The Accursed Moor

Chapter 2

2

At the gate, the parents gathered as usual but this time there was more than just a little curiosity in the prolonged stares as Salmon saw the children safely off the school grounds. Several groups of women huddled together, exchanged comments and admiring nods. This was the new teacher of their off-spring, and everyone wanted to know what he was like. He returned their stares with nods and smiles. Some chose to ignore his advances, greeting him with blank looks. Nobody gave much away, not what was inside their hearts. They were Cornish, strong, stoic people, friendly only up to a point. Once the barrier had been broken, they were warm and caring. However, to reach that point would take work. Salmon still had that to learn, but he was in no rush. So, he ruffled heads and the children gave him grins. That was the real acceptance he wished for, not the temporary acquiescence of adults. Those he could do without. The honesty of children proved constantly refreshing.

With only a handful of children left, he turned to go and stopped. He stood there, a half-grin on a round, grizzled face, a squat, solid-looking man of indeterminate age. Short-haired, a day's growth of pan-scourer like beard on his chin, his arms as thick as Salmon's thighs, he had the air of a rugby player or even a wrestler about him. Cauliflower ears gave strength to the picture. He exuded confidence, perhaps a little too much. Salmon’s stomach tightened with a tiny tickle of wariness and he forced himself to appear neutral. The man stuck out a big paw. "Colin Fearn," he said, his accent thick with the buzz of the Cornish and Salmon had to tilt his head, concentrate on the words. "Everyone calls me Fearn, never Colin. I'm Head of Governors. Sorry I couldn’t make it for your interview."

Salmon took the hand, felt the considerable strength in the grip. "Pleased to meet you."

"Settling in all right?” He released Salmon’s hand, a tiny smile fluttering across his mouth. Salmon had tried to equal Fearn’s grip and had failed. “Found yourself a little flat over in Saint Tudy, so I hear?"

There was no surprise there; Salmon knew nothing much was going to remain secret for long in the tight-knit community he had come into. "Yes. It’s small but quite nice."

"So I understand. Sam Kent's place. Just had it redecorated, so he'll be pleased to have found a tenant so quickly." He put his arm around Salmon's shoulders and guided him back towards the entrance to the school. The mist that had clung to the surroundings for most of the day had gone by now, but the chill remained. Salmon welcomed it because it cooled the rising heat of his discomfort. He was like a child in this man’s presence. "Thing is, Mr Salmon, we're all very close here, so don't be too put out by what we say and notice. We may all seem to know your business, but we're not being nosey, we just talk, that's all. No harm done."

"No, I understand all of that, Mr Fearn."

"You can call me Fearn, just Fearn. Almost everyone else does." He allowed his arm to slip away from Salmon, but the smile stayed fixed. "Listen, why don't you pop around to the pub tonight, around eight, and we'll have a little chin-wag?" Salmon had to force himself not to groan. All he wanted to do was go home, eat his tea, and sleep. The day had been long and tiring, and he was utterly exhausted. Fearn must have sensed the new teacher's hesitancy as his face took on ill-concealed displeasure. He threw out his hands and shrugged. "I understand if you have other plans, so—"

"No, no, it's not that. Just, with it being my first day and all… Could we make it another night? Give me chance to settle in, establish a routine. I've got quite a lot of marking to do as well, and…"

Fearn held up his palm. "Say no more, Mr Salmon. We'll make it another night. Why don't we say Friday? Then you won't have to worry about getting up too early the following day?"

"Sounds good to me."

Fearn proffered his hand again and Salmon took it. Was it just his imagination, or was the grip even stronger this time? "Deal done, Mr Salmon. See you in the pub on Friday, at eight."

He strode off and Salmon watched him go. A strong feeling of having been manipulated percolated away inside. Next time, he’d have to stand up for himself a little more. He turned and went through the door.

The school entrance opened up immediately into the tiny hall, which also doubled as a dining room. Adjacent, on the left, was the Head's office, and next to it, the caretaker's store. The caretaker was already there, sorting out mops and brooms, and didn't give Salmon as much as a glance. He was a big man who almost filled the entire cupboard with his body. Salmon had not seen him before, had never been introduced. Perhaps there was some reason for that, one he wasn’t aware of. He paid it no mind and went to go into his classroom when, from her office, Mrs Winston called to him. He changed direction and stepped inside.

She was bent over her computer screen, peering at the text with her eyes screwed up in a squint. A small woman, Salmon had never seen her dressed in anything other than a trouser suit. Today it was steel-grey in colour and matched the air of severity she always seemed to convey. As Headteacher, and leader of the tiny village school, perhaps this was a conscious act, but he couldn’t tell. Responsibility, perhaps, made her appear stern. Not unattractive, but the pinched cheeks and tight lips set up an impenetrable wall, warning signs to keep back. He’d rarely seen her smile, but then, it was still early days. For all he knew, once he got to know her, familiarity could well reveal a whole new woman.

