"Goodnight, Mrs. Stanhope!" The chorus of eight year old voices rang out raggedly, usually emanating from an upturned smiling face, as class 4 filed out of the room, higgledy piggledy, jostling and untidy, eager to embrace the relative freedom of the outside world their parents' cars, fish fingers for tea, "Blue Peter" on television, et al.
Julie Stanhope smiled back at each of them in turn, and made appropriate responses. "Don't forget your reading to night, Julian!" "I hope the hamster's better, Simon." "Enjoy the football, Jane."
With a sigh, she picked up a pile of unmarked story books and dropped them into the bright red stacking plastic box which did duty as a briefcase for the transport of marking, forecast books, report cards, etc. between classroom and lounge sofa, where they were dealt with. Lifting the box with two arms, she called out "Goodnight" to the cleaner and, dexterously lifting her coat from its hook with an outstretched pinkie, she dropped it on top of the box and made her way, almost at a run, through the "quiet room" to the outside rear door.
Only when she had manoeuvred the door open, by a complicated piece of trickery involving the use of elbows and toes, did she risk a general yell of "Goodnight" to her remaining colleagues, still marking books at their desks. A ragged chorus of responses followed in her wake, including one plaintive "Julie!" from her year group leader, which she pretended not to hear as she let the door swing to behind her, and scuttled towards her little Fiesta in the corner of the playground.
Pulling the passenger door open, she dropped her box on top of the pile of Kleenex tissues, squashing the box, and hurried round to the driver's side. She flopped into her seat and, letting her breath out with a sigh, luxuriated in the cocoon-like silence.
But, fearful, still, of being caught before she made her escape, she turned the key in the ignition and guided the car towards the open gate and did not totally relax until she had joined the minimal traffic on the country road which led homewards.
It was still only four o'clock and, although she had to be back at school at half past seven for a "New Parents' Evening", that still meant that she would have a good hour and a half before her own two children returned from their independent school in the town.
She savoured the prospect of returning to an empty, quiet house - having her own space, as the current phraseology would have it. Ten minutes later, the Fiesta drew up in the drive and Julie hefted her box in her arms, nudging the car door shut with a swivel of her hips. At the front door, she laid the box down beside the two full milk bottles - one full cream, one semi-skimmed - on the front step, and unlocked the storm door. Quickly, she stepped over the mail, lying on the mat, and unlocked the inner front door, then decoded the house alarm.
Moving through to the kitchen, she snapped on the light, filled the kettle, put a tea bag in the pot, then returned to the porch. She picked up the pile of mail and took it into the lounge, flinging it onto the settee as she drew the curtains and switched on the wall lights. Back outside, she retrieved her box and put it down beside the settee before, finally, returning outside again to bring in the milk bottles, depositing them in the fridge.
Only then did she divest herself of her coat, kick off her shoes, and curl up on the settee, running a hand through her short, dark hair as she leafed through the mail, waiting for the kettle to boil.
The three junk mail items she jettisoned without opening, and set aside the two credit card statements for her husband's attention later in the evening. With a twinge of conscience, she slipped the department store statement into her bag, awaiting a convenient moment to bring it to Paul's attention.
There was a letter for their son, Stephen, addressed in a round, girlish hand, and Julie sniffed it, smiling slightly at this classic display of maternal curiosity. A couple of business letters were addressed to Paul and these she placed in front of the clock, with the credit card statements. A postcard from neighbours in the South of France drew only a cursory glance before Julie turned to the last item in the pile.
It was a long, white envelope, without a stamp of any description, bearing only the words "Mrs. J. Stanhope - Personal", produced by a PC, in some sort of italic script. Julie Stanhope teased her curiosity by fingering the envelope, trying to guess at its contents. It seemed to contain just a single sheet of paper, and she shrugged. It was probably only a circular from the tennis club, or something. Impatiently, she ripped open the envelope. Inside was a folded sheet of paper, which she opened up and spread along her thigh.
As she gazed at it, her mouth dried and her insides liquefied.
In the centre of the top half was a photocopy of a photograph, and, although it was a poor copy, she recognised it immediately. It was a picture of herself, stretched out languidly on the lounge sofa which had preceded the one she was sitting on now, one leg stretched along the length of the settee, the other dropping to the carpet. One arm was dangling over the arm of the settee, the other resting along its back. She was smiling, a little self-consciously, at the camera, which had been held by her husband, Paul, some six or seven Christmases ago.
