The Golden Thread Read online

  The Golden Thread

  Monica Carly

  Copyright © 2012 Monica Carly

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

  publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road

  Kibworth Beauchamp­

  Leicester LE8 0RX, UK

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  This book is dedicated to my family in gratitude for their unfailing love and support.

  A sister is a gift to the heart, a friend to the spirit,

  a golden thread to the meaning of life.’

  Isadora James

  Chapter 1

  She stood in front of them all knowing it was the moment when she must speak, but unable, for once, to find the words. The sea of young faces swam before her eyes, wave after wave of children, filling the hall, sitting on the floor before her in ascending order of age. The little ones in the front gazed up in some perplexity, not appreciating the significance of this moment. The older ones further back fidgeted impatiently, their minds elsewhere, longing for the talking to be over.

  ‘Why’s she leaving?’ Craig whispered behind his hand.

  ‘Cos she’s old,’ hissed back Ben.

  ‘How old d’you reckon?’

  ‘Oh, ‘bout a hundred, probably.’

  To the watching children Claudia Hansom, in her dark grey suit and white blouse, grey hair cropped short in a mannish cut, must indeed have looked at least as old as their grandmothers. Perhaps even older! They were used to seeing her firm expression, her upright stance, dark-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose. They were also well aware of their headteacher’s reputation for sternness. This might be her last day at the school but they weren’t going to take any chances. Suppose she decided to keep them in today of all days! They wouldn’t put it past her. A low profile was best.

  As deputy, Brenda Walsingham knew, better than anyone, how much Kingdown Primary School owed to Claudia’s total dedication over the past thirty years, and especially as head teacher during the last seventeen. Brenda concluded her farewell speech by saying that Claudia would be sorely missed when the new school year began by staff and pupils alike.

  ‘Hear, hear!’ was the audible comment from members of staff ranged at various points around the hall, keeping sharp eyes on their charges, ready to nip any sign of misbehaviour in the bud.

  ‘Like a hole in the head,’ was the less detectable comment from Peter Rawlinson, teacher in charge of geography, whose dedication to duty had been called in question more than once by Claudia.

  ‘I can’t help noticing that there is only a very small visual display of your project with Year 5 on Antarctica,’ Claudia had remarked, having summoned him to her office. ‘I would have thought there were countless opportunities for drawings and pictures relating to the climate, the wild life, the stories of exploration. I expected to see far more evidence of your progress by now.’

  ‘My class did very well last term! You said so yourself! Their final assessment was well above average!’

  ‘That may be so, and I agree that was pleasing. But we must build on it quickly – it’s important not to let things slip this term.’

  ‘She’s on to everything,’ he had grumbled when back in the staffroom for his precious mid morning break, angrily gulping down a cup of coffee and making short work of a couple of KitKats.

  ‘She doesn’t miss a trick!’ Joan Baldwin had had her knuckles rapped when, as teacher in charge of Year 3, she had tried to introduce some basic yoga techniques into her classroom as a way of calming some of the unruly pupils. Claudia regarded it as a waste of valuable class time and told Joan that she did not wish to see it happen again.

  Today Claudia, renowned for her ability to address an audience competently, even at short notice, was clearly ill at ease. She clutched the large bouquet of flowers that had just been presented to her and tried to control the tight band across her chest. The children, sensing their head teacher was, for once, uncertain of herself, became restless.

  Meena Patel, in the third row, wriggled uneasily. She remembered the day her father had brought her to school because her mother was in hospital. He wasn’t used to the routine and had left her lunch box behind. Meena, sobbing quietly, had walked down the corridor with her hands jammed into her eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears. Claudia had spotted her and enquired gently what the trouble was. In no time the secretary had been instructed to try and contact Mr Patel and soon the missing lunch box was produced. The little girl, her happiness restored, had clutched it tightly for the rest of the morning.

  Claudia cleared her throat. ‘I’d like to say a very big thank you to you all – to you, Miss Walsingham, and to all the members of staff for the fascinating book on ancient Greece. It will afford me hours of pleasure, I know, and I look forward to studying it.’

  She was nearing the end of her few words. A hush had fallen on the assembly.

  ‘And thank you, children, for the beautiful card you have designed for me. You have given me much to treasure – but best of all are the memories.’

  She mustn’t let any emotion show. It had been difficult to hold her feelings in check earlier, in the staffroom, when she had been given that beautiful book. Carefully wrapped in blue paper, the gift had been presented by Brenda with the words, ‘This is a small token of our esteem and our gratitude for all you have done to keep this school consistently up to a high standard. Please accept it with our love.’

  Claudia had let out an involuntary gasp when The Glories of Greece emerged from its wrappings. She quickly turned the pages noting the comprehensive text and the variety of its many photographs and illustrations.

  ‘You could hardly have given me a more appropriate gift. This will give me hours of pleasure! Thank you so much.’

