‘Ooh.’
‘And their patio laid.’
‘Nice.’
‘And their borders hoed.’
‘Phew.’
‘And their light bulbs changed, after only two sodding months of nagging. By the way,’ said Claire, ‘while we’re on the subject, if you don’t ask the girls to be your bridesmaids, I’ll never talk to you again.’
Nicky stared at her sister. Next time she’d tell Ally instead, sod the consequences.
‘What are you looking at me like that for?’ demanded Claire.
Nicky kept on staring.
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ said Nicky quietly.
The morning of Parents’ Evening arrived all too soon, and Mark stumbled past his team’s empty desks, his briefcase slung across his shoulder, one grande coffee cup in each hand. Feeling bleary-eyed and bitter, he stared crossly up at the clock. Its two stubby black hands told him it was 6.30 a.m. God, he hated that clock. It ruled his life and the lives of all who sat beneath it like an industrial-age foreman. He had seen it in more positions than he had ever seen any clock in his own home. How many times had he seen it for twenty-four hours in a row? he wondered. Countless.
But not tonight. Tonight he was leaving at seven sharp. Less than thirteen hours from now. And his team could lump it. Send the stress down the line and fuck off to the pub, as one of his colleagues always said when they drank together.
Mark heard a noise from the floor and, dropping his briefcase where he stood, knelt down beside the sleeping forms of Danny and Matt.
‘Morning,’ said Mark. ‘Thought you’d like coffee.’
Danny rolled over and yawned. Matt groaned. ‘Thanks, boss,’ said Danny. ‘What time is it?’
‘Only 6.30. Plenty of time.’
When the door opened behind them, they turned round. Anna-Marie gave them all a polite smile.
‘Morning, boys! Croissants for all!’
Nearly twelve hours later, Mark stared through the wide-open door of his corner office at his team. They were working silently and furiously. It felt like they’d all only just got properly stuck in. He could swear the office clock went at double speed. He lifted his eyes to it. It was now approaching six o’clock and he still hadn’t told them he’d be leaving early tonight. He looked over at Anna-Marie. Her brow was furrowed over some paperwork he knew she was desperately trying to finish before passing it on to him to check, so that they could bike it over to the client before tomorrow. How could he possibly walk past her and out of the office as early as 7 p.m.? Perhaps he could crawl? He winced. Jesus, this was ridiculous. He was a partner now. At only thirty-three years old. A future guru, if he didn’t have a heart attack before his fortieth. What was the point of being at the top if you couldn’t leave early once a year with a clear conscience? He pictured Oscar’s frightened little face being shadowed by the galleon-shape of some battle-axe’s bust.
The client would just have to wait.
There was only one thing for it. It wasn’t fair, he knew, but there was no other way round it. He picked up his mobile and speed-dialled.
Ten past six and Nicky was just popping her head round all the teachers’ doors to check that they were ready and didn’t need anything.
‘Yes thanks,’ Amanda told her tightly. ‘I’ve done this before. But I’ll call if I need you to hold my hand.’
There were times when Nicky hated being Deputy Head. However, she had found it really interesting to see how differently each teacher ran their own private Parents’ Evening. The entire teaching staff spent the two evenings that constituted Parents’ Evening sitting in their classrooms while being visited by parents at specifically arranged ten-minute slots. Nicky had always assumed that there was only one way to carry this out – the way she did it: the teacher would sit on one of the pupil’s chairs and provide two more pupils’ chairs for the parents and they would all sit together at the same height, around a pupil’s desk. That way everyone felt on the same level and could chat as freely and openly as possible. But to her amazement, she discovered that one or two teachers stayed seated almost regally behind their higher desk and offered the parents two pupils’ tiny chairs to sit on in front of them. Some perched on the edge of their desk, towering over the parents even more, while creating the illusion of trying to appear informal, and others sat in front of it, but still on their own higher chair. Others sat on top of a child’s desk, and only a few like Nicky sat themselves down on the children’s chairs. The question that occurred to her was whether or not these teachers were aware of how such seemingly subtle seating arrangements might make some parents feel? If they were aware of it, then they were playing nasty power games and were probably masking deep insecurity. If this was so, then the last job they should be doing was teaching vulnerable children for a whole year. If they weren’t aware of it, then they were social idiots and, probably, the last job they should be doing was teaching.
