Raphaela Neville drummed her fingers on her leg and shifted in her airline-style seat to try and find some comfort. She checked her watch again, unnecessarily (it was still twenty past five), and realised that there was an undercurrent of nervousness to her irritation at the delay: it felt strange to be going back to the old school, and she was surprised to note that even at the age of twenty-eight she felt much as she had as a girl, heading back for a new term. Now as then, though, she knew that whatever lay ahead it was better to get there and face it than be stuck for longer than necessary on the journey. Not that she'd disliked school, not at all, and in some ways she'd felt more at home there than at home – but there'd always been a certain trepidation at the start of a new year, and the place definitely had an atmosphere of clinging piety which could be a bit oppressive until you got used to it and either succumbed completely or found little ways to resist its attempts to claim your identity. And she didn't know what she had to be worried about in going back now – it would be a nice occasion all round – although she did feel a little flutter of nervous anticipation at seeing Bea again.

The train she was now on was an older model and, being five foot eight, Raphaela found it a little cramped. The back of the seat in front was hard against her knees, and the cramped pull-down table made the space seem even smaller. They had been stuck outside Newark for at least twenty-five minutes now, and she was about to miss her connection. At least there was no-one in the seat next to her: a blessing in rush-hour on a Friday. She put the article she'd been trying to read on the other seat with the biro she'd been using to make notes, and packed the table away. She was so behind with her research reading, but she couldn't concentrate on it at the moment. Turning slightly to one side to cross her long legs towards the aisle, she checked her phone where it was plugged into the charge point under her armrest, and saw it was still only at about 40%. She unplugged it anyway, and texted Bea. Train delayed. Been sat outside Newark for 30 or so already. Gonna miss the connection. Sorry! x

Bea replied a minute or so later. Oh that's not good. Not to worry. There should be another one, I think?

Think so. I'll ask what's going on x

Have you eaten? I've done a chicken pie, it just needs twenty mins in the oven.

Only a granola bar and an apple since lunch, so yum, thanks! Will need it by the time I get there x

Lovely. Let me know how you get on. See you soon.

Bea, she'd learnt recently, was always a bit no-nonsense in her texts. It was strange being in touch with her by text and email, after so many years of just cards and letters, but it was kind of nice to know that Bea was exactly the same whatever medium they used.

It made Raphaela smile, because she knew that sometimes Bea could be quite forthcoming – but it only seemed to happen in occasional bursts, like when she sent an unexpected card at a random time when something had obviously been on her mind. Or like the long email she'd sent the other month when she'd been drinking. She'd always been the quiet type, but Raphaela had got to know her when Bea's father had been placed in a new parish elsewhere and Bea had switched, aged thirteen, from being a day girl to a boarder at the beginning of Third Form and they'd shared a dorm room that year; she'd kept herself to herself even more as they went into the Sixth Form, and had almost stopped talking to anyone at all in their last term – although to be fair they'd all been stressed by A Levels, and there had been a funny atmosphere between all of them for a month or two around that time. In fact, Raphaela remembered, Bea had just sort of slipped away from the school when the time came, without really saying goodbye properly or anything. If Raphaela hadn't taken it upon herself to dig out Bea's parents' address a year or two later and send a Christmas card hoping it would reach her, they'd probably have lost touch completely. And although they'd never discussed it, Rapahela suspected that Bea wasn't in touch with anyone else from school much either, apart from Sister Francesca – not even Susie, until she'd given her her details herself a few weeks ago.