  She smiled, clearly touched by their thoughtfulness. Normally she kept social interaction with her staff to a minimum. She never discussed personal issues or talked to anyone about her private life. Her colleagues were aware that she lived alone with Socrates, her cat. Once, when Socrates was ill, she had broken her own rule and confided to the pleasant reception class teacher, Sophie Longman, how worried she was about him and that she would take him to the vet that afternoon. The next day Sophie had put her head round Claudia’s study door to enquire whether Socrates’ health had improved, to be rewarded with a fairly brusque, ‘He’s much better, thank you.’ Claudia then immediately changed the subject.

  On this, her last day at the school, a new and surprisingly relaxed mood prevailed. Carried along on a tide of celebratory events Claudia found an unfamiliar warmth and jollity in the way her staff spoke to her. They even teased her a little.

  ‘So, Miss Hansom, tell us how you will fill all that wonderful leisure time you will have at your disposal. You can always ma
rk some of my books for me, should you find yourself in need of a diversion!’

  The others laughed jovially. Mary Salter, in charge of English, waited for a response, secretly wondering if she had overstepped the mark. But before Claudia could reply Jean Farley, an art teacher, jumped on the bandwagon.

  ‘I’d love to have the chance of visiting art galleries whenever I chose. Imagine being able to wallow in all those Old Masters without worrying about the time, or without having to supervise a dozen pupils who can’t see the point of any of it! I do envy you!’

  Had she lost out on the camaraderie that obviously existed in the staffroom? The position of head teacher inevitably put you in a lonely place, but this was a necessary part of making it clear who was at the helm. While all the other members of staff exchanged cheery words and banter in the staffroom, she had her own office where people came if they needed to speak to her.

  Claudia responded to their questions. ‘As it happens I do have a project lined up.’

  ‘Why doesn’t that surprise us?’ Mary smiled encouragingly.

  ‘And your kind gift will start me on my way. What I’ve been planning is to do some writing – I thought I’d write a book on the art and architecture of classical Greece.’

  Her enthusiasm took over, and she found herself wanting to tell them – to tell someone – the ideas that had been taking shape in her mind. She loved that period in Greek history when she felt that the quality and originality of the work reached their highest point.

  ‘What I want to do,’ she said, leaning forward eagerly, ‘is to present the art and architecture of that period to young people so that it comes alive. There’s so much they could be interested in – pottery, sculptures, coin design, painting – and yet the sad fact is that most of them will grow up quite unable to appreciate any of it.’

  ‘Well, if anyone can put it in a way that appeals to the young, you can.’

  Brenda voiced their thoughts, and they all nodded. Claudia was known for her gift of presenting difficult concepts to children in a way they could grasp. This is what had marked her out as a good teacher from the start, and this was what had made teaching such a gratifying occupation. Every time she saw the light dawn in a child’s eyes and knew that at last they had understood, she felt rewarded. She specialised in maths, a daunting subject for many children and she was often up against a wall of apprehension, as they doubted their own ability to come to terms with a new topic. But the children knew that when Miss Hansom took the class, the atmosphere might be strict but they would learn something, and, however long it took, she would remain patient.

  ‘I’m planning to do a great deal of research into the subject, so you see how welcome this lovely book is.’

  Claudia picked it up once more, and was just opening it when Sally Winston, the supply teacher who had only been in the school for two weeks, spoke out. ‘I expect you’re looking forward to being able to spend lots of time with your family!’

  A gasp of horror was audible from the rest of the staff. Unwittingly the poor woman had just committed the cardinal error. As far as anyone knew Claudia had no family – she never spoke of anyone, and no relative had ever attended any school functions. Brenda Walsingham knew that on her confidential papers, under next of kin, she had mentioned a sister with a rather odd surname – the name Fox came to mind, but she knew it wasn’t that, although she couldn’t remember what it was – but it was an unwritten rule that ‘How are you?’ was just about the only acceptable personal enquiry. Unfortunately, the new supply teacher, who had come in at the end of term when the other members of the staff were at their busiest, was not aware of this.

  An awkward silence stretched interminably. Claudia studied the contents page in her book. Finally some forced chatter relieved the awkwardness.

  This, her last day at the school, was nearly over. As she stood in front of everyone at the final assembly she tried desperately to frame her closing sentence, knowing they were waiting for her to finish. Now was the time to say that she would miss them, but she hesitated, fearful that her inner feelings might become uncontrollable. She took a deep breath.

  ‘Goodbyes are never easy. Teaching has been my life, but now it’s time for me to leave and start a new one. I wish you all the very best. Remember, children, work hard, listen carefully to your teachers and always be a credit to the school.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever,’ muttered Lola Butchers, skewed round sideways in the back row, sighing loudly.

