Wicked!

by Jilly Cooper

  Graffi, who fancied Adele and had drawn most of the animals and a farmer and his wife, had also created a glorious country scene in reception. This included wild flowers and trees, and larks in their nest, in the young emerald-green wheat or soaring into a red-streaked sky. In the east, he had painted a yawning sun crawling out of bed, and in the west, weary stars wriggling thankfully under the duvet.

  Janna had craftily made it seem a great privilege for forty of the better-behaved children to be allowed back into school to welcome and provide tours for visiting parents. Those who’d helped put up displays had been rewarded with Mars bars and letters home requesting their presence.

  This had caused sneering from the troublemakers, who’d not been chosen, but who, when a smell of roasting chicken crept out of Debbie’s kitchen and Bob Marley began booming over the tannoy at going-home time, felt that they might be missing something – if only the chance to trash.

  Feral had been truanting again, but Graffi, Pearl and Kylie had been among the chosen. Alas, Mr Blenchley, angry with Paris for cheeking Rod Hyde, had refused to let him out. Without Paris and Feral, Graffi needed to defend his work more fiercely than ever and, like a little tiger, prowled up and down reception.

  The staff had divided into helpers and hinderers. Among the former were Miss Cambola and Mags Gablecross, who had taken children into the fields to try and record trilling larks.

  ‘He’s too high, miss,’ was the considered opinion, but everyone got muddy and had a laugh.

  Wally had painted till he dropped. Countries of the World in lime green now decorated the turquoise corridor walls. Even languid Jason had come to Janna’s aid.

  ‘I gather you had lunch with Hengist. How did you find him?’

  ‘With difficulty. I got terribly lost.’

  ‘Charming bloke.’

  ‘If you like arrogant Adonises.’

  ‘Did he mention me?’

  ‘He feels you’ll fit in very well.’

  Missing the sarcasm, Jason looked delighted.

  ‘Any help needed this evening, I’ll be around.’

  ‘If you could provide some evidence of work in progress in the drama department?’

  Once Jason decided to lend a hand, Gloria and all the other pretty women on the staff did too.

  Lance, although unable to galvanize his class, had himself created a project of life in Tudor England and spent days blackening beams and colouring in doublet and hose.

  The hinderers were in a state of mutiny because Janna had ordered them to be on parade. Mike Pitts had left everything to Jessamy, his little Asian teaching assistant. Robbie was sulking because Adele had done so well. Skunk Illingworth carried on reading the New Scientist.

  Around teatime, Janna caught Cara bitching into her mobile. ‘Nobody’ll turn up. I’ll be away by eight.’

  ‘That is such a defeatist attitude. You’ve made no effort,’ Janna had told her furiously. Shaking with rage, she returned to her office. ‘I’m going to kill Cara Sharpe.’

  ‘Kill her tomorrow,’ said Debbie, putting a plate of chicken sandwiches, a blackberry yoghurt and a cup of tea on Janna’s desk. ‘You must keep up your strength.’

  ‘You are champion, the most champion thing that’s happened to Larks, your food’s utterly transformed the place, and you’ve added tarragon.’ Janna bit gratefully into a sandwich. Then, picking up the Gazette: ‘Let’s look at our ad.’

  But, to her horror, there was nothing there: no advertisement nor any part of her glowing report on Larks’s future plans.

  ‘I cannot believe it!’ The Gazette flapped like a captured seagull as she flipped through it a second and third time – nothing. Even more galling, there were big ads and reports on the splendour and overflowing rolls at Searston Abbey, St Jimmy’s and the choir school, who were all having parents’ evenings this same night.

  Colin ‘Col’ Peters, the Gazette editor, was all injured innocence when Janna called him.

  ‘We never received any copy, Miss Curtis.’

  ‘I put it through the letterbox.’

  ‘I’m sorry. We have no record. If we had, we’d have billed you. We’re not in the habit of turning away business.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. At least send a reporter down here this evening.’

  ‘I’m afraid they’re all on other jobs. Such a busy night.’

  Janna smashed the telephone back on its cradle. What was going on in this town? Keep calm, count to ten, she told herself as she changed into a new dress, the blue of grape hyacinths, which had long, tight sleeves and clung to the bust and waist before flowing into a full skirt. It was demure, but very sexy. Sadly, she felt as sexy as a corpse. Her face, in the mirror, was drained of all colour and confidence.

