by Jilly Cooper
Paris went to the kitchen and poured Sally a large brandy, which she choked on but which warmed her.
‘What did he want?’
‘To gloat. He brought some hideous flowers.’
‘Bin them.’
‘Not the flowers’ fault, must give them the chance of a few more days of life.’
Sally slumped, shivering, on the sofa. Both Ruth and Janna . . . Oh, Hengist. And he’d sworn after Pippa: never again. Wretchedness was sinking in as his laughing, open, reassuring face looked down at her from Daisy France-Lynch’s charming little portrait on the right of the fireplace . . . Paris, having topped up her glass, was meanwhile consumed with his own concerns.
‘I’m sorry, but no one will tell me the truth. Did Mr Brett-Taylor switch my and Boffin’s papers?’
‘No, he wrote yours. It was a very wrong thing to do. But he knew how brilliant you were and couldn’t bear you not to produce the goods.’
‘So Boffin really did only get a B.’
Paris’s satisfaction, however, was short-lived.
‘According to Dora, who’s been hanging around Painswick’s office, Hengist will be fired if he doesn’t resign, so both Theo and Hengist lost their jobs because of me.’
Paris was deathly white now, trembling in horror.
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘And if Hengist goes, Artie will be next and Ian and Patience will be turfed out.’
‘Theo may well get off.’
‘But Hengist’s career’s ruined.’
‘No, no, there are thousands of things he can do – write his books . . . Oh, God.’ Tears were pouring down Sally’s face; shock was taking over as she knelt by the fire, sweeping up non-existent ashes.
‘What did Stancombe really want?’
‘To badmouth Hengist. Oh, Paris . . .’ Sally wiped her eyes with a sooty hand, ‘I shouldn’t be telling you, but Randal said Hengist had been . . . been . . . having an affaire with Ruth Walton. I didn’t want to believe it, but he produced such a happy photo of Hengist and Janna in Paris.’ She clutched her head. ‘I mean Ruth.’
‘Janna?’ said Paris unthinkingly. ‘That was in Wales.’
‘Then it’s true.’ Picking up the lovely little Staffordshire dog, which had fallen off the occasional table during Randal’s descent, Sally promptly dropped it on the fender where it smashed in a dozen pieces. ‘Oh no, watch out for Elaine’s paws, that was a wedding present.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Clumsily Paris swept up the pieces. ‘I never told anyone. I caught them on the geography field trip. He was at her bedroom window.’
‘So that was why you never came and saw us?’
‘Sort of. Fuck, I never meant to tell you.’ He tipped the fragments into the waste-paper basket.
Sally couldn’t stop crying. Paris wasn’t embarrassed; people had always been crying in the children’s home. He put his arms round her. ‘I’ll look after you. I’m sure they were one-night stands and one thing is certain: Mr Brett-Taylor adores you. Like Brutus, you are his true and honourable wife, as dear to him as the ruddy drops that visit his sad heart.’
‘Oh P-p-p-p-paris.’
He was stroking her hair; Elaine snuggled up on the other end of the sofa, so he stroked her too.
‘You ought to go,’ gulped Sally.
‘Have you got a best friend I can ring?’
‘Not really, Hengist was my best friend.’
Paris felt so sorry for her. He gave her another top-up of brandy, then kissed her juddering mouth very tentatively.
‘Hush, please don’t cry.’
Sally struggled like a captured bird, then went still.
Paris was amazed by the voluptuousness of her body. Sliding his hand up her silken black legs, he encountered shaved pubes, or did women her age go bald down there? It felt smooth, then sticky. Her legs were long and slim and there was only a tiny roll of fat round her waist.
Sally gave a moan as his hand slipped between her legs and slowly, caressingly, moved upwards. The other hand unhooked her bra; out tumbled beautiful, high breasts, still darkened by the Tuscany sun.
‘I always dress up for Hengist when he’s been away,’ she muttered.
For thirty years, only Hengist in his heavyweight strength had made love to her. Paris was Narcissus, Adonis, Endymion, a slender Greek youth with a body and a cock as hard and white as marble. He didn’t give her time to think, because it was the only way he knew of lessening both their anguish. It was quick and, because of his kindness, extraordinarily cathartic.