  ‘Shut it!’ hissed her neighbour. Bernadette Robinson had enjoyed the dubious honour of being Lola’s best friend throughout the term. This had resulted in a number of incidents earning the displeasure of their teachers, until the inevitable happened and they found themselves in their head teacher’s office. After a severe reprimand Claudia had dismissed them with the words: ‘Your teachers have complained several times about your disruptive behaviour. You must both turn over a new leaf. I do not care for your present attitude.’

  ‘And I don’t care for yours, neither.’ Lola expressed her defiance the moment the door was shut.

  ‘They’ve got it in for us,’ said Bernadette. ‘Why they keep having a go at us? It’s not fair.’

  ‘It’s cos we’re black, innit?’

  Now, as Claudia turned to move away, Lola whispered, ‘Man, that woman’s got a sour face. At least we don’t have to look at it no more. Hey, Bernie – d’you fink she’s ever had a man?’

  ‘What, her?’ Bernadette put on a look of mock incredulity. ‘Do me a favour!’

  They both dissolved into uncontrollable giggles, hugely enjoying the joke.

  Claudia walked away from centre stage, keeping her head down in an attempt to prevent anyone noticing the tears in her eyes. Members of staff made their way back to the staffroom.

  ‘Thank God that’s over!’ Peter threw himself down on a chair, scrabbling in his pocket for a biscuit.

  ‘I felt sorry for her.’ Mary voiced sentiments silently shared by others in the room. ‘And it’s my view that this school will be the poorer without her. When all’s said and done, she’s had this place running like clockwork.’

  ‘Her standards were high and she made jolly sure ours were too. I think that was no bad thing,’ said Joan, siding with Mary.

  ‘Well I can’t wait to let mine slip a bit next term!’ Peter started collecting his things, anxious for the summer holidays to start.

  ‘I have every reason to be grateful to her.’ Members of staff paused in their preparations to go home to listen to Jenny Lewis, who rarely voiced an opinion. She had just completed her first year as a teacher and still lacked confidence both in the classroom and with her colleagues. ‘I felt so incompetent at times, when I first came,’ she continued. ‘In fact, I’ll confess I’d more or less decided teaching wasn’t for me. I went to see Miss Hansom who made me feel a lot better about things … she gave me bits of advice and was quite encouraging. She actually said I could come and talk to her whenever I wanted. I know I’m still not much good now, but I’d have left long ago if it wasn’t for her.’

  The moment had arrived. She had cleared her desk of any personal possessions, leaving it ready for her successor. Now it was time for Claudia to start her journey out of the school where everything had become so familiar over the years that it felt like home. Outside, she turned to look back at the characterless buildings with their peeling paint. Had the school represented a place of security – or a prison? She was now being released into a world of new freedoms, with no ties or responsibilities – and she was afraid. Here at the school she was a person with a key role and a position of authority. Once she had left it behind she became a nobody. Just an ex-head teacher, living alone, with her cat.

  There was no going back. She must walk through those gates. Brenda had come with her, to see her off.

  ‘Goodbye! Enjoy your retirement!’ Come back and see us sometimes!’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you for the send-off
you’ve given me. I shall write my appreciation shortly.’

  She turned to go. Summoning up her resolve, she walked through the gates for the last time and stepped into her future.

  Chapter 2

  The next day dawned grey and dismal. Claudia, looking out of her bedroom window, saw homes shrouded in mist, their true identities hidden behind a haze that blurred their outlines. Rivers of rainwater ran purposefully down window panes, only to trail off aimlessly, joining the puddles on the impervious pavement below.

  Socrates, the black cat who had been Claudia’s companion for the past ten years, waited for her in the kitchen, anticipating his customary morning milk. Just as expected, at the usual time, Claudia appeared. The night before, when she went to bed, she had picked up her alarm clock, and after some initial resistance, had moved the alarm hand forward an hour. It felt decadent and self-indulgent, but her colleagues had enthused on her behalf about the joy of not having to make early starts any more, and it did seem the sensible thing to do. Her body clock, however, refused to be adjusted as easily and she was wide awake at the usual time. There seemed little point in continuing to lie in bed.

  Socrates greeted her with his familiar sound – a strange little noise that was a cross between a purr and a mew. Whether he was aware of the traumatic change in her life, who could tell? He was as enigmatic as his Greek namesake. Claudia often felt his black, furry head contained more wisdom than the heads of many humans. He would look at her as if he understood what she was thinking and she drew comfort from his presence. She would return home at about six o’clock each evening, having stayed on for some time after the pupils had left, in order to deal with any problems and prepare for the next day. At the sound of her key in the front door, Socrates would jump off his chair and run into the hall to greet her. He always welcomed her, rubbing up against her calf and making little purring sounds. Bending down to stroke him she would talk to him as one adult to another. But he would only allow this indulgence for a short time, soon returning to his chair and his own private thoughts.