  Smile, Janna, even when you’re playing to empty houses.

  She hadn’t even the heart to chide Gloria who, to wow any fathers, had rolled up in a pink vest and a white groin-length skirt showing off a shocking pink thong.

  ‘Gloria certainly believes in transparency,’ observed Mags Gablecross.

  As she waited in reception, Janna’s mood was not improved by the arrival of Monster Norman and Satan Simmons.

  ‘Who told you to come along?’

  ‘Mrs Sharpe,’ sneered Satan.

  ‘I’ve come to meet my mother,’ said Monster.

  ‘If you put a foot out of line . . .’ hissed Janna.

  ‘Everything looks splendid,’ boomed Miss Uglow, taking up residence in her RE classroom with the latest P. D. James and a bag of bulls’ eyes.

  ‘Just remember to be polite to the new parents,’ Janna urged the children. ‘Show them you’re proud of your school, so they’ll want to send their kids here.’

  The coffee was brewing. Debbie’s chicken sandwiches and homemade shortbread were laid out on plates. Fresh rolls awaited the sausages warming in the oven for people who’d come straight from work. The church clock struck seven-thirty.

  ‘Shall we dance?’ asked Jason Fenton to Gloria the gymnast, as over the tannoy Bob Marley reassured them that every little thing was going to be all right.

  But it wasn’t, because no one came. You couldn’t even blame the weather. It was a lovely evening, dove grey in the east, rose doré in the west and the first stars competing with Wally’s lights up the drive.

  ‘People’ll turn up soon. They’ll have seen our “Welcome to Larks” sign outside,’ Janna reassured the children.

  After ten minutes, Graffi abandoned his display in reception and ran down the drive to check. Immediately, Satan and Monster moved in.

  ‘“Due to pesticide and fertilizer, there are few larks about these days,”’ read Satan in a silly voice.

  ‘And even fewer prospective parents,’ wrote Monster underneath with a marker pen, just as Graffi returned, gloomily shaking his shaggy head.

  ‘No one’s coming, miss. Street’s empty.’

  ‘They’ll probably come on to us from other schools.’

  ‘Here’s someone,’ cried Kylie Rose in excitement.

  But it was only Cara, Mike, Robbie, Sam and Skunk, trooping in from the Ghost and Castle.

  ‘I hope you’re not going to insist we hang around if no one turns up,’ said Mike.

  ‘Those are for the parents,’ protested Pearl as Robbie and Skunk started wolfing chicken sandwiches. ‘Tell them off, miss.’

  Janna couldn’t bear seeing the excitement draining out of the children’s faces. Even worse, Rod Hyde kept ringing up.

  ‘We’ve had two hundred already and they’re still flowing in. How are you doing?’

  ‘Oh, go away,’ said Janna, fighting back the tears.

  ‘What a waste of money heating the school on such a warm night,’ chided Cara.

  The boys, also believing in transparency, had started flicking water at the white shirts of the girls, revealing their bras underneath. There was a crash as a window was smashed. Any moment there would be a mass exodus down the wisteria.

  Unwilling to take on Graffi,
Monster led Satan off to trash Year Eight’s farm and, spitting at a cringing Adele, ignoring the screams of the girls, they swept everything off the farmhouse table and hurled a bread board and a papier mâché loaf out of the window. Chucking the farmer and his wife on the floor, they stamped on pigs, sheep and hens, kicked over milk pails and ripped the beautifully constructed tractor to pieces.

  ‘Don’t,’ yelled Janna, racing up and seizing Monster’s arm. Next moment, Graffi erupted into the room, hurling Satan to the ground.

  ‘Fight, fight, fight,’ yelled Year Eight, tears drying on their faces as they gathered round.

  ‘Someone’s coming,’ squealed Kylie Rose.

  ‘It’s your mother, Monster,’ yelled Graffi, catching him off guard and smashing a fist into Monster’s round, pasty face.

  Not wanting to have his ears boxed (Stormin’ Norman could be as tough on her son as on other people’s children), Monster scrambled to his feet, wiping his bloody nose.

  Downstairs, Russell Lambert, Ashton Douglas and Crispin Thomas walked into comparative calm. Ashton had gone casual, wearing a beige cashmere V-necked jersey next to his pink-and-white skin, which made his features more formless than ever. Crispin ducked as a cardboard pig flew over the stairwell.

