by DH Smith
‘There can only be one deputy head,’ said Ellie reasonably.
‘Make it joint, Daddy,’ demanded Cathy.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ snapped Ellie. ‘Can you imagine the two of us working together?’
‘Can you imagine me working under you?’ She shook her head wildly. ‘It’s primogeniture gone crazy. Half an hour older and she’s the princess. And I’m the slavey. Destiny! I cannot endure this. Will not endure this.’ She closed her briefcase with a sharp slap. ‘Look at her! A ponytail, like a teenager from Sweet Valley High.’ She raised her hands in final surrender. ‘This lunatic is leaving Bedlam right now.’
And she strode out of the room, her shoes clacking rapidly down the hallway.
The Head went to the door, half in half out. ‘Catherine, come back here!’ he yelled. ‘Do you hear me? Come back here this instant! We’re having a bloody meeting!’
And he was out the door and running down the corridor.
Chapter 4
Some meeting.
She was pleased, though, she’d kept her temper. Pleased Cathy hadn’t. She smiled to herself. First one to yell, loses. Admittedly, she was useless at maths, prided herself on it because Cathy was so good at it. Though only a two-one… Some boyfriend-cum-drugs evening the night before the exam, she’d gleaned. And what a twerp he’d proved to be.
If she ever met him again, she’d buy him a drink.
Cathy was well read though. One summer she’d ploughed through every one of Shakespeare’s plays. But it was all too late. A two-one branded on her soul. Their degrees swung at each other like laser swords in the hands of Jedi knights. A First could not lose. As her sister had said, destiny.
Three cups of coffee were on the low table. Hers almost drunk, the others almost full. Where was her mother? Or, she might ask, her father and little sister? Alone, she knew she didn’t actually want to be deputy head. It would take her out of the classroom too much, and she enjoyed her classroom. She was doing Jane Eyre with the older girls. Much better than the done to death Pride and Prejudice.
But she had accepted the post, in front of two bloody witnesses. This needed thinking out. How to climb down without losing face? Besides, if she said no, then he’d offer it to Cathy. And Cathy would be her boss.
That was impossible. Had she stuffed herself?
Oh for the simple life! Why couldn’t she just go off and shag that builder, without all this family pox? Because of the school. Father had already had a heart attack. Been warned to take it easy, but didn’t know the meaning of the word. He would die in harness one day, not too far in the future. And if she was deputy head, then a Black Prince to his King, a dauphin in waiting.
Were there any female equivalents? Some Victoria or Princess Elizabeth…
Her father returned.
‘Half a quorum,’ she said.
He slumped into the armchair, breathing heavily.
‘Would you do me a coffee, dear?’
She handed him one of the cooling cups from the table. He looked at the skin forming on top and put it back on the table.
‘Did you catch Cathy?’
‘Yes,’ he said, patting his beating chest. ‘We had words in the car park. Before she drove off.’
‘What did she say?’
‘That she cannot continue working here if you are deputy head. I said I would be her line manager, not you. But no…’ He sighed heavily. ‘She said she cannot be so publicly slighted.’
‘Only one of us can be deputy.’
‘Or none of you.’
Ellie bit a knuckle. Her father was waiting for her reaction, but she said nothing, thinking it out.
He went on, ‘She said no deputy head at all. Keep the position vacant while we advertise.’
‘And you said?’
‘I said, I’d speak with you.’ He leaned forward, spreading his hands pleadingly. ‘I cannot afford to lose the head of maths and science, Ellie. She is good, I cannot deny it. Knows her stuff, teaches well, is respected. And with three weeks to go… Eleanor, darling. Will you please refuse my offer?’
Ellie was delighted. She had won. She had been offered a position she didn’t want. But had felt forced to take it. And now she could be magnanimous, turn it down for the good of her sister. And the school. Of course, she must make it sound a hardship. A position she’d been dreaming of all her life. Squeeze out the gratitude from her father. But she had won hands down, she was the preferred candidate. Still the Black Prince, in all but name.
