Becoming Tess Read online

  “Do you understand what I’m saying, Miss Dawson?” He was feeling piqued, impatient and unappreciated. He had broken the awful news, he thought, with sensitivity and kindness. And still Tess Dawson showed not a flicker of response, not a twitch of acknowledgment. He decided to play his final and best trump card in the hope of shocking her into a response, some sign that he was having an effect on her.

  “What is more, it seems that traces of your blood, and therefore your DNA, and your fingerprints were found at the scene of the death. You were actually there at or around the time of the murder.”

  He wanted her to know that she was in trouble. The facts spoke for themselves. She could not simply sit there and say nothing. He continued to get angry.

  “You’re to be questioned by the police tomorrow at 2.30. Please wait for Mark to find you in the common room at 2.15. He will be attending the meeting with you.”

  Tess imagined that he found her heartless and unfeeling, untouched by human tragedy and personal loss. The absence of a response to his overtures was a rejection of him. That was an agony. As if in confirmation of that fact he stood, indicating that the meeting was over, that he had said all he had to say and that she could go. Tess stood wearily, looked once at his drawn and pale face and walked out of the room.

  *

  After the session with Evelyn and the meeting with the Director, Tess had found her refuge again in the potting shed. She was preoccupied by the prospect of her interview with Inspector McKenzie and felt apprehensive. She found herself rehearsing what might be said to her or asked of her and she wondered if she could keep silent if the pressure of the questions mounted, the demand became irresistible. She had made up her mind that she would answer none of the questions. She would wait for Evelyn.

  In Evelyn she had found her ally. She had found someone who did not judge her and she felt reassured by that one simple fact. It felt as if she were being held in invisible and containing arms. She remembered that feeling. She had felt it a long time ago and the memory came back as the image of a face, warm and smiling, yet, in the eyes, holding a quality of seriousness and concentration. And all this was focused on her and it had been wonderful and scary. Then she remembered his name. Mr Muddiford.

  He had been her form teacher when she was nine, perhaps just ten. Her father had just left and she was a prisoner in a house where her mother and her brother were the jailers. She only saw her father infrequently and her mother made it clear that she disapproved of Tess’s need to see him at all. Nevertheless, she fought to be allowed to visit him once a month. This lasted for five years until her father moved away from Kent altogether. She never really saw him again and it had been her mother who had eventually told her about his final departure in a mean and taunting way. That awful event coincided roughly with Stephen leaving home. She had been lucky that her father had remained in her vicinity for as long as he did. After Stephen finally left, she had only her carping and complaining mother to deal with. That was easy in comparison to the two of them together.

  Neither was ever satisfied by the poisonous exchanges that passed for a relationship. Tess watched it all with only a vague understanding. By the age of ten she knew that the pain and suffering that all three endured was out of the ordinary, not right. The desperation of this intractable state of affairs ate away at her as she slowly developed the depression that she had been powerless to prevent. She had still hoped until then that her father might rescue her and take her away. Her schoolwork had suffered and she had developed the kind of behavioural problems that show themselves in low-key acts of aggression and disruptive actions that become troublesome in a class of thirty-four children.

  Her behaviour began to draw attention from Mr Muddiford. From having been a quiet child (he had asked her previous class teachers) she was becoming noisy and bad mannered. She had hit her friend Sally for no apparent reason and Sally had cried inconsolably, causing upset to the class. Her exercise books were becoming messy and her work careless and full of mistakes. These were the changes that bothered Mr Muddiford. He knew that her father had left and that her brother Stephen, ahead of her by two years at the school and now moved on to the secondary school, had been a problem for several years. He knew her mother only from her infrequent attendance at parents’ meetings. She had been arrogant and bragging, inappropriately over-estimating the ability of her children who he knew were both unhappy. He had never met her father and that in itself confirmed William Dawson’s indifference to his children and the almost certain breakdown of any healthy relationship between him and his now estranged wife.

  Tess had always been fascinated by Mr Muddiford. There was something about him that fed her imagination, and she regarded him with longing. He was the kindest person she had ever met. He was one of the people, in fact, that helped to form part of the slow-dawning realisation in her that there are good and kind people in the world. This realisation was a radical departure from the feeling that had grown in her about her mother and her brother. To her everlasting benefit, Mr Muddiford acted like a beacon of light and hope in her rather dark world. What had confirmed Mr Muddiford as the keeper of hope and goodness was an incident one morning in the form room that her class occupied in a light and airy building at the top of the sloping playground.

  Mr Muddiford was working his way through the roll call, ticking each name on a register as he did so. As he came to Tess’s name she did not answer the usual ‘here’ in response. She sat at her desk, which she shared with Sally, doodling on her nature studies exercise book. She had heard her name being called out and for a moment she registered in her mind that she did not want to reply and she said nothing. Mr Muddiford called her name a second time. Again, she remained silent.

