After some deliberation Matt decided that researching primary schools was an activity best conducted on his own. Joshua would get a good enough look – at St Leonard’s anyway – when he went for his four-plus assessment, an ordeal scheduled for the week Matt was due in America. On being notified of the date, Matt’s knee-jerk response had been to cancel the trip altogether. Further reflection, however, had led him to the conclusion that the timing was probably fortuitous. The notion of anyone attempting to cast judgment on the delightfully quirky, raw intelligence of his son made him so cross, so nerve-racked on Joshua’s behalf, that it was obvious that Dennis, with all his calm down-to-earth pragmatism, would be far better placed to oversee the exercise.
Although Broadlands was within walking distance, St Leonard’s, where Maria had arranged the first of their two appointments, warranted a journey in the car. Both Joshua and his father pressed their noses to the window to see him off, making grotesque distortions of their faces and leaving bleary smears on the windowpane. Matt tooted several times in response, chuckling to himself at the unlikely shape his family life had taken: three single men of three generations, and a girl of sixteen, who continued to apply herself to the smooth running of the household with an enthusiasm and diligence beyond his wildest dreams. In addition to the triumphs over their laundry, the house was beginning to shine from a more thorough attention to cleanliness; brand names of detergents and scouring creams had begun to make an appearance on the walled shopping list, written at funny angles in careful joined-up writing where bs often served as ds and most es faced the wrong way. As if such vigilance were not enough, she never arrived for work without some small gift for Joshua – a button embossed with a soldier, an electric-green caterpillar in a matchbox, a sticker of a famous footballer. Dennis said that on the afternoons she was due Josh had taken to waiting for her on the bottom stair, howling with disappointment if the ring of a salesman or Jehovah’s witness raised false hopes.
Although pleased by this attachment, Matt, could not help worrying at its vehemence. It was one of many indications that, while his son had apparently adjusted to his new circumstances with remarkable ease, there remained much invisible healing still to be done. In the weeks since Kath’s departure the volatility of his emotions had grown much more marked; euphoria metamorphosed into abject misery in seconds, sometimes at the slightest provocation. And then there were the wet sheets – not every morning, but one out of every four or five. Bladder control had never been a problem before. Indeed, it had been one of the few causes of early parental complacency that their toddler, so awkward in many ways, had mastered the potty within a week and the even more awesome challenge of a lavatory not long afterwards.
There had been sodden sheets that morning, Matt recalled, giving a last wave to the two squashed faces as he drove off down the street. Not wanting to dent Joshua’s fragile pride, he had as usual made light of the matter, whisking the affected bedding out of sight and not wiping down the plastic mattress cover – bought the week before – until he was safely downstairs. A doctor would no doubt recommend therapy, Matt reflected grimly, shuddering at the thought and clinging to the notion that the passage of time, coupled with good old-fashioned human kindness, could do the job as well. And of that there had been no shortage on any front, he reminded himself, slowing to wave at Mr Patel, whose big smile and hedgehog of lollipops had become a regular highlight of the week.
The grocer was standing on the pavement outside his shop surrounded by several members of his family. He returned Matt’s greeting with an air of such obvious and uncharacteristic distraction that Matt slowed to see what was wrong. Craning his neck through the passenger window, he glimpsed several large loops of fluorescent spray graffiti along the door and main window of the shop. He could make out the words, PAKI BASTARDS, together with several crude renditions of male genitalia. On either side were two jagged holes in the pane of glass, each the size of a football. The pavement area usually designated for trestle tables of fresh fruit and vegetables was carpeted with heaps of crystal fragments.
Mr Patel approached the car, shaking his head and wringing his hands. ‘Who would do this thing?’ he said, as Matt wound down the window.
‘God knows. Kids probably. Have you called the police?’
‘Oh yes, they have been already. But what can they do? I do my best, Mr Webster, I work hard. I am with respect for everybody.’ His usually beaming, vigorous face was ashen and slack with dismay. ‘And the children, they are upset too. Of course, there are comments sometimes, they are used to that, but this —’ He broke off, gesturing helplessly at the mess beside them.
