by Jilly Cooper
They were just feeding Hindsight a tin of tuna when Dora rang.
‘Bloody cow, bloody tagging system, Joan won’t let me out. Is he really back?’
‘Have a word,’ said Patience, going off to fill a hot-water bottle. Paris was already in bed when she knocked on the door, an equally weary Hindsight curled into the back of his legs.
‘I’m really sorry,’ he said. ‘Until I saw you and Ian on TV, I didn’t realize.’
Patience sat down on the bed and took his hand.
‘Doesn’t matter; you’re home. Ian is so pleased. He just loves having another chap around the house.’ She tucked the hot-water bottle in beside him. ‘Sorry there aren’t any flowers.’
‘That’s OK – flowers are for guests. What really pissed me off was Nadine saying we were wrong for each other. You know I said that about running away to find my real mother and father?’
Patience nodded, quite unable to speak.
‘Well’ – Paris’s hand tightened on hers – ‘I guess being away taught me, if it’s all right with you, that I did find them – that you and Ian are my real parents.’
Patience still couldn’t speak, but she nodded frantically.
‘I don’t need to call you Mum and Dad, I’m just grateful I’ve found people I love, who, however horrible I am, seem to love me, so I can start again.’
‘Oh, Paris.’
A tear splashed on to his hand.
Paris’s eyelids were drooping.
‘You’re tired, shall I read to you?’
Paris nodded, but still clung to her hand.
Taking down Hans Andersen’s fairy tales, Patience turned to ‘The Snow Queen’, and began: ‘“Attend! We are now at the beginning. When we get to the end of our story, we shall know more than we do now,”’ but by the time she’d finished the first paragraph, Paris was asleep.
128
It was time for the high noon of the school year, the National Teaching Awards, in which hundreds of teachers, including all the regional winners and their partners, are invited for a splendid weekend in London. Activities included a grand ball on Saturday night, seminars, and sightseeing. The climax, however, was the televising of the national winners receiving their awards at the Palace Theatre on Sunday afternoon, followed by a riotous party and no teaching the following week, because it was half-term.
The winners in the ten different categories had been originally nominated by two members of their school community. Their schools were then visited by regional judges and later by a team of national judges, amongst whom was Lord Hawkley.
‘The Awards are an amazing celebration of teaching,’ he told the Observer, ‘although, of the six hundred people crammed into the Palace Theatre on Sunday, I will be one of the only public-school voices. No member of an independent has ever won an award.’
This year Alex Bruce, because of his clean-out at Bagley and his brilliant (except for Lando and Jack) science results and, of course, his Guide to Red Tape, was hoping to be the first. Rod Hyde, who’d formerly won Head of the Year, was hoping to score again.
A thousand years ago, it seemed, when Janna had been teaching English at Redfords, Stew Wilby had talked about putting her forward for an award. Now it would never happen. She no longer had a school to nominate her.
It was half-term Sunday, and she had reached rock bottom. The head of English on maternity leave for whom Janna was covering had brought in her adorable baby last week, and Janna had been overwhelmed with despair that she would never have Emlyn and his babies and the family life for which she so desperately longed.
In a bleak week, Stancombe, after a few hiccups – like the Brigadier pointing out the presence of fritillaries and natterjack toads in the grounds – had obtained a compulsory purchase order on both Larks buildings, to make way for – he’d finally come clean – a supermarket development.
The Sunday Express had rung for Janna’s comments:
‘Why don’t you write us a piece about your battle to save Larks?’
‘And call it Tesco of the D’Urbervilles,’ screamed Janna.
She had been to the gym earlier, pounding out her hatred of Randal and Ashton on the machines. She ought to spend the rest of the day painting the kitchen some enticing pastel shade, as no buyer had yet come forward. Instead, she turned listlessly to the lonely hearts ads in the TES.
‘Beautiful female,’ she read, ‘thirty, five foot seven, slim, brown hair, green eyes, enjoys long walks, reading, keeping fit, good wine.’
How bloody conceited to describe oneself as ‘beautiful’.
‘Eighteen-year-old woman, enjoys power boating, weight-lifting, GSOH,’ said the next ad, ‘seeks female for friendship, possibly more.’
Janna supposed GSOH stood for good sense of humour – that was bloody conceited too.