  ‘This is very disappointing,’ said Russell as Janna ran downstairs to meet them. ‘Sam Spink tells me you’ve had no one in.’

  Crash went another window.

  ‘Turn up the volume,’ hissed Janna to Mags Gablecross.

  ‘“Hark, Hark! the Lark”,’ sang Bryn Terfel, fortissimo, making everyone jump out of their skins.

  ‘Is it a good idea’ – Ashton looked disapprovingly at Paris’s copied-out poems and Graffi’s countryside mural – ‘to gwaffiti newly painted walls?’

  Explosions from the science lab indicated Year Ten were having fun. As Debbie and her helpers put plates of hot dogs and more chicken sandwiches on the table, Skunk, Robbie and Sam fell on them.

  ‘How caring of Debbie to realize we’d missed supper.’

  ‘Those are for the parents,’ repeated Pearl indignantly.

  ‘What happened to the advertisement in the Gazette?’ asked Ashton.

  ‘They didn’t print it, claimed they never got it.’

  ‘It’s always wise to check these things,’ said Russell heavily, ‘shame to squander so much money and time on displays which no one sees.’

  I must not cry, Janna told herself.

  Five minutes crawled past. Mike Pitts was nose to nose with Ashton Douglas.

  ‘Shall we call it a night?’ he was saying. ‘Frankly, I’ve got better things to do.’

  ‘So glad I didn’t waste time glamming up my department,’ sneered Cara; then, shooting a venomous glance at Janna: ‘Some people accused me of letting Larks down.’

  ‘Ay had to pay someone to mind Cameron,’ grumbled Chantal Peck. ‘Ay’m going to put in expenses. Told you it would flop on an EastEnders night.’

  ‘Please give it another five minutes,’ begged Janna.

  Noticing the ill-suppressed satisfaction on the faces of Ashton, Crispin and Russell, she told herself numbly: I don’t understand why, but they are willing me to fail.

  17

  Then, suddenly, like the Angel Gabriel emerging from a day in the City, resplendent in a pinstriped suit, dark blue shirt and pretty pink and yellow checked tie, eyes sparking with malice, in sauntered Hengist Brett-Taylor.

  ‘Janna, darling, how are you?’

  Striding down reception, he took her hands and, bending down, kissed her on both cheeks.

  ‘It all looks fantastic. My God, you’ve cheered this place up, and this mural is simply breathtaking. Of course, it’s “Larks Ascending” – and the music too,’ as, on cue, the tape launched into Vaughan Williams. ‘Who’s responsible?’

  ‘Well, everyone, but the mastermind’s been Graffi Williams here.’

  ‘Brilliant, brilliant.’ Hengist grasped Graffi’s hands. ‘I love the sun and the stars and that beautiful Shelley quote: “The world should listen then, as I am listening now”, the prayer of all writers, me included. This is inspiring stuff.’ Then he gave a shout of laughter. ‘I love the old man with the beard, got that pompous ass Rod Hyde to a T.’

  Hengist had been buoyed up by a very successful meeting with two of his high Tory conspirators, who were standing in the doorway and whom he now beckoned over.

  ‘First, this is Jupiter Belvedon, your MP and chairman of my governors at Bagley.’

  ‘Oh, goodness.’ Janna found herself shaking hands with a dark, thin-faced, haughty-looking man in his early forties, familiar from posters all round the town, and forgot to bristle because she was so grateful to see anyone. ‘Hi,’ she gasped, ‘welcome to Larks.’

  ‘And Rupert Campbell-Black,’ added Hengist.

  ‘Blimey,’ whispered Pearl.

  ‘Wicked,’ sighed Kylie. ‘Oh, wicked!’

  ‘Wicked indeed,’ breathed Janna, because Rupert was so beautiful: like moonlight on the Taj Mahal or Monet’s Irises, or a beech wood in autumn sunshine, which you’d dismissed as clichés because you’d seen them so often in photographs, in the flesh, they – and he – took your breath away.

  The antithesis of Ashton Douglas, there was nothing soft in Rupert’s face, from the smooth, wide forehead, the long watchful Oxford blue eyes, the hard, high cheekbones, Greek nose, short upper lip and curling but determined mouth. Around Hengist’s height, somewhere up in the clouds to Janna, he was broad-shouldered, lean and long-legged.

