Wicked!

by Jilly Cooper

  Here’s Stancombe, thought the Shakespeare Estate, better not get too pissed or we might deck him.

  Both factions waved sycophantically as Stancombe sauntered in flanked by heavies. He was wearing a dark brown leather jacket, black polo shirt and black cords and looked more attractive than usual, Janna decided. The flash jewellery had gone and his hair had been more becomingly cut with ragged gypsy tendrils softening his predatory face. Was this Mrs Walton’s influence? Janna blushed as he caught her staring, particularly when he smiled and waved.

  ‘Don’t frat with the enemy,’ hissed Mags.

  ‘Daddy, Daddy,’ shouted Jade, clambering over the seats to sit with him.

  ‘Hi, princess.’ Stancombe kissed her on the mouth.

  ‘Yuk,’ said Dora.

  Col Peters had just tapped the microphone, hammer poised, when another batch of Larks parents, dug out by Emlyn and Wally, poured into the hall and were reluctantly split up into the remaining single seats.

  ‘There’s my da, hope he’s sober,’ prayed Graffi.

  ‘And my mum,’ said Pearl, ‘hope she doesn’t deck my dad, and Chantal with Kylie and Cameron an’ Aysha’s mum in a headscarf.’

  ‘That’s brave,’ murmured Janna to Mags, ‘with so much anti-Muslim feeling about.’

  Hall and gallery were completely packed out; people were standing among the umbrellas at the back.

  ‘Feral’s so vain, we’re going to have to gaze at his profile all evening,’ Amber, who was sitting just behind him, said acidly.

  For Feral was gone. He couldn’t take his eyes off Bianca. As if it had a mind of its own, his hand slid into hers; he tried to retrieve it in case he was being forward, but she hung on, gripping it with a surprising strength, gently stroking his palm with little, pink-nailed fingers.

  I’m dreaming, he thought, sent reeling by the sweetness of her breath, the faint tang of lily of the valley, the huge, laughing eyes with lashes even longer than his, her pink coat caressing his chin.

  ‘I’m out of luck there,’ sighed Amber. ‘I’ll have to revert to my unrequited passion for Attila.’

  Boffin was ostentatiously reading a biography of Marie Curie.

  Randal was on his mobile. He’d love to have had Ruth on his arm, but he concentrated better without her. One never knew from where trouble was coming. Rising in his seat, he located Dora taking a photograph of the Bishop. Good, she still had her untidy plaits. He couldn’t see if her breasts had begun to bud, but his cock stiffened beneath the Evening Standard. He must ask her mother out to dinner next time Ruth was in town. Bloody hell, he’d never expected such a turnout.

  Nor had Col Peters, who was prepared to wait no longer. He needed a report of the meeting in tomorrow’s Gazette, which would be picked up by the nationals.

  But in the foyer, Cosmo had launched into ‘Hello, Dolly!’ as Taggie Campbell-Black ran in, wide-eyed, long-legged as a colt. The fuchsia-pink cashmere shawl she’d flung over her black sequinned dress was already drenched.

  That’s one woman I’d like even better than Bianca, decided Cosmo.

  ‘Thank you,’ he purred as Taggie fumbled in her bag for a fiver. He’d frame it. If he landed Bianca, he could have Taggie as well.

  Seeing her husband, not his greatest fan, and Hengist approaching, both in dinner jackets, Cosmo slid into a side kitchen. ‘To adjust the temperature in the hall,’ he read, ‘turn the boiler on or off at the control panel.’

  Take more than a switch to control this lot.

  Rupert and Hengist were followed by Jupiter. Why’s he here? wondered Cosmo. He jumped as Hengist tapped him on the shoulder and handed him a tenner. ‘Can you get Mr Campbell-Black a very large whisky?’

  Everyone was excited by the latest arrivals, particularly by Jupiter: that really put the evening up a rung. Whose side would he be on? He was already proving a very effective MP.

  Furiously, Col Peters raised his hammer, but Hengist was lingering in the doorway, talking intently to the press, asking, no doubt, for any news on Iraq. Janna was shocked how tired he looked. But as he wandered into the hall, he seemed to shrug off his concerns and his face broke into a wicked smile.

