by Bill James
For instance, he would not like the psychiatrist to visit some chum for what would be called ‘a second opinion’, about whether Manse must try to find Meryl Goss and admit he lied, and now frankly inform her of the staircase. They done a lot of that, medics and psychiatrists – getting second opinions. It was their way of making work for one another. But this was how dangerous facts got around uncontrolled. When two people knew something it could be a trillion times more than one knowing it. Cummerbund Spilsby gave him this guidance very early on Manse’s career path. Naturally, that unusual word ‘trillion’ stuck in Shale’s memory. This could be why Cummerbund picked it. He had a lot of wisdom and a lot of experience, in jail and out.
It was about Matilda. Shale didn’t discover more than this from the headmistress on the telephone because of her buttoned lip. Extra confusion? He had certainly worried about Matilda lately. She did not seem the same after she said at breakfast it was blood under the sauce on the stairs. Some kids would most probably be all right in a while if they discovered blood under sauce on the stairs. Laurent seemed all right. Matilda, no. This blood under the sauce really registered with her. Maybe it was just a boy-girl thing, boys being able to think, if life had to be like that it had to be like that, such as that Golden Oldies number, ‘Che Sara Sara’, meaning what will be will be, though women sang that as well as men.
Shale went out to the school. He did not speak to Sybil about the call, not at this juncture. It would take her time to get used to being a mother again, and he must not shove a crisis on to Syb yet. She might rebunk to Ivor in Wales if pressures started. Women sometimes seemed weak. That’s why they needed plenty of care and politeness and should only be told items simple to handle, such as social matters and holiday ideas. Syb was a mixture. She could be a fighter, but, also, there would come days when she didn’t want to bother.
Manse wondered whether Ember schemed it for that woman, Goss, to come to Low Pastures as a way of getting at him, like setting up a great dinner and good feeling and politeness, then suddenly smash it for the sake of giving a shock. But Ralphy could not of known about her, could he, nor about the man on the stairs and his photograph? Could he? Ember picked up all sorts of information somehow, mostly from the club. And it was the kind of ploy the sod might pull. That sudden invitation to Low Pastures – perhaps Ralph only offered it to bring Manse up there and get him troubled. Why, though? Manse failed to sort it out, but Ember had all sorts of smart tricks to get his firm ahead. He was not just them fucking wool letters he wrote to the papers about topics, nor he wasn’t just the mad jerk who thought he’d make that tip, the Monty, clean and blessed and chic any century now. No human being could be made up of only them sides of him or he would be just a laugh. Ralphy knew how to push people under and hold them under, especially people you would of thought was his friends, such as Manse.
He regretted now putting his status suit on and spending so much time choosing the mauve shirt. Ember obviously did not respect that kind of effort at all. Manse felt slighted, or what the young called ‘dissed’ – that is, given disrespect. He considered he might of taken such care with his garments just to step into a trap. This hurt. Respect had become important lately. A political party called itself that, and the government also thought more people should get respect and more people should show it. Shale felt he deserved some, and not only because of the suit and shirt, which could be regarded as nothing more than surface, obviously.
‘Stressed, Mr Shale,’ the head teacher said. ‘Yes, we feel Matilda has been unusually stressed of late.’
‘Children have their own private anxieties which might seem slight to me and you, but to them they are really real,’ Shale said. He had practised a bit of a purr for talking to this headmistress of a very pricey school. You never knew what kind of gossip about him someone like this had picked up, so he wanted to make sure he sounded the refined and thoughtful sort, not some fucking rough hick trying to bulldoze everyone.
‘And I thought it only right to discuss matters with you, Mr Shale, in case there are factors in Matilda’s life we should, perhaps, know about, and possibly could help deal with. May I ask, have you, yourself, or your . . . or anyone adult in your household . . . noticed unusual tension in your daughter recently?’
