by DH Smith
It was obvious, they were sinking, but he wouldn’t be told.
She took two paracetamol and swallowed them with water. Her head was still fuggy; there’d be some time before they took effect. Work through the fog.
To make the school profitable, she would have to bump the roll up to 157. It wasn’t true. There were only three weeks to the beginning of term in September. They might get one or two more pupils, but few parents left it this late to find a school.
She could suggest more cuts, like a Tory Chancellor wielding the hatchet after an election. She’d already looked at further possibilities: lose two teachers, the groundsman, a couple of kitchen staff, and other variations, playing with people like dolls to be discarded from the dolls’ house. None of which spelt any hope. Cutting teachers made classes bigger. They could get half a dozen more interns, as she knew they would have to. But they were only youngsters who became resentful at being overused, the teachers resentful at supervising them and undoing their mistakes. Teachers left. It was a downhill spiral.
She was playing with the numbers. A losing game.
The immediate problem was the family meeting. With her two daughters, mummy and daddy, and a budget to present. Oh, she hated this. He’d take one look at the bottom line and say do it again. More students, paper students. Magic them up.
She thought of presenting two budgets. An optimistic one. His one. With 157 students. She’d show him that, hand it out at the meeting, then, when that had been mulled over for a minute or two, deliver the hard-truth budget. Eleanor and Catherine would support her. Not that it would do her much good. Graham would yell, say it was rubbish, ask why she always undermined him – and tear it up. And then back home… She didn’t dare to think about back home. The two of them in that big house. Where only the trees could hear you scream.
She had a plan. But it was useless. Because it was her plan and because it transferred ownership. And how often had he told her; DeNeuves have owned the school since before Wellington fought at Waterloo. There were five memorial benches on the side of the hill over the lake, going back to his great-great-grandfather. And portraits of the great and good in the school and even in their own lobby at home.
It was as if, somehow, Graham was claiming Waterloo as a family victory.
She’d told him the bank didn’t care whether there was another DeNeuve or not. And what a row that had caused. Belittlement of tradition, magnifying money, undermining family; he’d thrown in the works. She’d shouted back, china was hurled. But he shouted louder than she had, he could go on longer. He had tradition on his side, the drinks cabinet, Waterloo and memorial benches. All she had were numbers.
She’d had it whatever she did. Disaster was rushing their way on a fast horse. They were going bankrupt. Fees would come in at the beginning of term and they could pay off some of their debts, but not enough of them. She would be sent to the bank for another loan. They would say no. Then she’d be sent searching around for another impossible mortgage. It simply took one creditor to stand his ground. When will you pay me, say the bells of Old Bailey. And it would all collapse about their heads, like a house of cards.
She would be blamed, of course. But what happened in a month or two, just possibly stretched to three, didn’t matter to him, the meeting in ten minutes did. She’d give him the budget he wanted.
Except her hands wouldn’t work. They would not press the keys. She was numbed by thoughts of what was bound to happen. The loss of her house, the school, and the grounds. The house she cared about deeply, well, the school too – but all the penny pinching she had to do, the moans from staff and students about stationery and books. As for the grounds, she never went around them these days. Couldn’t enjoy them without seeing money blowing away. Through the trees, scuttling along the fences, sinking in the lake, in a whirlwind across the grass.
But her house she cared about. Mostly the garden at the back where she planted roses, had a herbaceous border and a kitchen garden. Her world away from him and these numbers. She couldn’t stand the thought of losing that. Of living with him in a small rented flat somewhere.
She could hear him yelling into the phone. Not the words. They hardly mattered anyway, but the tone, the self righteousness, the bashing of some council official, bank clerk. Someone who differed.
Vicky rose and quickly went out into the hallway. Eleanor was coming towards her. She gave a wave and went the other way.
