Wicked!

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘And what’s more . . .’ Dora retrieved the stick, teasing the Jack Russells, who launched into a frenzy of yapping.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ hissed Artie in alarm, ‘they’ll get arrested.’

  ‘And what’s more’ – Dora chucked the stick – ‘I was in the general office and quite by chance caught sight of the agenda for the next governors’ meeting, and I promise you General Bagley and Denmark are for the chop. Because the General was an imperialist who kicked ass after the Black Hole of Calcutta, Poppet wants him toppled like Saddam Hussein and replaced, I would think, by some manky statue of Mr Fussy brandishing a test tube and a copy of Red Tape.’

  Artie was appalled. ‘They can’t pull down General Bagley. It’s a beautiful sculpture.’

  ‘And Denmark’s so realistic, I always want to give him an apple.’

  ‘And the General was a most civilized old boy,’ protested Artie, ‘who took copies of Racine and the Iliad to India with him, kept springers, was an excellent watercolourist, then left all his land and his house to found this school.’

  ‘Well, I do know’ – Dora glanced furtively round – ‘that Mr Fussy, who knows eff all about art, has asked an artist called Trafford to come up with alternative suggestions. I bet he doesn’t realize Trafford, who is a best friend of my brother Jonathan, is wildly expensive and often charges twenty thousand for a maquette.’

  Despite his horror at the threat to the General, Artie laughed. ‘Trafford has certainly made a convert of Poppet,’ he said. ‘She much admired his latest installation: Tranny by Gaslight: The Story of a Sex Change.’

  ‘Working title: From Willy to Womb. It’s absolutely disgusting,’ thundered Dora, ‘and cost half a million pounds. And I bet she hasn’t seen Sister Hoodie, Trafford’s video of a teenage girl beating up an old woman.’

  ‘How can Poppet accuse our beloved General of colonialism,’ said Artie indignantly, ‘when her new best friend Randal Stancombe is busy colonizing Larkshire?’

  As they neared Bagley and Artie hid both Jack Russells under his coat, they passed Theo’s old house, now the home of the Randy Republican, who’d put a picture of Trotsky in the window.

  ‘I’m determined to plant an oak tree in Theo’s memory,’ said Artie, ‘but Alex is resolutely against it.’

  ‘He’s also banned school fireworks tonight for the first time in twenty years,’ raged Dora, ‘because they leave even more mess than dogs.’

  132

  Twenty-four hours to go. To the excitement of the female pupils, Bagley swarmed with hunky security men and sniffer dogs checking everywhere for weapons and explosives.

  The red carpet couldn’t be laid yet because the white gloss on the corridor wainscots was still wet. The sea-blue curtain covering the plaque on the Science Emporium wall, which the Queen would unveil to commemorate her visit, had fallen off when Joan Johnson jerked it back in rehearsal, but was now firmly secured. The splendid lavatory, specially built for the royal visit and nicknamed the ‘Roylet’, had been equipped with pot pourri and Bluebell, allegedly the Queen’s favourite soap and toilet water. The framed print of The Laughing Cavalier had been replaced by a more neutral field of poppies and relocated in the dressing room of Dame Hermione Harefield, who, with her demands for vintage champagne, four dozen yellow roses and her own private loo, was causing far more hassle than the dear Queen.

  There was good news however. The forecast was fine, if chilly, and Alex’s bible the New Scientist had accepted, alongside a huge turnout of press and television who didn’t realize all the celebs, including the Russian Minister of Affaires and Rupert Campbell-Black, had cancelled out of loyalty to Hengist.

  ‘What story do you want to tell the Queen about the school?’ General Broadstairs, the Lord Lieutenant, who was a governor anyway, had asked Alex on their first meeting after Hengist’s departure, and Alex had replied that he wished to ‘showcase Bagley’s scientific and technological achievements in an emporium which would be the envy of scientists the world over’.

  What Alex really wanted was to nail the top job and for people to love him more than Hengist. He was furious Janna had won an award and had finally got together with that Welsh gorilla who’d tried to drown Poppet, but he supposed they deserved each other.