And she was entirely naked.
Much of the detail had been lost in the photocopying, but there was no missing the slight shadow under the firm breasts, the darkness of the prominent nipples and aurolae and the dense black triangle between the firm, spread thighs.
Involuntarily, Julie swung her legs off the settee and closed her legs, hunching her shoulders as she tried to take in the message in the lower half of the paper.
"I know it's not a very good copy, but I recognised you straight away. So, I imagine, would your colleagues, your neighbours and your posh friends at the tennis club. I'll be calling on you at half-past four to-night to discuss what we're going to do about it."
It was signed off - "A Concerned Parent".
Julie sat on the settee, stunned. The kids had bought Paul an digital camera that Christmas and, inevitably, his thoughts had soon turned to nude photos of her. For an apparently sober, staid accountant, her husband had an unexpectedly lively interest in sex, and in keeping their marriage from going stale. The nude photo scene had stimulated his attention for a while, but had been superseded by the acquisition of a video recorder, upon which the camera disappeared to the back of a drawer.
The video craze, however, had not lasted long, either, Julie's self-consciousness and Paul's inadequacy as a cameraman contributing to a quick disillusionment about its erotic propensities. Julie had made sure that all his taped attempts had been surreptitiously wiped and, she had thought, she had all the photos safely locked away in her strong box with birth certificates and various family documents.
Her mind was still whirling when the ring of the doorbell nearly made her heart stop. Frantically, she looked at the clock, but the face was obscured by Paul's letters. She pulled back the sleeve of her blouse. Her watch showed exactly 4:30.
She stood up. Dare she not answer? Force of habit, as much as anything else, combined with a sense of utter unreality, propelled her into the hall and across to the door. Forcing herself not to think, she turned the handle.
She had put one foot into the porch when she became aware that her caller was already inside it, and she gasped in surprise - but not panic - as he spoke. In the gloom of the unlit porch, he was unrecognisable - indeed, it took Julie a second or two to realise that he was wearing a stocking-mask. The mask also muffled his voice, so that his opening remark was lost on her, but he was already moving past her into the hall and she followed him, dumbly. He closed the inner front door behind her, and locked it with the key, still dangling from the keyhole.
It wasn't until he clicked on the shaded hall light and leaned forward to take the piece of paper from her that she realised she was still carrying it. Ostentatiously, he folded it so that only the picture showed, then held it in front of her, forcing her eyes to scan it.
Dragging her eyes away from the picture, she looked past it, at him. He was dressed all in black - black polo shirt, tracksuit bottoms and trainers, and even the stocking pulled over his head, flattening his hair and nose and mouth, was black.
"Who are you?" she whispered, in a faltering voice. His reply was curiously mangled, but she could make it out well enough.
"I told you. I'm a parent who's concerned about a teacher of children who flaunts herself like a shameless hussy. Aren't you ashamed?"
Eyes downcast, Julie nodded. "Yes," she whispered.
"How would you like this photograph to go to. . . . " he hesitated, then "John Wilson?"
Her stomach lurched at the thought of the school caretaker - an ex-Army man of sixty-plus, but still with a salacious interest in all the female teachers under 40 - gloating over the picture, and she ran her tongue over dry lips.
"He'd love it, wouldn't he?" Again, she nodded, but said nothing, her heart beating wildly.
He stretched out his hand and lifted her chin, forcing her eyes up to meet his.
"OK," he said. "Now show me, Mrs. Stanhope - show me what you've got."
"Here?" asked Julie, in genuine surprise, looking around the small hall with its wood parquet floor, surrounded by doors.
"Here," he agreed, quietly, then, like a whiplash "and now!"
Julie started as though she'd been hit, then, with trembling fingers, started to unbutton her blouse. With just two buttons loosened she stopped and looked at the formless face behind the grotesque mask.
"Please ..." she whispered. "Please don't ..."
But he just stared at her through his mask and, after a few seconds, her heart heavy, Julie re-commenced unbuttoning her blouse.
"Take it off," he commanded, when all the buttons were undone, and she complied, leaving herself unclothed above the waist, apart from her cream silk brassiere.