Then there was the time-keeping aspect of the evening. With only ten minutes for each set of parents it was a night of rigorous clock-watching for every single teacher, but Nicky just assumed that they would be sensitive to the fact that those precious ten minutes felt very different to the parents than to them, and the most insensitive thing they could do would be to highlight this impersonal aspect of the evening. So, again, she was concerned to see that some teachers actually brought in large clocks from home and placed them on their desk with their backs to the parents. A few even set an alarm to go off every ten minutes. Others still took off their watches and laid them on top of their notes, leaving no one in any doubt of their priorities for the evening. Such tiny details, but so revealing.
When she popped her head round Pete’s door, she found him sitting on one of his pupil’s chairs, reading a book and biting his nails. He spotted her, pulled a funny face and waved his arms around. He looked about ten years old.
When she popped her head round Ally’s door, they shared a grimace. Ally was slumping cross-legged on a child’s desk.
‘Is that how you sit?’ asked Nicky.
‘’Course not,’ said Ally, looking up brightly. ‘As soon as they come in I spring up and do a little tap-dance before the slide show.’
‘Sorry,’ said Nicky. ‘It’s just fascinating to see how differently everyone does it.’
Ally nodded as she moved to sit on one of the pupil’s chairs. ‘Has Amanda turned on her spotlights and mirrors yet?’
‘Practically,’ said Nicky. ‘Talk about war paint. Blimey.’
‘Yeah. She’s the kind of woman who gives make-up a bad name.’
After Nicky left Ally, she popped her head round Rob’s door before nipping back into her own room. She stared. He was sitting behind his own desk, two tiny pupils’ chairs placed in front it. On his desk sat the largest alarm clock she’d seen yet, its back to the parents’ chairs, ticking so loudly she could barely hear herself judge him. He was leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, humming.
‘Hiya,’ she called out. He started.
‘Hi.’ He grinned. ‘All set?’
‘I think so.’
‘Looking forward to seeing the lesser spotted Mr Samuels?’
‘Not really.’
‘Attagirl.’
‘Hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, hello!’ came a voice from behind her.
She turned to Miss James.
‘I’m taking orders,’ Miss James announced, pen and pad in hand. ‘Tea or coffee, custard creams, Bourbons or digestives?’
‘Yes please,’ said Nicky.
Lilith heard her phone buzz just as she was shutting her front door behind her. She cursed loudly and dropped her bag to the floor. She was already late for Daisy’s Parents’ Evening, which meant another set of parents – or mothers, who was she kidding? – would slip in in front of her and she’d end up paying more babysitting money.
She delved into her bag, furiously grabbing its contents and dropping them out one by one, until everyt
hing but the phone was littered around her. By the time she found her phone, it had stopped ringing, as it always had, but she snapped it open anyway. As she stuffed everything back into her bag and hurried to the bus stop, she read the message. It was a text from Mark.
Call me. It’s urgent.
How utterly predictable, she thought. Damn, she should have bet him good money he wasn’t going to make tonight. It would have covered tonight’s babysitter. Well, she was damned if she was going to call him. And she was not going to be a go-between between another teacher and him again. She hadn’t minded so much with Mr Pattison, but Miss Hobbs was not her type. No. He could whistle for it. She reached the bus stop, pulled down a seat and sat on it. She hunched in the cold and tapped her foot as she waited for the bus.
‘Sugar?’ Miss James asked Nicky.
‘She’s sweet enough already,’ answered Rob.
‘No sugar, thanks.’ Nicky smiled, feeling the first twinges of a headache coming on.
‘Now,’ said Miss James, clutching her order pad to her chest, ‘I will probably get your teas and bickies to you by about seven, as I’m starting with Year 1. Are you both all right with that?’
‘Of course!’ chanted Nicky and Rob.