Even though she always sent really lovely cards and wrote entertaining messages in them, it still felt like Bea was holding herself back. She'd even managed to leave it a pretty open question, in the course of her long, drunk and (for Bea) quite frank email about sex and relationships, whether it was men or women she preferred. Raphaela thought (hoped?) she knew, mainly because Bea's email had been so carefully vague about it, but she was far from certain; there had been that fuss in Fifth Form, about Bea and Susie, but Raphaela knew for a fact that there'd been nothing in that because she'd been friends with both of them then, as now. And people were bound to change after leaving for the big wide world (look at Susie settling down), and how much did a schoolgirl crush mean, anyway? Still, the feeling back then had been amongst some of the others in their year that there was no smoke without fire, and Bea was definitely seen as the one at fault. Probably because she was quiet and shy and didn't bother sticking up for herself. People can be cruel when there's a sitting target – as she knew from her coaching. (Although Susie's carefully-cultivated reputation for being a bit rebellious hadn't done her any favours either.)

For a moment, she was distracted by wondering how the meeting about the new girls team in Melton was going to go later. She was sorry not to be there, having played a fairly big role in getting things moving, and she knew she should be at this inaugural meeting, but she'd already arranged to come away for the weekend. But being away did mean she was saved from having to make excuses to avoid going out with Carrie and some of the others afterwards – she knew she'd have been invited, and she didn't know what to do about the whole Carrie thing. Pouring alcohol on top of something so unsettling, but which was getting increasingly hard to pretend wasn't there, felt like probably a very bad idea. However secretly tempting, in some ways.

As she glanced out of the window at the fields beyond the still-stationary carriage, Raphaela was struck by the contrast between the confident frankness of Carrie (she'd practically admitted to Raphaela's face what she was hoping for with her) and Bea's completely unknowable inner life. To be sure, Carrie's openness was scary, but in some ways it was easier to deal with than always feeling it was impossible to really know what was going on with Bea. That said, Carrie had never opened up about past relationships (yet), in the way Bea had in that email. Randomly, Raphaela suddenly wondered why it was so hard to picture Bea in a relationship, let alone the throes of passion (something that was somehow, disturbingly, quite easy to do with Carrie). Raphaela had always struggled to imagine it with Bea, somehow (and in her own head she could admit to herself that she'd tried more than once). But it must have happened at some point for her to be able to write so amusingly about missing it. Raphaela felt a little squeeze of an old, familiar pang which, partly because she hadn't felt it for a long time now, didn't do anything to improve her impatience to get the waiting over with.

For most of their schooldays, she, Bea and Susie had been pretty close – right from the start of Fourth Form when Susie had arrived at the school – until all the rumours about Susie and Bea had changed things. Raphaela had liked that early period, she remembered a lot of laughter and comfort in each other's friendship. She wondered why it had gone so wrong so suddenly, and whether it was all down to Bea's embarrassment at the rumours. She still felt guilty for not doing more to set people straight about the other two at the time, although it had been difficult being stuck in the middle while they stopped talking to each other; she knew it was then that Bea had started withdrawing into herself, and Raphaela hadn't had the courage or emotional maturity then to bring her back. They all got back together as friends in the Sixth Form, which had been good, but the episode remained an unspoken memory, and Bea had always stayed at a slight emotional distance – before shutting herself off completely after their last Easter holiday. It was a shame she'd never felt able to open up properly ever since.

Raphaela was glad she'd made the effort to keep in touch with them both, and was very glad Bea had responded – more so than with Susie, perhaps, because Bea was much harder work. And, well, because it was Bea. Raphaela's secret crush on her had receded over the years, but she'd never stopped liking her, or valuing her friendship, even if it always felt like Bea was constantly choosing to present a carefully-edited version of herself – so the occasional frustrating feeling of doing most of the running in the friendship was worth it, really.

Raphaela reluctantly went back to her article but looked up when she heard the carriage door hiss open. It was one of the train attendants, and she tried to catch his eye. 'Excuse me? I'm hoping to get to Flittingham, is there another train after the one I'm about to miss?'

The man tapped something on the smartphone in his hand. 'I'm just making my way through, asking about connections. Let's see, Flittingham, yes. It's saying the 17.26 is delayed as well, so you may still get on that one, to be fair.' He frowned for a second. 'In fact, it'll be behind us, so you can just hop on it once we've got through. There's a broken down freight train just the other side of Newark, see, so it's holding everything up both here and at Northgate.'

