Head Start
Page 7
Still giggling after our haphazard descent – the path had been wide enough for just one, remember – she took me into her mega-kitchen and set me to slice bread for toast.
‘Home-made,’ she conceded when I asked, ‘but in that.’ She patted a bread-maker. ‘What sort of coffee do you prefer?’ She patted another machine. ‘I love gadgets,’ she confided, unnecessarily. As she loaded a tray with what I suspected was Wedgwood china, she said casually, ‘I should imagine that you’ve not had much time to learn about your new neighbours. And the school governors, of course.’
‘Any information is always useful,’ I said neutrally.
‘Potential allies, potential enemies,’ she pursued. ‘A young woman on her own in a new job – I’ve been in that position and I did not enjoy it.’
‘The villagers seem tight-knit,’ I ventured. I needed facts and I needed them before Don arrived – unless he was a man given to useful gossip too.
‘I’d not trust young Toby Wells as far as you can throw him. A man may smile and smile and be a villain. And of course there’s his auntie.’ She continued before I could ask about the aunt. ‘Brian Dawes – now, he’s old money, but he’s acquired plenty of new – appears to be an old-school gentleman but I’ve never trusted men of his age with no apparent significant other. That’s the term, isn’t it? And he does so throw his weight around. Don – oh, and here he comes, as if on cue – Don’s a nice man but he’s pro-establishment, if you see what I mean.’
I caught her eye, making a zipping motion across my mouth.
‘Absolutely. You must have smelt the toast, Don,’ she declared as she flung open the front door. ‘Leave your boots by Jane’s. Excellent. They were saying on the radio this morning that this cold snap is likely to go on for days. Longer, maybe. Something to do with pressure over France.’
‘Bloody France! Bloody Euro-weather!’ Don snorted. It wasn’t clear if he was joking.
Pro-establishment Don might even have been one of Dawes’s chums, of course, which kept me, however much I despised myself, very much on the demure side of polite. I hardly ventured an opinion of my own without examining it three times before it left my mouth. If I was in any doubt, I’d flicker an SOS in Meg’s direction; she responded by prefacing all sorts of banal remarks with the words, ‘I’m sure Jane agrees with me that …’
I probably gained more brownie points that way than by my hour’s road clearing.
The trouble with having been sociable was that I didn’t want to closet myself alone in the school again – or even in the house, doing more unpacking. Even a supermarket run would be more fun than that. Over in Sainsbury’s swarms of middle-class locusts were stripping swathes of shelves: presumably the forecast wasn’t great. I managed to grab bread, milk and bacon (for Terry’s sarnie), and fought my way through to some fresh fruit and vegetables. I didn’t need much, of course, but it felt as if I was establishing a precedent for singletons who needed to obtain rations too. I drifted to the drinks section – heavens, in a moment that would run dry – and to the kitchen section, pleasantly deserted. I didn’t really need anything, but comfort-bought a couple of new pans, adding a jolly mug for good measure. And then I found a new lipstick, which I didn’t need. And some shower gel. Anything. But not a newspaper. I wouldn’t have time to read it. I had to work, didn’t I?
And, whether in my office or in my house, alone.
I’d barely finished unloading the car when a courier’s van pulled up behind it: the oil tank locks for my tank and the school’s. The driver, a slip of a girl from Eastern Europe, could hardly wait for my signature – casting her eyes skyward, she said she smelt snow in the air, and we English were useless at dealing with it. I wouldn’t have argued even if she’d given me time. She was back in her van and pulling away dangerously fast before I’d even shut the front door.
I just had time to fix the lock and, by now using a torch, to check the gauge – with luck I had enough to keep warm for the rest of the day – before the first flakes stung my cheeks. I had just one more thing to do. The recycling bins were emptied on Mondays, and I had those boxes of books to get rid of. I got a dozen armfuls in before the blizzard descended in earnest. The rest would have to wait.
In fact, though the storm was intense it was short, with barely four inches falling: surely Terry would manage to get through tomorrow. Please! And, yes, a tanker rumbled up soon after six the following morning. But it wasn’t Terry for whom I opened the tank, but another man, shorter, stockier and older. Welsh. I might have been delighted to see the fuel, but my stomach clenched with anxiety.
‘Is Terry all right? He had a bit of a fall here on Friday,’ I added.
‘No idea. This is my round this week anyway.’
‘Really? Because I expected to cook him a bacon sandwich. To which you’re welcome, of course,’ I added hastily. ‘The grill’s on, if you’ve got time.’
‘I’ve got my breakfast bars, thanks all the same.’
As I made the tea he asked for, I fretted. ‘Were you scheduled for this area anyway?’
‘Had a call on Saturday morning. That’s how it works. Weather like this it’s harder for drivers to get to the depot in the first place, but more people need their delivery. Terry’s probably working nearer nearer the depot today. Good tea.’
And he was off to the next customer. Without incident.
Except to me. It was my turn to go base over apex. But, as I scrabbled to my feet, I could see no footprints except my own and the Welshman’s. And miraculously the mug was intact.
Perhaps it was a good omen. To celebrate I ate Terry’s sarnie.
