by Jilly Cooper
Swearing and spitting, Graffi backed off.
It was a very warm night. No one could explain why Cosmo was discovered in the flower bed next morning with bruising and mild concussion, but otherwise unhurt, which was more than could be said for Sally’s beloved narcissi, trillium grandiflora and crown imperials. Thanks to Emlyn and the Minister’s guards, none of this reached the press, which, as a result, was excellent.
Venturer had filmed the whole production, five minutes of which was aired, including Paris’s gallop up the gangway and the tango of Feral and Bianca, whose father was, after all, a Venturer director.
46
Mrs Kamani was so pleased to be invited and featured in Romeo and Juliet, she gave every Larks child an Easter egg. Janna organized a treasure hunt around the grounds, but she continually had to replace eggs, because they kept being tracked down and gobbled up by Partner.
Everyone had a wonderful time, as did Hengist and Sally, who spent Easter with Anatole’s family in Russia.
‘We had a treasure hunt for Fabergé eggs,’ laughed Sally. ‘Hengist and I found one each. Simply heavenly.’
All of which was too much for poor Alex Bruce, still festering over Hengist’s lack of concern over Poppet’s smashed figurine and being excluded from Hengist’s private party after Romeo and Juliet, particularly when he discovered that feline smoothie Artie Deverell had been invited.
Then Emlyn Davies, who never showed any respect, announced that as he’d been working all hours on the play, he intended to take two days off to play golf and go racing.
It was high time, decided Alex, to impose some discipline. Staff therefore returned for the summer to find glass panels fitted into their classroom doors so Alex could monitor their lessons.
Theo Graham, head of classics, led the mutiny, promptly hanging his old tweed coat over the panel.
Alex then emailed all staff saying he would be monitoring random classes. Again, Theo led the resistance.
‘I’ve been teaching for nearly forty years; no one’s sitting in on my lessons.’
‘Well, at least submit a plan for each lesson,’ persisted Alex. ‘This is required practice in the maintained sector.’
‘I don’t care, my lesson plans are in here.’ Theo tapped his bald head. ‘I don’t need to write them down.’
Alex was furious and later in April, when Hengist went to America (ostensibly to attend a conference of heads; actually to join Jupiter in talking up their New Reform Party, as it was now officially known, to American senators), Alex decided to introduce daily staff meetings before chapel to discuss targets. This caused uproar.
On the first day only Alex’s supporters – Joan Johnson and Biffo Rudge, head of maths – arrived on time: Biffo, because he wanted to seize the most comfortable big brown velvet armchair; Joan, big, meaty, dominating, because she believed in targets. Both she and Biffo rolled up armed with clipboards.
Miss Sweet, sex educator and undermatron of Boudicca, also arrived on time because she was terrified of Joan, as did little Miss Wormley, who was feeling sick at the mid-morning prospect of initiating Amber, Cosmo et alii into the erotic subtleties of ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’.
The view from the staffroom was already causing controversy. It looked north-west over the shoulder of General Bagley and his charger down the long lime walk, which was just opening into palest acid-green leaf, to the golf course and woods beyond. It was a view which had restored the sanity of many a staff member since the mid nineteenth century, but which was now under threat because Alex Bruce was applying for planning permission to build on this site a new Science Emporium, financed by Randal Stancombe.
Hengist, who would have gone berserk if Alex had threatened a twig on his beloved Badger’s Retreat, was comparatively indifferent to the positioning of the new Science Emporium – it had to go somewhere, preferably as far as possible from his office, which faced east, or from Head House, which was tucked away on the other bosky side of the campus, facing south.
And if push came to shove, General Bagley could always be relocated to the lawn below Hengist’s office, where more people could admire him. He’d enjoy watching rugger and cricket far more than rats being dissected, and he’d be facing the East and India, where his great career had been carved out.
Alex and Poppet thought General Bagley, who’d won glory at the Battle of Plassey and wreaking vengeance after the Black Hole of Calcutta, was a dreadful old Empire-builder and wanted to get rid of his sculpture altogether.
