“You need to go get a jumper and your robes, Riley,” Emma said, smiling at me. “Get into work mode again, you’re not on your hols anymore, babe.”
“Babe.” I grinned. “We’re a professional school, Ms Blessing.”
“Out of term,” she huffed. “Babe.”
“So,” I ground out as we entered our school office. Another large room, an open fire, unlit I had to add, and several large desks with a backdrop of bookshelves full of files and folders. Books. A glass display housing our many awards. The walls housing all of mine. Teaching certificates. First aid certificates. Safeguarding lead. Headmasters award… It all brought me back down to earth. I wasn’t special. Neither of us were. We might have been charging thousands in term fees, and our uniform alone set our students back over ten thousand pounds per year, but where this school had once lined its coffers and padded our trustees’ wallets, we no longer did. We were not a charity, but we looked after our students. Their fees paid for the upkeep of the building, our teachers, our outgoings, but they also paid for improvements for everyone who called this home. The rooms were now all private, the housemasters on a rotating schedule to ensure adults were at hand twenty-four hours a day, and the animals? Yes, it had been a pipe dream, and the allergy issues and the health and safety and we were an academic school and all of that? The animals made a difference, even for me. I laughed as Summer, the golden retriever from Summer House, casually walked through the door and made herself at home on the armchair in the corner.
Which immediately made me think of armchairs. Floral ones. Noah Fairweather.SHUT UP!
“Talk to me,” I said, taking a seat at my desk, sighing over the pile of paperwork in front of me. Mail. Proposals. Exam results. Hours of sorting through ahead. Perhaps I should go take a nap, and I definitely needed food. Work, though? This wasn’t a nine-to-five gig. This was my home, and the home of the kids who lived here. The teachers and staff who were my responsibility. Mine. Twenty-four seven. I took it seriously and in return? I got this.
“Social services in Aberdeen rang yesterday, and they asked if we’d be willing to take a twelve-year-old. History of truancy, threats from extended family, some issues to be expected, nothing more relayed. We have the space. The Godspeeds’ son has chosen Gordonstoun, and Darragh is moving to the States with his parents.”
“Ah,” I said. Okay. Yes. Possibly.
“That would bring the total wards of state to fifteen here. That is a good number, and what the board expects. We agreed on fifteen, and with this new addition, we are back to fifteen.”
“The fourteen we have are settled,” I mused, scratching my stubble. I probably smelled, which again gave me virtual whiplash. Everythingreminded me of things I didn’t want to remember. Dealing with new wards of state was challenging, but also? Incredibly rewarding. Remembering Noah Fairweather existed was neither. All it did was cause me pain.
“It will keep us busy. Is the child willing to come?”
“They didn’t say; we have to assume he is being forcibly removed from whatever situation he is in, and this is the option presented. Whether he will accept that and embrace a new start? We know how that usually goes.”
“We do. How are our kids?”
“Everyone is fine. Thompson had a few challenging days but settled down. He spends most of his time with Mr Carmichael in the potting sheds, which I fully approve of.”
“Good.” Even I enjoyed the potting sheds, and Mr Carmichael was an exceptional gardener. Also, a solid bloke in his thirties who embraced these kids like long-lost friends. I was very proud of our team here. Every single one of them.
“Jones’s wife is expecting again; we need to be prepared for him to have some time off when the time comes. I have contacted the agency in Glasgow and asked for a couple of guys to come up and be trained. We need to ensure they are DBS-checked and have first aid. Not having idiots at the gate.”
“Nope,” I absentmindedly agreed, flicking through the pile of papers in front of me. “Have we got files on the kid?”
“Not yet.”
“Sir?”
“Hey, Mr O!”
I grinned at the boy who slid through the door with a tray. “Cook wants to know if you’re having dinner with us at Spring House, or if you want to eat in your chambers.”
“My chambers?” I grinned. “As if, I need to catch up with everyone! How’s your week been, Olsen?”
“Fine, sir. Spring is expecting puppies. Did you know? Also, Taz is coming back early.”
“That’s great.” I nodded as the kid took his leave with a smile.
Food. Gosh, I’d missed this! Cook’s thick doorstep slices of bread, local ham carved thick and lashings of mustard. Just the way I liked it. And a cup of strong black coffee in a floral cup with a saucer. Like I was a granny. I was a bloody granny, which made Emma laugh as I said it out loud.
Home. I was back home, and everything was as it was, and things were fine. Everything was fine. Even my work phone was fully charged, waiting for me on my desk, and I unplugged it and fished my private one out of my pocket, replacing it on the charger.
There was a message. A number I didn’t recognise, and I almost froze.
People didn’t message me. I mean, Huw had, telling me he got home safe and wishing me a great rest of the summer. I hadn’t responded, and felt no guilt. Weird but true. Like I’d moved on with my life and entered a new era. After the past week? I had nothing to say to any of those people, and this text? Nobody outside work communicated with me by text, not really. I got very few messages, especially from… Fuck. I rubbed my face with my hands and shuddered. Because this one just said:
We need to talk.
Part two
