The Husband's Secret(35)

            It was disconcerting, being here at her old school, as if time were a blanket that had been folded up so that different times were overlapping, pressed against each other. She would have to remind Felicity about Mrs. Bungonia’s cannelloni.

            No. No, she wouldn’t.

            Liam suddenly pivoted and karate-kicked the rubbish bin so that it clanged.

            “Liam,” remonstrated Tess, but not really loud enough for him to hear.

            “Liam! Shhh!” called her mother, louder, putting a finger to her lips and pointing toward the church. A small group of mourners had come out and were standing about talking to one another in that restrained, relieved way of funeral attendees.

            Liam didn’t kick the rubbish bin again. He was an obedient child. Instead he picked up a stick and held it in two hands like a ninja sword, swirling it above his head, while the sound of sweet little voices singing “Eensy Weensy Spider” floated out of one of the kindergarten classrooms. Oh, God, thought Tess; where had he learned to do that? She had to be more vigilant about those computer games, although she couldn’t help admiring the authentic way he handled the sword. She would tell Will about it later. He’d laugh.

            No, she wouldn’t tell Will about it later.

            Her brain couldn’t seem to catch up with the news. It was like the way she’d kept rolling toward Will last night in her sleep, only to find empty space where he should have been, and then waking up with a jolt. She and Will slept well together. No twitching or snoring or battling for blankets. “I can’t sleep properly without you now,” Will complained after they’d only been dating a few months. “You’re like a favorite pillow. I have to pack you wherever I go.”

            “Which particular dreadful nun died?” Tess asked her mother again, her eyes on the mourners. Now was not the time to be pulling out old memories like that.

            “They weren’t all dreadful,” reflected her mother. “Most of them were lovely. What about that Sister Margaret Ann, who came to your tenth birthday party? She was beautiful. I think your father quite fancied her.”

            “Seriously?”

            “Well, probably not.” Her mother shrugged as if not being attracted to beautiful nuns was yet another example of her ex-husband’s failings. “Anyway, this must be the funeral for Sister Ursula. I read in the parish newsletter last week that she died. I don’t think she ever taught you, did she? Apparently she was a great one for smacking with the handle of the feather duster. Nobody uses feather dusters much these days, do they? Is the world a dustier place for it, I wonder?”

            “I think I remember Sister Ursula,” said Tess. “Red face and caterpillar eyebrows. We used to hide from her when she was on playground duty.”

            “I’m not sure if there are any nuns teaching at the school anymore,” said her mother. “They’re a dying breed.”

            “Literally,” said Tess.

            Her mother chortled. “Oh, dear, I didn’t mean . . .” She stopped, distracted by something at the church entrance. “Okay, darling, steel yourself. We’ve just been spotted by one of the parish ladies.”

            “What?” Tess was immediately filled with a sense of dread, as if her mother had said they’d just been spotted by a wild animal.

            A petite blond woman had detached herself from the mourners and was briskly walking toward the school yard.

            “Cecilia Fitzpatrick,” said her mother. “The eldest Bell girl. Married John-Paul, the eldest Fitzpatrick boy. The best-looking one, if you want my opinion, although they’re all much of muchness. Cecilia had a younger sister, I think, who might have been in your year. Let’s see now. Bridget Bell?”