trying to recall it, she became confused, her mind skittering away in another direction. Just thinking about it proved unsettling—as that pearly luminescence had been and that brilliant blue displayed in sunlight, her memories of lilac blossom and the smell of the river close to home, and her mother’s former illness. Were they connected? It was as if her mind forbade her access to secrets deemed too dark, perhaps, too painful for the light of day.

Still, she had other concerns to address. She tried to recall any comments she’d made that might have triggered excessive anxiety, put additional pressure on competitive girls; and though she couldn’t, she continued to fret. She resolved to see Helen early in the morning—an absolute must, given her discovery, the fighting too—and the headmistress, Miss Kay, if she were available.

. . . . . .

Yes, Jenny thought, if only she’d spoken with Helen yesterday, which of course she’d have done with the wisdom of hindsight. Now, on the evening of the staffroom incident, Jenny had cast her marking aside. She had been cowardly. Tidying the lab was procrastination, a means of delaying her talk with Helen. No, she couldn’t have predicted subsequent events, but, partly, this was her fault; and what other such insights might reflection reveal? Having made some coffee, she perched on the sofa, plucking up courage to continue to look back.

‘She’s taken a class to the museum,’ someone said, when Jenny had asked about Helen in the staffroom. ‘She was meeting them in town but should be back for lunch.’ Jenny had sworn inwardly. Still, she and Helen could talk at lunchtime. Helen wouldn’t speak with her home group till then.

Recess had arrived, and Jenny was seated in Miss Kay’s large study, where a cuckoo clock, ticking high on the wall, provided a beat to accompany her heart. She knew her report would hardly be welcome, and Miss Kay’s anger could even rebound upon her. She might question Jenny’s rapport with the girls, suggest she had set her exams too hard or put undue pressure on sensitive souls. Well, supposing she had, she thought unhappily.

Miss Kay’s reputation for unpredictability was scarcely reassuring either. Jenny also prayed she’d escape the room before the cuckoo proclaimed the hour. Its call, in the context of meetings held there, while presumably unknown to Miss Kay, had created a running joke in the school and, in the event of the cuckoo’s appearance, Jenny seriously doubted her self-control.

Miss Kay, seeming to Jenny rather birdlike herself, quick in movement and mind and unnervingly alert, was seated behind an imposing desk, perfectly polished and meticulously tidy. No dust was allowed to collect on that surface. Though the dust might be invisible, Jenny thought. Heavy curtains, framing the windows, almost excluded light from outside—giving an air of secrecy to every proceeding—while a desk lamp shone on the papers being read. Still, Jenny was grateful the sun wasn’t dazzling and the room felt relatively cool and peaceful. A fan moved slowly overhead.

Jenny summarised events surrounding the cheating: the girls’ concerns, the prefect’s role, the rumours and proof within the papers and science books. She handed the books and papers over, hoping she was clear but brief as well. She didn’t want to make a fool of herself—and would even have liked to impress Miss Kay, she realised, in passing, dismayed at the thought.

‘My dear.’ The tone was condescending. ‘You have been clever, tracking this down. But your report of cheating is not the first. Not in science exams,’ she was swift to add, perhaps noticing Jenny’s alarmed expression in imagining multiple crimes to address. ‘Invigilating teachers have become quite careless. I’ll be calling a meeting soon to discuss it.’

This response was unexpected. ‘I haven’t yet told Miss Trenter,’ Jenny said. Supposing Miss Kay found Helen first! Jenny literally squirmed in her chair. With dereliction of duty becoming the focus, now her task was warning Helen.

‘Talk with her if you like, my dear,’