'Which is why we're sat here?'

'Which is why we're sat here, madam. And everything behind us and all.' He glanced at his watch. 'I'm hoping it'll get cleared soon and we can come in.' The man made to move off, asking in a loud voice if anyone else had a connection from Newark.

Raphaela texted Bea again. Connection delayed as well, apparently, so who knows when I'll arrive. But the guy says it's behind this train so I should be on it x

OK. I'm practising for tomorrow so can just keep going till I need to come out. Just let me know when you get past Helsham, maybe? That gives me about 20 mins to wrap up and get to the station. Good luck! B x

Raphaela ran her thumb over Bea's message slowly. Bea was very erratic about signing off both texts and emails, very rarely putting a kiss, and Raphaela wondered what suddenly prompted her to include one when she did. She herself put at least one on everything to almost anyone she knew by first name, and it was such an ingrained habit that she never really thought about it. Bea obviously thought about it every time, because her default was apparently to not put one. Raphaela wondered just how pleased Bea really was about seeing them again – then again, the offer to stay in the cottage had come from her, and one thing she was certain of was that Bea would never have offered if she didn't genuinely mean they'd both be welcome.

*

Beatrice Sullivan put her mobile to one side on the organ. Ella had texted to say she was on her connecting train and on the move, only about half an hour late in the end; Beatrice calculated she had about forty minutes before she needed to think about picking her up. She was surprised at how much she was looking forward to seeing her again, and felt a twinge of guilt at how bad she'd been at keeping in touch. Ella had been a good friend for most of their time at the school, and Beatrice knew that it was all her fault that they'd drifted apart as far as they had. Ella was a genuinely nice person, and Beatrice always liked it when she saw that a card (or these days, an email) from her had arrived. Being back at the school had brought back a lot of things, and Beatrice had begun to realise how happy she'd been here, generally – after ten years spent trying to move away from the few bad bits, which she could remember clearly, it was a relief to be reminded of all the many nice bits. It helped her feel that coming back on the staff had in fact been a good move.

She was looking forward to seeing Susie too. Ten years should have smoothed over any awkwardness that used to exist between them. Beatrice had been slightly nervous before she'd sent Susie a first email after so long, to discuss arrangements for this weekend, so had been very relieved when Susie had replied with honest affection. It had reminded Beatrice how close the three of them had been before someone had started that stupid rumour in Fifth Form: Beatrice had always known her crush on Susie was hopeless, and had been more or less happy to muddle through keeping it to herself – she'd certainly never had much thought of acting on it – and everything would have been fine if someone hadn't decided there was something strange about the lively and rebellious Susie being so close to someone as awkward and quiet as Beatrice, and put it about that there must be more to it. Still, they'd all moved on now, and while Beatrice still found herself attracted to lively and assertive women, she did wonder sometimes what it was exactly that she'd seen in Susie specifically. She'd been great fun as a friend, though.

She was very much looking forward to catching up with them both, because it had been a long time since she'd spent any time with people who really knew her well – apart from her parents – and surprisingly she found she'd missed having a long, rambling girly chat.

She turned the organ off and idly ran a finger round the curve of one of the stops while she considered the next day. She'd spent the afternoon touching up the odd corners she didn't feel quite comfortable with, and been through the entire lot twice as if it was a performance; she was as prepared as she ever would be, and quite pleased with the programme she'd chosen. She was actually looking forward to performing it, and with a half-hour or so just warming up tomorrow she'd be fine. The current senior music prefect, a chatty Lower Sixth-former called Madeleine, had been assigned to her to help with anything she needed, and Beatrice had given her the task of preparing a page of programme notes for the audience – Beatrice picked up the copy she'd left her and checked through it. She'd done a good job, actually – a paragraph or so of biography on each composer, and a good attempt to explain the music itself in a few sentences for each piece, without being too technical. The only thing Beatrice spotted that needed changing was that Maddy hadn't included her own name as the author, and she felt she should get the recognition. She'd mention it when the girl returned to get her feedback.