Afterwards, as if she were Little Dulcie, he removed the rest of her clothes, dressed her in a white cotton nightgown and put her to bed.
‘Got to do my teeth.’
‘Do them in the morning, they won’t fall out.’
Then he filled up a hot-water bottle and found her a sleeping pill in the bathroom cupboard.
‘I don’t take them,’ protested Sally. ‘Hengist tries to cram too much in and has bouts of insomnia.’
‘Take one now.’
Sitting on the bed, Paris stroked her face.
‘Elaine,’ she mumbled.
‘I’ll take her out and see she gets something to eat.’
‘And the poor, hideous flowers.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Don’t feel guilty in the morning. I reckon Hengist owed us.’
She was woken from heavy sleep by the telephone. It was Oriana.
‘Mum, it’s just come over the internet. “Toff school head arrested for cheating”. Is it true?’
Sally shook herself into consciousness.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘What happened? How could Dad?’
Clutching the telephone, Sally wandered groggily downstairs. Paris had put Stancombe’s chrysanthemums in the mauve bucket with which Mrs Cox cleaned the kitchen floor. There was a bowl of untouched cold roast beef beside Elaine.
‘You’re beautiful,’ Paris had written on the hall mirror in marker pen, ‘all the guys fancy you.’
Oriana was still talking: ‘Dad threw up his entire career for one GCSE?’
‘I guess so,’ said Sally, ‘and we’re getting a divorce.’
‘That’s not like you, Mum.’
‘I can cope with cheating but not being cheated on.’
Echoing her father last Christmas, Oriana told the press that ‘when one of your family does something reprehensible, you take it on the chin.’
124
Once Sally demanded a divorce, Hengist seemed to lose any interest in fighting his case. Despite Rupert bringing down an ace barrister to defend him, he refused to offer any excuse. His actions had been unforgivable. He apologized unreservedly for the distress he had caused a great school and particularly his wife and Paris Alvaston. He appeared unmoved when he was subsequently sent down for three months. Life without Sally was such hell anyway, it didn’t much matter whether he was locked up or not. He insisted on no visitors.
Bagley was devastated. Hengist had been hugely popular. He had raised the school’s profile at the same time as his own, and any liberty he had taken with his globe-trotting he had returned in glamour, vision, kindness and fun.
‘“There hath passed away a glory from the earth,”’ sighed Cosmo.
Bagley also loved Sally. They knew how tirelessly she had shored up Hengist, how kind she had been, particularly to the non-teaching staff, how many miserably homesick children she’d comforted, how diligently she’d rammed coronation chicken into square plastic boxes and raced up motorways to organize fundraising dinners.
Now the dream was over. She and Hengist had split up and were to be chucked out of their ravishing house because Poppet and Alex, as acting head, wanted to move ‘their brood’ in before Christmas. Ideally, they would have liked Sally, who’d met Her Majesty on numerous occasions, to be out before the Queen’s visit, but were loath publicly to appear uncaring. Then there was the little hurdle of the next governors’ meeting when, hopefully, Alex would be confirmed as head with a salary
of £150,000 a year.
Poppet kept dropping in on Sally to measure up rooms and windows and offer counselling. ‘I’m sure once you leave Bagley, you’ll find it easier to achieve closure.’
‘Should we organize a leaving present?’ she asked Alex. ‘After all, Sally is leaving Hengist and Bagley. Perhaps a small refrigerator or a Dyson; I expect she and Hengist have only one between them.’
‘And who will have custody of Elaine?’ sobbed Dora, who would no longer be able to boost her pocket money and pick up stories waiting at Hengist and Sally’s dinner parties.
‘At least Alex and Poppet won’t need Pickfords to move their lack of furniture,’ drawled Amber. ‘They could probably get it all into Van Dyke. Joan is definitely flavour of the month. Lando’s got her at ten to one to get deputy head rather than Biffo.’
Rumour and suspicion were swirling round like autumn mist. Alex was determined to scrap the school beagles before February 2005, when hunting was bound to become illegal, and close the stables, which pandered to an elitist few and was the centre of subversive activity. He had also introduced a tagging system to ensure pupils were always in the right lesson and safe in their houses by eight o’clock.
