About the Author

A.L. BIRD lives in London, where she divides her time between writing, working as a lawyer, and running around after her young family. She loves writing dark, twisty thrillers. Bestselling The Good Mother was her first major psychological thriller for HQ Digital, and Don’t Say a Word was her chilling standalone next book. She has an MA in Creative Writing from Birkbeck, University of London, and is also an alumna of the Faber Academy ‘Writing a Novel’ course. Amy is a member of the Crime Writers’ Association. For updates on her writing follow her on Twitter, @ALBirdWriter.

PRAISE FOR A.L. BIRD

‘A fast-paced, gripping thriller.’ – B A Paris, bestselling author of Behind Closed Doors

‘Intense and brilliantly uncomfortable reading.’ – Lisa Hall, bestselling author of Between You and Me

‘A pacy, action-packed, brilliantly plotted psychological thriller with one hell of a showdown. I absolutely loved it!’ – Diane Jeffrey, author of Those Who Lie

‘An absolutely jaw dropper and a must read for all.’ – Karen Whittard, NetGalley reviewer

‘Readers hear claim that, “This book will leaving you guessing until the end”. I am glad to say that, for once, the claim is true.’ – M Scott, NetGalley reviewer

‘Kept me up all night.’ – Kathleen Johnson, NetGalley reviewer

‘The psychological tension ramps up to a plot twist that took me completely by surprise.’ – Avonna Kershey, NetGalley reviewer

‘Wow! A well deserved 5 stars, one of the best pyschological fiction books of this year so far!’ – Julia Beales, NetGalley reviewer

‘Once you get towards the end you better hope you’re not needed for anything because you will find yourself glued until the last word.’ – Tara Sheehan, NetGalley reviewer

‘Impossible to put down.’ – Linda Strong, NetGalley reviewer

Also by A.L. Bird

The Good Mother

Don’t Say a Word

The Classroom
A.L. BIRD

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Amy Bird 2018

Amy Bird asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © September 2018 ISBN: 9781474086127

Version: 2018-09-11

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Praise for A.L. Bird

Also by A.L. Bird

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part One

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Part Two

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Acknowledgements

Reading Group Questions

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

To my parents, in recognition

To my two little miracles, in joy

PART ONE

Prologue

She puts the letter to one side. Today isn’t about that. Not in this moment. Today is about Harriet. Her, and Harriet, making a fresh start, together. Away from all this nonsense. If the letter shows anything, it’s that they need to make that fresh start even further away. There’ll be people looking for them. And Harriet is so pretty – people will notice them. England is too small. She needs to go abroad. They need to get tickets to France or, ideally, somewhere outside Europe that doesn’t need a visa. Somewhere not hugely swamped with international newspapers. She gets out her phone, begins Googling destinations. That’s stupid, though. She should just take Harriet to the airport, see what flights they can get. And go.

Resolved, she gets to her feet. Thank God for Harriet being well looked after this morning, while the fresh crisis was breaking. She can imagine her now, playing happily on the grass. Soon, Harriet will be playing happily in another country, doting eyes on her. They’ll be happy together. Of course they will.

At first glance, she doesn’t notice, when she gets outside.

The absence.

She looks around another time.

It’s then she realises: Harriet isn’t there.

Just the woman who was supposed to be looking after her, sitting all alone.

Chapter 1

KIRSTEN, 4 SEPTEMBER 2018

‘I just wasn’t sure about the headteacher, at the new joiners evening, you know?’ Kirsten says to her husband, as she gazes at little Harriet. She bites her lip, as she resists the urge to hug her daughter another time before getting her into the car. Harriet looks so smart and grown-up in her new uniform, but Kirsten doesn’t want to deliver her to the destination: first day of reception.

Ian lays a hand on Kirsten’s shoulder.

‘The headteacher was just fine, darling. You know that. You got on like a house on fire.’ There’s a wryness to his delivery, probably born of being a headmaster himself. He knows the conversations that go on.

‘And what about the other kids? They say that the most important thing is the cohort your child’s in. What if they’re mean?’

Ian shrugs. ‘There’s bound to be one mean kid there. Maybe it will be Harriet.’