  ‘So sorry to hold you up, Col, Ashton, Cindy, Russell, my lord Bishop.’ Mockingly Hengist nodded to each in turn. ‘Evil night. Fleet’s about to burst its banks and sweep S and C away. Hope you’ve brought your lifebelt, Ashton, you’re going to need it before the evening’s out. Do kick on, Col,’ and, turning his broad, dinner-jacketed back, he edged along the row, shaking hands, hailing Bagley and Larks children, blowing kisses to friends, stopping to grin at Janna – ‘Lovely dress, darling’ – spying Poppet – ‘How’s little Gandhi, hope you’re resting enough?’ – then in a stage whisper to Jupiter, who was following him: ‘She’s had plenty of rest, lying down in the road to stop the B52s leaving.’

  ‘For Christ sake, sit down,’ hissed Jupiter, ‘why must you deliberately wind people up?’

  Bringing up the rear was Rupert, who stopped to congratulate the Brigadier on the pilot of Buffers: ‘We got bloody good ratings. I’ll ring you tomorrow.’

  ‘Col Peters is going to have a coronary,’ observed Mags.

  ‘With any luck,’ said Janna. ‘Isn’t it wonderful Hengist and Co. have showed up?’

  Christ, that Campbell-Black/Brett-Taylor/Belvedon faction was hell, thought Emlyn. Only way to shut them up was to cut off their heads – preferably with a guillotine. Hengist was insufferable in this apparatchik-baiting mood. Bloody Hoorays, aren’t we wonderful, we all know each other.

  Actually the most hip Hooray was Rupert, Emlyn decided, not just because of the beauty of his still, cold toff’s face or the casual elegance of his lounging body, but his total indifference to the impact he had on everyone in the room as he devoured printouts, a large whisky in one hand, the other idly caressing his wife’s sweet face as they compared notes on the day. Taggie had removed her soaked shawl and was wearing his dinner jacket round her shoulders.

  Even if Oriana came home safely from Baghdad, wondered Emlyn wistfully, would she ever look up at him with a quarter of Taggie’s tenderness, or in the adoring way their daughter was gazing at young Feral, still wrapped in her pink fur coat.

  Brought up to loathe the Tories, it confused Emlyn that, for some ulterior motive, it was Tories who were coming to Janna’s aid and New Labour in their sharp suits, quite unrecognizable from his dad’s beloved cloth-cap party, who’d palled up with the beige, open-toed-sandalled Lib Dems to grind the faces of the poor.

  Oh God, here was Vicky, putting down her flower-festooned umbrella, rushing towards the platform:

  ‘Col, I am so sorry, I couldn’t find anywhere to park. Emlyn dear, could you find me a chair? Oh, Poppet’s kept a seat for me.’ As she ran along the gap between platform and audience, pausing in front of Janna: ‘Jannie, I am so sorry it’s come to this. Hello, Magsy, hello Cambola, you poor dears.’ Vicky was beginning to sound just like Sally. ‘I’m so guilty I haven’t called,’ then, lowering her voice only a fraction: ‘And so guilty getting out in time. What a blow too, losing darling Chally. I must find her later.’

  ‘Bitch,’ exploded Sophy Belvedon, ‘thank God she left before I arrived.’

  ‘What an appalling number of beards,’ grumbled Rupert, and jumped out of his skin as Poppet Bruce suddenly cried out, ‘Rupert, Roopert.’ Thrusting up baby Gandhi, she made him wave: ‘Hello, Uncle Rupert.’ As Rupert cringed behind Ian Cartwright, Poppet went on: ‘And there’s Auntie Taggie. Hello, Auntie Taggie.’

  Taggie, who’d been hopefully looking round for Xav, waved weakly. As if reading her mind, Poppet yelled out, ‘Xav’s got another detention, so we couldn’t let him out. Sorry. Let’s have a word later.’

  Seeing her mother red-faced and furious, Bianca whispered to Feral, ‘Xav’s been caught drinking again. He seems to be pissed all the time.’

  ‘I thought he was mates with Paris,’ murmured Feral. Somehow with Bianca’s hand in his it didn’t hurt so muc
h.

  ‘They used to be really close, but Paris is so taken up with his rugby friends and his extra lessons with Theo, he hardly notices Xav exists any more. Why didn’t you ring me?’ she asked.

  ‘I wanted to. It’s complicated.’

  If only Paris held my hand like that, thought Dora.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Ashton whispered to Col, ‘let them mess around for as long as they like, it’ll give them less time to air their non-existent grievances.’

  77

  At last everyone was settled and Col Peters bashed the table so hard, he spilt all the glasses of water.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said. He had a thick, oily voice that seemed drenched in chicken fat. ‘Good evening, everyone. We’re running behind schedule and as some of you’ – he glared at Rupert and Hengist – ‘clearly have other engagements, we’d better kick on. We have come together to discuss the proposed closure of Larkminster Comprehensive’ – loud boos and cheers – ‘and we know you’ve all got lots to say. We want as many people as possible to air their views, so it’ll be easier if you don’t interrupt.’