Without a word or a glance, she waved for him to sit on the only other seat in the cramped little office. He did so, and took a moment to survey the organised chaos around him; shelves groaning under the weight of well-stuffed folders, books, papers, the second desk strewn with pens, pencils, open record books, local council memorandums, bills unpaid and paid, the over-laden bureaucracy of the small, rural Primary school. With only forty pupils and a staff of two, the burden of keeping everything working smoothly was great.

The room was barely large enough to accommodate the two adjacent desks which ran along the two walls and formed a sort of ‘L’. Mrs Winston always inhabited her corner, the one furthest from the window, a private domain dominated by a computer, of which she seemed particular protective, and may as well have had a notice saying ‘KEEP OFF’ attached to it.

Flanking this workstation was a bright coloured set of plastic trays, the ‘in’ section bulging. On the opposite side, an old ‘SMA’ baby-milk can filled with pens, pencils and anything else she could stuff inside. On the wall above the monitor, old photographs of former pupils, some in cardboard frames and a man, bearded yet youthful, with a wide-eyed, expressive face. Happy. Salmon settled his eyes on that face. After a few moments, he became aware of her and he turned to see her studying him.

"Peter," she said and swivelled around on her chair to switch off the screen before turning to him again. She smiled when she noticed him staring at the photograph again. “Have you not seen that before, Peter?” He shook his head. “It’s my husband. Dale.” She looked at it herself now. “I thought I’d mentioned him at the interview. He was killed in a boating accident some five years ago.”

Salmon felt his throat tighten. He had no idea assuming, because she wore her wedding ring, that her husband was still alive. He had envisaged him as a small, round man who did ‘something’ in the city. Now, with the truth revealed, he felt somewhat guilty. Whatever Dale had been in life, he was certainly no round little man. Salmon could clearly see that by the chiselled jaw under the beard, the thin, hard lips. A man’s man, strong, fit looking.

He looked up and saw her face and, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, thought she would utter a rebuke. Instead, she smiled again, but not in a friendly way. Salmon suspected it didn't augur well. "How do you feel your first day went?" Any more revelations about her husband were not about to come that day. Perhaps they never would.

"Good," he said, without having to think about it. He meant it. The children had responded well, they seemed polite, attentive, interested. "I think I'll be able to do a lot here."

"Glad to hear it." She glanced at the office door, slapped her knees and got up. She closed the door slowly, then came back to her chair. She took a few breaths. Something heavy seemed to be weighing her down as she considered the floor for a few seconds before continuing. "I just want to say a few things, Peter. Nothing too…” She looked up, that tiny smile reappearing for a moment. “Nothing serious, but it needs to be said.” A loud inhalation. “People here keep things fairly close to their chest, Peter, and rarely let their guard down. It is often difficult to know how they think. I'm not from around here myself, but I am Cornish. I'm from Truro originally, and that’s a little different. I have a house some ten miles or so from here. I didn't want anything in the village, not the way things can be."

Was that a criticism of his taking the rent so close to school? He frowned. "The way things can be?"

"Yes, you know what I mean. Gossip. Tittle-tattle. What they don't know, they'll make up. I know this happens everywhere, even in cities. People always talk, but the difference here, living in each other’s pockets so to speak, it'll get back to you what they say, what they think."

"Well…" He shrugged, not really sure how to respond. "All I can say is I'm not about to get involved in anything controversial. Nothing which will cause embarrassment or concern to the school."

She didn't answer at first, squeezing her lips tight together, almost as if she were struggling to stop herself from blurting out something inappropriate. Waiting, Salmon could see again that she wasn't unattractive, in a matronly way. Not his type, but he understood how many would be drawn to her charms. Her position of authority would interest many men, perhaps fulfil a few fantasies. Clearing her throat, her gaze grew hard as she at last spoke. "That's the whole point, Peter. It doesn't have to be controversial, or embarrassing. It could be anything, anything at all. A gesture, a smile, any of it can be misconstrued, and once the tongues begin to wag … just, you know…" She winked, "be careful. I want you to be part of the community, but … well, maintain a certain aloofness, a distance. You are, after all, a professional."

He hated being preached to in this condescending way. He was no wet-behind-the-ears newcomer, he was an experienced teacher, having worked for ten years in the profession. The schools of Liverpool, the city of his birth, the place where he’d gone to college and trained, were no push-over. They were a tough testing ground and he’d learned a lot, in a very short space of time. But he didn't say any of this, simply nodded, gave his thanks and went into his classroom.

The cleaner was there, whistling tunelessly as he picked up chairs, upturned them, and put them on the desks before sweeping the floor. Salmon watched him from the corner of his eye. This close, Salmon realised just how big he was, well over six-foot, with muscles to match. He had a swarthy look, possibly of Italian or Spanish extraction. Salmon was not going to engage him in idle conversation, nor was he going to be intimidated by the man's seeming indifference. He snapped his briefcase shut and moved over to the door. He paused, only briefly, said, 'Goodnight," and left.

He didn't hear if there was a reply.