When The Truth Hurts: The Women of Stour

By Susan-Jane Lawrence

Can't forget that one regret?
Can't forget the one?

While Eliza has been nursing her dying mother she's been doing some serious thinking.
It's time for her to open up her past.
It's time for her to stop hiding from her feelings.
And most importantly, it's time for her to return to her first teaching job, hoping that the man she's never been able to forget is still there…

But what if love and honesty comes with a price?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bacchic Books
• Release date: Mar 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781739325206

Susan-Jane Lawrence

After discovering that Susan-Jane Lawrence was born exactly two hundred years to the day, practically to the hour after Jane Austen, she had no option other than to start writing. Unlike Jane Austen she married at nineteen, taking both her husband and her cat to Reading University where she studied Film and Drama. No doubt Jane Austen would have something to say about the following two divorces, though surely she would have approved of the fact that Susan-Jane Lawrence has a daughter and lives with her partner – confident in the belief that you really can find that happy ever after. 

Book preview

Chapter 1

T hink you’ve bitten off more than you can chew Eliza?

Not chew – digest, I replied. I was in Mrs Sipps’s sitting room. I hadn’t seen her for ten years, and not only did I know that it would be impossible to stop by quickly, but more importantly I wanted to catch up with her. It was a long, warm room, forming one part of the Stables courtyard; the curtains were drawn and the fire was lit. It’s been, well what can I say? The school hasn’t changed. I feel like I’ve walked back into my past.

Isn’t that what you wanted? Mrs Sipps’s dark eyes were looking straight at me. She really hadn’t aged. A good twenty years my senior, she was spry and an intense talker: Mrs Sipps was to be respected. 

I mean I’ve dreamt about Gilbert House since I left, I still have the same anxiety dream. I’m trying to reach my classroom and I can’t. The corridors become dark, people stop me, I never actually make it to my lesson and still it’s getting darker, once I went completely blind. Sometimes I’m so late I know I’ve missed the lesson, but for some reason I’m still trying to reach it.

So you’ve come back to settle an old dream?

No, Dom Henderson rang and as I was free- I replied a little too quickly. Mrs Sipps said nothing and the sentence hung there for a moment. He didn’t sound too bad on the phone, but-

When you met him you wondered how on earth someone so inept could end up as Head?

Yes.

Well when you’ve got an ego like his – why not? His wife’s just as bad, another career teacher, produced two perfect boys – she’s a deputy head herself. God knows when either of them actually spend any time with their offspring, it’s not like their boys have left home, they’re young.

Did I miss something? She’s deputy?

At a school in Oxford, no not here. Gilbert House may be used to nepotism, but a female Second Master? The old Masters would be turning in their graves. Though like all the newfangled Heads Dom Henderson likes to be called Principal, let alone Headmaster. We all ignore it. I dread to think who he cracked in the governors to get the job.

First time as Head?

Mrs Sipps nodded. He’s probably no more than mid-forties I’d say.

Thanks. Make me feel inadequate.

But you’ve got a brain.

That’s debatable. I’m thirty-six and only a lowly Head of Department.

I presume by your choice?

Yes. I like teaching too much. I’ve never been one of those teachers who’s desperate to get out of the classroom and spend their days in meetings and management. There’s enough paperwork at this level.

Bit controversial.

Liking teaching? I know. I have to admit it’s one of the main reasons why I said yes to Dom as I’ve missed teaching Classics so much. It’s not that I haven’t enjoyed English, it’s that I love Classics and so few schools offer it. There’s nothing better than taking a class who know nothing about Sophocles, and by Easter they’re arguing between themselves whether Antigone deserves being entombed alive. Screen gazing may be safe, but it’s boring.

Who’s in your Department?

Steffi Clarke, she seems nice enough. She only teaches Latin so is part time Geography as well.

I don’t know her.

Short, bouncy – nice as I said – a real jolly hockey sticks type. And Ewan Barnes.

Don’t know him either.

Very young. Very quiet. His classroom’s next to mine and I can see why. I suspect Charlie Lamb wanted to keep an eye on him. Maybe Ewan becomes a dynamo when he’s teaching – but I doubt it. At least they both seem to know what they’re doing and appear to be reliable.  They’ve been juggling a lot since Charlie Lamb died. I think Ewan and Steffi are just glad to have someone come in. I don’t know how much support they’ve actually had from Dom Henderson over the past couple of months. I agree with him about not appointing any old person, but equally, lessons do need to be taught – there’s only so much you can do with cover, even with Steffi and Ewan doing their best.

