Sins Out of School Read Free Page B

repent of their deeds, the carol singing was over and we shepherded the children back to the classrooms for the final lessons of the day. In my case that was supposed to be art, but as my art capabilities are limited to rudimentary stick figures, I gave up the battle and read to them from a Harry Potter book that had somehow found its way into the rather elderly classroom collection. I’d been dying to read it anyway, so we all enjoyed ourselves.
    â€œPlease, miss, will Mrs. Doyle be back tomorrow?” asked Peter as the children tidied up the room for the end of the day.
    â€œI don’t know. Probably.”
    â€œIf she isn’t, I hope you come back, miss. I like you, and we had fun today!”
    Oh, dear. It was delightful that Peter liked me, but fun was not exactly what school was supposed to accomplish. I probably hadn’t done my job, and Mrs. Doyle, when she eventually returned, would have extra work to do. Well, blast it all, the woman should know better than to absent herself with no warning.
    That was funny, actually. As I said something noncommittal to Peter, I wondered idly if Ruth Beecham’s worries might not have some foundation. A conscientious teacher wouldn’t just go away, let alone one with a stern, self-righteous husband. Surely he couldn’t have harmed her here. Or spirited her away? My imagination, nourished by hundreds of mystery novels, could come up with all sorts of possibilities.
    Oh, well. Mrs. Beecham was probably wrong. Maybe Mr. Doyle was just a little too rigid in his views for her taste, and she’d blown the thing up out of all proportion.
    Wearily I erased the chalkboard, found my purse, and went in search of my coat and hat.
    I found them in the staff room, where Catherine was waiting for me with a cup of tea. “Sit down, Dorothy. You look absolutely frazzled.”
    â€œWiped out,” I admitted, dropping onto the sagging couch with a groan. “Oh, that feels good. But I’ll never be able to get up again.” I took the tea and sipped it gratefully.
    â€œHow did you get on?”
    â€œNot too badly, considering. I can’t spell, at least not in English, as the children gleefully pointed out to me. And I’m a total loss as an art instructor. But they learned something in arithmetic—sorry, in maths—and in history, though not what was scheduled. And
they
taught
me
quite a bit of English geography. So it was a good enough day, all in all. Mrs. Doyle has prepared them well. Have you heard from her?”
    â€œNo, actually, and I’ve rung several times. There’s no one at home, and apparently they haven’t an answer phone, or they forgot to turn it on. So I was working myself up to ask if you could possibly consider coming again tomorrow?”
    I groaned. “Catherine, you have no idea how tired I am! I’m too old for this, really I am. And I have a house to clean and a festive meal to prepare and a hundred things to do first—”
    â€œI’ll send you my cleaning woman,” said Catherine. “It’s the least I can do. I can’t pay you from my budget, since you’re not a qualified teacher, but I can pay her out of my own pocket and buy you some time. She’s very competent. Do please say yes! You’re good with the children, and truly there’s no one else, unless everyone in town suddenly recovers from flu. And you’d have my undying gratitude.”
    I sighed, the memory of Peter’s words clouding my judgment. The affection of a child, like that of a cat, cannot be coerced, and winning it always goes to my head. “Oh, very well. But
only
tomorrow, positively.”
    â€œAgreed. I’ll have Mrs. Finch there for you first thing in the morning.”
    â€œOh, Mrs. Finch! I know her well, as it happens. She’s a gem. I can relax about the housework, then. When should I be here?”
    We settled the details, Catherine helped me out of the