All she had to do was make sure there was no deputy head.
Chapter 5
Jack tapped in a last glazing sprig with his smallest hammer. And stood back. The glass would hold now until he had the beading ready. It was seated in putty in the frame with four sprigs each side holding it in place. He pressed against the pane with his palms. It was firm. Now to saw the beading to size. Then take out the sprigs one side at a time, with the beading going down to replace them.
He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes more work. The caretaker had invited him over to his house for a tea break. Seemed a nice bloke, friend of Bob’s. Jack had brought a thermos, but fresh tea and a chat was always welcome.
His phone rang, the second time in ten minutes. The first he couldn’t answer, as he had the glass in the frame but only half the sprigs in and needed a hand on the glass. So out of necessity, he’d let it ring. He didn’t like ignoring phone calls. Could be a customer. This job was only a few days’ work.
He picked up his phone. Alison. What the heck did she want?
‘Hello, Jack,’ she said. ‘Is this a convenient time?’
‘It is now. Was it you phoned ten minutes ago?’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘Well, I was holding a sheet of glass. I wasn’t deliberately ignoring you. OK?’
He was always careful with her. Tempers were fragile with his ex.
‘Point taken,’ she said curtly. ‘I need you to look after Mia the next few days.’
‘What?’ The woman drove him nuts with her sudden demands. ‘I’m working. You’re a teacher. On holiday. Why can’t you have her?’
‘I’ve got to go into hospital tomorrow,’ she said. ‘A minor operation. Woman’s trouble. Sorry to spring it on you. But…’
What could he say to that? He had Mia, their 11 year old daughter, for alternate weekends. That was the drill.
‘I understand,’ he said, thinking of all the complications, work, food, money, if he had Mia.
‘So can you pick her up this evening?’
That shook him. She wanted him to drive down to Brighton, pick up their daughter, and then drive back home again. And look after her for the next few days. He’d got it all now. The total package.
‘I’m working full time,’ he said. ‘Can’t you get someone else to look after her? Down there?’
‘No, I can’t. And I’m going into hospital for an operation. She’s your daughter too, you know.’
‘I do know,’ he said.
Both being stupid, as if she thought he’d forgotten, as if he needed to remind her he hadn’t. But he’d known something like this would happen when Alison moved down to Brighton. She was there, he was in London. Some crisis, some time. Alison simply hadn’t thought it out when she moved, so eager to take on the new job. And now of all times, when he was so short of cash. He’d have to tell her. Lay it on the table. Life as it is lived for a builder.
‘I haven’t got any money,’ he said. ‘I can’t come to Brighton.’
‘What?’ she exclaimed. ‘None at all?’
‘Penniless.’
It was true. All he had were a few coins. Apart from that, he was spent to the bottom of his overdraft.
‘What about all that money you had?’
‘Who told you about that?’
‘Who’d you think? Mia, of course.’
Little pitchers.
‘So have you spent the lot?’ she went on, obviously appalled by his spendthrift ways. ‘All of it?’
>
‘I bought my flat,’ he said.
‘And didn’t leave yourself a cushion?’
‘I needed most of it for the down payment,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to live somewhere. Anyway, I’m working, should get paid soon, but at the moment I’m clean out of cash.’
‘Can you get to London Bridge station at 6 pm?’
‘Yes, but…’
‘Be there. I’ll bring her up by train. I’ll sub you twenty quid. Don’t drink it.’
He bit his tongue. The cow. He had to take her charity along with her barbs.
‘Some of us don’t happen to get paid regularly,’ he said as reasonably as he could. ‘We’re not all teachers. It’s up and down in the building game. I’m not sitting home on my arse if that’s what you think. I’m earning. It’s just that…’ he floundered a second then added, ‘It’s what they call cash flow.’
‘London Bridge at six. Don’t be late.’
She rang off.