‘I knew you would be,’ said Miss James. ‘I know I can always rely on you two. Well done, well done, well done, well done. Now, I’ve asked everyone how their timetables and marking are and they’ve all promised me that they are in excellent order. The key question to ask you two is . . . can I trust them all to be telling the truth?’ She turned to them, and they both nodded, Rob more energetically than Nicky. There was no way Nicky would admit that she couldn’t answer for Amanda who had refused to reveal her term’s marking. Even Gwen had been more obliging than her. Ned had practically shown her every page. Again, she’d been amazed at how different his teaching methods were from hers. Every single page had so many comments on it, it was a wonder Ned had time to go to the toilet. No wonder his wife made him his sandwiches every day. They became aware of two people standing behind them and found themselves facing a couple who had arrived early for their ten minutes with Mr Pattison. Rob leapt to his feet and thrust his hand forward for a hearty shake. The parents approached him and Nicky and Miss James bid a hasty farewell.
Lilith looked at her watch again. The bus was now twenty minutes late. Oh sod it, she thought. The only way to get the bus to come was to phone Mark. And she might as well hear his excuse. Giving him a good old bollocking might alleviate the strain in her neck. She dialled his number and was surprised not to have to wait for him to pick up. He answered with his name immediately in a loud, efficient bellow.
‘It’s me,’ she told him through pursed lips.
‘OH HI!’ he yelled into her ear. ‘How are you? Long time no speak!’
‘What?’
‘I’m fine thanks,’ he continued to bellow. ‘How are you?’
Lilith frowned and moved the phone away from her ear to stare at the number she’d dialled, to check it was correct. Yes, it was. She put the phone back to her ear.
‘Are you drunk, Mark?’ she asked.
There was silence.
‘Mark?’
‘Oh. My. God,’ she heard him say in a hushed whisper.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘You’re . . . joking?’ he was still using the hushed whisper.
She stood up and started pacing.
‘Mark,’ she clipped, ‘if I was joking you’d be laughing. What the fuck’s going –’
‘I-I-I . . . I just, I can’t believe it,’ Mark talked over her.
Lilith paused. She could hear him making mmhm noises down the phone at her silence.
‘No,’ she sighed eventually. ‘Neither can I.’
‘I only saw her last week.’
‘Goodbye, Mark.’
‘Of course,’ she heard. ‘I’ll come immediately.’
‘So I’ve heard,’ she said tartly, and hung up.
Nicky looked up from her notes at the next parents who had just come in and pulled her face into a smile. She felt a familiar taut throb pulse from her temples down the side of her cheekbones and along the back of her jaw. She was getting one of her heads.
‘Hello!’ she greeted them softly. ‘I’m Miss –’
‘What’s all this about uniforms?’ said the woman, sitting down next to Nicky in a chair the size of her hand. Nicky raised her eyebrows, which hurt. Why were parents always obsessed with what their children wore? And who spread these false rumours anyway?
She gave them a small but kind smile.
‘Ever since I’ve been teaching here,’ she began softly, ‘there has been a consistent rumour that we are about to introduce school uniforms. Let me put your minds at rest.’ She looked at them both. ‘We are not about to introduce school uniforms.’
‘Good,’ tutted the woman, ‘because we’d take Anemone out of here in the blink of an eye. We didn’t spend £7,000 on stamp duty to have to start buying school uniform.’
Nicky nodded sympathetically, and a thudding pain shot through the base of her skull.
She looked down at Anemone’s notes on her lap. She slowly looked up again and fixed them with a grin, which hurt her gums.
‘Your Anemone is a very . . .’
She fought for a positive word to describe their daughter. Tall?
She licked her lips.
‘. . . she’s a very . . . forceful character –’
They beamed.
‘. . . whose presence,’ she continued, ‘is always felt in the classroom.’
They exchanged smiles.
‘And although this is a wonderful trait,’ continued Nicky, ‘in many, many ways, I do feel that . . . just sometimes . . . through no fault of her own . . . this can come across to others as . . . possibly a bit too forceful.’