‘I’m really sorry, Mr Patel. I just wish there was something I could do but —’ Matt glanced at his watch, realising that Maria would already be at St Leonard’s. ‘The fact is, I’m terribly late – on my way to look at a school for Josh.’
The shopkeeper managed a half-smile, revealing a brief glimpse of his handsome gold molars. ‘He’s a growing boy now, of course. You must go, Mr Webster. There is nothing to be done,’ he added, his face grave again as he turned back to continue comforting his family.
Sobered by the episode, Matt found himself turning into the attractively landscaped crescent of a carpark, curling round the elegant red- bricked body of St Leonard’s, with somewhat mixed feelings. The aura of privilege was tangible. Even the tarmac looked black and sumptuous, especially the ring-fenced, more padded version to the right of the building, which had been implanted with an elaborate construction of climbing frames and swings. Bright specks of budding winter jasmine and quince blossom jostled for space among the evergreens bordering the playground, contributing to the impression that even nature smiled on those wealthy enough to court her properly.
Matt had barely pulled up the handbrake when Maria emerged from a car the size of a cattle truck, with gleaming alloy wheels and doors that slid sideways rather than swinging open on hinges. She was wearing black leggings, black leather ankle boots and a bright red wool jacket, trimmed with fake black fur. On her head was a large black hat with a fat belt of fur round its rim. Having only ever seen her attired in jeans and a sweat-shirt, Matt felt momentarily intimidated. ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting.’
‘No, I just got here, honestly. It’s good to see you. How are you? You look well,’ she added, thinking in fact that he looked tired and unkempt. ‘We’ve missed you at our last couple of tea sessions.’
Matt pushed open the main door of the school and stepped aside for her to enter first. ‘Yes, well, I’m back at work now.’
‘Of course. How’s it going? When are they going to let you work from home?’
‘Soon. But in the meantime my father is in charge of Joshua’s social life.’ He made a face, feeling a pang of disloyalty as he did so and privately thinking that Dennis would in fact be thrilled at an invitation to eat home- made cakes with Maria and her girlfriends.
A few moments later they were being guided round three floors of bright polished classrooms, centred round a handsome oak-panelled hall. Each set of rooms had its own cloakroom, lined with empty silver hooks and gleaming lavatories and basins the height of Matt’s thigh.
‘Of course it’s not the same without the children,’ trilled the headmistress, a creature moulded in a cheerful no-nonsense mode which Matt associated with females who had been to boarding school and played hockey. ‘You would see then what fun we all have. We pride ourselves on being a happy school. They work half the time without even realising it. Lots of exercise too. They do games at least three times a week. We’ve got an absolutely splendid new gym on the far side of the playground and there are plans afoot for a pool. At the moment we take a minibus to the leisure centre, which does rather eat up the time.’
Throughout the tour, Maria took the lead, asking a string of pertinent questions ranging from details about the curriculum to the school policy on bullying. Feeling altogether less convivial, as well as disinclined to compete, Matt instead concentrated on studying compositions on the
walls. He stared particularly hard at the framed sea of white faces in school photographs, grappling as much with the notion of Josh slotting happily into so vast a crowd as the prospect of spending thousands of pounds every year enabling him to do so. His savings account had that week registered a balance of just over twelve thousand pounds. More than enough to cover a year or two but hardly very promising in the long term. If Joshua started private school that year there would be another fourteen to go. Fourteen years of three terms a year. That was forty-two terms. Matt felt his mouth go dry. Unless he won the lottery or the heart of an heiress the outlook was hopeless.
‘Mr Webster, any further questions?’
They were back in the main reception area, standing next to a cupboard of silver trophies. ‘When are this lot given out, then?’ he asked, trying to appear eager, suddenly fearful that Joshua might be prejudged on the basis of his own performance. ‘Sports day?’ He gave the glass cabinet a friendly tap.
The lips pursed in a momentary show of disapproval. ‘At this age I think it is important to keep sport strictly non-competitive. Everyone participating, no one being disappointed. No, these awards are for excellence in work, art and music. Rather than taking the cups home, the children have their names engraved on them and then they are displayed here for all to admire.’