From eight thirty-five, on the morning of Alex’s first meeting, other staff drifted in, grumbling about having no time to walk their dogs, ostentatiously carrying on marking work and preparing lessons. Theo Graham, having scowled at Biffo for pinching the only chair which eased his bad back, perched on the window seat, reading a handful of Paris’s poems sent him by Janna. They were very good, particularly one about a dandelion clock, glittering silver then puffed away to decide men’s fates. Will she accept my proposal, will I get this job, will I get into Cambridge, is this cancer malignant, it is, it isn’t, it is, it isn’t. Thank God. My life will go on, but not the dandelion stalk, all its silken feathers flown, given no life in water after such a momentous forecast, chucked down to die on the dusty road.
‘Have a look at this.’ Theo handed the poem to Artie Deverell who’d just wandered in in a dark blue silk dressing gown, carrying a cup of black coffee, and who, putting the poem in his pocket, stretched out on the staffroom sofa and went back to sleep.
The room was almost full up, so Alex proceeded to involve the staff in a brainstorming session.
‘Where d’you think you’ll be in five years’ time, Theo?’
‘In a coffin, with any luck,’ growled Theo.
‘Don’t be fatuous,’ snapped Alex.
A disturbance was then created by Emlyn strolling in, still in pyjamas, eating a bowl of cornflakes and reading the Sun.
‘We’re trying to discuss targets and aims, Emlyn,’ Alex told him icily. ‘Tell us, if you please, the most important ingredient in your teaching plan.’
‘A bullet-proof vest,’ said Emlyn. ‘Crucial for anyone who teaches Cosmo and Anatole.’
‘And what is your goal when teaching the Lower Fifths?’
‘To get out alive,’ grunted Emlyn, not looking up from page three.
‘Try to be serious.’ Alex was fast losing patience. ‘What is the most satisfying part of your lesson?’
‘A large gin and tonic afterwards,’ snapped back Emlyn.
‘And the worst thing about Bagley Hall?’ asked Alex through gritted teeth.
‘Answering bloody stupid questions like this.’
‘And the best?’
‘Playing golf and getting wasted with Artie.’ Emlyn blew a kiss to the sleeping Mr Deverell.
Alex was beside himself, particularly as Mrs Axford, the school cook, chose that moment to march in:
‘Here’s your sausage sandwich, Emlyn.’
Emlyn smiled sweetly up at her. ‘Thanks so much, lovely.’
‘Now we all know why you are so fat, Emlyn,’ exploded Alex.
‘No we don’t,’ said Emlyn amiably. ‘It’s because every time your wife takes me to bed she gives me a biscuit.’
The meeting broke up in disarray and howls of laughter.
The next day, Hengist flew back from America and enraged Alex Bruce by cancelling the meetings, adding they were the stupidest idea he’d ever heard and that good housemasters should be looking after their houses at that hour.
Hengist then embarked on the poaching of Paris Alvaston and the possibility of offering him a free place at Bagley in the Michaelmas term. In this he was much encouraged by the governors, who’d been entranced by Romeo and Juliet, and by the number of masters pixillated by Paris’s white beauty, in particular Theo Graham and Artie Deverell, who were also impressed by Paris’s poems.
Hengist, whose motives were invariably mixed, also wanted to take on a boy who would outshine Alex�
��s favourite, Boffin Brooks, and scupper No-Joke Joan’s smug prediction that her girls would soon be outstripping his boys. David Hawkley had also been the subject of a flattering Sunday Times profile, and since the death of Mungo from meningitis and with Oriana constantly abroad, Hengist’s longing for a son had increased.
Towards the end of the month, therefore, a secret afternoon meeting was held in the tranquillity of Head House to discuss the logistics of Paris’s transfer.
Sitting round the highly polished dining-room table, admiring the bottle-green jungle wallpaper and Emma Sergeant’s painting of Hengist’s legendary drop goal, were Ian Cartwright, the bursar, Crispin Thomas, representing S and C, Nadine, Paris’s social worker, Mr Blenchley, who managed Oaktree Court, Janna, who was spitting with Hengist for trying to poach her star pupil, and Hengist himself, who’d been playing tennis and was wearing a dark blue fleece, white shorts and trainers and showing off irritatingly good, already brown, legs.