‘HAH!’ said Anemone’s mother, forcefully. ‘No such thing in my book.’
‘Ri-ight,’ said Nicky. She looked back down at her notes.
‘How’s her maths?’ asked Anemone’s father.
Nicky smiled at him. ‘Sometimes,’ she gave a little laugh, ‘it’s more creative than her English.’
They smiled proudly again.
Nicky relaxed her jaw and felt some of the pain ease.
Mark stood at his desk, briefcase in hand, staring angrily at Caroline, his PA.
‘Tell him I’ve gone,’ he said for the first time in his life.
Caroline looked at her watch. ‘At seven in the evening? A week before deadline?’
Mark sighed. ‘All right, all right. Tell my cab I’m coming. Put the bastard on.’
Caroline nipped back to her desk and put the client through on the phone before calling down to Ray, the firm’s favourite cabbie, who was parked outside.
Mark waited for the phone to connect him.
‘Peter!’ he cried. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Reuters have been on to us. There’s been a whisper. We’re going to have to bring the deadline forward.’
Mark slumped in his chair. Not tonight. Any night but tonight. ‘How early?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Shit.’
‘Noon at the latest.’
Mark put down the phone and thought for a moment. He walked into the general office.
‘Listen up, listen up.’ Four sallow faces looked up, while the juniors knew it was more than their careers’ worth to stop working. ‘It’s going to be an all-nighter for everyone,’ announced Mark. ‘Deadline’s shifted forward to 10 a.m. tomorrow morning. Reuters know.’ The room was thick with cursing. Mark went on. ‘I want everything on my desk by midnight. If it’s not there, Matt, I’ll want to know why.’
‘When will you be back?’ asked Matt.
Mark glanced at his watch. ‘As soon as I’ve bollocked my kid’s schoolteacher. Within a couple of hours.’
As he walked through the office, he heard Matt passing the shit down behind him.
10
NICKY RAISED HER h
ead slowly at the next parent hovering in the doorway and instead saw Miss James standing stock-still, staring intently at a cup of tea in her hand, the tip of her tongue peeping out of her mouth in concentration. Then she approached rather unsteadily, crouched down slowly and placed the tea carefully on the pupil’s desk where Nicky was sitting. Then she put up a finger as if to halt applause and, with great aplomb, pulled out two crumbly pieces of broken Bourbon biscuit from her cardigan pocket, and popped them on to the saucer.
‘I know you said custard creams, my love,’ said Miss James, ‘but we’ve run out. Between you and me, I think someone in the environs has stolen a whole packet. And between you and me, it’s Amanda. No one’s more surprised than me. I mean, where does she put them, with legs like that? If ever there was proof that life is unfair . . . anyway,’ she perched on the desk, ‘I saw them in her drawer when she took out a coaster for her cup and saucer. I don’t know which surprised me more, her stealing an entire packet of custard creams or thinking that her desk needs a coaster for a cup. On reflection, I think it’s the custard creams. Anyway, no matter. How are you doing, dear girl? Has the lovely Mr Samuels turned up yet?’
Nicky managed a shake of her head. She was gasping for tea. Not just because she was gasping for tea, but because she now had something to take her headache pills with. She took out three, sipped her hot tea and scalded her tongue, but the relief of knowing that pain relief was on its way more than made up for it. Miss James was about to continue talking when a mother appeared at the doorway. She leapt up off the desk, spilling Nicky’s tea, and bounded out, patting the mother on the arm as she passed, as if the mother was about to take Grade 1 piano exam. Which might have explained why the mother then entered the room looking exactly as if she was about to take Grade 1 piano exam.
Mark shut his eyes and cursed inwardly. Ray glanced at him in the rear-view mirror.
‘Sorry, Mr Samuels,’ he said. ‘There’s been a pile-up in Islington and the tailback’s right through to the City. It might actually be faster by tube.’
Mark couldn’t believe his ears.
‘Five people died, apparently,’ continued Ray. ‘Shocking business. Drunk driver. They should bring back capital punishment. That would stop the buggers.’
The Learning Curve Page 15