If you don’t mind me asking, my dear – but I presume that the governors know about your impromptu return?

Yes. I was quite open with Dom when he rang, which was just as well as he had no idea why I’d left. He said he appreciated my honesty and he went back to the governors, they supported the idea of appointing me till the end of July. I haven’t agreed to anything longer.

He didn’t ask you to stay on ad infinitum?

Yes he did. July was my idea. I was quite definite about that.

Why?

Because, as I said, I feel as if I’ve stepped back in time.

He was lucky, not many people in your situation would have agreed to come back at all.

It’s been ten years and honestly, it felt right... Mum dying last month, clearing the house... mentally I’d started doing it when she became really bad and I was reluctantly trying to accept that this really was the end. But waiting for the place to sell, I’m glad to get out – it became too stifling. Everything has a memory, even the silly little things... It was a relief when Dom called...I mean I’d started looking at jobs for September, but there’s not much out there at this time of year.... But watching Mum die like that, it’s made me think about the things that matter. Acted as a bit of a wake-up call really.

How long were you nursing her for?

I left Swindon Academy at the end of the summer term and went straight home. Mum came out of hospital the following day, so for six months.

And Anna?

Fat lot of use she was. I know I shouldn’t say that, but what with Dad not really being around since forever, she was looking after Granddad, my Dad’s father, for the last few years and she didn’t let me forget it. He’d moved in with them as he kept on falling over, but sadly he died not long before Mum. They’re in Birmingham and as home is London, I said I’d look after Mum. I’m impressed you remembered my sister.

Well, I don’t remember everyone, let alone their siblings. I had a mousy little Biology teacher here for a year, must have been not long after you left, and seriously, I found myself lying in bed the other night trying to recall her name. I gave in and ended up looking her up in an old staff list.

I find I do that with old classes.

You really were ready to leave London weren’t you?

Yes. I checked the clock by her armchair, I’m afraid I’m going to have to turn in for the night. I doubt I’ll sleep, but-

There’s nothing wrong with good intentions.

Indeed, I said, avoiding Mrs Sipps’s eye. Thanks again for the coffee.

Gilbert House Grammar School was built in 1867 by its highly fashionable and philanthropic patron, Sir Frederick Gilbert. It may have been a very modern school for its day, but no female teachers were admitted. After World War One an enlightened Headmaster, perceiving a shortage in Masters, decided to ignore the gripes and threats of resignation by opening the School’s doors to Mistresses as well (some of whom took their title a little too literally). However being a boarding school, there was no suitable place to house the few female teachers who chose to live there.  As Stour House backed onto the school grounds, the school bought Stour and inserted a large wrought iron gate into school’s the boundary fence.  It soon became apparent that this gate needed monitoring, so Stour Stables was purchased for the housekeeper of Stour. This allowed the comings and goings of the Mistresses to be scrutinized, the severity of which depended upon the housekeeper. Mrs Sipps cared more about the welfare of the women who lived there, than the honour of the Masters.

It was freezing outside, dots of drizzle-snow were drifting in the air. Mrs Sipps closed the door behind me and I glanced up across the courtyard at the side of Stour. Unlike the Stables which were Georgian, Stour had been knocked down and re built in the early 1900s; it was a large Edwardian country house. The porch light was bright, casting an austere glare up the front of the building. An arching dragon sat on the gable at the front of the house, its terracotta tail curling down above my garret window.

I knew my attic room would be cold and it was. One single radiator situated under the window would never be enough to warm the thin room with its sloping walls. I remembered the woman who had lived here a decade ago, when my room had been on the warm ground floor, she’d complained that all of the heat went straight out of her window and she’d been right.

I hadn’t had time to unpack my stuff properly. February half term had finished yesterday, which was when a desperate Dom had rung me. I’d packed and driven to Gilbert House this morning, met Dom and picked up my timetable. There hadn’t been much of the day left and preparing for the lessons had taken precedence – I would not be taken for a fool by the boys. I opened a plastic box full of books and skimmed through them...Virgil... Aristophanes...Ovid...picking up the latter I took Metamorphoses to bed with me for comfort reading and opened it at random.  But  it didn’t matter how often I read about Juno’s anger, I couldn’t settle. 