It was a warm, muggy afternoon; a robin sang in a bronze poplar tree; the cuckoo called from a nearby ash grove; young cow parsley leaves and the emerald-green plumage of the wild garlic spilt in jubilation over shaven green lawns. Beyond, in the park, acid-green domes of young trees rose against a navy-blue cloud, from which fell fringes of rain.
Sally had provided a sumptuous tea of cucumber and tomato sandwiches, a chocolate cake, warm from the oven and thickly spread with butter icing, and Earl Grey in a glittering Georgian silver teapot.
‘Who’s going to be mother?’ snuffled Crispin.
‘Who better than you?’ mocked Hengist.
Nadine hastily grabbed the teapot. ‘I will.’
The next question was who was going to be mother and father to Paris. Having poured out and piled up her plate, Nadine, who was wearing a black trouser suit which couldn’t disguise thighs fatter than duffel bags and who, with her short curly fringe, glassy, expressionless eyes and long face, looked like a badly stuffed sheep, proceeded to consult her notes.
She reported that since Romeo and Juliet, Paris had had a rough time at Oaktree Court.
‘He’s too strong to be beaten up, but the inmates have ganged up and trashed his room, torn up his homework, shoved his books, many of them from Bagley library, down the toilet, stolen his school bag and thrown his denim jacket, which you gave him for his birthday, Janna’ – Janna blushed as Crispin raised an eyebrow – ‘into the boiler.
‘As a result, Paris’s behaviour has been very challenging. Last week he nearly strangled a boy who ran off with a snow fountain of the Eiffel Tower, the only gift left him by his birth mother.’
‘If he moved to Bagley,’ continued Nadine in her sing-song voice, helping herself to another tomato sandwich, ‘conflict at Oaktree Court would escalate and he would be subject to peer pressure on two fronts. We therefore feel that if he were to go to Bagley, he should leave the care home and be fostered. Over to you, Gordon.’
In his shiny grey suit, with his brutal pasty face, nicotine-stained hands and dirty nails, Mr Blenchley looked both seedy and sinister. He had reached an age when his black and silver stubble merely gave the impression he had forgotten to shave. Hengist, Janna and Ian Cartwright shuddered collectively.
Mr Blenchley then said in his thick, clogged voice that he’d be extremely sorry to lose Paris.
‘The lad’s been with us for nearly four years; reckon we can congratulate ourselves. Before that he had over twenty placements. In some ways a difficult boy, inscrutable, but very able, needs challenging.’
Mr Blenchley was in fact desperate to get shot of Paris. In the past, the lad had been too terrified of being parted from his friends at Larks, the only family he knew, to blow any whistles. But at five foot nine, whippy and well muscled, Paris could no longer be intimidated into accepting that doors stealthily sliding over nylon carpets and creaking floorboards in the dead of night were the work of ghosts – or that predatory fingers creeping inside pyjama trousers and under little nightdresses were figments of the imagination.
‘It costs fourteen hundred pounds a week to keep you at Oaktree Court, you ungrateful little shit,’ he had shouted at Paris that very morning.
To which Paris had shouted back, ‘Give me the fucking money then.’
‘What we feel Paris needs,’ chipped in Nadine, ‘is a sympathetic foster family, a middle-aged couple whose kids perhaps have grown up. It will be challenging, coming from an institution, however admirable, and a maintained school like Larks, then mixing with the protected, privileged students at Bagley. Paris gets ten pounds a month clothes allowance.’
‘Jade Stancombe gets about a thousand,’ sighed Hengist.
Janna gazed out into the park at the young green trees in their little wooden playpens. Even trees that soared twenty-five feet still retained their wooden cages. Paris would have no such protection.
‘Children of Paris’s age seldom find a home,’ said Crispin, who’d been too busy filling his face to contribute to the debate, ‘because potential adopters think they’re too damaged.’
‘Paris isn’t damaged,’ cried Janna in outrage. ‘He’s a sweet boy, so kind to the little ones and intensely loyal to his friends.’ Then, as hateful Crispin smirked again, she went on: ‘It would be like trapping a skylark to send him to Bagley, away from Feral and Graffi. What he needs is love and some kind of permanence.’
