The Teacher at Donegal Bay by Anne Doughty

Author:Anne Doughty [Doughty, Anne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2019-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

The strange, rhythmic sound was the call of a bird with but two notes, a great tit, or a cuckoo. Standing in sunlight on the fringe of a pinewood drifted with bluebells, I thought what a pity one discordant note should break the tranquillity of the early spring morning. Near my feet, clumps of primroses bloomed on a small mossy bank, a tiny garden, perfect in itself, without weeding or tidying. A gift garden, I said to myself, given without asking and without effort.

‘Come here, come here, come here.’

The call of the bird grew insistent. I hunched my shoulders and refused to look around. If I paid attention to the bird, the flowers would disappear. Magical gardens always disappeared if you took your eye off them, even for a second.

‘Come here, come here, come here.’

I woke in the darkness and reached for the alarm clock. It was silent, but the telephone down in the hall was shrilling its head off. Daddy was ill. It had to be Daddy for anyone to ring in the middle of the night. I leapt out of bed, flung open the bedroom door and was blinded by sunlight as I raced along the landing and down the stairs. Brilliant golden beams poured through the south-facing windows and the frosted glass of the front door. As I skidded to a halt, I caught sight of the hall clock. Ten forty-five.

‘Helen’s . . .’

The familiar voice sailed in, without a moment’s pause, in the familiar way. Surely I wasn’t still in bed on a lovely morning like this. Harvey had arrived early and he was coming over right away to fetch me, so I’d better hurry up and get my face on. Harvey was looking so well and so was Mavis. So wear something nice and don’t keep Harvey waiting. She rang off before I had time to think of saying coldly I was in the bath or had been working at the bottom of the garden.

I sat on the padded bench, my heart banging loudly, perspiration breaking out on my bare skin and waves of nausea flowing over me. Your own fault entirely, Jenny. You shouldn’t move that fast. No wonder you feel like passing out. Stick your head between your knees.

I tried it, but it made me feel worse. A blinding headache had struck me as I lifted the phone. It felt as if the throbbing would blow my forehead off. I took some deep breaths and staggered into the kitchen for a glass of water.

As I sat, sipping it slowly, I stared at the red checked tablecloth and the eggy plates and thought of my early-morning breakfast with Alan. Slowly the nausea eased and my breathing calmed. ‘That bloody woman,’ I said aloud. ‘Put your face on and wear something nice,’ I mimicked. I didn’t know which was worse: the everyday unvarnished hectoring tone or the sugar-coated version we got when Harvey was around.

‘Why do you put up with it, Jennifer? Why ever don’t you tell her exactly where to go?’ I asked myself crossly.

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