Kirsten shoots him a poison dart with her eyes.

‘Joking,’ he tells her. ‘Harriet’s no bully. But they’re five, Kirsten. No one’s going to be selling drugs, or making them down alcohol.’

Kirsten looks at him more carefully this time. It’s an oddly chosen example, considering.

She sees Ian notice her look. ‘Whatever,’ he says. ‘What I mean is, she’ll be fine, you need to get her in the car, or we’ll both be late, OK? You’ve been taking her to nursery for three years. School’s no different, really. She should be so lucky, going somewhere like that. We can catch up this evening.’

Kirsten nods. But she doesn’t agree. He doesn’t get it. Or maybe he does: he gets what’s on the surface. The anxiety that she’s actually expressed. But there’s the deeper anxiety, the one she never shares. The one she never knows whether dads truly face too, or if it’s just the mums, the worried mums. The need that can suddenly seize you to know exactly where your child is at all times. The sudden rush of panic that they could be with anyone, with any number of terrible things befalling them. And that even if they were meant to be in safe hands – with relatives, at school – it would always ultimately be your fault for making the choice that day, that hour, to outsource their care. To not be looking after them yourself.

The guilt, Kirsten knew, would always linger. And it worked the other way too: if she was indulgent enough to take a day off work, that particular day would be the one when their route to the Fun Activity was favoured by terrorists, or a gas explosion, or a sinkhole.

‘Can I go to school now, Mummy?’ Harriet asks.

Kirsten tries to shut her anxiety down. She’d made such a thing of school being Grown-Up and Very Important that Harriet can’t be blamed for wanting to get there sooner. But it’s still too soon. Only a moment ago, Harriet was a newborn. Kirsten still remembers looking at those amazing owl-like eyes, wide and unblinking, as Harriet sat in the back of the car on the journey home with Ian – their little miracle. He’d been a bit cold, nervy with the weight of responsibility, but she’d been transfixed. If she’d known, really known, how enchanting a newborn could be, it would have got her through the discomfort of all those rounds of IVF – the injections, the hormone reactions, the tests – with much less heartache. Or maybe more, knowing what she was missing.

‘Of course, darling – it’s so exciting. I’m so proud of you!’

Kirsten watches as Harriet clambers into the back of the car. She tries to capture the moment in her mind. It’s just as significant as the ride home with the newborn, those life milestones every mother faces. Kirsten knows she’ll only get to savour them once – there are no more children after Harriet. So she must enjoy them now.

But she also really must get to work. Kirsten sees the time as she turns on the car ignition: 8.25. Shit. Not only were they meant to be at the school five minutes ago, her first appointment is fast approaching, as well. And as emotionally rewarding as it is to gaze dotingly at Harriet, it isn’t financially rewarding. Those financial rewards have kept the roof over her daughter’s head. OK, so Ian may be laudably busy managing the struggling comprehensive school he heads up out of special measures, before the Ofsted inspection – but he doesn’t get a bonus for the hours he works. The more Kirsten works, the more she gets paid, and the less they have to watch the overdraft every month.

Harriet begins complaining that she’s left one of her new special pencils in the house and says that they’ll have to go back and get it. The gloss of the first school day becomes tarnished. The usual negotiations (or bribes) kick in. By the time Kirsten drops Harriet at school, she is thinking very positively about the benefits of being able to deposit your child elsewhere for someone else to deal with.

As soon as she has that thought, she wants to run back after Harriet and apologise. Never wish away something so precious. Never try to abdicate responsibility for one so dear. The school staff seem good on health and safety, but what if they aren’t?

She considers calling Ian, asking him what he thinks. Should she go back in and make sure Harriet is properly settled? But no. She knows what he would say. It’s fine. The school is a good one, excellent parent feedback, and the teachers are fully checked for criminal records. She’s safe, Kirsten tells herself. She’s safe.

Chapter 2

MIRIAM, 4 SEPTEMBER 2018

Miriam stands at the front of the still-empty classroom, mentally hugging herself. Finally, she is here – about to embark on teaching at St Anthony’s. All summer, the thought of it had been her best thing – the one that gave her hope and excitement each morning. The one that made her happy to exist as she curled up in her bed at night. She’d think about all those little faces, staring up at her, yearning for knowledge.