Maria clucked approvingly, while Matt shrank back into silence, resisting the urge to point out the futility of trying to persuade children not to outstrip each other on a sports field or anywhere else.
The sixties concrete blocks of Broadlands primary school, crammed into a small site set back from a busy road, could not have offered a more striking contrast. The playground, heaving with cracks and faded lines marking out the perimeters of various ball games, was separated from the pavement only by a waist-high wall, topped by several yards of crude metal fencing. Since the playground also constituted the main forecourt of the school, visitors arriving by car were forced to trawl for parking spaces along the road. A cluster of parents already grouped on the school steps alerted Matt to the fact that the exclusive viewing to which they had been treated at St Leonard’s was not to be repeated. While they stood there, waiting to be herded inside, Maria nudged him, whispering, ‘I think we might be wasting our time.’
Matt grunted, in truth feeling equally disappointed, but determined, if only for his bank balance’s sake, to be more positive.
Maria bit her lip and turned away. Having fondly imagined herself to be on the brink of a new and original friendship, such a reaction – not to mention the subdued nature of Matt’s behaviour throughout the morning – had left her wondering if this was in fact the case. It had been wonderfully refreshing to have a bit of testosterone floating among her small circle of friends, diluting the at times stultifying female ambience that still prevailed when it came to the rearing of young infants. All her girlfriends had agreed. When Matt hadn’t got in touch after their get-together they had charged Maria with the responsibility of finding out what was going on and wooing him back into the group.
The Broadlands tour was undertaken by a slim woman, plainly dressed and with dry flyaway hair and blotchy skin. Introducing herself as a joint acting deputy head, she ushered them round the building with an edge of impatience that suggested she had many things to see to before the day was out. Though clean, the place was nothing like as spruce as its fee- paying counterpart. Ominous discolourations were visible on several walls and ceilings, while the linoleum floors were faded and pitted with dents and scuff marks. With an average of thirty to a class, the desks were packed so tightly together that there was barely room for an adult to move between them.
* * *
As the group approached the main hall, which served the triple purpose of assembly area, dining hall and gym, they were greeted by a muffled storm of noise. ‘A drama workshop,’ explained their guide, opening the door and stepping back for the parents to peer inside. They all huddled in the doorway, taking it in turns to look. Maria, who went before Matt, stepped back into the corridor with an exclamation of surprise. ‘I know that woman. Sophie something …’
Matt just had time to glimpse Josie’s dour protector, surrounded by about twenty leaping children, before the deputy head leaned across him to close the door. ‘I think we’ll leave them to it, don’t you? Our library is the Portakabin behind the main school. If you’d like to follow me.’
‘Contini – that was it,’ exclaimed Maria, clapping her hands in satisfaction at having recalled the name. ‘She used to teach at my eldest’s nursery when we lived in Tooting. Left the place under a terrible cloud,’ she continued, pleased to see that she had ensnared Matt’s attention at last. ‘An affair with a father of one of the children in her class – if you can think of anything more inappropriate. He patched it up with his wife and moved away. Poor woman – someone told me she has since been diagnosed with breast cancer —’
‘Who, the teacher?’
‘No, the wife. Brought on by stress, they say. Sophie Contini disappeared, apparently to go back into further education … though, judging by that riot, it looks as if she could do with going back for a bit more.’ She giggled. ‘Hardly the best advert for the school.’
‘As a matter of fact I know her as well,’ said Matt carefully. ‘She teaches the girl who’s helping my father look after Josh. They’re rather good friends. Josie relies on her a lot.’
‘Right. Well, sorry if I’ve —’
‘Really, there’s no need to apologise. Her chequered past is of no consequence to me. Josie is great, which is all that matters.’
‘Yes, of course,’ agreed Maria hastily, unable to quell the sensation that a final chance to fan their acquaintance into something lasting had slipped beyond her grasp.
