Castles Of Sand

‘Hussein Gauthier,’ put in Ashley tightly, and Malcolm acknowledged this as he struck a match.

‘Gauthier, yes, that is the boy’s name,’ he agreed, smiling as he dropped the spent match into the already overflowing ashtray. Then a look of mild concern crossed his lined, yet still handsome, face. ‘Is something wrong, Ashley? You look—disturbed.’

Ashley indicated the chair at the opposite side of the desk. ‘Can I sit down?’

‘Of course.’ Malcolm walked to resume his seat. ‘Need you ask?’ He frowned. ‘You’re not ill, are you?’

‘Physically, you mean?’ suggested Ashley, a vaguely hysterical note lurking in her voice. ‘No. No, Malcolm, I’m not ill. At least, not in any way that you can see.’

Malcolm rested his elbows on the desk and regarded her thoughtfully across its littered width. ‘You are upset, aren’t you? What is it? Is there anything I can do?’

Ashley lay back in the worn leather armchair and wished desperately that there was. But she didn’t see what anyone could do—except herself. She and Malcolm had never discussed her past. Oh, he knew she had been married, and that her husband had died within a few days of that marriage, but that was all. She had never discussed his identity, or their relationship, and as she had reverted to her maiden name of Gilbert, the rest of the staff were no wiser.

‘Would you like a drink?’

Malcolm indicated the decanter on the filing cabinet by the window, but Ashley shook her head. ‘It’s only eleven o’clock,’ she protested, and Malcolm shrugged his shoulders.

‘Perhaps you need one,’ he suggested, and remembering her own thoughts of only a few minutes ago, Ashley acquiesced. Maybe it would be easier to say what she had to say with a little dutch courage inside her. She didn’t honestly know what she was going to say, but something had to be said, that was certain.

With a glass containing a measure of Scotch whisky in her hand, Ashley strove to find a way to explain herself. ‘I—I have to offer you my resignation,’ she said, clearing her throat as Malcolm stared at her aghast. ‘I—I’m sorry. I know it’s an awkward time for you, the beginning of term and everything, but—I—I’m sorry.’

She buried her nose in the glass as Malcolm digested what she had just told him. Characteristically, he did not immediately deny her claim, but sat there quietly smoking his pipe, watching her with the same assessing intentness, with which he appraised the boys.

‘I assume you do intend to tell me why you’ve come to this decision,’ he said at last, when Ashley had choked over the raw alcohol and set her eyes streaming. ‘You do realise that I care about you, and am concerned about you, and that whatever it is that’s troubling you is better shared?’

Ashley expelled her breath shakily. ‘You’re very kind, Malcolm, but—–’

‘I’m not kind!’ he retorted briefly. ‘I’m concerned. That’s a completely different thing.’

Ashley sighed. Malcom was kind, whatever he said. Kind, and understanding, and had she never known another kind of loving she might easily have succumbed to his affectionate attentions. But when she first came to Brede School to work, she had still been raw from her experiences with the Gauthiers, and she had made it plain that so far as men were concerned she preferred them to keep their distance. In consequence, the association which had developed over the years between her and Malcolm was compounded of a mutual liking and respect, and if, as a bachelor of almost forty years, Malcolm still hoped for a closer relationship, Ashley was not to blame. Nevertheless she did not want to hurt him, and she was loath to destroy what she had built up without due cause.

‘I have to leave,’ she said now, choosing her words with care. ‘Something—something’s happened. I—I can’t stay on.’

Malcolm tapped out his pipe in the ashtray, spilling smouldering shreds of tobacco over the scarred surface of his desk, so that he had to rescue several papers from ignition. Then, turning an unusually taut gaze on Ashley, he said:

‘Why? Why can’t you? You seemed perfectly all right when you arrived this morning. Why, we waved to one another across the quadrangle. For heaven’s sake, if you were thinking of leaving, why didn’t you warn me then?’

Ashley shook her head, looking down into her glass, and with sudden perception Malcolm brought his fist down hard upon the desk. ‘I have it!’ he exclaimed. ‘You weren’t thinking of leaving then, were you? It’s something else. Something that’s happened this morning. Something to do with this new form you’re taking—–’

‘No—–’ began Ashley, realising he was closing on the truth, but Malcolm wasn’t listening to her.

‘It must have to do with the boy,’ he finished at last. ‘What was his name? Gauthier—Hussein Gauthier! Of course,’ this as Ashley turned a stricken face towards him. ‘Why didn’t I realise it before? You identified him immediately, as soon as I mentioned a new boy. I should have connected the two things sooner, only I was more concerned about you.’

Ashley set down her scarcely-touched glass with a weary hand. What was the point of denying it any longer? she thought. Malcolm was no fool. He could demand a satisfactory explanation, he deserved a satisfactory explanation. So why pretend she could just leave here without arousing his suspicions?

‘Well?’ he was asking now. ‘I am right, aren’t I? It’s the boy Gauthier who’s upset you. Why? What’s he to you? Do you know him? Do you know his family? Ashley, I mean to find out, so you might as well be honest with me.’

Ashley inclined her head. ‘He’s my son,’ she said simply, folding her hands in her lap. ‘Hussein—Andrew—Gauthier is my son.’

Malcolm’s astonishment was not contrived. A look of stunned disbelief crossed his features and remained there. He was evidently shaken, and who could blame him? she thought bleakly. She had never, at any time, mentioned that she had had a child.

‘Don’t you think that statement deserves some explanation?’ he ventured at last, thrusting his pipe back into his pocket with somewhat unsteady haste. ‘You told me you’d been married, that your husband was dead. But—but not that—that there were children!’

‘There were no children,’ retorted Ashley wearily. ‘Only one child. And—and as I never saw him, I never felt as if he was mine.’

‘But you must have done!’ Malcolm stared at her. ‘Ashley, a woman always cares about her children.’

‘Not all women,’ corrected Ashley tautly, controlling her emotions with great difficulty. ‘But you’re right about me, as it happens. I did care. At least, in the beginning.’

Malcolm shook his head. ‘You mean to tell me you’ve never even seen this boy?’

‘That’s right.’

‘But how—why? How did it happen?’

Ashley sighed. ‘It’s a long story, Malcolm—–’

‘And don’t you think I deserve to hear it?’

Ashley pressed her lips together. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps you do—I don’t know. Oh, Malcolm, what am I going to do?’

Malcolm got up from his chair and came round to her, perching on the side of his desk and looking down at her with compassionate eyes. ‘I meant what I said, you know. A trouble shared can help one to see it in its right perspective. Perhaps if you talked to me—–’

‘I can’t teach my own son!’ declared Ashley emotively. ‘I can’t, Malcolm. I can’t!’

‘I see there’s a problem,’ said Malcolm levelly, but as she would have protested again, he held up one hand. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Hear me out. This is something we have to talk about.’

Ashley made a helpless gesture. ‘What is there to say? It’s an impossible situation.’

‘First of all, I want you to tell me why you haven’t seen—Hussein—all these years.’ He frowned. ‘And why you added the name Andrew. I don’t recall the boy having that name.’

‘He doesn’t.’ Ashley moved her shoulders wearily. ‘That was my name for him. I called him Andrew. I—I refused to have a son of mine with only an Arab name.’

Malcolm nodded. ‘All right, I understand that. But I had no idea your husband was an Arab. I imagined he was someone you’d met in England.’

‘I did meet him in England,’ said Ashley flatly. ‘I—I met his brother at—at the home of a girl I got to know at university. And—and through him, I got to know Hassan.’

‘I see.’ Malcolm digested this. ‘So you know his family?’

‘I—knew his brother,’ Ashley corrected tightly.

Malcolm sighed. ‘Yet you were married. You had a child!’

‘I lived in London,’ Ashley explained. ‘Hassan had been working here before we got married.’

‘Of course.’ Malcolm slapped his hand to his knee. ‘The Gauthiers are in oil and shipping, aren’t they?’ He gave her a strange look. ‘Ashley, did you realise what a wealthy family you were marrying into?’

Ashley’s long lashes veiled her expression. ‘Yes, I realised it,’ she replied dully. ‘You might say—that was why I married Hassan.’