My daughter told me a secret on her way to school

I had never done the school run before. Work took up practically all of my time from Monday to Friday, but in the last week of the summer holidays my wife’s mother passed away. She had gone down south to support her father, and help with the funeral arrangements. Which left me to hold the fort.

As much as I miss her, it’s been nice to spend so much one-on-one time with Hilda. She is the spitting image of her mother, and her likeness doesn’t stop there. She has the same sharp wit, and an emotional intelligence way beyond her six years. I suppose with me always being at work and Hilda being an only child, it makes a lot of sense. They spend a lot of time together, especially over the holidays.

Hilda was happy to give me directions as I drove her to school. I do know the way of course, but I enjoyed playing along with the idea that I didn’t.

“So, first day of year two,” I teased.

She turned and frowned at me. I could tell exactly what face she was pulling without taking my eyes off the road.

“What?” I laughed.

“It’s year three actually,” she said matter-of-factly.

“No way! When did you get old?”

She just smiled and turned to look out the window.

“Daddy?”

Whenever she had anything to say, Hilda always had to say my name first, then wait for my response. I’d told her many times that she could just start talking, and I would know that she was talking to me, but it didn’t seem to ever sink in. It was cute, if not a little frustrating sometimes.

“Yes?”

“Was it dangerous when you went to school?”

That caught me off guard.

“Dangerous?”

“Yeah. Because of the dinosaurs!”

She erupted into laughter at her own joke; the sound of it was so infectious.

“Very funny,” I chuckled, “are you looking forward to your first day back?”

“Yeah.”

Kids – brilliant at carrying conversations.

“What are you looking forward to the most?”

She didn’t answer right away, I could almost hear the cogs ticking.

“Playing with my friends. Oh, and my new teacher is Mrs Gibson. Layla says she’s the best!”

Layla is Hilda’s cousin, on my wife’s side. She’s in the year above.

“Won’t you miss your old teacher?”

“No,” she responded, so quickly that she must have felt strongly about it. “She was the worst teacher.”

I felt a sudden pang of guilt. My own daughter had suffered a year with ‘the worst teacher’ and I’d had no idea.

“How was she the worst?” I prodded.

“She was always cross. She didn’t like fun. She told me off when I cried.”

“Oh, that’s not very nice.”

“On the last day of school I played a trick on her.”

Hilda giggled to herself, and shot me a mischievous smile. That’s my girl, I thought.

“It was Charlie’s idea,” she continued, “we were in the art hut, and she went in the cupboard where the pens and paper are, and I locked the door!”

I laughed. I remembered doing something similar back in my school days.

“That way!” Hilda shouted, leaning forward in her seat, pointing down the road that led to her school. I had seen it coming a mile off, but had chosen to pretend that I hadn’t. Hilda was looking very pleased with herself.

I parked as close as I could to the school gates, which was not close at all. My wife had complained about the school drop-off before, but it was even worse than I’d imagined. I walked Hilda down the pavement and to the school gate. I gave her a big hug and kissed her on the forehead.

“Have a great day.”

“I will!” She chirped, then ran off to join a line of other kids about her size.

I watched her for a while, finding her friends, talking about whatever little kids talk about, always smiling.

My attention turned to the teachers. They all looked stressed, they weren’t even pretending to be happy about being back at work. Hilda glanced over at me, I gave her a wave and made my way back down the pavement.

A group of mums filled the pavement ahead, two pushchairs causing a barricade. They seemed engrossed in serious conversation, or serious gossip, I couldn’t tell which at a distance. As I got closer, I overheard little snippets of information.

“Mrs Baker didn’t show up to teach the year twos, she’s not answering her phone or anything.”

“I heard she wasn’t at the teacher training day either.”

“A friend of mine is her neighbour, and she says she hasn’t seen her all summer.”

I stopped in my tracks, a wave of dread rushed over me. Mrs Baker, the year two teacher, Hilda’s teacher last year. I turned back towards the school, and marched up to the gates on wobbly legs. The children had all gone inside. I walked up to reception, and tried to calm my breathing.

“H-hi, I’m Hilda’s dad… Um sh-she left her coat in the art hut before the summer holidays. My wife asked me to get it b-back,” I just about managed to get the words out.

“Yes, of course,” the chirpy receptionist replied. “It’s just around the left side of the building, it’s not been opened yet so here’s the key. Just drop it back when you’re done. You can leave it open.”

She smiled a bright, over-friendly smile and returned to her work.

It’s a coincidence, I kept telling myself as I walked around the left side of the building.

The art hut was one of those temporary classrooms, almost like a static caravan but more basic. The walls were a rough texture, painted navy blue, and it had a flat, felt roof.

My stomach was in knots as I approached the door. The keys jingled in my unsteady hand. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Dust motes swirled in the sunlight, casting long rectangles across the room. My eyes swept about the place, then focused on the desk. A handbag sat upon its surface. Hilda’s words echoed through my mind.

…I played a trick on her…

…I locked the door…

My heart raced as I looked to what I assumed was the storage cupboard. I walked slowly towards it, my feet barely leaving the floor, my mind expecting the worst and trying to reassure me at the same time.

I tried the door. Locked.

“Please, no,” I whispered to myself.

I turned the latch. The door swung open by itself.

The sound came first, the wet thwack against the carpet. Then the smell.

I leapt back, gagging, covering my face with my hands as my breakfast sprayed out from between my fingers. As much as I didn’t want to look, I couldn’t look away.

She was curled in a ball, holding her knees to her chest. I guessed she had been leaning against the door. Her skin was brown and leathery, wrapped tightly around her bones. Her white summer dress was stained with large, wet blotches of yellow and brown.

She was dead, because of my poor, sweet, innocent Hilda. A childish joke, with severe consequences.

I sobbed uncontrollably as I burst back outside. What would I say? What would it do to Hilda if she ever found out? If I tell the truth, everyone will know. If I lie, if I just so happened to discover the body while looking for Hilda’s coat, then what? It wouldn’t take long for questions to be asked. Who locked the cupboard?

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know what to do.