Monday saw a big parcel for Miss Drill. She tore it open and exclaimed over the luxuries inside. Her mother sent her one every few months. Constance sniffed at the box of butterscotch fudge. Approved of the wedge pillow. Wondered about the toy walrus.

'It's my childhood teddy. Can't believe she kept it.'

Miss Cackle questioned the choice of walrus.

'She was the only one in a sea of unicorns. I took pity on her. She'd be the last one left otherwise. Not many walruses in the wild.'

Constance nodded in approval. She could understand this reasoning.

'Can't wait for the Easter break.' She looked ecstatic. 'Roast lamb lunches. Catching up with the neighbours for the gossip.'

'Do you go to your parents each school holiday?' Enquired Amelia.

'Much of the time. Or we book somewhere to go with our friends. Last time there were ten of us. Got to make the most of it while they're still around' said Imogen pragmatically.

Constance shuddered at the idea of ten people on holiday together. The absolute chaos.

'It's great actually' said Imogen, seeing her reaction. 'Last summer we went to the south of France, hired a massive villa, we could go walking in the fields, swimming, a tour of a vineyard, drove to other cities, it was amazing. Went running with my dad, the mums all relaxed by the lake, my friends and I went out clubbing, that was the life.'

Despite her reservations, Constance thought that some of it did sound enticing.

'Staff trip to the south of France this summer then?' Said Amelia cheekily. She knew she couldn't insist that Constance join them but a week off duty would be marvellous. Miss Bat would then no doubt go back to Mongolia again, Miss Crotchet said she had plans to visit the Baltic countries (another area of interest for Constance perhaps, she'd mention it) and perhaps she'd think of staying there for a while longer. It seemed like an attractive proposition.

'No. Nightclubs.'

Said Constance wryly. Sometimes it was highly irritating to share a common brain cell, the way that the headmistress and her deputy did. Amelia shrugged and continued planning the vineyard visit in her head. Imogen snorted at the idea of Constance clubbing til the early hours. Then going to pick some plants and herbs and coming back after dawn.

'My mum came with us once. She lasted a few hours but she said never again. Had to massage her feet as penance the morning after' said Imogen with a laugh. 'She made me cook the meals and do the washing up for the day.'

An unreadable expression stole over Constance's face. Amelia buried herself in her newspaper. She knew what was on her deputy's mind.

'You're very close. That's good.'

'She's the centre of my world' said Imogen cheerfully. 'I'd go to the ends of the earth for her.'

Constance wondered how that felt, wanting to look after someone out of love rather than out of duty. Her own mother was out of reach and she felt an unfamiliar pang of envy. It almost felt like heartburn. She thought that was what it was at first. She'd known nothing else but self sufficiency and that had rarely failed her. Imogen saw her expression.

'I take it your mum isn't not around anymore.'

'Not in the sense that you mean.'

Imogen nodded while she selected a bilious pink wafer.

'It's hard when someone dies. Sometimes you feel like they are around even when they aren't there to speak to. You want to tell them things and then remember you can't.'

'Well, yes. But you misunderstand me. She's not dead.'

Imogen stopped mid munch.

'I speak of her in past tense because she is not the person she used to be. She has dementia' said Constance briskly.

Imogen found the silence so awkward that it took a while to think of words and then try to phrase them in the correct order. Constance was used to that reaction.

'No matter, I rarely have to mention it.'

'Have you ever been her carer?'

'I was. Not for long. I wasn't prepared for how quickly it would escalate. After she'd turned violent to the doctors and then to me, they advised me there was no choice but to give her over to a care home. She's barely been able to recognise me since. The last time I saw her, she thought I was the grim reaper.'

Constance's tight twitch of the lips held a wisp of humour. Imogen tried to stifle an inappropriate giggle but failed. Amelia was heard to chuckle behind her newspaper. It was Constance's penchant for long black dresses that gave her the reputation.

'Sorry. I didn't mean to laugh. It's not funny.'

'Sometimes it can be. She thinks I have a tattoo of a bat in an unmentionable place.'

Imogen spluttered over her tea. Amelia grinned.

'That is my cousin Mathilda but she gets us confused' said Constance primly.

'Her cousin runs a bit wild' said Miss Cackle.

Imogen tried to stop sniggering over the thought of Miss Hardbroom with a tattoo. She wondered how old her mother was.

'When did it happen?'

'A long time ago. She was so young. I had been working here for five years when we got the diagnosis. Miss Cackle very kindly arranged for me to take a year off to look after her and then failing that, taking my time to grieve.'

'The person she used to be is buried. Almost all but dead. It's much healthier to acknowledge it and mourn. Makes it easier to get on with things' said Amelia briskly.

Imogen didn't know to say but she sensed the underlying steady anguish residing underneath the other woman's skin.

'She sometimes talks to me, about me, as if I am still at teacher training college. Voices thoughts she would never have said to me before. Like I'm a stranger.'

'Like what?'

'She speaks of me in third person. I have learned that she is proud of me but worried that I am too independent and she admits that she could have been a little harsh on me at times. That I look more like my father and it annoys her. That my standards are too high.'

'She's not wrong there' muttered Imogen. Constance glanced at her.

'She's right of course. About all those things. I bring her my lecture scripts and articles and read them to her. She knows she has a daughter but doesn't know which one I am, so I am whoever she thinks me to be. She likes what I write and when she praises me, it's more than she ever did when I was young. That's how I know she is proud of me.'

Imogen's silence was all that Constance needed. She hated platitudes. She appreciated that Imogen did not know how it felt and so didn't need to speak in pointless sympathy. Her expression said it all. She looked upset.

'I can't imagine that' she muttered.

'Hopefully you won't have to. Does she still mention you know who?' Asked Amelia.

Constance tensed.

'Sometimes.'

'Who?' Imogen looked between them. 'Oh.'

Her. The bane of Miss Hardbroom's life. Someone she could barely speak of.

'My mother thought she was one of the best teachers in the county. She never would have listened to me. I went to the head of year but she told me I was making up malicious rumours.'

Constance left the insinuation hanging. They all knew Miss Broomhead's method of ruling by fear.

'I change the subject and she seems none the wiser.'

Constance finished her tea and rose, brushing her skirt down, signalling the end of the discussion. Imogen felt desperately sad for her.

'It's always harder for the people left behind' Amelia reminded her sombrely. 'She writes her mother letters sometimes. They are read but not understood for long.'