Chapter 3
Ellie entered the staff room. As usual, she was the first. She looked at the clock. It was going to be one of those meetings. She was on time, the others were late. That always rankled. A ten o’clock meeting should start at ten o’clock. Not twenty past. Waiting made her ratty. Which was never good for the meeting, when first thing on the agenda was her harangue at why no one else could ever get here on time. She’d tried coming late herself but she simply couldn’t do it. Couldn’t be deliberately late. Felt guilty, had to try so hard to do it. Yet her sister, Cathy, was just naturally late. It was in her make up. Funny really, a mathematician who couldn’t calculate time, so was always rushing to catch up with herself. Daddy felt he could be late as he was Daddy, the boss, his privilege. And Mummy always came with Daddy, supporting his lateness.
That left her. In the room, here, on her own. As usual.
It was musty, neglected over the holidays. She flapped her arms about and bashed the cushions against the back of the soft chairs, one by one, throwing up dust. Underused over the summer. It would be busy enough in a few weeks.
When she’d belted every cushion, she went to the window, and lifted it as wide as it would go. And saw the builder, Jack of All Trades, working on the window in her classroom, at right angles to this block. She watched a little while as he hammered round the frame, smiling at the thought of a builder actually admitting his level of competence. Quite cheeky, too, when she was virtually his employer. Though whether he’ll ever get paid… Let Mummy deal with that. Jack waved with his hammer at her. She waved back. He was good looking. A builder though. Or tradesman as Daddy would say. No degree, no family. Which was rubbish of course. He meant no estate, no family money. Well, she wasn’t planning to marry him. And it would make a change from Clive and his advertising cronies. Making up jingles for chocolate bars.
They’d got bored with each other. With sex, with talking, with bumping into each other in the two-roomed flat. And then she’d become increasingly resentful at the dirty towels and sheets which she always had to wash as if she were his mother, and at the cooking she was expected to do for someone she no longer liked. They’d agreed to split up but were still living together as they had to sell the flat they’d bought jointly, and neither wanted to give it to the other, even temporarily. Both resented the debris and noise of the other, but held their ground. At one point she had considered moving back in with her parents.
And quickly rejected it.
Their house was certainly big enough but she knew she’d revert to a sulky ten year old. Daddy’s blasts, her mother’s depression. At least with Clive they were on equal terms. Both agreed no sex with anyone else in the flat. Try to be a little civilised. She didn’t actively dislike him, just wanted him out of her space. She knew, when it came down to it, she wanted to live on her own.
Not have to wait on and wash for other people.
Ellie put the kettle on and set out four cups. She looked again at the clock. Ten past. What on earth was going on? Well, she wasn’t going to go out searching for them. Shouting through the corridors, dragging them in. Not that she’d wanted to be here anyway, except Daddy had called this emergency meeting.
At first she said she wasn’t coming. On principle. It was her summer holiday after a too long school year. She changed her mind when he told her Cathy would be here. She would not leave the ground to Cathy.
Though she must not quarrel with her. Above all. Step back, count to ten when she felt it welling. Don’t become sisters screaming at who is wearing whose pyjamas. Except this time it would be whos
e school. Because that, of course, was why they both would be here. The two of them teaching at Bramley, the school they’d gone to as girls. The family estate. The grounds, the lake, the house, the building.
Cathy was not to be trusted.
She dreaded these family meetings. Staff meetings were OK. The family was diluted. And with other staff watching, it was all good mannerly. But the family meetings… Lord God save us! Mummy, Daddy, herself and Cathy in one room together for two hours. There will be yelling, there will be tears.
What bombshell was Daddy about to drop?
Cathy entered, standing at the door for a few seconds, looking about her.
‘Just the two of us.’ She smiled challengingly. ‘How cosy.’
She was the same height as Ellie, hair colouring similar, though without a ponytail. Hers was straight, draped primly down the sides of her face to her chin. They were twins, easy to see in the face and eyes. But not in clothing. Ellie was informal in her wear, Cathy’s a navy blue dress suit and a white shirt as if she were about to be interviewed. She carried a black leather briefcase.
‘It’s not worth coming on time,’ she said.