‘My wife, you mean?’ He felt a real victory with that. Clearly, she didn’t know Syb had returned. Of course, she would of heard on the rumour circuit that Syb went, and maybe about Lowri or Carmel or Patricia, and this was why she stopped herself saying ‘wife’, and picked instead that bit about adults in his household, meaning women. There might have been gossip, although he had made damn sure that none of them, not Carmel nor Lowri nor Patricia, ever went near the school to his knowledge. He would definitely not take one of them to a parents’ meeting.
‘Well, yes, your wife,’ she said.
‘Tension?’ Manse replied.
‘As if abstracted.’
‘Abstracted?’
‘Her mind elsewhere.’
‘I –’
‘Why I asked whether there might be factors, special, new factors, affecting her. Family? Domestic? Health? Anything.’
‘Matilda’s always been a sensitive one,’ Shale said. ‘I remember when she was only a baby that –’
‘When I say “special”, in part I mean special to Matilda. Her brother seems quite as ever.’
‘Chalk and cheese. It’s what I had in mind about sensitive,’ Shale said. ‘Perhaps it’s girls. So, I didn’t mention to anyone that I was coming here today. I thought Matilda might grow anxious – on account of being sensitive if she heard.’
‘She’s wholly unwilling to discuss some matters.’
Well, I should fucking hope so – or just ladle out lies. But what Shale said was: ‘Like I mentioned, they have their private anxieties. Youngsters will seem relaxed and carefree and noisy as a zoo, but underneath they –’
‘We keep a very careful check on children who take lunch on the school premises,’ she replied.
‘Wise.’
‘We don’t allow them to wander off, especially the girls – girls of their age.’
So, what the hell was this to do with? ‘I’d agree with that, oh, definite in this country as it is now.’
‘The other day Matilda disappeared throughout.’
‘Throughout?’
‘She ate no meal here and could not be found. Her brother said he didn’t know where she was.’
You let her fucking slope off somewhere alone for ninety minutes, you idle, casual, money-grubbing, slack cow? However, Manse reshaped this thought: ‘A few days ago? Disappeared? Let me just send my mind back a bit.’ He did a pause, then smiled, but not an easy smile, a smile that had built-in apology. ‘Ah, I think her mother might of picked Matilda up for some shopping. They had lunch in a café, I expect. Yes, I do remember now, they mentioned that. Matilda must of forgotten to notify the school in advance. Wrong of her. I’ll definitely have a word with Matilda re that kind of thing in future.’ Another slice of guidance from Cummerbund Spilsby was, if a conversation looked dangerous and you couldn’t tell which way it would go, shut it down, like rats would not go around the S bend in drains, Cummerbund said, because they could not see ahead. Although such a conversation might turn out harmless or even helpful, don’t risk it, stick the stopper on earliest.
‘As a matter of fact, she did come back in a car with a woman driver,’ the head said.
She fucking what? ‘Yes, that would be it, I expect. My wife, Sybil.’
‘We were concerned not just about Matilda’s absence, but also whether she’d had something to eat. On that matter she consented to talk and assured us she ate a proper lunch, with pudding and ginger beer. But we could not discover where she went.’
‘It was good of you to worry, but Sybil would be extremely particular about nourishment for her.’
‘A teacher had gone out looking in case Matilda was outside school grounds but in the neighbourhood and saw her put down som
e distance away, apparently so the car wouldn’t be spotted. Matilda walked from there.’
‘And was back in time for afternoon lessons. That’s a relief!’ So, what fucking car and who fucking drove? ‘You know how children can be. They don’t like their friends to see parents fussing over them.’
‘Because of our anxiety, the teacher noted the car’s registration number. A silver Astra. We haven’t done anything about it. I thought I’d speak to you first and get your opinion.’ The headmistress passed Shale a piece of paper.
‘Ah, Sybil’s. Yes,’ he said, glancing at it and nodding. ‘But I’m sorry we’ve give you so much trouble.’
‘At least it’s good to solve that mystery,’ she said.
Shale did not like the ‘at least’. He could tell it meant there would be more poking about and curiosity, but he shifted in his chair as if to leave now the lunch-break problem was settled. But would she of asked him to see her just for that?
‘We come back to Matilda’s general state,’ the head said. ‘The signs of strain.’
