Epilogue

Martin Peddigrew leaned back in his soft leather chair, his eyes flicking across the oak panels on the wall of his large office. The corridors were silent, the children of St Augustine’s hidden away in the vast network of classrooms waiting hungrily for the lunchtime bell to ring.

His black gown hung perfectly on a coat hanger on the back of the door, its dullness contrasting with the array of colourful ties that hung separately from the same peg.

The office was dark. One small window offered what little natural light the dreary winter’s morning had to offer, only marginally helped by the glare of his computer screen which reflected off his thin-framed spectacles.

The Headmaster’s desk was built from solid oak, its colour matching the long wall panels but was now worn and scratched, and Mr Peddigrew often imagined it had been installed by the school’s very first Headmaster a whole century earlier.

Three photos in silver frames stood proudly next to his overflowing in-tray; one of his wife who, even in her white wedding dress, looked austere and depressed, another of his three children opening presents on Christmas Day in the early 1990s. The third had been a gift from the school’s beautiful English teacher the previous term, showing her in a particularly inviting position laid across the very desk on which the photograph now stood.

He read through the letter in his hand one final time, before leaning forward, reaching for his black and gold Monte Cristo pen and signing his name in a barely legible scrawl.

He hadn’t enjoyed taking the decision to expel one of his brightest and most beautiful Year 9 pupils. But everyone knew of his strict policy against teenage pregnancies and it had been broken. He had ensured the story had been spread around the school that Molly’s father had recently come into money, and decided it would be in her best interests to attend a private school some 20 miles away. To his amazement, nobody had questioned his account.

His frustration had turned into a pounding headache that concentrated on the throbbing vein on his right temple. He massaged it gently.

Ever since the beginning of his career he had imagined one day receiving a Knighthood from the Queen, cameras flashing as a sword was placed on each shoulder marking his right to be called ‘Sir Martin’. It would be the pinnacle of his lifetime’s work; formal and national recognition for services to education and reducing teenage pregnancy. If the news of Molly ever got out, his reputation would lie in tatters.

He looked back at the photograph of Miss Driscoll on his desk, the silver frame shining as the sun temporarily broke through the cloud and flooded the office. He couldn’t pretend he was anything other than furious with her. As far as he was concerned this whole affair was her fault. It was Miss Driscoll who had developed Molly’s sexuality, it was her who had deliberately manufactured the loss of her virginity to her father. But even staring at the photo made his heart melt. Her elegant femininity and classic English beauty were intoxicating.

He opened the heavy oak drawer and removed the underwear he kept for when he needed comforting. The black lace felt delicate in his hands as he raised it to his mouth and inhaled the subtle, familiar scent.

She had gotten him into this mess, he thought, reaching into his trousers. She can get him out of it.