Page 29 of That’ll Teach Her

‘Grace,’ I say for the fifteenth time in the car. ‘Gracie. You’re going to have to talk to me at some point. You can’t keep ignoring me.’

She keeps her little head turned to look out of the window. I have lived the past twenty-four hours on eggshells – she called Matt from the residential and told her to come and pick her up, so he of course came running. I thought she’d tell him there and then. But she didn’t. Nor when we got home. Nor this morning. I haven’t slept a wink – and not just because of the storm that came through last night. I should be at the school for Ofsted, but Grace’s interview at Shottsford House has been in the diary for weeks. Ben and Hattie have been calling me relentlessly, but I can’t deal with them right now. I just need to be with my little girl.

‘Gracie, come on,’ I say. ‘We have to talk about this. I know what you saw was . . . upsetting.’

She huffs. Good. That’s something.

‘But I can explain . . .’

‘Are you and Dad getting a divorce?’ she suddenly blurts out. ‘Is that why you’re selling the house? Because you want to be with Mr Andrews? I’m not stupid, Mum.’

‘No, baby, no you’re not,’ I tell her. ‘It’s . . . it’s all really complicated. But you must understand that I love you and I never want to hurt you and—’

‘But you’re going to hurt Daddy,’ she says. ‘He loves you. He really, really loves you.’

I can hear the tears in her voice. God, I hope life is that simple for her. I hope she falls in love with the right person at the right time and never has to question herself and her choices. Not like her mum.

‘I love your daddy, I really do,’ I begin.

‘It didn’t look like that last night,’ she says bitterly.

‘Grown-up love . . . it’s complicated,’ I say again for want of anything better or more true.

‘Do you love Mr Andrews?’ she asks, and the simplicity of her question floors me.

‘Yes,’ I say, and even in this terrible time and awful place it brings me a flicker of joy. I love Ben Andrews. I’m going to share my life with Ben Andrews. Yes, this will be painful and messy and shite. But afterwards . . . afterwards we all get to be happy.

‘You can’t love two people at once,’ she says, looking back out of the window. ‘So you’re lying.’

I grip the wheel harder. If only it were that straightforward.

‘Look,’ I say eventually, ‘we have a lot to talk about – I realise that. And I need to talk to your dad and to Taylor. But for this morning – can we just focus on you? You’ve worked so hard for this, Gracie. This is your shot – I really want you to love your school and this taster day will give you a chance to meet your teachers, meet your friends . . . I don’t want to take that from you. Please can we just put this down and let you have your morning?’

She says nothing. I’ll take it as some kind of agreement, although I’m far from sure it is.

We drive through the grand gate of Shottsford House and wind our way up the mile-long drive that leads to the school. It is a complete mystery to me why one of the country’s foremost public schools is here in Flatford amongst the farmers and the feckless, but life hasn’t always dealt me the luckiest hand, so I’ll take it. This is the life I want for my girl – this is the life she deserves. We drive past stables and hockey fields, we see the sculls rowing along the river. There’s a theatre and a music school – and, for Gracie, a cutting-edge art studio. Yes, I know every kid should have this.

But mine’s going to get it.

We pull up in front of Shottsford House itself, a sprawling redbrick neo-Georgian country house that could easily be from the set of Bridgerton . The very thought immediately catapults Ben back into my mind, but I stave him off. We have time. Lots of time. Today is about Grace.

We get out of our beaten-up Hyundai, which feels comedically out of place with the Jaguars and Teslas dotted around the car park. We stand before the main building and I feel uncomfortably small. I glance at Grace, who looks totally swamped by the grandeur of it all. I put my arm round her.

‘Geddoff,’ she says, shaking me away and striding confidently towards the grand front door. That’s my girl. Fake it till you make it, kid.

I follow behind and up the steps to the imposing entrance to this hallowed place. I look for a door knocker, or a secret handle or even a magic password – any would fit here. But fortunately, there is a security buzzer. This place doesn’t let just anyone in.

I press the Reception button and announce our arrival. We’re instructed to head towards the hallway as the door clunks open.

‘You ready?’ I say to Grace, whose mojo appears to have evaporated already.

‘Mm-hm.’ She nods nervously, looking at the door with big eyes. I can’t wait for the day she takes all this in her stride. I want her to walk into this place like she owns it. Like she belongs here. Like she has every right.

Because she does.

We walk into a hallway that is only a couple of valets short of Downton Abbey. The ceiling sweeps up into a huge dome, which casts bright light onto the spiralling stairs below, ending on the wooden floor that runs the width of the building. There are huge sets of double doors running along it – only one is open and I glimpse a beautiful library inside with books from floor to high ceiling, students dotted around the room variously studying, whispering or giggling. I feel a wave of tears threatening to break. We made it, kid. We’re here.