‘I don’t think I’ve noticed any, I got to say,’ Shale replied. ‘High spirits, oh, yes, but that’s natural to a growing girl, don’t you think, even a good thing?’
‘And your wife?’
And my wife? What did a question like that mean? The headmistress had adapted very quick, hadn’t she? She spoke this word now just like it was natural. ‘My wife?’ he said.
‘I wondered if she’d observed a change in Matilda.’
Sybil might notice if Matilda grew another ear or became suddenly see-through, but the state of the children was not never one of her main things. ‘I’ll certainly consult her about this,’ Shale said, ‘and refer to your concern.’
‘I wondered, you see, if your wife had come here on impulse to give Matilda a special outing, having seen she was a bit down. That would explain the rather irregular way the absence occurred. And perhaps she wouldn’t even tell Laurent.’
Ah! Bingo! ‘Impulse. This could be it, indeed,’ Shale said. ‘Sybil does have impulses. Shrewd of you, if you don’t mind me remarking.’ Wasn’t it a bloody impulse that took her to Ivor? And another bloody impulse brought her home. Syb would love people to think she ran on impulses – someone dashing and free. She and Manse spoke about impulses only a little while ago. ‘You told me Matilda wouldn’t talk about where she went. That’s because she doesn’t want to land her mother in any bother with the school, I should think.’ He had a small laugh. ‘Known as omerta in the Mafia, which I learned from TV dramas.’ He could tell this sweetheart would like to ask how long Syb had been back at the rectory and if she would stay. ‘Sybil’s very quick to pick up on anything unusual in one of the children. Like radar? And Sybil will respond, immediate.’
‘A fine quality in a mother.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘I fear not all have it.’
‘Really?’ The headmistress’s room looked out through big french windows on to a square courtyard. Her secretary had done cups of tea for both of them. Now and then kids in blue and black uniform crossed the yard on their way to classes, boys and girls, mostly girls. Manse tried to imagine what that steamed-up prick peddler, ACC Desmond Iles, would be like if he sat where Manse sat now, watching. Answer – trouser-tight, short of breath and twitchy.
The headmistress was about thirty-six, with a pretty good short nose, not one of them curlew jobs of some women teachers. Perhaps he’d been cruel to regard her as snobby. He thought her teeth looked like her own and no lines on her neck yet. Manse did not at all mind talking to her, as long as she kept off anything in depth. But, of course, in depth was just where she wanted to go. Most likely she got her job because she could do stuff in depth. Fine, as long as this stayed at study of the pyramids or pond life or the Psalms. He did not want crafty, roundabout questions re other matters, such as the personal elements. But maybe some of her questions was to do with a genuine schoolmarmy fret over Matilda. ‘And nothing exceptional in your daughter’s life that might have unsettled her?’ she asked.
‘Not that I can think of right off, no.’ Here was someone else who wanted to know about the staircase without knowing she wanted to know about the staircase. It would really puzzle her if he said most likely Matilda felt upset because of the blood, and unable to find out whose. But, naturally, he decided against that. ‘I’m going to give it thought, and so will Sybil, I’m sure,’ he replied. ‘I know I speak for her also when I say I’m very grateful you took the trouble to raise this with us.’
‘It’s how the school relationship with parents and pupils should be, I feel,’ the head said. She did not have no rings on. Her name was Ms D. Norvenne. ‘This is very much a three-sided concordat.’
‘True.’ If Syb went again, it would obviously be impossible to have this headmistress in the rectory for spells, although being thirty-six did not by itself kill the idea. Manse hated ageism. Think of Charlotte Rampling. But the arrangement would be wrong for the children. They’d feel mixed up – this woman, chief of the school for the day, and then around the house in the evening and weekends, showering and out on the patio wearing flip-flop sandals with a coffee. And what would they call her? To them, Patricia was Patricia and Carmel Carmel and Lowri Lowri and Sybil mother or mum. They could not call their headmistress Delphine or Daisy or Debbie. And they could not call a permitted, partnerly resident, Ms Norvenne. Now and then it could be vital to keep different facets of your life with a good gap between, although they all added up to the youness of you. Facets was what Manse believed a personality had plenty of.