How would she advertise herself? she wondered.
‘Titchy carrot-haired loudmouth, failed head, near alkie, lousy SOH, seeks’ – Oh God – ‘Emlyn Davies for infinitely more than friendship.’
The Brigadier was revving up for his new series bringing epic poems to life. He and Lily were so dottily in love, Janna didn’t want to be a dampener, and it was almost a relief they were in Rome recceing the first programme about Horatius keeping the bridge.
Still fatally drawn to Larks, Janna decided to go for a walk there and see the trees, probably for the last time. At least on a Sunday afternoon the bulldozers would be still.
Leaping out of the car, Partner immediately found a stick three times as big as himself and kept tripping over molehills as he lugged it round. The place looked desolate: great craters filled with rain, huge trees knocked over, bottles rammed into the tennis-court wire, the bird table still on its side in the playground. Catching sight of her, a robin shot forward hopefully.
The door to Appletree was open. As she wandered the corridors, she could hear the ghost voices of children. On the staff room wall, someone had scribbled: ‘School’s out for summer.’ Underneath someone else had written: ‘School’s out for ever.’
‘You will go through a time when everything hurts,’ murmured Janna.
Still trying to negotiate his huge stick through the doorways, Partner dropped it and went into a flurry of barking, then scampered on ahead. Following him into the gym, Janna discovered the back view of a blond man in a navy blue jersey, so tall he could gaze out of the high window at the town. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his dark grey trousers, showing off a high, tight, beautiful bottom.
Janna lost her temper. ‘Stop gloating, you bloody developer,’ she shouted, then, as he turned round, she gasped, ‘Emlyn!’
‘I thought I’d find you here. Hello, boyo.’ He stooped to gather up Partner, who, squeaking with delight, frantically licked his square blushing face, giving both humans a moment to collect themselves.
‘I’ve got an invite for two for the Teaching Awards,’ Emlyn said ultra-casually. ‘Wondered if you’d like to come. We’d be home by ten. Artie, as well as Alex, has been nominated for an award. The first independent teachers ever.’
In panic, Janna grabbed back Partner. ‘I can’t leave him. He’s terribly depressed. I have to abandon him during the day; Lily and the Brigadier are away.’
‘They’re back,’ said Emlyn. ‘They said they’d love to dogsit.’
Janna was confused. When they’d last spoken, Emlyn had been so antagonistic.
‘I’ve got too much to do. I’ve got to paint the kitchen.’
‘Paint the town red instead. It’s a grand do.’
Then she noticed he was wearing a white frilled evening shirt under his blue jersey.
‘This is a set-up.’
‘Sure it is.’ The warm, wide, unrepentant smile transformed his square, heavy face. ‘Pearl’s even waiting at home to do your make-up.’
After a lot of persuading, Janna went back and changed into the bronze-speckled Little Mermaid dress she’d worn to the geography field trip party in Wales. Full of chat, Pearl was
determined to make Janna look beautiful rather than outlandish and straightened her hair so it fell in a sleek russet cascade to her collar bones.
‘Knowing what a blubber you are, I’m not giving you any mascara on your lower lashes. Emlyn says it’s a box-of-tissues evening, miss.’ Then, as Janna pestered her for news of the children: ‘Feral got two goals for the Rovers yesterday; Johnnie and Kitten have split up again; Kylie’s up the duff again – no, maybe she ain’t.’
The Brigadier and the new Mrs Woodford applauded when Janna came downstairs wrapped in her bracken-brown pashmina.
‘What an incredibly pretty girl you are,’ said Lily. ‘Don’t worry about Partner, he can have the extra piece of steak I’d bought in case you felt like having supper with us.’
‘Here’s a little something for the journey,’ said the Brigadier, handing Janna a silver flask of vodka and tonic.
The sky was brilliant blue and the sun set behind them like a huge blood orange. Torrential rain nearly turned them back at Windsor. Emlyn wanted an update on the Larks children and regaled her with Bagley gossip gleaned from Artie. Poor Dora was evidently outraged because her bitch of a mother had had even poor Cadbury castrated. Cosmo, on the other hand, had been delighted to receive a red Ferrari for his GCSE results.