Ellie bit her tongue at the implied criticism of her punctuality. It would be too easy to start. And so easy to predict where it would end, before the meeting itself even got going.
Cathy sat down, eased her skirt about her knees. She opened her briefcase and took out a notepaper pad and a silver fountain pen. She placed them before her on the coffee table.
‘Just returned from Thailand,’ she said. ‘Gorgeous. So ethnic, so spiritual.’
‘With Mike?’
Cathy looked at her sharply. ‘Of course. We loved the temples. The simplicity of life. We adored the markets. How’s Clive?’
‘Fine.’
‘Been anywhere over the summer?’
‘Oh, we’ve been house hunting.’ A lie, a total lie. Cathy always made her do this. The competition.
‘Where have you been looking?’ said Cathy.
‘Oh, here and there. Ingatestone, Danbury. We don’t want to go north of the Blackwater. Stay within range of the school.’
‘Yes, the school,’ said Cathy. ‘You don’t want to be in North Essex. Though Maldon and Wivenhoe are quite nice.’
‘And a decent sized garden,’ went on Ellie, constructing her dream. ‘South facing. Clive wants to grow grapes.’
‘Clive would,’ said Cathy.
Her sister’s remark almost made Ellie defend her ex. She resisted and went on with her dream.
‘Somewhere big enough for a family,’ she said. And realised even as the words were streaming out that she would need a Clive, or at least someone male to play a part. If she wanted a family. Weren’t there already too many kids in the world? Or at least in the school. She went back and forth on this, daily.
‘Are you pregnant?’ said Cathy.
‘No. Are you?’
‘Well actually, I am.’ With the brightest of smiles.
‘Mummy will be pleased.’
She hoped she had given the hint that she, herself, couldn’t give a damn. Though not true. It was one up to Cathy, and Cathy knew it. She tried looking more closely at her sister, without disclosing where she was actually looking. And yes, there was just about a bump. A well aimed boot then.
Heavens, she was dreadful.
‘So is the English Dept up to scratch for the new year?’ said Cathy.
‘Well under control,’ she lied. ‘And mathematics and science?’
‘I did all the planning before we went to Thailand. Daddy has OK’d it. And yours?’
‘A little tweaking still to do.’
‘Don’t leave it too late. You might be the first at meetings but when it comes to the curriculum…’
Ellie wanted to pour the kettle of hot water over her sister’s head. Instead said, ‘Coffee?’
‘Black. No sugar.’
‘I know.’ I have always known, she thought. She was gritting her teeth, clenching her fists.
‘It’s the only way I can take instant,’ said Cathy.
Ellie could have said that for her. Family clichés. Oh dear, she was washed out and the meeting hadn’t even begun.
Their father entered.
He wore a pale-blue suit, including the waistcoat buttoned up, with a watch chain suspended from a pocket. Clothing much too warm for the time of year, but it was, his oft repeated comment, the white man’s burden. As if he were surrounded by natives in some Kipling tale of the Raj. He had still a full head of curly hair, with hints of its original ginger though whitening fast, and a thick moustache with a little breakfast egg on one side.
‘Where’s your mother?’ he said brusquely.
Both daughters shrugged with variations of ‘don’t know’.
‘It is twenty past,’ he said.
Ellie might have told him that to the minute. Her father, twenty minutes late, expected everyone here waiting for him. She almost clapped her mother for her disobedience, which more than trumped her lateness. It was a rarity.
‘She knows we are having a meeting this morning. I don’t know how many times I’ve reminded her,’ he said with a long, exasperated sigh. He turned to Cathy. ‘Phone her.’
Cathy jerked in annoyance. Her phone was clearly visible in her open briefcase beside her. She could hardly object to the simple request. It was of course the tone that piqued.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Ellie searching for hers.
‘No, let me.’ Cathy picked up her phone, flipped through the contacts and dialled. ‘It’s ringing.’
The other two waited, they could just hear the buzz.