‘Some shock, for instance?’ Ms Norvenne said.
‘I don’t think so. Or, let’s say “Not to my knowledge.” ’
‘A change in the pattern of things?’
‘No, can’t help, I’m afraid. Days are much of a muchness, as my mother used to say.’
‘A loss?’
‘Again, not to my knowledge.’
‘And any serious loss would be to your knowledge, of course, wouldn’t it, Mr Shale?’
‘I would certainly expect so.’ He would have liked to use her name, but didn’t fancy saying ‘Ms Norvenne’.
‘They form bonds, you know.’
‘Who?’ Shale replied.
‘Children. The breaking of something like that may cause great distress, even a kind of disorientation.’
Manse had come across this word before almost for definite, and he loved the way Ms Norvenne got her tongue around it, no hesitation or spitting. He spotted the tongue tip for a moment between her top and bottom teeth, which still looked to him like her own, all of them. This tongue tip seemed to Manse of the educated but friendly kind and not frantically pink. He had a chair a little distance off, but could tell her breath would be a treat. The desk looked untidy. This pleased him. He hated show. It was a cool, light square room with framed pictures of buildings here and there, probably the college she went to, really impressive, with big wooden gates like a castle or jail, open in these photos, but which used to get shut and severely locked to keep women students in in the old days, so they couldn’t wander at night looking for experience before the pill.
He thought how strange and out of order it would be now in this schooly room if he said to Ms Norvenne, ‘I had a great, tit-for-tat drive-by massacre lined up which would stop any more violence from a certain, new pushy villain, causing pressure to Matilda, but some holy cop called Harpur put his fucking self smack in the way, I’m not sure whether deliberate.’ Facets. Everyone did contain a bunch of facets. They all counted in making a total person – this meeting counted, and the Laguna project counted. Probably she knew Manse must be the sort who’d have things like a drive-by execution and the substances game in one part of his mind, and that would be why she made a fuss about Matilda. Perhaps she felt scared Matilda got dragged into this side of his life somehow and became what the teacher called ‘stressed’, which, in a way, could certainly be true – as with the staircase blood. Oh, yes, Matilda did
seem upset over that when she mentioned it at breakfast and would not believe the sauce tale.
‘And imagination as well as being sensitive,’ he said. ‘Matilda – so strong on imagination. Usually this is a great thing, such as for artists and writers. They wouldn’t be nothing without it. Well, I don’t need to tell you this! The Pre-Raphaelites. They had models to copy from, yes, so you could say they did not need their imagination because they painted the real item in front of them, but it was their imagination that brought the special glow and turned them into the Pre-Raphaelites, I think you’ll agree. However, imagination can go a bit far now and then. It unsettles people. On the whole, it’s best to have some imagination, but, also, you got to watch it.’ He thought she’d be quite surprised to hear him speak about the Pre-Raphaelites. This could be just because she’d heard a buzz to do with only one side of him. Although she might be a head teacher, he could give Ms Norvenne a lesson about people being very various within their actual selves and having facets.
‘Well, imagination, yes,’ she said. She started digging through some papers in the heaps on her desk.
‘Many’s the amusing tale Matilda makes up and tells us, coming from inside herself, not lifted out of books or films or anything like that,’ Manse replied. The way the headmistress was on the search for something bothered him and he thought he better get ready a knock-down in case Matilda been talking around the school about difficult stuff from the rectory to do with staining, and Ms Norvenne had notes. If she found unnecessary items said by Matilda, such as blood under the sauce, Shale could try a laugh and reply, ‘Oh, that’s so like her – such an imagination!’ He would make it sound a little bit fed up with Matilda for her far-fetched stories but also fond and understanding and full of wonder at what she could think of even so young. He didn’t really believe Matilda would get too blabby, because he had brought her and Laurent up to be careful what they said. They surely must of learned that habit. But Manse always tried to prepare for what was known as ‘the worst scenario’ in case it came. Any executive, any leader of an organization, had to, known also as ‘Plan B’.