She knew how the first morning would go. Pick out one particular face, that natural teacher’s pet – all blonde, dimpled, cute floppy hair. Then look to the one next to them. That’s the one you want. The one you should go for. Maybe their hair is red or brown. Maybe they don’t smile. Maybe they have glasses, or their lack of a smile suggests they’ve learnt the hard way that everything doesn’t go hunky-dory just because you’re a kid. Maybe they wouldn’t be the archetypal cute kid on the bleeding heart ‘Missing Child’-type posters, or the pictures that stare out from papers hauntingly when sad news hits. But it’s that little one, the less than obvious one, that you want. That child will change your life. It’s worth taking the rap for that kid, if something goes wrong. She’d seen her formative teachers choose the less obvious kids, and she knew for herself that it made an otherwise average teacher become truly memorable.

And it was that thinking that got her the job. Not her own personal goal for where all this is going, of course. But the emphasis on child-focused attention. Thinking beyond the normal line of duty. Looking beyond the obvious to achieve results. She replays the interview in her head. So nervous. All her dreams depended on it.

‘Ms Robertson, where do you see yourself in five years’ time?’

She’d wiped her sweaty palms on her dress. She’d bought it specially but hated it already. Why did she go for acrylic peach? She’d read in some magazine one time that you look confident in pink. This was not the right pink and she did not feel confident. What she felt was hot and grimy, and the dress wasn’t helping. She could literally see her palm marks on the fabric.

‘In five years, I’ll be … I don’t know, maybe married, with my own child, maybe two children?’

The headmistress had stared back at her, stifling a yawn. How many other twenty-somethings had she tried to imagine being five years older that day? It was a world away. Miriam had to up her game. She tried again.

‘So. Five years. I’d hope to be well on the way to making an early Deputy Head at a school like this one and be helping out in the co-curricular activities – running a breakfast club, that kind of thing? I see you don’t have one, but I’d be more than willing to start one. But I guess I don’t need to wait five years – I can start it sooner, if parents want it. It’s so important to have these extra conveniences, isn’t it? Happy parents, happy children, that’s what I always think.’

And she’d smiled brightly, hoping it was enough, that she wasn’t just gushing madly. And it was enough. The headmistress’s yawn had gone. She was leaning forward. Rapt. Thank God. Miriam took a sip of water. The next twenty minutes were a formality. The job was hers. The other twenty-somethings could go home; the school had found ‘The One’. Maybe she wasn’t the best choice, objectively speaking – if the school had all the facts at its disposal. She certainly didn’t have the best childcare credentials (her sister had still never forgiven her). And if she’d told them where she really wanted to be in five years – well, they might, in their misguided way, have called the police. But she was the choice they made.

Summer holidays done, here Miriam stands. Finally. Behind her desk, waiting for her assigned class to potter in for registration. Waiting for that one little face that will make or break her heart. Not wearing peach today. Baby blue silk (OK, viscose) shirt with a pussycat bow, and a blue tweed skirt. It looks professional, approachable, maybe a bit sassy. She hopes.

They start to arrive. Dribs and drabs at first. Little poppets in their burgundy uniforms. How lucky their mummies and daddies are; how much she wants one of them for her own. The boys in little ties and caps, the girls in pretty pleated skirts. They are meant to have just turned five, but some of them are tiny. One girl, she’s far too small for the chair. She brings her knees up to her chest, and sits there, curled, thumb in her mouth, Peppa Pig lunch box clutched to her. But then you have the boys – big enough for a rugby team, some of them. Could overpower the little girls in an instant, get them into a scrum tackle. Maybe they are already in kiddy rugby teams; they’re in North London after all. It’s never too early for stretching your children.

‘Good morning, class,’ Miriam says, in her best Miss Honey voice. Try not to let it shake. Try to smile the words. Remember the lesson plan. Remember you’re in control, this time. Kids trust adults who assume authority. And that’s what she wants. Their trust. That’s central to her plans. To get close.