Beatrice had also asked her to page-turn during the recital; in rehearsals all week she'd proven herself more than competent at that too, so Beatrice was happy that the girl knew what she was doing. Maddy had gone to catch tea now before it was too late – the kitchens were doing a restricted service for the few girls who were still around at the moment, because they were mainly busy preparing for the next day's reception and buffet lunch, and catering for the guests who were staying in the convent itself. She said she'd pop back and get the programme notes to print off, though.

Beatrice swivelled round on the bench and leant her forearms on the edge of the gallery to stare out over the chapel. The evening sun was just catching some of the southern-facing stained glass, sending little dapples of coloured light over the pews. A smell of incense lingered faintly, as always, and several votive candles flickered up at the east end. The school had changed somewhat in the last ten years, but she found it comforting (on the whole) that the chapel was much as it always had been. How many hours had she spent up here, singing in the choir, or – from the Second Form onwards – learning, then performing on, the organ? As Senior Music Prefect, she'd practically lived in the organ loft (when she wasn't in the library) from Easter in her Lower Sixth to Easter the next year, organising music and practising – always practising! Apart from that blip of a few months in her Upper Sixth which meant she'd failed her Grade 8...but, no regrets now. She'd got over that some years ago, and done what she could do to make up for it, and generally she was secretly quite pleased with what she'd achieved. Even if she hadn't done music at Cambridge, as per the original plan, she'd got her postgrad from the Royal College; and a year out after school followed by doing languages at Bristol instead had given her the chance to spend a very happy year or two abroad.

A painful memory of France gave her a brief twinge, but she was ready for it – she knew it would come at some point, and she wasn't surprised it came to her now in the stillness of the chapel on a Friday evening. She had been expecting it round several corners of the place, and had been pleasantly surprised to find that time had done much to render the old familiar nooks and crannies harmless. But she knew it would come somewhere, sometime, and the chapel was one of the more likely situations. After all, it was bound up with that last year of school – and particularly that last Easter – as much as her year out after school, and with the chapel as much as anywhere...

Having the year out after school had allowed her to move away from much of what had happened in the Upper Sixth, as well as giving her time to reassess her future, but it had only been the start of that journey. There was one ghost from those times that still needed exorcising, and as she stared down into the chapel at a particular pew about halfway down on the right, she wondered if now was the time to try. It would involve the Bach, of course, and Beatrice hadn't managed to play that all the way through without breaking down since the funeral in 2009 – she'd only even tried a few times anyway. But she had nothing else particularly to do at the moment, and a rather fine organ to try it on...perhaps now was the time.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and sought the inner calm she liked to call up when she was about to play in public. She was playing this one for no-one but herself, of course, and the lingering memory of a long-passed presence down there in the pew – but it would need to be a performance worthy of them both.

The calm didn't come, but Beatrice turned back round anyway and switched the organ back on. She got the usual little thrill as she heard the whoomph of the bellows start up, and selected a few heavy-duty stops, gently experimenting with the first phrase on the pedals until she found a balance she liked. Then she dug out the relevant volume from the pile of music beside the bench and flicked through to the Passacaglia.

The voicing she'd settled on was loud and bold, and the stately pedal ostinato phrase on which the whole piece was built sounded deep and clear in the still chapel. When the first variation came in on the manuals, with its sliding chords punctuating the bass line, she felt a rush of emotion at the power of the organ matching the anguished intensity of the music. Part of her mind was enjoying the way the sound filled the whole space, swelling to touch the walls and roof, enveloping the space and her in its urgency. The second variation with its insistent squeezing inwards down the scale gave her a bitter thrill of remembered pain, and she was barely able to start the third variation before she had to stop. The abrupt interruption in the sound bounced around the chapel, almost ringing in her ears like a reproach, but she knew it was too early. She still wasn't ready to play the thing all the way through.