He could easily have put his fist through the window. So easy for her as deputy head of a primary school. Regular money coming in every month. She simply wouldn’t understand what it was like for someone on an uncertain, self-employed income. Or maybe it was because it was him. Dwelling on how their relationship ended. But he’d noted too frequently how those with safe jobs, regular monthly incomes, thought the rest of the world were skivers, watching daytime TV and getting drunk.
A sympathy deficit. Well, screw her.
It was a struggle, just keeping his head above water. He’d stayed sober for well over a year now. Went twice a week to Alcohol Halt. But this was a lousy time for a small builder. Too many short jobs, then nothing while he put feelers out and counted his pennies. Bob had got him this one. OK, he’d had some luck last year and got some unexpected money. But then his flat came up. It was either buy it or move out. The landlord wanted a quick sale. He had enough cash for the down payment, and with some exaggeration of his income, lies to be exact, managed to get a mortgage. And now he struggled to pay, month by month.
He’d love a cushion. A builder always needs some cash in hand for materials, petrol, tools. It was no good this begging Peter to pay Paul. But what could he do about it?
Sod her. He cringed at having to tell her he didn’t have the money to get down to Brighton. But there you are. All said. All arranged.
How she charged him up.
Calm down. Get some of the beading in. Then tea break with the caretaker. And don’t forget London Bridge station at 6 pm. Work. And leave the worry of how to manage Mia and this job for later.
It was then it came to him. He could’ve got a payday loan. Needn’t have said a word about him being broke. Could phone Alison back on that. But no, he didn’t want to speak to her again. And payday loans were poison. Astronomical interest.
He got out his tenon saw and mitre box. Work. Get into the swing of it. The long beading rod was already marked up. He lay it in the box on a piece of old cardboard, slid the saw into a 45 degree slot, and began gently sawing. Slowly does it. As he got near the end of the cut, he slowed further, letting his fingers take the weight as the end fell away without a snag.
Perfect.
If only the rest of his life could be this way.
Chapter 6
Graham DeNeuve was seated on a memorial bench for his father, watching a pair of coots aimlessly swimming, dipping from time to time in the dark green water, the white on their small heads like hopeless handkerchiefs to keep out the sun.
What goes on in those tiny brains as they swim in circles? he reflected. Much less than even some of his students. Never a Gauguin of the Lake, a Shakespeare of the Reeds. But just enough brain to stay alive and breed.
What is the point of a life like that? Aimless circles.
His father knew the answer. God. He gave the coots life and gave man dominion over them. A belief he, himself, held when he was a choirboy, when his father was Head. But without God there was simply a coot, nonsensically pretty in its black feathers and white skull cap, swimming like a toy, driven by the batteries of hunger and sex.
He had learnt to row on this lake. His father gave him his first lessons. Probably brought God into it somewhere; it was so long ago he couldn’t remember. But his father brought God into most things. And he’d learnt the Platonic trick himself; the design of the boat, the oars, were God‑given. He’d said such things in school assemblies. Thank God for this and that. For coots and sunsets, for computers and friendship. He was up there, in Heaven, directing the world. Watching every little coot, on every little lake.
It was his daughters’ questions that first made him doubt. When they were small. Although he gave them the gospel his father had given him, he would then go away and think about the holes in his pat answer. Pull apart the snags, until he was left with disconnected threads. Broken shoelaces.
His father knew. He would say it was God’s plan for him to be the Head after him. Was never cursed by why. The devil’s interrogative. It was God’s plan, the whole answer. If Graham could ask him why the school was going broke, supposing there was some bit of his father floating somewhere in the cosmos who could respond, his father might have referred him to the Book of Job.
Suffering, like the coot, had a purpose.
If there was a God.
And if there wasn’t?
There was simply suffering. Bills were bills, not trials set by God. Not steps on Jacob’s ladder with Heaven on the top rung, but the hard change of things without the small print of eternal life.
Real life.
At least he’d persuaded Eleanor not to take on the deputy headship. Thank goodness for that. He could have rescinded the offer, of course. But then he’d have two rowing daughters. Much better that she had seen why she could not have it. For now anyway.