  Alex didn’t find diplomacy easy. He had failed to thwart Poppet’s plan to serve vegetable curry for everyone after the Queen had gone. Randal Stancombe too, once he’d learnt Boffin was performing some ground-breaking experiment in front of the Queen, had insisted that his Jade must present the Queen with her bouquet. Alex didn’t dare say he’d promised that role to Little Dulcie who, with her wheelbarrow, had laboured harder on the emporium than any of the workforce. He didn’t need to appease Patience and Ian, quite the reverse, but he must buy Dulcie a teddy bear. Randal had also insisted that Dora, who, as Jade’s potential stepsister, might be jealous, must present Her Majesty with some dog she’d made specially in pottery. Alex hated kow-towing to Randal and Poppet. Once he was head, he’d call the shots.

  The Queen had several other engagements on the same day in Larkshire. It was essential none of them overran. She was due to reach Bagley at 11.30 and must, on pain of guillotine, leave by 12.30 to reach a hospital on the outskirts of Larkminster at 12.50.

  After endless telephone calls and meetings with local police and members of the royal household protection team and the route being rewalked and the itinerary reworked to the final second, an increasingly uptight Alex insisted on one more, school only, rehearsal after lunch.

  Biffo, acutely aware his job was on the line, had been given a stopwatch and put in charge of operations. Searching for a stand-in for the Queen, he promptly roped in Trafford, the louche artist invited down by Alex and Poppet to provide an alternative to General Bagley, whom he found eating a doughnut and reading a porn mag in the staffroom.

  ‘And since you’re so good at acting,’ Biffo added bossily to Paris, ‘you can double up as Lord Lieutenant and headmaster until Alex gets here. Anyone involved in events the Queen is going to witness can take up their positions around the route.’

  Dora should have been standing by General Bagley’s statue waiting to hand over her pottery dog immediately after Jade had presented the Queen with her bouquet. Reluctant to miss anything, however, Dora had managed to lose herself among a group of Lower Fifths, including Bianca, whom Biffo had grabbed as they came out of the dining room to act as press. After all, no one is more qualified than me, rationalized Dora.

  Trafford, meanwhile, attempting to appear more royal, had topped his shaved head, designer stubble and pig-like features with the large rose-trimmed mauve felt hat Miss Painswick had bought specially for the big day, reducing everyone to fits of giggles. Thus encouraged, Trafford pretended to jump out of a limo outside the Mansion steps, saying in a high voice:

  ‘My husband and I, what a beautiful school, we haven’t been here before.’

  ‘Stop being silly, Trafford,’ snapped Biffo, consulting his notes. ‘Now, as Lord Lieutenant, Paris, you present Jupiter Belvedon as chair of governors and MP for Larkminster to Her Majesty.’

  ‘Who will try and flog her a picture,’ quipped Trafford, ‘and take eighty per cent.’

  ‘Shuddup,’ said Biffo through gritted brown teeth. ‘And now Paris presents Alex to Her Majesty and now you, Poppet.’

  ‘And Poppet will give me a nice curtsey,’ said Trafford.

  ‘I will not,’ squawked Poppet, ‘I don’t bend my knee to anyone.’

  ‘Right,’ said Trafford.

  ‘Then, as headmaster, I present Mr Randal Stancombe, who’s donated this wonderful building to Bagley for the furtherance of science,’ said Paris, getting into the swing of things.

  ‘And then his wife,’ prompted Biffo.

  ‘Mrs Hyacinth Bouquet,’ muttered Dora.

  ‘Who said that? That’s not funny,’ roared Biffo.

  ‘Push orf,’ announced Paris. ‘One says that every five seconds to the press: “Push orf.”’
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  ‘Then you present Mr Ashton Douglas,’ said Biffo.

  Everything went comparatively smoothly until they reached the Science Emporium.

  ‘We’re now touring these splendid zones.’ Trafford was getting more regal by the second. ‘My word, Mr Randal Stinkbomb, this is awesome, particularly this.’ Trafford peeled a ‘Bring back Hengist’ sticker off a vast replica of the pancreas. ‘How long have you been building this, Mr Stinkbomb? Push orf, press, although not if you’re as ravishing as you are,’ he added to Bianca.

  Paris meanwhile was watching Dora, who was laughing so much she could hardly write in her reporter’s notebook. He remembered her showing him how to make that peacock feather: ‘Would you like to take part in an experiment?’