‘Ms Fisher? Grace?’ comes a cordial greeting from the smart, middle-aged woman striding down the hall in a red trouser suit. ‘I’m Mrs Porter, headteacher. Welcome to Shottsford House.’

‘Hi,’ I say, shaking her hand a little too enthusiastically and wondering how much her suit cost. ‘It’s so good to meet you.’

‘You too.’ She smiles back as Grace stands silent and slack-jawed. I nudge her.

‘Gracie?’ I say with a strained smile. ‘Remember your manners.’

‘Oh,’ she says, snapping to. ‘Hi.’

She sticks out her hand and jabs Mrs Porter in the stomach. I hope my groan remained internal. But fortunately the head laughs it off.

‘It’s all a bit much, isn’t it?’ she whispers kindly, leaning down as my daughter turns puce. ‘It’s a bit like walking into Buckingham Palace at first. I still feel like I should curtsey every time I come in.’

Grace nods and blinks several times. She’s terrified, bless her. Hang on in there, kid.

‘Well now,’ says Mrs P. ‘Why don’t we take a look around? It’s a bit of a maze here, but you’ll get the hang of it. Make sure you have comfortable shoes, though – it can be quite the hike from class to class . . .’

We walk down the hall and out of the building, which it turns out represents the tiniest proportion of the school. There are classroom blocks, science labs, a design and technology centre – even a bloody Greek amphitheatre. It’s so much – too much for a small group of kids already born into privilege. But more than the facilities, I look at the kids. They have a . . . quality? Confidence? Arrogance? Entitlement? Maybe. But their shoulders are back and their smiles are broad. That’s what I want for my girl. To walk through this world with her head held high.

‘So what do you think?’ Mrs Porter asks Grace.

‘It’s . . . really big,’ Grace replies, her eyes the size of dinner plates. Where has her vocabulary gone today? But Mrs Porter smiles kindly again.

‘It really is, isn’t it?’ she laughs. ‘You see what I mean about the shoes . . . Let’s go back to my office and get a cup of tea.’

We walk back through the grounds – how Gracie will find her way around here without an ordinance survey map is a mystery, but a champagne problem for now – and back into the building via a completely different route from the one we just took. We are now at the other end of the grand hallway, where Mrs Porter leads us through a glass panelled door into an area with two offices to the right and one to the left.

‘This is where Mrs Thompson, our school administrator, and Mr Ryland, our business manager, live,’ the head explains, gesturing to the two offices, which wouldn’t look out of place in a boutique country hotel. ‘The school would literally grind to a halt within the hour without them – not to mention that I’d never know where I was or what I was supposed to be doing . . .’

Her colleagues smile and wave politely from the grandeur of their offices. I think of Clive in his Dickensian alcove and mentally jive on his grave.

‘Come on through,’ she says, opening the door to the left. ‘Fiona, do you think you could bring us some tea . . . and maybe some chocolate biscuits?’

She gestures to Grace with a smile. My daughter just stares at her, like she doesn’t live for chocolate biscuits.

‘Grace?’ I prompt her. ‘Mrs Porter asked you a question . . .’

‘Er . . . yeah . . . okay,’ Grace replies, scuttling into the office.

I tilt my head in a gesture of apology to the headteacher, who waves it away with a genuine de nada . What is wrong with Grace? I know she’s mad at me, but this is a ridiculous self-sabotage. Mrs Thompson comes over and whispers in Mrs Porter’s ear.

‘Ah – great idea,’ she says. ‘Leave it with me. Mrs Fisher – would you excuse me a moment while I just attend to something? I’ll be back in five.’

‘Take your time,’ I tell her. ‘If we’ve got biscuits, you’ve got ages.’

She laughs and guides me through her door . . .

Jesus Christ!

This isn’t an office.

It’s a setting for an Agatha Christie denouement . . .

I nearly sink into the carpet as I walk in, which is approximately a foot deep. Mrs Porter’s office is the size of the downstairs of my house, with a mahogany desk that I have an overwhelming urge to get valued on Antiques Roadshow . Previous incumbents stare down at me from the walls, interrupted only by the ten-foot-high windows that look out over the luscious grounds.

‘Back in a minute,’ she says with a wink, pulling the door behind her. I wait until she’s a respectable distance away before squealing and grabbing my girl.

‘Gracie! Oh my God! How amazing is this place?’

She stands stiffly in my arms. I put her at arm’s length.

‘Oh, come on, baby girl,’ I say to her. ‘I thought we were putting that down this morning.’