By which time, Catherine had gone off in a huff. He’d left her several messages on voicemail, several texts. If there was no God, there must be family.
The only hope in all this.
God knew where Victoria was. Or did He? Presumably yes. No bird falls from a nest without Him knowing. And when the fox eats it for breakfast…
Why had she abandoned him?
The meeting had accomplished what? That there was to be no deputy head, but that really was the minor item. Money, next on the agenda, was the big one. But with Catherine doing a runner and Victoria not there to present the budget, he could not give them his plan.
A swan had come out from round the island. He watched its stateliness, the beauty that princesses had in fairy tales, as it progressed over the water, ripples trailing in its wake and sparkling in the sunlight. He could imagine it was there just for him. To soothe him, to placate him. To put his little world in perspective.
And remind him of the world to come.
How would that go down with the bank manager? If he showed him pictures of swans and coots, instead of cash flow and the balance sheet.
Graham withdrew a bottle of Evian water from his pocket. Miraculously, it had been turned into gin.
Chapter 7
When she stopped at the lights Cathy glanced at the incoming texts. Ellie was not taking up the post of deputy head. Would she please come back and continue the meeting?
She laughed. Her father was always too late with his diplomacy. There was voicemail too. Doubtless from him. Probably saying the same thing. Praise and pleading, after the fact.
Well, she would not answer her phone for a while. Leave them uncertain. Though he had managed to catch her at the school car park, which perhaps was a pity, or perhaps not. She’d laid out her demands and then driven off.
And it worked.
Now let them sweat.
A hoot from behind revived her. The lights had changed. Cathy put her foot down and eased away from the traffic lights. She was certainly not going to do an about turn. If her father was going to be so stupid, then let him and Ellie waste a day. Next time he might think first.
As for Ellie, she might even wish the job on her.
That would be a delightful ruse. Tell her sister that she’d thought about it and Ellie was welcome to the job. Let father kick her around for a few weeks, see how much she wanted it then. For Cathy was under no illusion. It was not a desirable post. Poor Sandra had been having a terrible time. Amazing she had stood it for two years.
She’d phone her tonight. Tell her she’d work on father, so she didn’t get a bad reference. Even Ellie would agree to that. For Sandra had been her and Ellie’s umpire often enough in their various staff room wrangles.
Good luck to Sandra. She was better off out of it. Bramley was a family trial.
The traffic was light on the country road, mid morning. The sun shining, and she was out of school. Like a sixth former playing truant. Such a relief to be driving. To be in control, in her car, going her way. And having them wait on her.
She wondered who had won. Her walking out was a point for Ellie. And Ellie magnanimously climbing down. A second point. But then Cathy had made her. And was making them wait on her decision. So was it a draw? Father would not dare do it again. She was the senior maths teacher. She could get a job anywhere. English teachers were two a penny. She had been head hunted by a public school, she’d informed him in the car park, and it wasn’t too late to turn the offer down.
Pure bluff. Not the head hunting. But she wasn’t taking it up. She wasn’t leaving Bramley to Ellie. Maybe she shouldn’t have walked out, she conceded, but then it wasn’t working out so badly. The school needed her. Better if she’d laid it on the line then and there. Been in the room when her father had to rescind his offer. Instead of a teenage tantrum.
Why does one revert? Suddenly, you are thirteen again, powerless… Next she’d be cutting her arms or starving herself. How does one grow up? Be an adult in the family. Or at least pretend to be. Maybe that was the best you could do. Act. Until you’d convinced yourself. After all, she had the trump card. The school needed her. It could cope without a deputy. It could manage without a head of English. Others could fill in, temporary staff. But maths teachers were gold.
Any new graduate could work a page ahead in Pride and Prejudice. But teach Binomial Theorem and Newton’s Laws of Motion? Oh, she must stand her ground. Remind them how much they needed her. Make her demands.