  Inside Tess a small revolt, manifesting itself as a rebellion against authority, was taking place. She had never been directly defiant to Mr Muddiford. She liked him too much, and perhaps that was what made what she did next possible. What was slowly turning over in her mind was that she could remain silent and no one would be able to reach her. The silence and invisibility she had learnt to master at home she had now brought into the classroom. It gave her a frisson of both pleasure and fear to feel as powerful as she did. She waited to see what Mr Muddiford would do. This was his test. He raised his eyes slowly from the register and looked directly at her. He said very softly:

  “Tess, would you come here, please.”

  It was not a request but a gentle and irresistible instruction. She stood up and walked slowly on wobbling legs to the desk and stood next to his chair. She was anticipating retribution and punishment. Then he said:

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong, Tess?”

  In that instant she realised that he knew and understood her. What she had been asking for, demanding in her convoluted way, was for someone to ask her what was wrong. She looked into his face briefly before resuming her downward stare at the floor. She was struck dumb by the sheer unfathomable depth and unfamiliarity of what had been asked of her.

  She could not speak. She felt as if she were suspended in an unknown land, hoping and longing for his lead and guidance. He had placed his left hand on her right forearm to make contact with her and reassure her as he had asked the question. The kindness of his touch was alien to her. She flinched and pulled away. He remained still and silent, his question still hanging in the air. His left hand rested on the desk as he contemplated her. She was transfixed by the nearness of this man who seemed to care about her. She could never have put what she felt into words. Then, and on an inexplicable impulse, she placed her right hand on Mr Muddiford’s hand and quietly began to cry. She stood next to him as the class murmured and chattered and watched. In all the time she cried he kept his hand under hers, constant and unmoving. When she had cried enough he took her hand in his and said:

  “Tess, if you ever want to talk to me just ask. Will you do that?”

  She looked into his face and nodded. A small grin turned the left-hand corner of her mouth
down as she walked away and sat down next to Sally.

  When Tess looked up it was later than she had thought. She felt a now familiar pressure in her chest and tightness in her throat. She breathed in, her forehead gathering into its lines and ridges and she let out a small, sad sob. Tomorrow she would attend the interview. She was ready.

  *

  Evelyn Doyle sat alone in the conservatory that reached out into her garden. She was understandably perplexed. Ever since her meeting with Tess that morning she had been dogged throughout the day by a question: Why had Tess Dawson been in West Wales in her brother’s cottage? Everything she knew about Stephen Dawson and his sister’s relationship with him indicated that there was no bond between them that would lead Tess to travel what must be well over a hundred miles in the depths of winter to visit a brother who she had not seen for years, who had bullied and tormented her throughout her childhood. Her presence there, and particularly the trace of her blood and her fingerprints that had clinched the fact of her presence, had thrown Evelyn into a bout of speculation.

  She looked out over the darkening garden. She heard the insistent alarm call of a blackbird and looked intently with narrowed eyes, trying to make out the presence of a cat in her garden. She could see nothing except the gloom of the shrubbery and the vague outline of trees against the sky. It was chilly in the conservatory. She stood again and, with an air of distraction, made her way into the kitchen just as Paul Doyle let himself in through the front door.

  Chapter 8

  Tess had spent Tuesday evening after her meeting with the Director watching TV in the small TV room. She needed to calm down. She had the TV room to herself until nine o’clock when Judith came in to watch her favourite programme. They both stayed in silence, watching the drama, Tess running over the incident with Mr Muddiford again and again in her mind. She marvelled at how she felt relaxed and energised by what she remembered. She felt that she had moved another small step towards her destination. She had rid herself of a burden that had been weighing her down. She felt definitely lighter, and she had a subtle impression of openness, of air and light. Just that one person had been kind to her and all these years later the memory of him could give her the feeling of being cared for.

  He had not been the only teacher to shed light on her dark world of conflict and confusion. There had been Miss Palmer, who always smelt of cigarette smoke. Tess had sometimes glimpsed her smoking in the staff room through the open door as she had been passing. Miss Palmer was perhaps in her fifties when Tess had known her. She supposed now that she was probably dead, if not from smoking then from age. She felt a pang of regret at the thought of Miss Palmer no longer being in the world. It was for Miss Palmer that, at the age of seven, she had brought a dead starling to school. She had brought it in a shoe box, entranced by its shining black and rainbow feathers, its slightly open beak, closed eyes and clenched claw feet. Tess could now see the sadness of her seven-year-old self and knew how important Miss Palmer’s kindness had been to her.

  Tess smiled to herself as she watched the television, her eyes occupied with the banal images, the rest of her with the things that mattered. She thought about who else had taken an interest in her. There had been Mrs Howard who was a sort of acquaintance of her mother whom she had met through some voluntary work she had done for a while, until the effort of helping others had palled and she had given it up to concentrate on herself. Mrs Howard was kind, like Mr Muddiford and Miss Palmer. She had shown an interest in Tess, had liked her and shown it. They were clear, vivid memories, unlike her unpleasant memories of humiliation, pain and anger which were cloudy and confused, as if something inside her were trying to make them disappear.