  Only his voice was soft, light and very clipped as he said:

  ‘You don’t look like a headmistress. I wouldn’t have run away from school at fourteen if they’d looked like you.’ Then, glancing down at the battered cardboard collie under his arm: ‘Have you lost a dog? This one just flew out of the window.’

  Prejudice evaporating, Janna burst out laughing.

  ‘Would you like some shortbread?’ asked Gloria.

  ‘Or a chicken sandwich?’ said Debbie the cook.

  ‘Or a coffee?’ said Rowan.

  ‘Or an ’ot dog?’ Chantal Peck rushed forward with a plate.

  ‘I’ve got one already.’ Rupert patted the collie’s head.

  ‘I’d adore one, I’m starving,’ said Hengist.

  ‘So am I,’ said Jupiter.

  Rupert shook his sleek blond head. ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘You bet you are,’ murmured Gloria.

  Even Cara Sharpe was looking quite moony.

  Jason was feeling very upstaged, particularly as Hengist hadn’t recognized him.

  ‘Rupert, as you know, is one of my parents, and a director of Venturer Television,’ Hengist told a stunned Janna.

  ‘Has Venturer been in yet?’ asked Rupert, who’d noticed Janna was trembling. ‘No? I’ll give them a ring.’

  ‘Nor have any prospective parents,’ said Monster Norman smugly. ‘You’re the only people who’ve shown up.’

  ‘D’you have any kiddies, your honourable?’ Chantal asked Jupiter.

  ‘One boy.’

  ‘Thinking of sending him to Larks?’

  ‘He doesn’t really talk yet.’

  ‘We’ve got an excellent special-needs department.’

  ‘Even so, he might have difficulty keeping up,’ said Jupiter gravely, ‘he’s only fourteen months.’

  ‘Same as my grandson, Cameron. Frankly, Jupiter, I wouldn’t send Cameron anywhere else than Larks.’

  Crash went another window. Overhead, it sounded like elephants playing rugby.

  ‘How are you, little one?’ Hengist murmured to Janna.

  ‘Hellish. They’ve trashed the farm we built upstairs; no one’s come. I’ve let the kids down.’

  ‘Leave it to me. You’re right about Paris Alvaston. I’ve just read his poem about a lark; it’s miraculous.’

  ‘Hi,’ murmured Rupert into his mobile, ‘I’m at Larks, get your asses down here.’ Then, after a pause: ‘Can you rally some parents?’ Switching off, he turne
d to Janna. ‘They were on their way to St Jimmy’s; they won’t be long.’

  ‘I want to see round the school,’ said Hengist, who was now talking to the children, praising and discovering who’d done what. ‘Are you all going to take me? What’s that, England?’ He pointed to one of Wally’s newly painted acid-green countries.

  ‘No, Africa, dumb-dumb,’ giggled Pearl.

  ‘God, these are good.’ Grabbing another hot dog, Hengist set off like the Pied Piper, trailing children, all wanting to hold his hand. Reluctantly, Ashton, Russell and Crispin followed him.

  Going into classroom B20, he found a scene of total devastation, and Adele trying to comfort the sobbing twelve-year-olds.

  There was a pause, then Hengist said, ‘This is absolutely brilliant. Look, Ashton, look, Russell, they’ve re-created a farm in the Balkans.’ Putting huge arms round the sobbing little girls, he went on, ‘Of course you’re sad your farm’s been bombed, but you’ve really captured the pathos of war.

  ‘Look at the poor farm animals and birds.’ Hengist pointed with half a hot dog. ‘Animals are always the first casualties of war. Look at that poor lamb with its legs blown off and the cow who’s been disembowelled, and everything’s been swept off the table.’

  Hengist righted the farmer and his wife who’d lost an arm. ‘They were just enjoying their tea, poor darlings, when the bomb fell. So sad.’

  ‘Are you responsible?’ He turned to a shell-shocked Adele. ‘I can only congratulate you; such vision and courage, to destroy something so precious. That tractor’s wonderful too. What’s your name? Miss Stevens, just the kind of primitive machinery they’d have in Bosnia.’

  ‘Graffi made that,’ piped up Janna proudly.

  ‘We did it too.’ Monster and Satan edged forward. ‘We trashed it.’

  Janna was poised to annihilate them, but wily old Hengist pumped their hands. ‘Well done, a real team effort.’

  Robbie was simply furious, longing to push forward to take credit, but Hengist had moved on to Life in Tudor England and, as a fellow historian, was praising a blushing Lance: