Wicked!

by Jilly Cooper

  120

  Boffin Brooks’s sense of grievance was aggravated on his return to Bagley to find both Cosmo and Paris had better grades.

  ‘I couldn’t have got a B in history,’ he spluttered to Alex. ‘I remember every word I wrote, I could only have got an A star.’

  Urged by Charisma, Boffin had started wearing blue tinted contact lenses, which gave him a glazed, almost defenceless look – definitely Alex’s blue-eyed boy.

  ‘I have already contacted the exam board,’ Alex reassured him, ‘to request a clerical check that your history marks were added up correctly. If need be, there are good friends I can phone in the exam world, but I don’t want to be accused of pulling strings.’

  Together they tackled Hengist, who was bogged down writing beginning-of-term speeches and welcoming new pupils and masters. He was not in a co-operative mood, telling Boffin not to be a bad loser and employing a lot of uncharacteristically hearty clichés like ‘biting the bullet’ and ‘taking it on the chin’.

  ‘We were also warned,’ he added sourly, ‘that only a limited number of candidates in each subject, irrespective of how well they did, were going to be allowed A stars. You were just one of the unlucky ones. The goalposts have been changed by this bloody Government.’

  Boffin and Alex winced collectively.

  ‘It’s tough,’ concluded Hengist, then begged to be excused because the Queen’s Private Secretary and the Lord Lieutenant, General Broadstairs, who was also a Bagley governor, were coming to see him about the royal visit. ‘You cannot imagine the red tape. You should give them a copy of your book, Alex.’

  Alex’s smile creaked.

  Getting up, Hengist opened the door. ‘We’ve got just under eight weeks. I hope everything’s going to be ready in time.’

  Retreating down the stairs, Alex swelled with rage; after all the spadework he’d put in on the royal visit, as usual, Hengist swanned in when it suited him.

  ‘I’m going to appeal,’ whined Boffin. ‘There’s no way I got a B. Mr Brett-Taylor never encourages me.’

  Alex was equally determined not to let his star pupil down.

  ‘I shall request the return of your answer paper and have the marks checked, then we’ll ask for a total re-mark. It costs around sixty pounds; Bagley can foot the bill.’

  ‘What a beautiful school,’ said the Private Secretary as Elaine left white hairs all over his dark suit, ‘and what a beautiful dog.’

  ‘Isn’t she?’ said Hengist happily. ‘People think she’s snarling, but she’s really smiling.’

  ‘We have Labradors, they smile too,’ said the Lord Lieutenant, producing a file already as big as the Larkshire telephone book.

  ‘I want Her Majesty to have a really nice time,’ said Hengist, pouring Pouilly-Fumé into three glasses. ‘I know she’s got to open the Science Emporium, but I thought she might like to watch some polo if the weather’s fine and meet the school beagles? One of our star pupils, Paris Alvaston, might read out one of his beautiful poems and, of course, Cosmo Rannaldini, another star pupil, will be conducting the school orchestra and his mother, Dame Hermione Harefield, in a welcoming fanfare.’

  ‘That sounds a good start,’ said the Lord Lieutenant.

  ‘Recently, we bonded with a comprehensive,’ Hengist told the Private Secretary, ‘who did very well in their GCSEs. It would be a miracle for them if Her Majesty could hand out the certificates.’

  Later, with an entourage of press officers and detectives, they walked a possible course. Approaching the Science Emporium, still a pile of rubble, they passed General Bagley’s statue.

  ‘That’s a fine beast.’ The Private Secretary patted Denmark’s gleaming black shoulder.

  ‘Isn’t he?’ agreed Hengist. ‘And his rider, our founder, General Bagley, is, I think, a distant relation of Her Majesty’s mother.’

  ‘How interesting.’ The Private Secretary made a note. ‘Her Majesty might like to refer to that in her speech. We’ll need potted biogs, in advance, of all the people she’s going to meet.’

  No one was more excited about Paris’s results than Dora.

  ‘Ha, ha, ha, hee, hee, hee,’ she sang to her friend Peter on the Mail on Sunday a few days later. ‘Boffin Brooks has got a B.’

  ‘Any more news of Theo Graham?’

  ‘None, poor thing, he can’t get in touch with us or we with him, until after his court case. Paris has been transferred to Artie Deverell’s house. Artie’s really nice, but Paris can’t forgive him for not being Theo and Paris nearly strangled Cosmo yesterday for suggesting Hengist was stupid to put Paris into the house of yet another shirt-lifter.’

  ‘How’s the Queen’s visit?’

  ‘Chaos. Mrs Fussy’s refusing to curtsey and wants a dust sheet put over General Bagley. No one can decide on the right shade of red carpet. But guess what, I’ve bought a man’s wig and a white coat which I’ve splattered with paint so I can pose as a workman and listen in on meetings, so expect some good copy.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  ‘Randal Stancombe, my mum’s grotesque boyfriend, is flooding the place with workmen to get his Science Emporium up in time. It’s even got a space centre, so hopefully once it’s finished we can land Poppet and Alex on Mars for good.’

  ‘And your handsome headmaster?’

  ‘Utterly euphoric we’ve gone above Fleetley in the league tables and off next month to Bournemouth to the Tory Party conference with my brother Jupiter.’

  Awaiting Rupert’s helicopter to fly him to Bournemouth, Hengist took Elaine for a quick walk down to Badger’s Retreat. In one hand, he had a piece of toast and marmalade, in the other, a private and confidential letter from David ‘Hatchet’ Hawkley, now Lord Hawkley, the head of Fleetley.

  Dear Hengist [he read],

  This is a difficult letter to write. This week you will be offered the job of headmaster of Fleetley, a school I have loved and cherished for twenty-five years. I have long deliberated over whether you are the right person to succeed me. You are a genius at recruitment and getting the best out of both masters and pupils, you are hugely entertaining, charismatic, with a foot in the old world and the new, and generally filled with the milk of human kindness.

  In the past we have fallen out . . .

  This was a massive understatement. Hengist righted himself after nearly falling down a rabbit hole. He had feared David Hawkley would block his candidacy, but in his fairness, he had not. The letter ended: ‘Look after my school, I trust you.’

  Hengist was touched. It was a huge olive branch. Looking down, he saw Elaine had nicked his toast and marmalade. But would Fleetley remind Sally too much of Mungo and Pippa, David’s then wife, and would it turn out to be a grander, more rigid version of Bagley?

  Here he could offer Paris the odd glass of champagne and the run of his books; here he could refuse to disband the school beagles and allow Dora to keep her chocolate Labrador. Could he cope with the lack of freedom? Hengist sighed. Jupiter had just offered him Shadow Education, which would be a complete change of career and an adventure.

  Sally would make the perfect minister’s wife and Hengist had written Jupiter such a cracking conference speech that by next year he might have seized power. Hengist was flying down to make a fringe speech on education, before flying up to St Andrews in time for dinner at the Headmasters’ Conference.

  He glanced back at David’s letter. He couldn’t take on both Fleetley and Education. David, who was a great friend of Theo’s, had added a PS: ‘To sadder matters, how can we rescue Theo? I am convinced of his innocence. We must battle to clear his name and enable him to finish Sophocles. You have the greater clout.’

  Hengist had reached Badger’s Retreat. A robin sang in a hawthorn bush, its orange breast clashing with the crimson haws. Like a unicorn, Elaine bounded through the trees he had planted and nurtured. The ground was littered with conkers, which always gave Hengist a stab, remembering how he’d collected them for Mungo.

  The Family Tree, its
keys turning coral, had lost much of its charm since he’d thrown Oriana out, but, still clinging together, the three trunks and many branches had survived the onslaught of the fallen ash. Perhaps he and Oriana might be friends one day.

  Bagley was a far more beautiful school than Fleetley, which, although fed by the same River Fleet, was a squat, grey, Georgian pile surrounded by very flat country. Hengist believed he would miss Badger’s Retreat most of all.

  Heavens! He must hurry. There was Rupert’s dark blue helicopter, in which it would be so cool to arrive at the Headmasters’ Conference this evening.

  He would earn far more money in politics than at Fleetley. The paths of glory lead but to the gravy train, reflected Hengist.

  121

  Jupiter’s speech was a wow, constructive and marvellously bitchy about the Opposition. Then word got around about Hengist’s fringe speech and the main hall had emptied, particularly of young MPs, who had crowded in to hear his good tub-thumping stuff about the real England and freedom from the stranglehold of the curriculum and Brussels.

  ‘Let them be our allies but not dictate our way of life.’

  So many interviews and congratulations followed, he only just reached St Andrews in time for dinner. The conference was being held in a lovely hotel, the St Andrews Bay, overlooking the golf course, which was being buffeted by an angry, grey North Sea.

  Fiddling to get Radio 3 and the television working, emptying a miniature Bell’s into a glass, Hengist called Sally.

  ‘I’m in the most enormous suite, I wish you were here to share it. The guest speaker, some lady novelist, will address us in the Robert Burns Room.’

  Sally loved Burns and had, when they first met, compared Hengist with John Anderson, my jo of the bonnie brow and the raven locks. Hengist, in turn, had recited ‘My love is like a red, red rose’, to her at their wedding.

  ‘Jupiter’s speech was marvellous,’ cried Sally, ‘terrific jokes and he seemed so warm and sort of sincere.’

  ‘That must be a first. I’m moving towards accepting his offer, if you can cope with the incessant ripping apart by the press.’

  ‘As long as we’re together.’

  ‘That’s the only certainty. Can I fuck you the moment I get home?’

  ‘The Bishop’s coming to lunch . . .’

  ‘I’ll get there early then. I love you so much and a pat for Elaine.’

  Hengist always enjoyed the Headmasters’ Conference and never more so than tonight, when Bagley had finally gone above Fleetley. Whilst changing for dinner, many of the heads had seen clips of his and Jupiter’s speeches, or his helicopter landing, and he was subjected to a lot of rather envious joshing.

  ‘You going into politics, Hengist?’

  ‘As a head, is one ever out of them?’

  ‘Did you write all Rupert’s coursework?’

  Then, in lowered voices: ‘Sorry about poor old Theo Graham.’

  Listening to the cheerful roar of 250 like minds, anticipating a very good dinner, Hengist thought what a good bunch of chaps they were. Personable was the word. There were intellectuals, like David Hawkley or Anthony Seldon at Brighton College, who’d written a biography of Blair, or Martin Stephen, who’d just taken over St Paul’s, who wrote excellent historical novels. These men had read hugely and could pick up any literary allusion. A new breed, more interested in management and marketing, had hardly read a book.

  Except for a sprinkling of headmistresses, the membership was all men. Milling around they could be mistaken for army officers out of uniform, showing half an inch of clean, pink neck between hair and collar, wearing trousers that when they sat down rose to sock level above highly polished shoes.

  ‘The Guardian described us as “grey men in grey suits”,’ grumbled old Freddie Wills of St Barnabas. ‘Not true: we’re in navy blue, mostly pinstripe.’ With cheerfulness breaking in with flamboyant ties, thought Hengist: technicolour checks or swarming with elephants or dolphins.

  They had listened all day to seminars.

  ‘Jenni Murray was excellent on gender,’ Freddie Wills told Hengist, ‘but Andrew Adonis predictably told us “the Labour Party loves us”, because they want to bleed us white propping up city academies. Don’t seem to realize most of us have a hell of a struggle making ends meet.’

  Then, a few feet away, standing in front of a mural of a 1930s’ golf match, with players in pancake caps and plus fours showing off well-turned ankles, was David ‘Hatchet’ Hawkley, appropriately hawklike, immensely distinguished, his shyness so often coming across as brusqueness.

  Hengist waved in greeting. ‘Thank you for your letter.’

  ‘You got it? Good. Better get into dinner. You’re at my table.’

  Hengist, already high on a successful Bournemouth and three large whiskies, found himself seated between the jolly lady novelist guest speaker and David’s second wife, Helen.

  As her previous husbands had included such unashamed Lotharios as Rupert Campbell-Black and Cosmo’s late father, Roberto Rannaldini, it was hardly surprising Lady Hawkley insisted on accompanying handsome David everywhere. A redhead with big, yellow eyes and the nervous breediness of a fallow deer, she was easily the most beautiful woman in the room.

  Hengist would far rather have been seated with his chums, fellow junior masters in earlier schools, particularly as, through a vase of yellow carnations, Hatchet Hawkley was watching his every move. Would Helen follow Pippa and fall under Hengist’s spell?

  In fact, Hengist found Helen earnest and a dreadful intellectual snob. Having clocked him landing in Rupert’s helicopter, she immediately tackled him on Rupert’s B grade.

  ‘Do we need any more proof that GCSEs are getting easier?’

  ‘Rupert worked very hard,’ protested Hengist, who hadn’t eaten all day and was buttering his roll, ‘and he’s discovered he rather likes English lit. There’s a copy of Henry Esmond in the helicopter and he’s mellowed since the old days, when he was Lord of the Unzipped Flies. He’s so delighted Taggie did so well and Xav got the Magic Five, he’s thinking of turning Penscombe into a second Bloomsbury.’

  Oh God. Hengist realized he’d goofed. Helen was clearly so scarred by her marriage to Rupert, she loathed any reference to the success of his second marriage. She had now put her knife and fork together, rather like her legs, leaving her divine russet slab of pâté untouched. Hengist was tempted to ask if he could have it, but this would probably be construed as too intimate a gesture by David, who was still peering at them through the carnations.

  Hengist still hadn’t decided one hundred per cent between Fleetley or politics.

  ‘We’re putting your ravishing Tabitha and her horse on the front of the Old Bagleian,’ he told Helen, ‘although no one could look less like an Old Bag. We’re all so proud of her silver!’ Then he realized he’d goofed again. He’d forgotten how jealous Helen was of Tabitha, whom he supposed looked too like Rupert.

  ‘You look absolutely stunning,’ he murmured. ‘Most heads’ wives resemble overgrown tomboys, short pepper and salt hair, slim figures: senior, senior prefects. It’s not homosexual, just that most heads feel easier with boys. How are you looking forward to David retiring?’ he went on. Christ, he hoped they didn’t move into a cottage on the Fleetley Estate.

  ‘We’ve got a house in Umbria,’ said Helen, ‘and we’re looking for somewhere in Dorset. We’re both going to write. David’s doing Aeschylus and I’m working on a literary memoir.’

  Hengist was about to say Helen’s inside story of marriage to Rupert and Rannaldini would sell much better than any translation of Aeschylus, but just stopped himself. ‘We’d better get another bottle.’ He tipped back his chair.

  At the next-door table, two of his dearest friends, Tim Hastie-Smith, head of Dean Close, and Pete Johnson, head of Millfield, were discussing Colin Montgomerie’s triumph in the Ryder Cup. As waitresses and waiters in grey silk cheongsams rushed in with the main course – large squares of roast lamb and shiny brown parsnips �
� Hengist turned to the lady novelist, who said she was writing about two schools and asked him to tell her about being a headmaster.

  ‘Big egos and like this’ – Hengist plunged his knife into his lamb to reveal its pink interior – ‘very square but tender inside.’

  ‘I must remember that,’ laughed the lady novelist. ‘What else makes a great head?’

  ‘Ability to fill the school and pick first-class staff.’

  ‘Energy and charm?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Hengist filled up her glass.

  ‘Intellect?’

  Hengist shook his head. ‘Huge self-belief is much more important.’

  ‘Have you ever won anything at the Teaching Awards?’

  ‘No, that’s a state-school affair, even though Lord Hawkley’s one of the judges. They think we have it too easy.’ He noticed she was looking down at some speech notes on her lap.

  ‘Don’t be scared, we’ll be a terrific audience, so used to laughing at parents’ weak jokes.’

  ‘I’m going to end by quoting from “Rugby Chapel”, about heads as heroic great souls leading and inspiring others on to the city of God.’

  ‘“Ye, like angels, appear, radiant with ardour divine!”’ quoted back Hengist. ‘They’ll love that.’

  The lady novelist was thrilled Hengist was writing a biography of Thomas and Matthew Arnold.

  ‘Will you send me a review copy?’

  ‘How bad was that school, Larks something, you joined up with?’ shouted old Freddie Wills across the table.

  ‘Well, they had a geography mistress who’d never been to London,’ said Hengist, howling with laughter, so everyone else joined in.

  Anyone could charm the birds off the trees, reflected David enviously, with a packet of Swoop, but Hengist could charm the birds away from a loaded bird table on the coldest of winter days, because it was so much more fun to be in his presence.

  He, Freddie and the lady novelist, who’d probably end up in bed with him later, were discussing a collective noun for heads.