With a sigh – at least she hadn't started to cry this time – she closed the score and tossed it back on the pile on the floor beside her. She needed something else to play, something soothing to sound in that space to push away the visceral power of the Bach, while she waited for Madeleine. Pushing herself off the bench, she crouched down and flicked through various things, until she settled on some Rheinberger sonatas. The Adagio: Cantilène slow movement of Number 11 would do very nicely: it was calm and gentle, but with an elegant and wistfully yearning tune. It acknowledged sadness but suggested it could be borne.

*

As the last chord melted gently away, two pairs of hands offered a modest round of applause from below. 'Very nice, Beatrice,' came Sister Francesca's voice.

With a gasp, Beatrice pushed herself off the organ bench and hurried down from the loft into the chapel. Sister Francesca and Madeleine were sitting sideways-on in pews about halfway down, one either side. Beatrice came to stand between them, her hands clasped in front of her skirt. She smiled quickly at Madeleine, then bowed her head quickly to Sister Francesca. 'Thank you, Sister. I didn't realise you were listening. I was just fiddling about...being a bit self-indulgent...'

'What a lovely way to indulge oneself. Madeleine told me she was meeting you here after tea, so I took the liberty of coming along with her.' The elderly nun stood up and held a hand out to Beatrice. Beatrice was struck once again how fit and sprightly the outgoing headmistress was, despite being barely two months off turning seventy. 'My dear Beatrice, I just wanted to say now, before my attention is pulled in many competing directions tomorrow, how very grateful I am that you're going to give us what Madeleine assures me will be a very lovely recital. And how pleased I am to have got you back here on the staff.'

Beatrice let the old woman take her hand, and felt a familiar rush of affection well up. 'Sister, I...you know you're more than welcome.' Sister Francesca had always taken an interest in Beatrice's progress – such that sometimes it felt as if she was almost as closely invested in it as Beatrice herself – and Beatrice knew that without her old headmistress's support and kindness and encouragement, she would quite possibly have been lost several times over, during her time at school and afterwards too. 'I can't ever thank you enough for all the support over the years, and I'm just sorry I shan't have the chance to be here when you are.'

Sister Francesca spotted something in Beatrice's expression, and surprised her by pulling her into a hug. Beatrice thought it should have felt awkward, with her being several inches taller than the old nun, but it was just comforting. 'My child. I'm not going anywhere, I shall see out my days in the convent. I should appreciate it very much if you ever find a few spare minutes, in what will be a busy schedule I'm sure, to make your way over for a chat.' She gently released Beatrice and reached up to place her hand momentarily on the younger woman's head, as if in blessing.

Beatrice cleared her throat and glanced at Madeleine, who was discreetly minding her own business. 'It'd be a pleasure, Sister. Has Maddy told you much about the programme for the recital?'

'Only that it will really show off the organ, and contain a new piece by you yourself.'

'Yes. A set of variations on...'

Sister Francesca held up a hand. 'Don't tell me. I'll enjoy the surprise tomorrow.' She re-clasped her hands round her crucifix and nodded at the organ loft. 'A propos, I expect it'll be difficult to make announcements from up there and you won't want to traipse up and down the stairs. I was hoping you'll permit me to say a few words on your behalf at the start, then we'll just let you play. I gather you've prepared some programme notes to guide us through.'

'Maddy's prepared the notes, and they're excellent.' Beatrice smiled at the girl. 'I don't need to say anything particularly, if you'd like to introduce it anyway, Sister. Just that I'm flattered to be giving the first formal recital on the restored organ, and particularly so in your honour. And that Madeleine gets due recognition for the programme notes.'

Sister Francesca smiled. 'I'll see I include all that somehow. Now, tell me, what was it you were playing just then? In what has been rather a hectic few weeks, it brought me a few minutes of profound, and much needed, peace.'