‘There’ll be no more shagging in Middle Field,’ sighed Milly as they waited to go into chapel, ‘and Theo won’t be allowed back even if he’s proved innocent. Stancombe’s builders are pulling down the classical library and the archives as we speak. Look what I’ve just found in the skip: Theo’s translation of Medea.’
Paris snatched it. ‘I’ll have that.’
The press had a field day. Ashton Douglas was interviewed at length about his ‘great wegret’ that, against his better judgement, he had allowed Paris Alvaston to be plucked from the security of a care home and thrust into the hothouse atmosphere of a rich decadent public school, where he had had to suffer the humiliation of being cheated for when an exam was beyond his capabilities.
Col Peters’s hatchet job in the Larkminster Gazette: ‘The Head that wasn’t there’, picked up by all the nationals, listed Hengist’s away days, leaked by Alex. Alex, photographed very flatteringly, was quoted as saying his goal was to put Bagley back on the rails and engage with the wider community.
In the same Gazette there was a profile of Ashton Douglas, entitled ‘Schools Saviour’, with a picture of him accepting a cheque from Randal Stancombe for £25,000,000 for the sale of Larks High School, which would go towards the education of Larkshire’s children. Randal was quoted as saying he had very exciting plans for the area, including health and sports centres, playgrounds, a row of shops, even a police station for the Shakespeare Estate.
Nudged by Randal, Alex had immediately axed all Hengist’s plans for the Queen’s visit, liaising with the Lord Lieutenant and the royal household and guaranteeing Randal as much access to Her Majesty on the day as possible.
‘Engaging with the community’, Alex had also invited a lot of local movers and shakers to meet the Queen, but had pointedly left out Artie, Ian and Patience and, more seriously, Biffo, who was even more upset when he saw the agenda for the next governors’ meeting and discovered he was not being put forward for deputy head.
‘You promised me this, Alex, when I supported you over the Theo business.’
‘That was before I analysed your maths results, which could have been better,’ replied Alex coldly. ‘You’re nearly sixty, Biffo, and not cutting it any more. Of course I want you on side, but suggesting Sally Brett-Taylor be allowed to stay on was not helpful. I’d rather you didn’t make suggestions like that.’
Alex speedily assumed the role of head. He’d been running the school for the last two years anyway. Now, like a second wife, he was determined to exorcise every trace of the Brett-Taylors; for a start, ordering the digging up of Sally’s glowing, subtly coloured autumn borders and replacing them with regiments of clashing bedding plants.
Alex knew nothing of the art world, but had recently been putting out feelers for the right person to paint him. At some function, Poppet had met an interesting artist called Trafford, who, responsible for some ground-breakingly obscene installations, had been nominated for the Turner. Trafford, who was coming down for a recce next week, also had some challenging ideas, according to Poppet, about a sculpture to replace General Bagley and Denmark. Everyone knew of Arnold of Rugby, why not Bruce of Bagley? mused Alex.
He was gratified how many of the press were ringing him up for quotes, and now that he was appearing on the box a lot, he’d invested in contact lenses, like his icon Jack Straw, and a new wardrobe. Channel 4 was coming down for a programme entitled ‘Whither Independents?’ – or should it be ‘Wither?’ Alex had quipped to the researcher. They’d be filming outside, so Alex intended to wear a smart new raincoat in fashionable stone, belted to show off his good figure, which he’d acquired in celebratory mood the day after Hengist had been forced to resign.
The new raincoat was hanging in the general office when Dora, who was highly displeased with all Alex’s pointless innovations, wandered in with cups of coffee for herself and Miss Painswick.
‘Why is Tabitha Campbell-Black no longer on the front of the Old Bagleian?’ she demanded. ‘She’s an icon.’
‘Equestrianism is regarded as elitist,’ explained Painswick sourly. ‘Mr Bruce is replacing her with a picture of the Science Emporium.’
‘How pants is that?’ Dora was leaning forward to read the list of acceptances for the Queen’s visit, which Painswick was typing out, when Alex walked in, causing her to jump and spill coffee all over his raincoat.
‘Oh bugger, sorry, Mr Bruce.’
‘Don’t swear. Sorry isn’t enough. You will take that raincoat to the dry-cleaner’s, pay for it and return it by tomorrow when I need it. Why are you hanging round here anyway? You should be in . . .’ He pressed a button on the tagging computer. ‘. . . French lit. Why hasn’t Mr Deverell reported you?’