It was alright for the Gods to behave dreadfully, everyone expected it. Yet if a human was silly enough to complain then they would be transformed into a tree or whatever took the God’s fancy. The Gods could do whatever they wanted and more importantly, they could love whoever they wanted. Ten years ago I’d been blind to my feelings, told myself enough times that I shouldn’t, couldn’t be attracted to a married man. I’d convinced myself that he was a friend and in the end I’d believed it. Yet through the following decade after I’d left Gilbert House and through my ensuing relationships I’d never quite been able to forget Oliver. Months would pass and then there he’d be, back in my dreams, by my side. I always dreamt of him at Gilbert House – for a while I had thought it was the school I couldn’t say goodbye to, before finally admitting to myself it was him. Juno would not be pleased with me.

I was not alone in my admiration of Oliver. He was a passionate teacher, not afraid to push his pupils and always willing to put in more than he needed. Watching him teach was like a whirlwind and I had often wondered how he could maintain so much energy throughout the day; his lessons were anything but dry. He may have taught the old fashioned way, open textbooks at the table, but he would build worlds out of nothing and his classes flourished. Yet that was not the only reason why the boys adored him. He had a habit of seeing the best in anyone, no matter how feckless a pupil was. He wasn’t a soft teacher, far from it, he would push and demand, knowing that there were depths yet unplunged – it was his warmth that drew the best out of people. We’d sit through meetings where teachers would declare that certain pupils were a lost cause and would not be able to reach a basic pass in their exams; ‘not on my watch’ was a favourite saying of his, and he meant it.

I had been stunned when I had met Oliver’s wife. I had expected a vivacious, lively, good looking woman: not Mary. She was over a foot shorter than him, plump and dough faced, with no sparkling wit or engaging personality and a thin childlike voice. I’d found myself transfixed, looking between them, trying to work out what it was he saw in her and how they had ever ended up together. What allure did she have that I’d missed? As I’d grown to know Oliver better, he’d talked about his past, and I realised that he was a far better person than me. Unlike me he was very devout, never swore and married his first girlfriend at University, who also happened to be his very first girlfriend. I’m afraid I’ve always blamed Oliver’s relationship with God for that decision, rather than his inability to hurt Mary’s feelings. Why he’d not had a girlfriend till then I had no idea, for I always supposed him to be popular at school, though he had occasionally implied otherwise. 

This had left me with the one question that I hadn’t been able to ask Dom Henderson. Was Oliver Turner still married? Though this question was preferable to the one I really dreaded. Has he become a father? Ten years is a long time, maybe he’d met someone new? Maybe he’d married her, maybe they’d had children? Or maybe, just maybe, he was single. Oliver would be forty-one now, the same age as Mary. That he was still at Gilbert House I didn’t doubt. He loved the school far too much to ever leave it.

I put down Metamorphoses, switched off the bedside light and lay  facing  the window,  the curtains  were  open  but  the clouds were obscuring the winter sky.

Chapter 2

It was not difficult to be offered a place at Gilbert House Grammar School. Its name gave it a status which its exam results did not support. Once it had offered bright boys a place according to their academic ability. Yet as the years slipped by so did its entrance requirements; nowadays arriving on time and having your own pen was all it took. I’d been surprised by this when I’d started teaching at Gilbert House, yet its charm had grown on me. It wasn’t the teachers or their lessons that made the school what it was – it was the boys, especially the boarders. Gilbert House may have been in the Chilterns, but the boys came from everywhere, all sharing the same characteristic of having been packed off away from home, for whatever the reason. Sir Gilbert had admired Blake, Newton and Hume, thus they made up the three boarding houses. Walpole was for the day boys who mingled with the boarders, slipping in and out of their kitchens, pinching toast between lessons and claiming that the school belonged just as much to them. 

Sir Frederick Gilbert loved Bath Stone and thus the  school had been built in the high Gothic revival style but rather than being redbrick spires, all the school buildings were golden, tipped and edged in sandstone. The main building formed the grand entrance for the school, with Hume on the far left and the staffroom and old boarding masters’ rooms now converted into school admin offices on the right. Between them was the school hall, with its high arched stained-glass windows, below the hall were two archways leading into the quad. These were bookended by two slim towers; the one on right was a bell tower, the one on the left, a dovecote. It was an impressive façade.

The next morning despite telling myself that I didn’t care, I spent a while getting ready. When Oliver had known me I’d had long hair, which now was bobbed, though it still had an unruly nature. Brown haired and brown eyed, slender and nondescript was how I thought of myself. Trousers or skirt...I decided on the latter. 