They said goodbye a little stiffly, with hollow-sounding promises to arrange play dates for their offspring. A few minutes later, just as Matt reached his car, he caught sight of Sophie herself coming out of the school gates.
* * *
‘Hey,’ he called, striding back down the pavement. ‘I saw you in there.’
‘Yes, I saw you,’ she remarked, not sounding remotely pleased at the coincidence.
‘I didn’t know you taught here.’
‘I don’t. Just a Saturday workshop.’ ‘Quite a handful, by the looks of things.’
She shrugged. ‘They’re okay. I like to let them go a bit, use up some
energy.’ She was tapping her handbag with her fingertips, he noticed, as if eager to be released.
‘I was looking with Josh in mind. I saw St Leonard’s earlier —’ ‘No guesses for which you preferred.’
‘Well, actually —’
‘How’s Josie getting on, anyway?’ ‘Fine – great in fact.’
Her face softened for the first time. ‘Yes, she’s a good girl. Which reminds me, I’ve agreed to pick her up this evening, since she’s staying the night with me afterwards. She is sitting for you, isn’t she?’ she added, seeing the momentary blankness in Matt’s eyes.
‘Oh God, yes she is.’ He groaned, unhappy to be reminded of the unfortunate coincidence of Beth Durant’s party and his father’s decision to have dinner with an old friend in Hampstead. ‘But whichever one of us is back first could simply put her in a taxi, rather than cause you the bother of—’
‘There’s really no need,’ she cut in. ‘I’m a late bird anyway. I’ll see you later, then.’
‘Would you like a lift?’ Matt called, watching her stride away down the street. ‘It’s on my way.’
‘I like walking,’ she shouted back, not even bothering to turn round.
Matt stared after her, irritated and mystified by the impression that for some reason she found his company offensive, wondering whether it was an attitude she applied to all men or reserved for him alone.
18
Later that afternoon Matt phoned Beth Durant to make a halfhearted attempt to pull out of the party altogether. He would not be out of the West End before ten thirty, he explained, an
d with a review to file the next day would not be able to stay beyond an hour at the very most.
‘Matthew Webster, you rat. When I said you didn’t have to come I was kidding. Of course you have to come. There’ll be some great people here. You’ll have a good time.’
‘Well, can I bring something, then?’ he had replied feebly. ‘Just yourself will do fine.’
Matt recalled these words in a bid for reassurance as the taxi tipped him outside the front door of Beth’s grey-bricked Chelsea home. Arriving alone at parties was something he had hated even as an adolescent, when shudders of social unease had been compensated for by undercurrents of sexual anticipation. Hovering on the doorstep now, he realised that, rather than being vanquished, such fears had merely been lurking in his psyche all along, hidden by the easy crutch of coupledom, the fact of having a pair of unthreatening eyes to catch across a crowded room.
The door knocker dropped from his fingers with a dull, unpromising thud. He was seriously entertaining the possibility of backing away from it when the door swung open, revealing Beth Durant, clad in a low-necked silky top with stringy shoulder straps and a short skirt. In the dim light of the hallway her bare skin glowed a honey brown. Observing that she was taller than he remembered, Matt looked down and saw that in place of the soft leather pumps were silver strappy high heels, criss-crossed around ten crimson toenails.
‘I’d almost given you up,’ she said, taking hold of his wrist and pulling him inside. ‘We’re down to the hard core. The caterers have gone but there’s loads of food left. I always order too much on purpose. As for drink, we’re out of red wine – just everybody drinks it these days – but there’s gallons of white, not to mention all the other usual suspects – gin, whisky, Bourbon —’ She shook the glass in her right hand, causing the ice cubes to chink prettily round the inch of golden brown liquid. ‘My preferred tipple.’ Still holding his wrist, she led him down the carpeted corridor and into a dimly lit double sitting room, where a handful of guests were sprawled round the floor and in deep beanbag-style armchairs. ‘Hey, everybody, this is Matt.’ There were murmurs of welcome and a few sleepily raised arms. ‘We were dancing but have gotten too tired,’ drawled one guest, sucking deeply on a fat joint and handing it to his neighbour.
A Family Man Page 14