‘Welcome back to school, everyone. My name is Ms Robertson, and I’m delighted to be working with you all. Let’s go through the register. Stand up when your name is called, please – it helps me learn who you are.’

Miriam had their photos already, of course. She’d studied them over the summer. But it looked like some of them were about two years old when they registered; nothing beats seeing them in the flesh. So she calls the roll. And they’re away. Names fly by, some the latest crazes (we have several Olivias), some more traditional (welcome, Peter). They’re nearly at the end when she stands up. The girl. And Miriam knows, instantly, that this is the one. She squeaks her name: Harriet White. Doesn’t even meet Miriam’s gaze at first, just fiddles with her messy plaits. But then she looks up and Miriam sees those beautiful hazel eyes.

And there she is. Miriam’s vocation. Miriam catches a breath. Because it’s a big moment, isn’t it? When your life’s purpose is suddenly right there in front of you. Tantalisingly close already. But so much work required to get there. Little by little, she’ll secure it. She’ll secure her. She must.

Chapter 3

BECKY, JULY 2012

Becky rubs her eyes and puts her maths textbook down. She needs a break from calculus. Besides, they’re done with exams for this term, so why bother really? She throws herself onto her bed and looks into the full-length mirror at the end of it. She pulls her glasses down on the end of her nose, and pouts into the mirror. ‘Pretty Geek.’ That’s how people know her. She could live with either of the labels separately. But together – well, it’s sort of like she’s not good enough to be one or the other. She’s only an acceptable geek because she’s pretty, and only acceptable for her prettiness because her IQ is higher than average. Try to devote herself to being either one of them? Wouldn’t work. She’d be even more of a social outcast.

Her middle sister never seems to have that problem. Quite the opposite. Becky hears, sometimes, about the boyfriends and parties at university, somehow juggled with first-class marks and doting tutors. She wishes she could be more like her.

And yet … Becky doesn’t mind her own image as much as she should. Leaning over to her desk again, she pulls out the leaflet for drama summer school. Her parents were amazed when she signed up for it. She knows, she’s not stupid – she overheard all those conflicting conversations downstairs. They went like this, basically:

Mum: Oh, our little darling is finally getting some social skills.

Dad: But drama makes people stupid. What if she fails her exams?

Both: We only want her to be happy (as long as she gets good grades and doesn’t have S. E. X., of which God might not approve. And as long as she doesn’t catch Acting, distracting her from a good career as a doctor or a teacher or something Solid – which she and her sisters must do).

Then there’s some disagreement – it escalates into a row and Becky tunes out.

OK, Becky was summarising the part she listened to, but that was the gist. And she kind of understood, because yes, she was surprised with herself too. If it weren’t for Caitlin, she wouldn’t have agreed. And Caitlin wouldn’t have pressured her if they hadn’t both caught Andrew Carmichael staring over at them in Maths. (Becky was busy concentrating on finding what n equalled, so Caitlin had to nudge her.) Becky assumed he was looking at Caitlin, because Caitlin is gorgeous, in a way that is the opposite of everything about Becky (blonde to Becky’s mousy brown, long-limbed to Becky’s wiry petiteness, twenty-twenty blue vision, compared to Becky’s black-framed myopia). Becky isn’t totally sure how they managed to become friends. But they seem to be, and it doesn’t do to prod the proof under the microscope, or it might burst.

Besides, apparently the timing worked out well for her parents because Becky’s other sister, the boring one, was coming to stay with The New Baby. The baby had been new for the past, what, year? And it hadn’t learnt to sleep, or was it swallow, or had forgotten while it got its teeth, or something, so Becky’s sister needed Help and everyone had to make way for the invasion. Becky just hoped she didn’t come back to find her room full of nappies.

So anyway, at school, Caitlin had been convinced Andy (divine Andy) was staring at Becky, and vice versa. Unlikely. But later, by the notice boards, it seemed like Caitlin might be right. Becky was looking for the algebra club meeting, when she heard a voice behind her. A male voice.

‘Are you signing up to the drama summer school?’

She’d looked round to see Andy just there, almost kissing distance away. Could smell the minty intrigue of the gum he was chewing. Pulling her gaze away from him momentarily, she followed it to where he was looking. A sign-up sheet for drama summer school, with a few flyers in a little plastic folder pinned next to it.

