Read Online Summer at Shell Cottage by Lucy Diamond - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lucy Diamond
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the whole time. You had to know when to switch off, close down that compartment in your mind and leave
it at the office – these were fundamental rules of her job. But it was hard for soft-hearted Harriet to block out the kids in her care, especially when she’d built up some trust. Their
faces would come to her over the summer and she would wonder with a pang how they were coping, alone in the wilderness of the holidays. And then, come September, she’d spend the first week or
so practically holding her breath while she did a mental headcount, checking up on her students, counting them all back in again.
Still. She was tired, weighed down by their problems and heartbreak, by every injustice they faced. And actually, there were some things she wouldn’t miss about being here and dealing with
stroppy, angry, often rude teenagers day in day out. Just that morning, Violet Parker had laughed in her face and said, ‘Whoa, Miss, what’s going on with them funky eyebrows, then? Was
it, like, a bet or summink? Was you drunk or what?’
Yeah. A break from the personal comments would be nice.
Meanwhile, Molly and Robert were on good form and looking forward to their upcoming holiday. There were all sorts of activities laid on for the students at Molly’s school this week,
probably in an attempt to stop the Year 10s bunking off en masse, and today she was going on a trip to Stratford-upon-Avon with the English department. Harriet had been astonished to hear that her
book-dodging daughter had actually chosen this option, voluntarily, without any kind of bribery, especially as all her friends seemed to have plumped for trips that sounded way more fun – to
the Tate Modern or the Olympic Park. Secretly, she was thrilled. Could this be Robert’s good influence rubbing off on his stepdaughter, inspiring her to develop a love of literature? Miracles
happened, she supposed.
Robert also had a big day today – an important lunch meeting with both his British and American editors in town, at some gastro place called the Marylebone Tavern. ‘We’re going
to wade through the entire manuscript together, chapter by chapter, and discuss how to finesse it,’ he’d told her rather grandly the night before as they snuggled on the sofa in front
of a cop drama on TV. (Well, he was watching it anyway. She was distracted by watching him shove handfuls of Kettle Chips into his gob and wishing she had a higher performing metabolism.)
Lucky, lucky Robert, Harriet thought now as she made herself a gritty instant coffee from the last dregs of the jar and waved hello to one of her colleagues across the staff room. It certainly
seemed to take a lot of eating and drinking to get a book published, in her opinion. How the other half lived!
‘Will you be coming back after the holidays?’ Alison, one of the teaching assistants, had asked her the other week, only half joking. ‘If my hubby hit the big time, I’d
be tempted to retire and lie around on a chaise longue eating chocolate all day.’
Harriet had laughed, not taking the question seriously, but later that afternoon, when she was told to fuck off (twice) and called a fat nosey bitch on the phone by Lillie Arnold’s
alcoholic mother, she lay her head on the desk, wondering, as she sometimes did, why she bothered. Maybe it would be easier to turn her back on it all, simply stick two fingers up at Mrs Arnold and
all those other crap, useless parents she came across who seemed hell-bent on ruining their children’s lives.
It was actually quite tempting now she thought about it. She could become Robert’s glamorous assistant and drive him around to his meetings and parties. Perhaps in a saucy little uniform
– he’d like that . . .
The bell rang just then, signalling the end of break time, and Harriet snapped out of her reverie. Three days left of term. She could make it.
Harriet was only due to be in school for the morning that day, with a gruelling afternoon looming,
it at the office – these were fundamental rules of her job. But it was hard for soft-hearted Harriet to block out the kids in her care, especially when she’d built up some trust. Their
faces would come to her over the summer and she would wonder with a pang how they were coping, alone in the wilderness of the holidays. And then, come September, she’d spend the first week or
so practically holding her breath while she did a mental headcount, checking up on her students, counting them all back in again.
Still. She was tired, weighed down by their problems and heartbreak, by every injustice they faced. And actually, there were some things she wouldn’t miss about being here and dealing with
stroppy, angry, often rude teenagers day in day out. Just that morning, Violet Parker had laughed in her face and said, ‘Whoa, Miss, what’s going on with them funky eyebrows, then? Was
it, like, a bet or summink? Was you drunk or what?’
Yeah. A break from the personal comments would be nice.
Meanwhile, Molly and Robert were on good form and looking forward to their upcoming holiday. There were all sorts of activities laid on for the students at Molly’s school this week,
probably in an attempt to stop the Year 10s bunking off en masse, and today she was going on a trip to Stratford-upon-Avon with the English department. Harriet had been astonished to hear that her
book-dodging daughter had actually chosen this option, voluntarily, without any kind of bribery, especially as all her friends seemed to have plumped for trips that sounded way more fun – to
the Tate Modern or the Olympic Park. Secretly, she was thrilled. Could this be Robert’s good influence rubbing off on his stepdaughter, inspiring her to develop a love of literature? Miracles
happened, she supposed.
Robert also had a big day today – an important lunch meeting with both his British and American editors in town, at some gastro place called the Marylebone Tavern. ‘We’re going
to wade through the entire manuscript together, chapter by chapter, and discuss how to finesse it,’ he’d told her rather grandly the night before as they snuggled on the sofa in front
of a cop drama on TV. (Well, he was watching it anyway. She was distracted by watching him shove handfuls of Kettle Chips into his gob and wishing she had a higher performing metabolism.)
Lucky, lucky Robert, Harriet thought now as she made herself a gritty instant coffee from the last dregs of the jar and waved hello to one of her colleagues across the staff room. It certainly
seemed to take a lot of eating and drinking to get a book published, in her opinion. How the other half lived!
‘Will you be coming back after the holidays?’ Alison, one of the teaching assistants, had asked her the other week, only half joking. ‘If my hubby hit the big time, I’d
be tempted to retire and lie around on a chaise longue eating chocolate all day.’
Harriet had laughed, not taking the question seriously, but later that afternoon, when she was told to fuck off (twice) and called a fat nosey bitch on the phone by Lillie Arnold’s
alcoholic mother, she lay her head on the desk, wondering, as she sometimes did, why she bothered. Maybe it would be easier to turn her back on it all, simply stick two fingers up at Mrs Arnold and
all those other crap, useless parents she came across who seemed hell-bent on ruining their children’s lives.
It was actually quite tempting now she thought about it. She could become Robert’s glamorous assistant and drive him around to his meetings and parties. Perhaps in a saucy little uniform
– he’d like that . . .
The bell rang just then, signalling the end of break time, and Harriet snapped out of her reverie. Three days left of term. She could make it.
Harriet was only due to be in school for the morning that day, with a gruelling afternoon looming,
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