Emlyn’s muddy Renault Estate as usual looked as though he lived in it. Books, newspapers, CDs, laptops were piled high and amid the chaos were a half-empty crate of beer, a midnight-blue velvet jacket in cellophane back from the cleaner’s, clean shirts, new socks and underpants still in their packaging. The Christmas Scottie, she noticed, still bounced from his car keys – probably as a wistful reminder of Oriana.
Janna was even more confused. Why was Emlyn being so nice when he’d been so angry before? She ached to put a hand on his great chunky thigh or stroke his big strong hand on the wheel. He’d lost more weight, was muscled up and was clearly revelling in the new job.
‘The boys are beginning to express themselves and play in their Welsh way, lots of attack and guile, and we’ve got a brilliant new centre called Gavin Henson.’
He even had cautious hopes of the Six Nations in 2005.
‘What will it be like tonight?’ asked Janna.
‘Lots of on-message celebs handing out awards and attributing their entire success to some inspirational teacher; lots of winners attributing their success to everything from the school gerbil to the site manager; constant emphasis on the team effort rather than the individual, belied when rival heads are discovered throttling each other in the bog.’ Emlyn’s huge shoulders shook with laughter.
In London, the trees had hung on to their leaves; rain-soaked, shining gold, they softened every building.
‘This city now doth like a garment wear the beauty of the afternoon,’ sighed Janna, gazing in vodka-aided ecstasy at the gleaming river beneath glittering bridges and the London Eye, a silver halo tossed aside by some falling angel.
Teachers were decanting from buses and milling round outside the theatre as they arrived.
‘Janna Curtis,’ cried a pretty blonde, ‘you did so well for your Year Elevens. Look, it’s Janna, you know, from Larks High,’ she called out to her friends, who all gathered round to praise Janna.
‘You’re much prettier than your picture.’ ‘Is that your partner?’ ‘Isn’t he lush?’ ‘You put up such a good fight.’
‘They’ve read every word about me,’ squeaked Janna. ‘So up yours, Ashton.’
As Emlyn, who’d been shrugging himself into the dark blue velvet jacket, shepherded her firmly through the crowd into the Green Room, large glasses of champagne were thrust into their hands.
‘Oh look, there’s Ted Wragg, he’s so funny.’ Janna took a huge gulp. ‘And there’s Lord Hawkley, and that redhead with him is Rupert’s ex-wife. Taggie’s much prettier,’ she added defensively.
‘Better have some blotting paper.’ Emlyn beckoned a waitress bearing a basket full of chicken and prawns on long-pointed sticks.
‘God, they look delicious’ – Janna grabbed four – ‘and those sticks are perfect for pricking bubbles as a “critical friend” – and talk of the devil, here come Rod and Alex.’
‘What’s going on in your neck of the woods?’ a BBC minion was asking them solicitously.
‘The Queen’s opening our new Science Emporium on Wednesday week,’ Alex was boasting.
‘Goodness, it’ll be Sir Alex soon,’ said the minion admiringly. ‘The other Sir Alex better look to his laurels.’
The smug smile was then wiped off Alex’s face. ‘What are you doing here, Janna Curtis? You can hardly qualify as a past winner or a nominee this evening.’
‘Nominees up, Mother Brown,’ sang Janna, doing a little dance. ‘I came with Emlyn,’ she announced happily, then, thrusting out her glass to a passing waitress, ‘I’d love another one.’
The BBC minion, who had shiny dark hair streaked with scarlet and caramel, introduced herself as ‘Bea from the Beeb’ and said, ‘Janna Curtis, I so admire your stand in Larkshire. We’re so delighted you could make it.’
‘Have you had a great weekend?’ asked Janna.
‘Amazing! Last night’s dance was fabulous, and teachers are such lovely people, so modest and self-effacing; they hate being singled out from their colleagues for praise.’
‘Alex and Rod are just like that,’ enthused Janna.
Emlyn choked on his drink.
‘Although one headmaster,’ admitted Bea from the Beeb, ‘who didn’t win last year, was so furious he had a nervous breakdown.’
‘There are the warning bells, we’d better go in,’ said Rod frostily.
‘Is that gorgeous guy your partner?’ whispered Bea.
‘I wish,’ sighed Janna.
Not wanting to let her spirits droop a millimetre, she managed to secrete a three-quarters-full bottle of champagne under her pashmina as she and Emlyn flowed with the laughing, excited tide into the auditorium.