  ‘Save our school,’ yelled Johnnie Fowler.

  ‘And show some manners,’ snapped Col. ‘Not the best way to convince people that your school is worth saving, Master Fowler. I shall now hand over to our county councillor in charge of education, Miss Cindy Payne.’

  Hearty cheers from Bruces, Hydes, the Close and Cavendish Plaza.

  Cindy, anxious to project a cosy, earth-mother image, had for once abandoned her red trouser suit for a flowing dark brown caftan. Above this her round, ruddy, determinedly smiling face, from which rayed out her light brown hair, bobbed like a setting sun on the horizon.

  ‘I have prayed and prayed for guidance on this issue,’ she began, ‘and must admit that closing a school is a very painful process.’

  ‘Not for them what’s going to make a fat profit,’ yelled Pearl’s boxer dad to roars of applause. Stancombe’s heavies squared their shoulders.

  ‘I didn’t hear that,’ twinkled Cindy. ‘Our aim is to give first-class education to each and every secondary student, which I am afraid Larks Comprehensive is not providing.’

  ‘Who says so?’ yelled Monster Norman. ‘We isn’t complaining.’

  ‘Well said, son,’ bellowed Stormin’.

  ‘Closing a school is a painful experience,’ Cindy ploughed on, her twinkle becoming fixed, ‘but we are convinced this is a democratic decision because the vast majority of local parents have made it quite clear they don’t want their children to go to Larks in that they have voted with their feet.’ Then, as if taking a run at a fence, she added quickly, ‘We’ve had many, many letters supporting closure, but during this formal consultation period, I’m so sorry, we’ve only received fifty letters of protest.’

  ‘That’s because Larks parents and pupils can’t write,’ yelled Brute Stevens, the rugger bugger from St Jimmy’s.

  ‘Hush, that’s unkind,’ reproved Cindy fondly.

  ‘It’s also fucking out of order,’ shouted Johnnie Fowler, jumping on Brute and pummelling the hell out of him. As Johnnie was smaller than Pearl’s boxer dad, Stancombe’s guards were about to move in when Emlyn pre-empted them.

  ‘Pack it in, for God’s sake,’ he snarled, peeling Johnnie off like a Polaroid.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Davies,’ said Cindy archly. ‘Only fifty letters of protest,’ she repeated, ‘which included ten from a Miss Dora Belvedon, who doesn’t even live in the area.’

  Screams of laughter and bellows of ‘Good on yer, Dora’ were interspersed with shouts of ‘Shame’ and ‘Cheat’.

  An oblivious Dora was muttering into a tape recorder.

  Mags Gablecross then leapt to her feet and introduced herself in a quiet, clear voice. Seeing her approaching the platform clutching a bulging box file, the platform recoiled in horror as if she were a suicide bomber.

  ‘I thought people might be interested in the five hundred and fifty letters we received that were against Larks closing down and our petition signed by more than fifteen thousand people. I didn’t want to hand these over before the meeting,’ she added politely as she gave the box to a boot-faced Col, ‘in case the figures were doctored as they were in your Review of Secondary Schools.’ She smiled sweetly at Ashton. ‘Please note I’ve taken a photostat of the petition, Mr Douglas.’

  ‘That is a gwatuitously offensive wemark,’ snapped Ashton.

  ‘We too have had overwhelming support for closure,’ chipped in Cindy. ‘Take this excellent letter from a Mr Bernard Brooks.’ She waved a piece of paper: ‘“Having observed both teachers and pupils at Larks Comp over the last eighteen months, I can honestly say it’s the worst school I’ve ever encountered. I recommend closure instantly.”’

  There was a roar from the gallery as Graffi stopped snogging Milly and dropped into the hall, slithering across the umbrellas.

  ‘That’s Boffin Brooks, you snotty bastard.’ Racing up the aisle, Graffi reached into the row, seizing Boffin by his Alex Bruce house tie. ‘Don’t you dare slag off our school.’ Egged on by a roar of Larks approval, he was about to ram his fist into Boffin’s face when Johnnie Fowler tugged him off.

  ‘Let me do the honours.’

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ screamed Boffin.

  ‘Put Boffin in a coffin, boom, boom, boom,’ yelled Bagley and Larks in delighted unison.

  As Johnnie raised his fist, Emlyn once more shot across the room, prising Johnnie and Graffi off by their collars.