CHAPTER NINE
So, as I made myself coffee in Melanie’s office, it really looked as if everything might be going well: warmth at home; PC Davies’s nephew scheduled to give me and the letting agency an estimate for insulation and lagging; warmth in the school; a police community support officer on duty outside, dealing firmly with the irate parents. There were no fights or falls in the playground. Everything was hunky-dory, in fact. As soon as assembly was over, I could retire to my office and prepare for this afternoon’s teaching. Some teachers I knew liked to read through the files of their pupils to get a handle on them before they actually entered the classroom. I preferred to keep an open mind, unwilling to write someone off because a previous teacher had some prejudice. On the other hand, I’d certainly pore over them after school, to confirm doubts or suspicions I had.
To my chagrin, I found I was still prejudiced against Prudence, who sat and watched me unblinking throughout assembly, fiddling all the time with her hair. I could warn her that in future she must sit still, and make sure that she did, but I couldn’t convert those endlessly long and apparently boneless arms and fingers into the average chubby limb. She reminded me horribly of Gollum and his Precious. I was totally ashamed of myself, knowing that I simply must not pick on her. Ever. For anything.
So rather than raise an accusing eyebrow in her direction, I ended the session with a flat instruction to the whole school to remember their manners. Once they were seated in front of me, they should cross their legs tidily and lay their hands in their laps. In class they would stand when any teacher, including myself, entered the room. They would behave like that for every visitor too, and always give way in corridors and hold doors open for adults. Long hair was to be tied back for safety’s sake. I had plenty of rubber bands for any girl – or boy – bothered by their long tresses. Cue for laughter, of course, at one or two lads whose parents apparently liked their offspring to look like Little Lord Fauntleroy. While on the subject of manners, it was not only rude to run in the corridors, but actually dangerous. Did they understand?
Prudence’s hand shot up. ‘What would be the case if someone were chasing you?’
She must be the only child in the school to use that construction. ‘If no one runs, no one can be chasing anyone.’
‘But what if it’s someone bad from whom it’s necessary to escape?’
&nb
sp; ‘I think you’ll find that since we’re changing all the locks – there’s a workman coming this morning – you’ll be quite safe from bad people chasing you. If it’s another pupil, you find a teacher and ask for help.’
Prudence’s hand shot up again. ‘But that’s telling tales, Miss.’ It was almost as if she had made a conscious decision to revert to language appropriate to her age.
‘You all know that you are supposed to call me Ms Cowan, so I suggest that is what you do, Prudence. And if someone is behaving dangerously, it’s not telling tales, but reporting their dangerous behaviour. Do you understand?’ Stern-faced, I looked at each child in turn. ‘There’s something else you must understand too. Mrs Gough forbade you to bring mobile phones of any sort to school. That ban still stands. If anyone does bring one, I shall confiscate it and only return it to your parents on the understanding that it never comes into school again. Is that absolutely clear? Good. Stand up, Elm Class, and dismiss – which is not a cue to start talking, Robert!’
To my ears I had sounded tetchy, especially after the Prudence moment, but the kids reacted with sober silence and a decent approximation of a march. Tomorrow I’d make sure that they had music to march to. Meanwhile, still vaguely unsettled, I made my first call of the official school day, as opposed to all those I made before nine, to the oil company.
Whoever was at the other end of the line was more malleable than Prudence. Possibly my preamble softened her up – the speed of service when the firm realised my problem, Terry’s kindness in squeezing the last drop of oil from the tanker when another customer had effectively hijacked the delivery meant for me, and the wonderful prompt delivery this morning. Having got her basking in a lovely warm glow of praise, I came in with my problem – anxiety about Terry after his fall. I knew as well as she did that a less helpful person would hide behind the Data Protection Act, but she sensed, I think, that my concern was genuine.
‘He did call in Saturday saying he was all shaken up after a fall. But he’s working today all right. Making a delivery near Sevenoaks, by the look of it.’
‘I do hope he didn’t lose any wages.’
‘No. Just turned down a bit of overtime. Said something about watching Wolves on TV.’
‘Phew!’
And more than phew. I was busy opening myself up to litigation if I was in any way to blame – though perhaps ice might be considered an act of God. But he had thought he was pushed. Asking for my good wishes to be passed on, I put the phone down carefully.
There was a tap on the door. Melanie appeared, clutching a bunch of flowers.
‘Isn’t this lovely? It says on the little envelope, To the best headmistress ever,’ she reported. ‘See?’ Slightly to my surprise, it wasn’t written in a childish hand, but computer printed.
I saw. ‘But I’ve only been here five minutes.’
‘You must have made a few fans, anyway.’ She laid the bouquet on my desk.
Something didn’t feel at all right. Not at all. It wasn’t Simon, was it, proving that he knew all about me? Please God, no!
My hands were literally shaking as I opened the envelope. It wasn’t from Simon. Nor was it even for me. For dear Mrs Gough. We all really, really miss you. Again it was printed.
When I silently showed it to her, Melanie went red, then pale. ‘Oh dear. That isn’t very kind, is it?’
I said lightly, ‘It’s a very kind gesture to Mrs Gough.’