It was a lovely little theatre, with cherry-red velvet seats and cherry-red boxes, like the drawers Janna hadn’t pushed in before she left: those spilling over with rejected clothes, these with teachers, or with technicians manning a huge overhead camera like a pterodactyl to capture the Great and the Good in the audience.
‘Oh hell,’ said Janna, ‘Rod Hyde and his admired wife and Alex and Poppet are just across the aisle.’
Poppet, in an extraordinary white broderie anglaise mob cap and a milkmaid’s dress, was flushed with success from delivering her first TROT workshop.
‘TROT stands for Total Recognition of Transpersons,’ she was eagerly telling the Education Secretary. ‘So enriching to exchange views with other caring professionals.’
‘Silly bitch,’ muttered Janna; then, as a female bruiser in the row in front swung round disapprovingly, ‘You could use that one in your back row.’
‘Hush, or we’ll get thrown out,’ warned Emlyn. He caught sight of Janna’s bottle: ‘What have you got there?’
‘Petrol,’ said Janna.
Emlyn tried and failed to look reproving.
They were in wonderful seats about ten rows from the front. Technicians, checking camera angles and locating possible winners, scuttled around in pairs, one carrying the camera, the other the wires, as though he was holding up the long tail of a mouse.
The beautiful set was hung with panels in Three Wise Men colours: glowing scarlet, amethyst, turquoise, and sapphire blue. A midnight-blue canopy overhead glittered with little stars. On the red and gold podium awaiting the first winner, was one of the awards. Named a Plato, it was a gold curved oblong with one end fashioned into the profile of a Greek god.
‘He’s got Rupert Campbell-Black’s nose,’ observed Janna. ‘What a lovely party,’ she added to Emlyn. ‘There’s David Miliband. He looks as though he’s still in Year Ten.’
Emlyn had temporarily found room for his long legs in the gangway. ‘You will tuck them inside when we begin?’ begged a returning Bea admiringly.
Emlyn wa
s so broad-shouldered, Janna also found it impossible not to brush against him as he leant in to avoid technicians racing past. There is not room in this theatre, nor in all the world, to contain my love for him, she thought helplessly as she took another slug of champagne.
A handsome organizer was now telling the audience they were here to celebrate excellence in education. ‘To ensure maximum media exposure for the profession we all love, we want you to shout and clap as much as possible.’
‘Hurrah,’ yelled Janna, clapping like mad.
‘I’ve been used and abused by the BBC,’ grumbled an old trout in the row behind. ‘I will not clap to order.’
There were so many shining bald heads and spectacles in the stalls reflecting the television lights that no other lighting was needed. Gales of hearty laughter, no doubt to show off their GSOH, greeted every joke from the warm-up man.
‘All round the theatre, you’ll find teachers seated in areas. There’s Northern Ireland to the left in the dress circle and Wales over on the right.’ Emlyn raised a hand to two young women teachers. ‘And right over there are the Larkshire contingent. Look, they’re waving at you.’
Janna waved back. ‘Where’s Yorkshire?’
‘In the gallery.’
‘Oh my God, there’s Stew,’ gasped Janna.
‘Who?’ Emlyn swung round sharply.
‘My old boss.’ He’s put on weight, she thought.
She was brought back to earth by a roll of drums.
‘Pray silence for your head boy of the evening,’ said a voice, and on came Eamonn Holmes, who, despite a sombre dark suit and red spotted tie, looked, with his sweet little face and naughty grin, much more like the terror of Year Seven.
‘Welcome to the Oscars of the teaching profession,’ he said, looking round at the audience. ‘Now you’ll know what it’s like to be in assembly.’
‘He can’t say that,’ gasped a hovering BBC minion, ‘it’ll diminish them.’
‘You’re not allowed to make jokes about gowns and mortarboards, or about Whacko and canes,’ whispered Emlyn.
There was another roll of drums, and actor Bill Nighy ambled somewhat nervously on to the stage to present the award to the Primary Teacher of the Year. As a photograph of him as a dear little boy appeared on the screen above the podium, he talked charmingly and deprecatingly about his school days, then announced the winner, who, from the gasp of joyful surprise, turned out to be a charming brunette sitting in the row opposite Emlyn.