There were two spaces left on the sign-up sheet. Under Andy’s name.

Becky had smiled shyly. ‘Oh, it’s not really my kind of thing,’ she said, and made to turn away.

‘What she means is,’ came a loud, springy, female voice behind her, ‘she’d love to go, and so would I!’

Caitlin. She grabbed a pen from her ponytail and filled in her own name first, then Becky’s.

‘I went last year,’ Caitlin said. ‘It was amazing.’

That was six weeks ago. Now, the course was only four weeks away. A two-week summer school, with gorgeous Andy. And Caitlin.

‘Get some contact lenses,’ Caitlin had advised her.

But the optician had said there were none suitable for her eye type. Pretty Geeky Freak. Or at least, none that she could comfortably use to look at computers with. So Mum said no. The drama course was expensive enough, and she wouldn’t have Becky ruining her eyes over it.

Still, she could take her glasses off if she ever got close enough to Andy to warrant it. Or he could take them off for her. Caitlin said Becky was still in with a chance – said that’s what she was giggling about with Andy in the cafeteria. Seeing them together had sparked something in Becky’s chest. But Caitlin was a good friend, wasn’t she? So it must be true. You had to trust your friends.

Chapter 4

KIRSTEN, 4 SEPTEMBER 2018

‘Jess, you’re a legend!’

Kirsten takes a sip of the green tea that her PA has put on her desk. She secretly wishes it was coffee, but she’s trying to be more Zen. Come on, brain, arise calm, clear, out of befuddled mummy mode, please.

‘How’s Harriet?’ Jess asks Kirsten.

‘Oh, she’s great – thank you,’ Kirsten says. She knows there’s a blush spreading over her cheeks. She can’t help it – even now, when she talks about her, it happens. It’s like you’re in love, permanently, isn’t it? When you have a kid? And now they know that Harriet will, sadly, be their only child, their little empress, so she gets all that love. After the baby that didn’t … work out. Every day, Kirsten tells her: ‘You’re the best thing that ever happened to us.’ Ian, he always raises an eyebrow when she says that. But despite everything, it’s true. See the silver lining; that’s the motto.

‘It must be tough leaving her all day,’ Jess continues. ‘I know when I have kids …’

She trails off. Kirsten raises an eyebrow. Maybe her PA has remembered Kirsten is her boss, so this is forbidden territory: do not discuss any plans for fertilisation with the one who pays your wages. First female rule of the workplace. Or maybe she remembers that this is the same passive-aggressive ‘why do you work rather than stay at home?’ bullshit that mums put up with on a regular basis, and decides to shut her mouth for the good of the sisterhood.

This is Kirsten’s bugbear. First day at nursery, the keyworker had said to her in front of a teary Harriet: ‘Oh, you must feel so guilty, leaving her here like this.’ Well, thank you, Ms Judgemental. Thank you so much. Kirsten had gone back to her car and cried, more than Harriet ever did. Until they invent a self-paying mortgage, Harriet is going to have to be dropped off in places that emotionally blackmail Kirsten. Good, safe places that will broaden Harriet’s mind.

They did a study, didn’t they, that said girls who go to nursery, and then to school, while their mothers go to work, actually do a whole lot better than those whose parents stay at home? Yes, it got a whole bunch of ridicule in the press. But maybe Kirsten could bring copies to hand out at the school gates (or get the au pair to do it – looks like they’re going to have to get one: she can’t start offering 7.30 a.m. appointments if she has to do the school run).

‘So, are we fully booked today, Jess?’ Kirsten asks.

‘Right up to the brim,’ Jess reports. ‘And the first patient is waiting outside now!’

‘Good. Give me a couple of minutes, and send him in.’

Kirsten needs that two minutes. Because as much as she loves Harriet – and she does, she loves her, she loves her – it takes more than one sip of green tea to go from desperately cajoling: ‘Harriet sweetie, get back in the car, come on now, you know you want to! You don’t need the second purple pencil. One is enough! No, honestly, no one’s going to judge you. We’re going to be late – please, come on!’ to her best calm bedside-manner-infused: ‘Now, what seems to be the matter today?’