‘It’s gone to voice mail,’ said Cathy.
Her father strode across and took the phone.
‘Victoria! Where the hell are you? You know we have a family meeting. Get here at once. We need the budget.’
He handed the phone back to Cathy who switched off. And put the phone back in her open briefcase.
‘We’re not waiting forever,’ he said. ‘We’d better start.’
‘Yes, let’s,’ said Ellie. ‘We are, after all, only 25 minutes late on a day out of our summer holidays.’
‘Quite,’ said the Head, walking aimlessly about the room. ‘I wouldn’t have brought you here if it wasn’t important, Eleanor.’ He stopped in his pacing to gather their attention, which he had 100% anyway. ‘We have a situation,’ he began again. ‘Yes, a situation you might say…’ He was working hard to express himself carefully. To not spread alarm. And was of course spreading alarm. ‘How we got here is immaterial, but here we are, in time and space. And it’s this here and now we have to deal with.’
‘Spill, please,’ said Ellie barely hiding her frustration.
‘Out with it, Daddy,’ enjoined her sister.
‘A situation…’ he said, shaking his Waverley pen which would never be opened. It was the equivalent of a sceptre. ‘…combining the financial with human resources.’ He turned and looked at them both. ‘Sandra has resigned.’
This took a few seconds to filter in, as he put the pen back in his top jacket pocket.
‘She can’t,’ exclaimed Cathy. ‘She has to give a term’s notice.’
He smiled weakly, dropping to the arm of an armchair after his parade.
‘She walked out,’ he said. ‘We had words.’
‘I know your words,’ said Ellie.
‘We both said more than was politic. And the upshot is our deputy head has resigned. Forthwith.’
‘She’ll get a bad reference,’ said Cathy.
The Head shrugged.
‘It’s illegal,’ said Ellie. And turned to the others. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘She’s broken her contract,’ said Cathy. ‘But that hardly helps us.’
‘What on earth did you say to her?’ said Ellie.
Her father sighed and opened his empty hands, as if it wasn’t his fault. ‘I told her that we needed more students, that we needed better results…’
Elli
e could imagine the conversation. It would consist of blame, one-sided blame. Her father had no finesse. In the family they could talk back to him. Well, she and Cathy could. Mummy had more or less collapsed. But any other underling he bulldozed. Or they left.
‘So, we have a vacancy for deputy head,’ he said.
‘What are we going to do about that?’ said Ellie. ‘Term starts in three weeks.’
‘I thought I’d appoint you as temporary deputy.’
That knocked her back. No way. Not with her father in and out of her office. Get me this, get me that. Phone the Pope and the Archbishop of Canterbury. It would be hell. Calling her up any time of day or night. No way. In the classroom she was in her own domain. In control. Free, as much as one can be free in a classroom. At least there was no one standing over her barking.
‘Why Ellie?’ snapped Cathy.
‘It had to be one of you,’ said the Head reasonably.
‘Why Ellie?’ snapped Cathy.
‘It’ll be good for her,’ said their father. ‘Stretch her.’
‘She was always your favourite. Half an hour bloody older and she gets everything in spades.’
Suddenly Ellie realised she did want to be deputy head. More than anything.
‘I got a First,’ said Ellie quietly.
‘You always have a go at me for that two-one. But everyone knows maths is a lot tougher than English. English is barely a subject. It’s merely reading. You can do that in your spare time. On a cruise.’
‘Your prejudice again, Cathy. Out it comes, term after term. It is obvious to any reasonable person that English is by far and away the most useful school subject. Without it you cannot study any other subject. Even autistic mathematicians have to speak sometimes. And in the real world, we don’t go around spouting algebra. Adding up is all you need.’
‘And she is to be my deputy head?’
‘I think so,’ said their father.
Cathy rose, her hands flapped to her head. ‘This is a madhouse. I have worked my fingers to the bone in this place. The hours I have put in. Marking, talking to parents, after school clubs. And this is the thanks I get.’