I was deliberately avoiding the staffroom wanting to visit the English department and what I hoped would still be Oliver’s office, when I heard a banging on one of the windows above the staffroom. Looking up I saw Dom gesturing that he was coming down. He met me on the terrace and insisted on escorting me to my old classroom. This was regardless of the fact I told him that I wasn’t at all nervous about meeting my tutor group and that I knew exactly where I was going – but he wasn’t a man who listened.

My classroom was on the second floor, above the English Department in the back corner of the quad. As my year ten tutor group entered the classroom their conversations dropped; I noticed that they didn’t go silent. Dom hadn’t earned their respect and more importantly he hadn’t realised it. 

Right then 10W, I have already informed your parents that you have a new tutor and for those of you doing Latin, Greek or Classical Civilisation you have a new teacher as well. His voice was a hard, long Liverpudlian drawl, dragging his vowels to places they didn’t want to go. I say new, but Miss Edwards has actually taught here before. When was it?

I taught here fourteen years ago for four years.

It must have been your first post.

It was. I taught Classics and English.

See boys, you’ll be in good hands now. I won’t have any-old-body trying to teach you ancient Greek. It’s not like some subjects where the teacher picks it up as they go along, not that we have any teachers like that here.

I smiled to be polite. For a man he was short; despite his dark suit being well cut it failed to make him even passably attractive. 

Don’t mind me, I know I tend to talk, he continued. It was no idle boast. After five minutes of him recounting his first teaching post, I gave up with calling the register, tore a piece of paper off a pad of A4 and headed it with ‘Name’. I handed it to a boy on the front row and it was passed around. When it returned I was glad to see the names matched those on my register – there was only one Donald Trump.

Fifteen minutes of uninterrupted anecdotes wore thin and as an act of solidarity I sat at my desk at the front, the boys and I glazing over with boredom. Apart from all of Charlie Lamb’s wall displays, the room had not changed at all. Same old herringbone floor, same old green tiles and dado rail, same old whitewashed walls above. As the classroom was in the corner of the quad, it had large sash windows on two sides; ahead of me I could see the back of Hume’s kitchens and on my right a line of trees screened all but Walpole’s angular rooftop.

My tutor group were typical. They were far enough into their GCSEs that they still had a confident air about them: riding the comparative calm of year ten before the sheer panic of year eleven ensued. Though I had not met them before, I could see that they were sitting in their friendship groups. The sporty and arrogant ones sat at the back, whilst those who wanted to go unnoticed sat in the middle, leaving a couple of factions nearer the front. One boy with thick, dark clumpy hair, sat near me, a pack of playing cards positioned optimistically on his desk waiting for Dom to depart.

It was only as the bell sounded for the first lesson that Dom realised he really should be somewhere else. They’ll be waiting for me, he almost sounded as if he was gloating, they can’t start the conference call without me. He turned to leave, then stopped. I almost forgot – Philip Watson wants to see you today Eliza, period four – nothing to worry about, he wants to say thank you for coming back. 

The first two lessons passed quickly. I was aware as I taught that I was altering my style, adjusting as you always do with each school and ultimately, with each class. Having taught only English at Swindon Academy it had been a while since I’d taught Classics, though this wasn’t a problem: I relished it.

The bell sounded for break. Ewan didn’t notice me as I walked quickly past his room, his head was buried in his phone. I went down the small set of stairs, along the corridor and turned right out of the quad corridor, Oliver’s office should be the last one on the right. The door was ajar, I knocked lightly.

Come in. If you’re looking for-

I opened the door and standing at what I thought was Oliver’s desk was Jamie, my ex.

Mr Turner’s not here at the... Jamie’s voice petered out. He looked as horrified as me. What the hell are you doing here?

Nice to see you too, I replied.

Seriously. What the hell are you doing here?

I’m Charlie Lamb till the end of July. Are you okay? You’ve gone white.

You’re the replacement?

I shut the door behind me. Christ Jamie, I’m as shocked as you are.

You don’t know when to give up do you?

I didn’t accept the job because of you. I didn’t even know you were here till I opened the door.

You turned my life upside down, ripped out-

It wasn’t working. You know it wasn’t. All those things I hadn’t told him; that he bored me to death, that he was compulsively living his life through his phone, but most of all that he was the most self-obsessed egotistical person that I’d ever known.

You were my life. My everything.

Apart from Lily Boleyn, I replied.

Don’t even go there. That’s in the past. God, you really haven’t changed, you begged me to come back after Lily.