But she’s got to. Because it’s a business, this private practice GP surgery. She can’t just rock up like at a NHS practice each morning, with the attitude that people should be so lucky that they’ve got an appointment, and she’ll do what she can but hey! she’s no brain surgeon. Yes, NHS GPs are the front line of medicine. Some surgeries are brilliant. And many GPs are fantastic. But some are struggling. Over-run with patients and paperwork, having to lay down ridiculous rules to reach even more ridiculous targets (Six minutes late? You’ll need to rebook your appointment!) and then giving advice in a rush – it’s tough. Sometimes she’d felt like she was just a gatekeeper for prescriptions, rather than providing meaningful advice. Which was why she left. Set up on her own. Maybe a bit earlier than some people – she could have waited a good decade – but if you have a dream, why delay?

And now, people are paying for a service with more than their tax. They are investing in their health, investing in Kirsten personally, as a service. So she needs to put her mummy service to one side. Not be the nice, slightly harried, always doting but ever failing mummy. She has to be polished, professional Dr White. She puts on her glasses. Slips on her jacket. Lines up the blood pressure monitor neatly on her desk. The desk she herself built from an IKEA flat pack at 1 a.m. the day before the surgery opened. And, of course, makes sure Harriet’s picture is tilted to where the patients can’t see it.

There are pictures of her and Ian too, in the montage Ian had put together for one of their anniversaries. Kirsten and Ian together back when she was a student – how young she looks, particularly next to Ian, who always crashes through the important birthdays long before she does. Then Kirsten and Ian in their climbing gear. She doesn’t angle that frame away. A young, fresh, physically bold couple. A good advertisement for a healthy outdoor lifestyle, if nothing else. What she doesn’t have is a picture of her niece, the one she can’t see anymore. It makes her too sad.

Then the first patient of the day comes in.

And Kirsten is glad she had that calming hot drink. Because it’s a special gut-wrencher, a tear-jerker: the sweetest couple, with fertility problems. Can she help them? And can she prescribe the wife some mild anti-depressants? Because now it’s really starting to affect her sleep. And her ability to function in the world without crying.

Kirsten risks a look at her lovely Harriet’s picture. Beautiful Harriet. Safe and happy at school, now. What a big girl – hard to believe she’s turned five. Someday, the bubble will burst; the picture will shatter, won’t it? The dream of Harriet is too good to be true. She experiences a sudden urge to run out from the surgery, away from this couple with their traumatic failure to conceive, and to go to school and gather up her own gorgeous child.

She doesn’t, of course. Because although Harriet might be the most important thing in the world, this is Work Kirsten. So she stays put, sits, listens, empathises and prescribes, while a little part of her brain rejoices in Harriet, her girl.

Chapter 5

MIRIAM, 4 SEPTEMBER 2018

As they approach mid-morning break, the children are happily drawing pictures of their holidays. Miriam didn’t ask them to draw their families – she felt it would be too upsetting for some of them. Can be a bit unorthodox, the set-up. Sure, everyone’s cool with kids having two daddies these days, but if your first venture into the classroom is to find out you’re completely different, and someone giggles at you, it’s going to mar the school journey, right? Put the children first, not preachy societal values. If she’d learnt nothing else, she’d learnt that.

Besides, it would be upsetting for her too. She knows the family she wants. Her, plus-one. The plus-one being a child. Not just any child, of course. She’d done two short stints at other schools, but there hadn’t been the connection that she feels here. But that experience had, in part, got her this job. Nothing is wasted.

So they do holidays. The EasyJet generation – they’ve all had a summer getaway. Even if it was a staycation, it had to be a cool one. Who knew that five-year-olds went glamping? Or maybe it was just a campsite, and the slightly cash-strapped Brexit worriers have sought to teach their children the socially acceptable face of a muddy tent break.

There are the usual shout outs of ‘We went to Disneyland!’ and ‘Mummy says the only way to fly is business class!’ or ‘The French Riviera is perfect at this time of year!’ (Would the parents be embarrassed or proud if they could hear the precociousness of their children?) Miriam makes sure the quieter ones get a say, too. She walks between the desks, asking about the pictures.