‘I agree,’ said Nadine. ‘Ideally Paris Alvaston needs a forever family to facilitate the adjustment.’
Hengist had put his chocolate butter icing on the side of his plate. Was he watching his figure or keeping the best bit till last? He kept glancing across the table trying to make Janna laugh each time Nadine murdered the English language, but she refused to meet his eye. She was unable to forgive him for not consulting her before offering Paris a place or for looking so revoltingly sexy in those shorts that she wanted him to drag her upstairs and shag her insensible.
And yet, and yet, however much she loathed the idea of private education, she had to recognize Bagley would give Paris a step up the ladder that Larks never could. But if Oaktree Court had given him such hell for getting posh, surely Bagley would roast him for being a yob?
If only she could foster him herself and provide him with a haven at weekends, half-term and during the holidays. Then she’d have someone to love and to cherish; they’d have such fun together.
But I’m too busy, she thought despairingly.
The spring holidays might never have been. The dark circles were back under her bloodshot eyes. She had 400 kids, 399 if Paris went to Bagley, and a school to save.
‘You haven’t had any cake.’ Ian Cartwright, silly old blimp, was about to slide the last piece on to her plate. ‘It’s awfully good.’
Janna shook her head. She didn’t want anything from Bagley. As the meeting roved on over pros and cons, she fought sleep, finally nodding off only to wake with a start, crying, ‘Bagley won’t hurt Paris, will they?’ making the others stare at her in amazement.
Fortunately, at that moment, Sally Brett-Taylor wandered in, rivalling the spring’s freshness in a pale-green cashmere jumper, asking if the teapot needed more hot water and discreetly giving Hengist an escape route by reminding him his next appointment was waiting. Everyone gathered up their papers.
‘To sum up,’ snuffled Crispin, licking chocolate icing off his fingers, ‘unless we can find a foster family for Paris, you wouldn’t recommend a move to Bagley.’
‘That’s right,’ said Nadine. ‘I think the contrast would be too extreme.’
‘Beautiful garden, Mrs Brett-Taylor,’ said Mr Blenchley, gazing out on Sally’s riot of tulips, irises and fritillaries. ‘Do you have a sprinkler system?’
‘I prefer to water plants myself.’ Sally smiled. ‘That way you get to know them individually.’
Like my children, thought Janna. Why did everything at the moment make her cry?
47
Hengist returned from Rutminster Cathedral, where the school choir had been singi
ng at Evensong, around nine. On the bus home he had sat next to Dora Belvedon, who, having somehow discovered the meeting had taken place, was desperate for Paris to come to Bagley.
‘Just think, he’ll mention you and Bagley one day in his acceptance speech at the Oscars.’
Hengist was greeted by a squirming, pirouetting Elaine, who left white hairs all over the trousers of his dark suit, the jacket of which Hengist hung on the banisters before removing his tie and pouring himself a large whisky.
He found Sally at the drawing-room piano playing the beautiful second movement of Schubert’s D Major Sonata, which was slower and easier than the first. Only holding up her cheek to be kissed, she didn’t stop. Hengist slumped on the sofa with Elaine to listen, watching the lamplight falling on his wife’s pale hair, on Mungo’s photograph and on a big bunch of white tulips, which shed petals each time she played more vigorously.
Swearing under her breath at the occasional wrong note in the difficult cross rhythms and vowing to set aside time to practise in the future, Sally reached the end.
‘How would you feel about adopting Paris Alvaston?’ asked Hengist.
Sally looked down at her hands, closed the music and shut the piano with a snap.
‘Or, for a start, fostering him?’
‘Not fair to him,’ said Sally, with unexpected harshness. ‘He’ll be conspicuous enough coming from Larks; imagine being the head’s son.’
‘Easier than if he was our actual child. No one could blame him for my cringe-making idiosyncrasies. Nor would he be upset by other children slagging us off.’
Rising and crossing the room, he massaged Sally’s rigid shoulders for a moment, then slid his hands down inside her pale-green jersey, which had been washed in Lux so many times.
‘We don’t have the time,’ said Sally angrily. ‘You want Fleetley, the Ministry of Education; you want to write. You have eight hundred children and an army of staff. You’re always away and poor Elaine doesn’t get enough walks.’