‘It’s not that,’ she says, taking a seat by the roaring fire that the scullery maid presumably put on at dawn. ‘Well, it is. I’m still mad at you. But it’s not just that. It’s . . . this place.’

‘The office?’ I ask her. ‘Oh, don’t worry – you’ll probably never see the inside of it again. You’re a good girl . . .’

‘Not the office,’ she says in the smallest voice I’ve ever heard her use. ‘This place. The school. I . . . I don’t like it.’

I know I should sympathise. I should give her a hug and tell her it’s okay to be overwhelmed and nervous. That it’s all going to be fine.

But I’m so bloody angry with the ungrateful little bugger I can hardly see straight.

‘ What? ’ I say in the loudest whisper-shout I dare. ‘What do you mean? It’s got everything! All the facilities! All the opportunities! All the amphitheatres! Everything!’

‘It hasn’t got my friends!’ she cries. ‘Flatford High has facilities! Okay, not as fancy, but a test tube’s still a test tube. And you always told me we make our own opportunities. And I don’t even see the point of the amphitheatre – what do you do if it rains . . . ?’

‘Stop it!’ I hiss, getting right up in her thankless little face. ‘Stop it right now! You have no idea how lucky you are! Most people would kill for this chance! This is what we’ve always wanted, what we’ve worked so hard for, what—’

‘No!’ she shouts, and I wince at what Mrs Thompson must be overhearing. ‘It’s what YOU wanted! And it’s what YOU made me work for! I don’t want it! I don’t want any of it! I just want you and Daddy and Taylor and our house and . . .’

The tears spring up and stop her in her tracks. I feel like all kinds of arsehole. But I know I’m right. This will be tough – change always is. But change like this is for the best. She’ll understand in time. I know she will . . .

‘Gracie,’ I say, more softly, trying to take her into a hug before I’m repelled. ‘I understand. I really do . . .’

‘No you don’t!’ she snarls. ‘You only care about Mr Andrews. You don’t care about us at all . . .’

I’ve taken a few backhanders in my time and I’ve never dealt one out to my kids. But in this moment . . .

‘Oh no – no biscuits?’ says Mrs Porter, walking cheerily into the room. ‘I’m going to have to call Mrs T to the head’s office for this . . .’

She takes in the scene in front of her and very quickly reads the room.

‘There’s been a lot to take in today, hasn’t there?’ she says gently. ‘New place, new people. Maybe something more familiar will help. Come with me.’

Mrs P holds out her hand. Gracie looks at me and I nod. She wipes the tears from under her eyes and trots over to the headteacher, taking her hand like she did mine when she was tiny. I suddenly yearn for her to be that small again, to do a hard reset on life, to make different choices . . .

But I’ve made the ones I have. And, for the most part, I stand by them.

‘I want to show you something,’ says Mrs P, her eyes twinkling as we head off down yet another corridor. ‘As you know, at Shottsford House, we are very proud of our artists.’

She signals to the pictures hanging on either side of the wall.

‘I’m not going to lie – we take absolutely any opportunity to show off our art! We have exhibitions throughout the year, at school and beyond – we print images in the school newsletter every week and one of our art scholars gets to design the cover of our yearbook every year.’

I watch Grace’s head bob from side to side as she takes in all the work. I start to feel uneasy. Please tell me that we’re not . . .

‘But all year round, we have this display, in the Turner Gallery,’ Mrs Porter explains. ‘Where we showcase the very best of the art that our students produce.’

Oh shit.

Oh no.

Oh no, no, no!

‘Grace – we were blown away with your submission for the scholarship,’ she says with a proud smile, stopping near the end of the corridor. ‘Our artists in residence said they couldn’t believe the talent and maturity from one so young. And so I’m incredibly happy to show you . . . this!’

Fuck.

She points to the last picture on the wall. It’s a painting of a fruit bowl. I’ve seen it many times.

‘You really are quiet today!’ Mrs Porter laughs. ‘First chocolate biscuits, now this!’

‘I think she’s just a bit overwhelmed,’ I say, taking Gracie’s shoulders and trying to lead her away. ‘But I think we’d both like to give the choccie biccies another go . . .’

‘You must be very proud of yourself,’ Mrs Porter says to Grace.

My daughter looks at her blankly. I want to be sick.

‘Why?’ she asks plainly.

But this time Mrs Porter doesn’t laugh. She looks at my ashen face, then back to Gracie.

‘Because . . . this is your painting,’ she says slowly. ‘The one that won you the scholarship.’

Everything in my body clenches. Don’t say it, Gracie. Please, just don’t say it . . .

But she does.

‘No it isn’t,’ she says, shaking her head innocently. ‘I did a painting of our back garden. I’ve never seen this picture before.’