‘No.’ She shook her head firmly. ‘Someone knew exactly what they were doing when they had it delivered to the school. They knew she doesn’t work here now. They were getting at you.’
I didn’t need that sort of sympathy. ‘Let’s just get it to Mrs Gough.’
‘How can I? She moved down to the Algarve when she retired. Everyone in the school knew about it. They even did a project on the different regions of Portugal.’
‘Someone must have forgotten. Tell you what, could you get on to the florist that delivered it and get them to contact the person who ordered it? Then it won’t be our problem any more.’
She looked at me with embarrassing compassion. ‘OK. Then I’ll make you a coffee.’
‘Thanks. But perhaps in a few minutes.’ I pointed. Through the window we could see the contents of the black sack I’d so carefully strung up spilt on to the snow, in so much disarray that clearly more than gravity had been involved. When could that have happened? Before school every child was supervised, the only ones having any access to the cycle shed area being those needing to park their sledges. Since there were only three propped up against the back wall of the shed, it should be easy enough to question the owners. However, unless they’d perched, acrobat fashion, on each other’s shoulders, I couldn’t see how children had managed to reach it. I suppose they could have treated it like a piñata, walloping it with handy sticks till it shed its load, but that would have meant forward planning. Meanwhile, every last shirt had to be gathered up. But I had learnt my lesson. I would peg each one to the washing line I brought over from my house, and get Melanie to text or email every last parent to request them to claim their child’s property before the end of the week. Anything left over would be put in the charity bin.
When I eventually got to her office, my hands blue with cold, there was no coffee waiting. Melanie soon sprang into action, but was so busy jabbering almost tearful apologies I put up a hand to stop her.
‘I can’t understand it. I’ve looked by the door, where they were left, I’ve looked everywhere. I think I’m going mad—’
‘“They?” What’s the problem? Just sit down, I’ll make the coffee.’
She took an ostentatiously deep breath, but didn’t exhale to relax.
‘I know when people tell you to calm down it does the opposite, but do try to relax, Melanie, or you’ll do yourself no good at all. Here. Careful. It’s hot, remember.’
She pulled a face and put the mug on her desk next to mine. ‘It’s the flowers. I was going to contact the florist to tell them to collect them – right?’
I leant against the edge of the window sill. ‘Right.’ The cold pressed in from outside. It was time to stand up again. If I started shivering she’d be more upset.
‘But there was no sign of any florist’s label or card or anything. And I didn’t see the delivery van. There was just this buzz on the entryphone. No one asked to be let in, so I assumed it was just some child being naughty. But then one of the mothers buzzed – she’d brought her son’s lunch box – and she produced the flowers. She said they’d been propped up against the door.’
‘I’d assumed you’d taken off the cellophane to avoid making a mess in my office – I know you’re that sort of woman, Melanie! But now you’re saying there never was any wrapper and that the card – well, you can buy a card like that anywhere, I suppose, so long as you’ve enough computer skills to print it.’
‘But why? Who’d do anything like that? An act of unkindness.’
‘A fairly expensive act of unkindness, too.’
She shook her head. ‘No, they’re not that good – I stuck them in a bucket of water in the staff loo, by the way. I thought they might be just Monday-morning flowers, left over after the weekend. After all, a lot of florists don’t even bother opening on Mondays, since they’ve not got fresh stock. But these really are a bit on the tatty side: a couple of bunches of filling-station flowers, you know the sort of thing, just rearranged. If only I’d checked properly I’d have binned them.’ She sounded more upset than even I felt. ‘Who’d do such a thing?’ She gasped, as a confidential penny dropped. ‘Your name change and everything: could it be someone from your past?’
‘It could. But even I never knew of the existence of Mrs Gough until recently. No one from my past would ever have heard of her. Surely?’ I added as much for my benefit as for hers.
There was a miserable silence. I had better break it. ‘Those football shirts. Any idea which of the lads might have got it into his testosterone-fuelled head to do that?’
Which reminded me – how might his plans for the stockrooms be going? ‘I’ll talk to him,’ I said. ‘Goodness me – all this before it’s even break time.’ I managed a rueful grin, which didn’t begin to approach cheerful.
‘All this and the locksmith too,’ Melanie added, buzzing him in as he confirmed his ID.
Soon I was the proud possessor of a new set of keys. Melanie and I labelled them all for their new custodians. Even with an extra spare for the office, there was one left over.
‘Everyone in the country used to leave a key under a flowerpot,’ she said, brandishing them.
‘I think I might know the academic equivalent of a flowerpot,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’
The flower delivery did leave an unpleasant taste in my mouth, not least because Melanie was obviously so upset on my behalf. She even moved them from the women’s loo to the men’s lest the sight disturbed me. Frankly, I think she was more upset than I was – my main emotion was gratitude that there was nothing to connect them to Simon. But I had other things to busy myself with, including my afternoon’s teaching. Clearly the governors had been wrong to write off Mrs Gough’s replacement as ‘some supply teacher’: the children obviously enjoyed learning and exploring ideas, and spoke with ease and fluency. The end of school bell went all too quickly.