That had been a mistake. He’d hurt me so much the month after we’d moved in together when Lily Boleyn had turned up playing the old flame card and pulled apart our relationship piece by piece. I’d never quite believed him after that. But I’d been in love, I had begged him to come back – I’d been an idiot.

I’m going, neither of us needs this, I said. I presume there’s no reason why our paths should cross.

No. Of course not. We’re only working in the same school together. Run away and hide – like you did back to your Mum. You chose her over me-

She was ill.

He snorted.

She died last month.

I’m sorry, I didn’t-

I’m not running away, I’m trying to be tactful. We don’t need to cross each other’s paths. I didn’t realise Drama had moved here-

It hasn’t. Oliver said he had some copies of a script I need. I was picking them up. Drama is still, not surprisingly, in the Drama department all the way at the bottom of the school drive, which thankfully is miles away from Classics. Why are you here then?

I was looking for Oliver.

I meant at Gilbert House? From what you told me I’d have thought this was the last place you’d return to.

Dom Henderson rang me up and practically pleaded. Said he’d been going through a list of old teachers.

So you just decided to say yes. He shook his head. I don’t buy it Eliza.

I don’t care what you think.

You’ve actually made me feel sick.

Still a Master of Melodrama.

There was a knock on the door. Come in, we said together.

I was looking for Mr Turner, Sir said a year nine boy.

You’re not alone Daniel. Jamie looked at me. I’d try again at lunch.

Thanks Sir.

The bell sounded – time out. Not bothering to say goodbye I turned, following the boy blindly down the corridor. I pounded straight up the main stairs, determined to leave Jamie behind me as quickly as possible. I didn’t want Jamie here, he’d cut me off cold – no urge to talk, discuss, even to give closure – he’d shut the door and blocked my calls. That was it. I’d said I’d nurse my Mum, that I needed some space and he’d run away from me at such high speed...I’d often wondered if he’d been after that pretty new Maths teacher from New Zealand, he was always on his phone to her, or to someone or another – never to me. Not the person he lived with, slept with, claimed he shared everything with... The jostling corridor melted before me, I didn’t see the blur of boys moving to let me through. Then I saw him.

Oliver’s neat brown hair was bobbing above the boys, he was taller than I’d remembered. And like in my dreams he was in front of me – out of reach. He turned and disappeared down the small set of stairs I’d used at the beginning of break. I could hear my class noisily waiting at the end of the corridor. I knew they were my class as only year nines can be that inane. I glanced quickly at the stairwell, resisting the urge to follow him, to call out, to break my dream.

But Oliver was gone.

Chapter 3

Iwas glad to leave my room which only after one lesson smelt heavily of teenage boy. I left the door open, so the room could air and made my way down the small set of stairs and along the corridor. I was not going to be obvious by walking up and down the English corridor, too many distracted eyes would notice me, yet there was no sign of Oliver teaching. I turned at the end of the corridor and knocked somewhat tentatively on his office door – it was empty. Seeing it again reminded me of Jamie, he had annoyed me only the way he could and I was still thinking about him as I walked out through the arches, along the terrace, past the staffroom and into the main reception. I went upstairs to the Head’s P.A. Irene’s room was next to Dom’s, she nodded at me while on the phone, pointing for me to go into Dom’s office.

It was a large room, positioned above a corridor of offices, facing out towards the side of the languages block. I sat down in a chair opposite Dom’s desk, realising as I did so that there was a connecting door to the conference room; it was slightly ajar.

One does not dare to think what other mishaps he will revel in, said a crisp woman’s voice.

That he has digressed- I recognised the thick blustery voice, it was Philip Watson, Chairman of the Governors, which meant the other voice must be Margaret Smythe his Deputy, though she frequently behaved as his equal.

Digressed? You call sleeping with the vicar’s daughter a digression? I can’t go into St Catherine’s without blushing.

I agree. And I am most certainly not making excuses for him-

I think you are. His ‘escapades’ as you call them are putting the reputation of the whole school at risk. We shouldn’t have been lenient after the cannabis episode.

I didn’t think you had been, it was Oliver’s voice.

Breaking the law is breaking the law, declared Margaret.

I agree, said Oliver calmly, but he was caught with it once, in his room. It was dealt with by the school’s liaison police officer as no other pupils were involved. And that sums George Carrick up. There may not be a rule in this school he hasn’t broken-

Flouted

Indeed. But he doesn’t get others into trouble.

I doubt the Vicar would agree.

"George and Sophie have been together for a while, which the Vicar and