  ‘How truly interesting,’ trilled Trafford as the royal party entered the Zone of Chemical Investigative Science. ‘My husband and I simply dote on chemistry.’

  ‘Wake up, Paris,’ snapped Alex, ‘as headmaster you should be presenting Boffin.’

  ‘As what?’ drawled Paris sarcastically.

  ‘Like this. I’m here, I’ll do it,’ said Alex, striding up. ‘Your Majesty, may I present Bernard Brooks, the son of Sir Gordon and Lady Brooks, one of Bagley’s most gifted and talented pupils, who’s going to perform a ground-breaking experiment.’

  Alex turned lovingly to Boffin who, dressed in white coat and goggles, his sparse light brown hair tied back, an expression on his shiny, spotty face of a priest preparing communion wine, was pestling silver and reddish powders together in a mortar.

  ‘In this invention,’ said Boffin pompously, ‘I’m combining iron oxide and aluminium in order to weld railway tracks together.’

  ‘You must patent it and sell it to British Rail,’ gushed Trafford, pushing Painswick’s hat to the back of his head, ‘and our royal train will rattle more safely over it.’

  ‘Boffin is so pants,’ muttered Dora as Boffin carried on mixing, gazing round to see he had everyone’s attention.

  ‘Buck up, Boffin,’ said Biffo curtly, ‘we’re ten seconds behind schedule.’

  ‘Would anyone thus have hurried Archimedes?’ reproached Poppet.

  ‘Such procedures must not be rushed,’ agreed Alex.

  Next moment the Zone of Chemical Investigative Science was rocked by a mighty explosion that showered the floor with glass as the windows blew in and bottles and containers of chemicals flew off the shelves and everyone was blown six feet across the room.

  ‘It’s a bomb, it’s a bomb.’

  ‘Clear the building,’ yelled Biffo as, amid shouting, screaming and sobbing, people fell over themselves to escape.

  Paris, however, had only one thought. Grabbing Dora, he pulled her under the nearest table, shielding her with his body. As black smoke engulfed the room to a crescendo of choking and coughing, he became aware of delicious softness.

  ‘Get out of here, everyone out!’ bellowed Biffo.

  Paris stayed put and, as the smoke cleared, he looked down and saw Dora, blond eyelashes mascaraed with soot, face blackened, but her eyes still duck-egg blue, widening as they gazed up at him. In them and in her sweet, pink, trembling mouth he saw no fear, only love.

  Oblivious of the chaos around them, with a feeling of utter rightness and coming home, he dropped his head and kissed her, feeling her breastbone rise as she gasped in wonder, her mouth opening and her tongue creeping out tentatively to meet his. Paris put his hands on either side of her sooty face, stroking back her hair, smiling slowly, joyfully: ‘It’s happened,’ he whispered, ‘at last I can love you,’ and he kissed her again.

  ‘And I love you.’ Dora choked slightly. ‘I always have.’

  ‘Paris Alvaston,’ thundered Joan, whose red tie had been blown off, ‘come out from under that table at once. You’re unaccounted for outside. Watch out for broken glass. Who’s that with you? Dora Belvedon, I might have guessed. What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Covering the visit for the school mag,’ said Dora faintly.

  Scrabbling up, pulling Dora to her feet, Paris brushed soot and glass off her blue jersey and pleated skirt as reverently as if he’d unearthed a hitherto unread play by Euripides. Unaware of everyone sobbing and shouting around them, he looked down at her in wonder:

  ‘You and I were the chemical reaction that triggered off that explosion.’

  ‘We were?’ stammered Dora.

  ‘What just happened to us could have blasted a man on to Venus, or broken the light barrier, or proved that God needn’t exist because we do. Not even the universe began with a bigger bang, oh, darling Dora,’ and he buried his lips in hers a second time.

  ‘Paris!’ thundered Joan.

  ‘I cannot understand what happened,’ Boffin’s voice curled petulantly through the smoke. ‘Perhaps too much aluminium?’

  ‘What were you trying to achieve?’ asked an ashen protection officer.

  ‘A revolution in railway safety. It’ll work next time. Ouch!’ Boffin gave a furious squawk as Lando emptied a fire bucket into his face.

  ‘You’re an asshole, Boffin.’

  ‘Thank God no one’s been hurt.’ Joan Johnson was comforting a shaken Poppet, who quavered that everyone was going to need counselling.