  She realised that she had loved Mr Muddiford, Miss Palmer and Mrs Howard and that she still loved them. Her love had been permanent and had weathered all the storms of her life so far. Nothing would ever change how she felt about them. In fact, her love for them had formed the only solid foundations of her life. She realised that little of what she had subsequently built on those foundations had been as solid or as permanent as they were, but she believed that what she was building now could perhaps be strong, durable and stable. Some of her would have to be dismantled and rebuilt; some of her would need to be underpinned and made steady. Remembering her foundations and shedding her tears were part of the process of rebuilding. Here at Wellbridge House that was her reason for living.

  *

  The following morning she spent her time in the vegetable garden with Ted. There was tidying up to be done and used plant pots to be cleaned and disinfected in the potting shed. Tess was absorbed until mid-morning and her tea break. It was not until she went into the house that she began to think about the interview. Judith was standing at the drinks trolley looking nervous and jumpy. Pouring herself a cup of coffee from the stainless steel jug, she sat down next to Tess on the sofa by the window. Tess made Judith feel better. Judith said:

  “You’ve got your interview after lunch, haven’t you? You feel OK about it?”

  Judith was getting used to a Tess who talked.

  Tess thought for a few moments and said: “Yeah, I think so. I haven’t really got anything to say to the police. I don’t want to talk to them.”

  “You’re getting on alright with your therapist? What’s her name?” Judith asked.

  “Evelyn. Yes, well I think. I don’t say much but I can usually say something. I think it’ll get easier.”

  Lunchtime came and went and Tess sat on the terrace at the rear of the building waiting for 2.15 to come. At 2.10 she heard and then saw Ann McKenzie’s car arrive and park in the car park at the front of the house. The Inspector would be reporting to the Director and meeting up with Mark before her interview began. At 2.25 Mark appeared out of the staff room and walked over to her.

  “Hi, Tess,” he said. “Ready?”

  Tess nodded and followed him into the meeting room that looked out over the lawn. She was sitting in one of the armchairs as Ann McKenzie entered the room and said hello. The Inspector sat on the chair facing Tess and placed her briefcase on the coffee table next to her chair. Mark had taken up an unobtrusive position by the window and was arranging his writing pad on the wide windowsill. He was obviously going to take notes. Inspector McKenzie had a small digital recorder that she placed on the small occasional table that she’d put between Tess and herself. She turned it on.

  “As you can see, Tess,” she said, “I’m going to record our conversation. What you say to me here is on the record. I am interviewing you on behalf of Dyfed-Powys Police about the death of your brother, Stephen Dawson. Do you understand that to be the purpose of this interview?”

  Tess nodded. She understood the purpose of the interview. Ann McKenzie spoke again.

  “As you know from the Director, your brother was found dead on 28th February at his home in West Wales. I am very sorry for your loss and that you’ve had the news so long after the event.” She paused briefly. “I don’t know what relationship you had with your brother but we’ve recently discovered from Dyfed-Powys Police that traces of your DNA and your fingerprints were found at the scene. Did you visit your brother at or around the date of his death?” Ann McKenzie paused and waited for a reply.

  Tess Dawson sat still and looked down at the floor. She was contemplating the rug, its patterns and repetitions. It was grey and green, pleasant enough, but it needed cleaning. Tess looked up, catching an expression of perplexity on Ann McKenzie’s face. In the instant Tess caught her eyes the Inspector focused on Tess, changing her expression to one of mild expectation, even hope. Tess knew that this painful process was not easy for the Inspector either. She was doing her job. Perhaps she knew that nothing would come of it and that she was simply going through the motions.

  She tried again. “When did you last see your brother, Stephen?”

  Silence. Mark shuffled on his chair, pen poised over his pad.

  “Did you see your brother before the day of his death, before the 28th of F
ebruary?”

  Silence again.

  “Were you in Newport on or around the date of his death?”

  Silence. Ann McKenzie paused and waited. Mark made a note on his pad. After a minute she continued.

  “It’s important that we have some answers to our questions, Tess. At some point, for your own good if for no other reason, you will need to talk about what happened. It can’t be good for you to keep everything inside like this. Please try and answer my questions.”

  Ann McKenzie sat back in her chair. She knew with some equanimity that there would be no answers, not here, not with her. She could only hope that in Tess’s conversations with Evelyn Doyle she would eventually be able to talk about what had happened with Stephen Dawson back in February. In the meantime her job was done. She had tried and failed and, if she were honest with herself, was not really that surprised.

  Tess looked down again. She was signalling to the Inspector that the interview was over. She felt a mild regret that she had chosen not to take the opportunity that Ann McKenzie had briefly offered her.

  Ann McKenzie said with sudden and unexpected exasperation in her voice:

  “I think we should stop here. There seems no point in carrying on. I’ll make my report to my colleagues at Dyfed-Powys Police and we’ll see what they want to do. I will recommend, under the circumstances, and given that you’re already resident here and undergoing therapy, that they pursue their enquiries with you at a later date. What they decide to do will be up to them and they may well want to come and interview you themselves.”

  Tess nodded her assent.