‘Mr Deverell doesn’t need the tagging system because we all love him. No one misses his lessons.’ Dora glanced up at the clock. ‘I’m only a minute late.’ Grabbing the raincoat, she shot out of the office.
Later in the day, Dora returned sulkily to Boudicca. There was no way she was going to fork out for dry-cleaning, so she chucked Alex’s mac into Joan’s washing machine. Next morning, attaching safety pins and a couple of coloured tags to prove it had been dry-cleaned, Dora hung it back in the general office.
Alas, when Alex flung it on to go into the Long Walk with Channel 4, he was horrified to discover it had shrunk to mid-thigh, and wouldn’t remotely button up. Alex was so thrown, he didn’t get half his points across and forgot to plug A Guide to Red Tape. After the crew had gone, he summoned Dora in a fury.
‘Those dry-cleaner’s shrunk my raincoat.’
‘They couldn’t have. Perhaps you’ve put on weight.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve weighed eleven stone two since I left Bristol.’
‘You should have flung it round your shoulders like a matador.’
‘Just shut up. Where’s the receipt?’
‘I chucked it away.’
‘Well, find it then.’
‘That Polly Toyboy on the phone for you, Mr Bruce,’ called out Painswick.
Sidling out of the office, Dora remembered there had been a piece of paper with writing on in the mac pocket, which she’d left on her bedside table.
As Cosmo was as anxious as she was to depose Alex and bring back Hengist’s very benevolent despotism, Dora showed Cosmo the piece of paper later in the day. ‘It’s in Mr Fussy’s wincy little writing and it says: ‘“BC Green Dolphin, six o’clock, August 27th”, plus a mobile number.’
‘What’s BC?’ pondered Cosmo.
‘Before Christ – Mr Fussy’s so old; and my God, that’s Stancombe’s number. Engraved on my heart. My mother’s always ringing it.’
Next day, while Painswick was at lunch, Dora and Cosmo checked Alex’s diary.
‘He should have been at an “Against Gender B
ias Workshop” in Birmingham at six o’clock on the twenty-seventh.’ Cosmo clicked his tongue. ‘Our Senior Team Leader has been moonlighting.’
Cosmo was a regular of the Green Dolphin, a trendy country pub, two miles from Bagley. Hanging on the walls beside fishing nets, tridents and leaping dolphins, was a mug engraved with his name.
As Lubemir had immediately cracked Alex’s tagging system, Cosmo escaped that evening to the Green Dolphin to chat up his friend Susie the barmaid. Fortunately the place was virtually empty.
‘Your usual?’ asked Susie, getting down his mug and filling it up with a concoction made up of black vodka, Tia Maria and Coke, entitled Black Russian. He was a one, that Cosmo, with his soulful eyes and flopping curls.
Susie remembered 27 August well, because they were all there: ‘Ashton Douglas, Alex Bruce, Rod Hyde, Col Peters (the revolting pig), Russell Lambert (the planning permission king, who allowed Stancombe’s horrible expensive houses on the edge of the village here, blocking out the view from my mum and dad’s cottage), Des Reynolds, smoothie pants, and his lordship, Randal Stancombe. They had a private room and drank buckets of Bolly, obviously celebrating something.’
‘It’s called “engaging with the wider community”,’ said Cosmo, making notes. ‘Strange, or not so strange bedfellows: Randal, Alex and Rod perhaps, but what were Russell and Ashton doing there? I bet Stancombe handed out a few suitcases of greenbacks or Caribbean villas as going-home presents.’
As 27 August had been around the time Stancombe got his hands on the Larks land, Cosmo decided he must try and get into Stancombe’s office. Difficult when he’d treated Jade in so cavalier a fashion – and when Stancombe had changed the locks after he split up with Ruth Walton. Alex Bruce had also put such a lock on his files recently, so Cosmo decided to try and gain access to those of another member of the party: Ashton Douglas at S and C.
There were advantages to having a famous mother. That very evening, Dame Hermione invited Ashton Douglas to a little supper party the following night in her beautiful house in neighbouring Rutshire. Ashton, an opera buff, was in heaven, kissing Hermione’s white hands, almost too excited to eat his lobster pancakes.