Harriet is covering her drawing, making a little circle round it with her hands and her plaits as she draws. Miriam bends down. She sees the girl up close now. Her hair is not just light brown, it is so many colours: copper, oak, dark blonde, all woven together in those silly messy plaits. But cute little bobbles at the end of each one. Unicorns, they look like. Someone cares about her, then. Someone other than Miriam.

‘May I see your picture, Harriet?’ Miriam asks her gently. Start soft; build the rapport gently. That’s the way to win them over.

She shakes her head vigorously, sending plaits flying out, the unicorns given wings.

‘But surely you want to show me where you went on holiday?’

She shrugs.

‘Well, I’d like to see,’ Miriam tells her. ‘Even if you don’t want to show me.’

Miriam leans slightly closer, and tries to prise one of Harriet’s little hands away from the paper.

Reluctantly, Harriet lets her, and lifts the other hand away too.

Miriam looks at the picture.

At first glance, it’s a playroom. There are lots of toys, and a low-level table. Miriam’s about to ask what her favourite toy is, but then she sees that there’s a little cross on the door, like the ones you see on ambulances.

Miriam’s heart lurches. Oh no! Is this lovely little girl ill? Has she spent the summer at a hospital? Her mind flits back to that summer, years ago. When they didn’t go to hospital when they should have done. After Miriam did what she did. The little girl she misses every day.

‘Where is this?’ Miriam asks her.

‘Mummy’s work,’ she says.

Miriam mentally readjusts.

‘Mummy is a doctor?’ Miriam says, like she didn’t know. Of course, the picture makes sense now. All the parents filled in their jobs on joining forms. And Miriam had read them all carefully. But you have to play the game, don’t you? Just like if you Google someone in the evening, looking for pictures of their kids, imagining being their child’s mummy, the next day you have to make with the questions to eke out answers you already know.

‘Mummy is very busy and I have to play with the toys,’ Harriet says. Poor little thing, thinks Miriam – if only I could give her a big hug, show her some love. Miriam had a teacher who’d done that with her, and she’d never forgotten it.

‘But surely you went away on holiday, too?’ Miriam asks. ‘What about Daddy?’

Harriet shakes her head. ‘Mummy can’t have a break because she works so hard. But Daddy was away, because he does school work all summer even though everyone else spends time with their family, Mummy says. Daddy says Mummy and Daddy would go away together if they could, but not me.’

Alarm bells start ringing. ‘They wanted to go away at the same time, without you? Would you be home alone?’ Miriam wouldn’t have thought at this school, with this child, her first thoughts would be about alerting social services.

Harriet shakes her head and gives her a grin. ‘I’m only five, silly. I can’t stay at home alone, and Mummy wouldn’t let me stay with Granny.’ Thank God. Miriam’s heart rate slows a little. ‘Daddy took me with him for a week, and I watched the big children play.’

Miriam’s heart rate increases again. It sounds like things are not being done right. This is why Miriam needs her own child – to show how things should be done.

‘Was that fun?’ Miriam asks. ‘Did Daddy make time to play with you too?’

But Miriam doesn’t hear the answer because the child on the other side of her announces he needs to do a poo. NOW.

The teaching assistant ushers him out of the room, and Miriam turns back to Harriet but the bell goes, and it’s time for break. The moment’s gone. Harriet, like the rest of the children, jumps up from her seat and rushes out of the room. Before Miriam follows them, she looks again at the picture Harriet has drawn. Fancy spending the summer at your parents’ work and no holiday! It’s not like they lack the cash. Unimpressive. For everything Miriam’s parents didn’t do for her, they at least gave her a holiday. Norway, Holland, France – abroad, but not far flung. Until they flung her out. But then, that was her fault. Or so they said.

Still, this isn’t about her. It really isn’t. It’s about Harriet. And the other children, of course. About making sure they’re all as happy as they can possibly be.

True, the happiest place would be at home with her. But you can’t have too much, too soon.

So for now, if they aren’t happy, then she’ll need to change things. One step at a time.

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