  ‘Stop it,’ he bellowed, then, lowering his voice: ‘You’re not helping Larks.’

  ‘Nor’s Boffin, dissing us like that.’

  Trying to wriggle free, Graffi made another lunge, but Emlyn hung on, tightening his grip.

  ‘Stop it, both of you.’

  ‘You’s choking me.’

  Fortunately a nasty scrap was averted by Amber Lloyd-Foxe crying out, ‘Oh, why don’t you manhandle us, Mr Davies, it’s so sexist to pick on boys every time.’

  ‘Why are we being discriminated against?’ chorused Kitten, Milly and even Primrose from the gallery. ‘We all want to be manhandled by Mr Davies.’

  The hall rumbled with laughter.

  Blushing furiously, Emlyn dragged Johnnie and Graffi outside and shoved their heads under the kitchen tap.

  A scented, blond jangle of jewellery had meanwhile risen to her feet.

  ‘That kaind of behaviour says it all, reely.’

  ‘Oh shut up,’ said Pearl, glancing up from the dress she was designing.

  ‘I won’t shut up,’ said the blonde shrilly. ‘As a resident of Cavendish Plaza, Larks kids make our lives a misery. They graffiti our walls, key our cars, carpet our pavements with chewing gum, beat up and spit at our kids. Why should we fork out for security guards to protect us? This isn’t the inner city.’

  ‘Larks should be closed down,’ shouted a Cavendish Plaza husband in broad pinstripe. ‘It’s a breeding ground for thugs and drugs. If you live in a pleasant private estate, you don’t expect a sink school that is almost a pupil referral unit on the doorstep.’

  The platform was nodding in delight as an old biddy knitting in the front took up the cudgel.

  ‘I don’t have the privilege of security guards,’ squawked Miss Miserden, ‘I live next to Larks and I never feel safe in my bed.’

  ‘You’d be quite safe in anyone else’s bed, darling,’ yelled Graffi, who’d somehow found his way back to the gallery, ‘no one’s going to jump on you.’

  This was followed by more cheers and cries of ‘Shame’ and ‘Disgusting, insulting a pensioner’.

  ‘Who’s she?’ asked Dora, who was furiously making notes.

  ‘She’s the one who brings letters of complaint in every day,’ said Junior, who’d been doing work experience on the Gazette. ‘She’s called Name and Address Supplied.’

  And so the slanging went on, with the closure brigade attacking Larks and its record and Larks supporters defending it.

  When a rathe
r flushed Milly Walton shouted from the gallery:

  ‘We at Bagley love meeting young people from a different background and Larks kids are great, we’ve had so much fun together,’ Randal Stancombe made a note to alert Ruth, who didn’t at all approve of her daughter’s liaison with Graffi.

  Sophy Belvedon then made an impassioned plea for the children and particularly Year Ten, who mustn’t be abandoned in mid GCSE course.

  ‘Year Ten will be accommodated and taught much better in other schools,’ said Ashton, rising to his feet. It was time this meeting was wrapped up. ‘My name’s Ashton Douglas,’ he told the assembled company smoothly, ‘S and C Services Diwector of Opewations.’

  ‘Operations performed without the use of anaesthetics,’ shouted Hengist. ‘No wonder your collaborator is called Payne. As she keeps informing us: “Closing a school is a Payne-full experience.”’

  As the audience cheered, Ashton’s soft, bland features set into a cement of hatred.

  ‘It is also an unnecessary and dishonest operation,’ went on Hengist, rising to his feet, his deep, husky, bitchy voice carrying to every corner. Again he seemed to have shaken off his tiredness and worry. ‘This discussion is about surplus places. The education department, we have been told, are very worried about the one thousand six hundred surplus places in Larkshire schools, which will evidently double by two thousand and ten.

  ‘Why then,’ he asked coolly, ‘if our child population is ebbing away, does the housing department predict that two thousand five hundred extra houses will be built – no doubt roughshod over Larkshire’s loveliest green belt – in the next three years? Will all these houses be inhabited by childless couples?’ He paused for effect. ‘Clearly not, and even more interestingly, that one-off contributions from developers will be put towards new and temporary classrooms to accommodate extra pupils.

  ‘Tut, tut, Ashton, Cindy and Russell, have you enlisted the health department to doctor your figures?

  He paused again to allow a roar of approval from Larks supporters.

  ‘It seems that S and C and the county council use figures selectively – just as they rigged the Review of Secondary Schools and, when challenged, blamed the falsely poor figures for Larkminster Comprehensive on typing errors. But did anyone have the decency to admit this publicly?’