  ‘Except those two,’ giggled Bianca and everyone turned to see Dora, both feet off the ground in excitement, locked in Paris’s arms.

  133

  The sight of Paris in a clinch with Dora proved the last straw for Stancombe, who’d just rolled up and taken stock of his ransacked emporium.

  ‘You’ve got less than twenty-four hours to repair this building,’ he howled at Teddy Murray. ‘You can work all through the night. I want every man in Larkshire on the job.’

  Such was his determination that even Graffi’s father Dafydd was dragged out of the Ghost and Castle to help. Fortunately the damage was mostly confined to the one chemistry zone, which would need the windows mended, the walls replastered and repainted and all the flasks and containers replaced and refilled.

  Boffin inevitably received an earful from Stancombe:

  ‘Of all the fucking stupid, criminal things to do!’

  To Boffin’s fury, even Alex agreed with the royal household protection team and the local police that even if the building were declared safe in the morning, the Queen would open and tour the emporium and speak to the students but witness absolutely no experiments.

  ‘Dad will not be pleased,’ said Boffin ominously.

  Despite unearthing splendid skulduggery at S and C Services, Cosmo and the rest of the Lower Sixth, returning from work experience, were gutted to have missed the fun. Cosmo was further irritated to find the ladder outside his room had yet again been removed by the protection officers. How could he ever escape to pleasure Mrs Walton? Replacing it, he leant a Randal Stancombe board across the bottom rung.

  Although heavy frost was forecast, the lawn behind the Mansion, on which stood General Bagley and Denmark, was shielded from an icy north wind howling down the Long Walk by the vast, if temporarily damaged, bulk of the Science Emporium. Although the General was oblivious to cold, the pupils lugging four hundred chairs for the not so Great nor Good through the dusk and placing them under a blue striped awning were grateful for the shelter.

  ‘Ha, ha, ha, my mother’s twenty-two rows back, next to Rod Hyde,’ crowed Dora, examining the seating plan. ‘She will go ballistic.’

  The pupils dispersed wearily to supper and prep, but Dora lingered and was discovered by Alex Bruce hosing down General Bagley and Denmark and chatting to security men and their dogs.

  ‘So many pigeons have dumped on the poor old boy,’ explained Dora, aiming the hose at the General’s bristling moustache, ‘we must wash it off. After all, he is our founder.’

  Not for much longer, thought Alex, then ordered Dora to buck up and get back to Boudicca.

  The moment he’d bustled off to urge on the frantic activity in the Zone of Chemical Investigative Science, a lurking Paris emerged from the shadows ca
rrying gin and tonic in two paper cups. Balancing them on Denmark’s quarters, he stood back to admire the big horse, gleaming like jet, in the lights from the emporium.

  ‘Looks much better. Sure you’re warm enough? I like winter, you can see so many more stars now the leaves have gone.’ Running his hand in wonder over her little, cold face: ‘“and thou art fairer than the evening’s air Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars”.’

  ‘Oh Paris,’ said Dora, gruff with embarrassment and delight, ‘that is so poetic.’

  ‘Marlowe said it first,’ Paris admitted; then, in bewilderment: ‘I just feel a great Niagara of love has been released from inside me.’

  ‘How heavenly is that?’ Dropping the hose, Dora wriggled into his arms. ‘How did it happen?’ she asked, gasping for breath a minute later. ‘I wanted it for so long.’

  ‘I suddenly remembered you giving me the peacock feather. Bad things happened in the past, which made me bad at loving and at letting people get close.’

  ‘Not any more.’ Dora hugged him so tightly, he groaned. ‘I’m here for you now,’ and she kissed him again.

  It was only when the abandoned hose started snaking around, soaking their legs, that she looked down and squeaked in excitement, ‘I’ve got a brilliant plan.’

  As Graffi’s father Dafydd wandered past with a tool kit, she called out that they needed his help. Dafydd was only too happy. The entire workforce, he said, was on the verge of going on strike because Little Dulcie wasn’t presenting the bouquet.

  Much later, having downed two bottles of red to calm his nerves after the explosion, Biffo Rudge thought he’d seen a ghost, then realized it was Dora Belvedon astride Denmark, training a hose on the General’s hat.