“Of course.”
As the last student left the room, Darcey pulled the door closed behind him. “And how are you keeping after your holidays, Kate?”
“Very well, thank you. And you?” I needed to appear composed and capable and not let him think I could be vulnerable after the creepy way he’d come on to me after hearing of my separation from Trevor.
“I’m very well, thank you. However it appears we have a problem with a certain Mr Clarke’s result in his final cookery examination.”
“Oh? And what’s the problem?”
“He was very dissatisfied with not having received a distinction from you and he’s appealing it. I’m afraid you’re going to have to re-examine him, Kate.”
“I expected something like this would happen with all these cutbacks. Leaving teachers to examine their own students without the assistance of an outside examiner is fundamentally flawed.” And it would be just like Ron Clarke, of all last year’s students, to be the one to test it.
“Can you set a practical examination for him for sometime next week, Kate?”
“No problem. He certainly didn’t deserve a distinction and I can’t imagine him having risen to that standard. He falls down on procedures and hygiene practice.”
Darcey edged closer to me to the point we were sharing the same air space. The man had no sense of personal boundaries and his breath stank to high heaven. “Kate, if I were you I’d simply give him what he wants.” He lowered his voice, though we were alone. “We don’t need any unpleasantness here. We don’t want him kicking up a fuss. And you know he’s well capable of so doing.”
I pulled back, overwhelmed not only by his breath but by his attitude. “I understand. I’ll brief him well in advance. That’s the best I can do. Now if you’ll excuse me, Mike, I have a meeting with a colleague before my next lecture period.”
As I passed him, I could feel his eyes appraising my legs. I’d chosen to wear a knee-length skirt, but sometimes I felt like wearing a nun’s habit when I saw the lecherous way Darcey looked at women. I made my way to the staffroom to find James. He was sitting at a window table in a quiet corner, assiduously checking his diary against a sheet of printed paper. In another corner, three teachers congregated around a kettle, mugs in their hands. Elsewhere, people checked timetables, some looking happy as they discovered a block of free time, others dismayed by how scattered their hours were. It was always the luck of the draw what you ended up with. I was happy with mine since I’d a few decent free blocks throughout the week.
“You won’t believe what happened?” I said, as I took the chair opposite James.
“Darcey told me Kate. That little brat Ron Clarke. I had him for first and second year. Remember? He was always trouble but nobody says anything because his father’s a local politician and holds sway with some of the department’s associates.”
“Did Darcey tell you he expects me to automatically give him a distinction this time around?”
“Not in so many words but it was implied. That’s why I got a copy of your timetable to check when we both have free periods. I don’t want you leaving yourself wide open to controversy so I’ll examine him with you.”
“God thanks a million for that, James. You’re a brick.”
“How about we schedule it for the second Friday in October at nine thirty? First hour is prep and then put him straight into a two-hour exam. Technically I’m not free for the full three hours but I’ll get someone to cover my classes.”
“Sounds good.”
After I had left James, I headed for my triple cookery period with the third years, an amicable crowd unlike the nasty shower who had recently graduated. I’d ordered in the ingredients for them to make a variety of pastries from choux to filo and puff pastry. The kitchen had a lot of windows and with temperatures outside higher than they had been all through the summer months, the room was like a hot house. This made it tricky, even with air conditioning, for the students to keep everything from ingredients to utensils and their hands as cold as possible. “That’s one of the principal rules of pastry making. Keep everything cold,” I said as I wrote on the board after they’d finished clearing up. “What’s next?”
“Ingredients must be weighed precisely,” called Lucy at the back.
“Why is that so important?” I asked, and lanky Bill put his hand up. “Yes, Bill?”
“Because something like choux pastry won’t be successful unless the ingredients are in the precise ratio. There’s no room for error.”
“Exactly,” I said, as the bell rang. “Now please do out your time plans for Thursday’s class and have all ingredients in. And don’t forget to bring enough jars. You’ll want to pot your lovely jams and chutneys.”
“Thanks, Ms Canavan. Would you like a profiterole?” A blonde girl held a lunchbox open for me to take one.
“No thanks, Sharon. Not today.” Some classes left me inwardly grinning, despite the jokes remaining the same, with girls teasing the boys by asking them did they fancy me. You’d think that would have subsided at my age but my newly single status seemed to have re-ignited curiosity. At the beginning of class, I’d noticed them look at my hands as they took in the lack of rings, followed by whispering and elbowing each other in the ribs, yet the atmosphere was playful and good-humoured. A class like this gelled well; they were part of the reason I loved the job. I suddenly gasped aloud – I’d forgotten to ring Billy to tell him I definitely wasn’t interested in his offer. I owed him that much.
That evening after dinner, I called him. We exchanged the usual pleasantries and then got to the crux of the matter. “But I thought you didn’t like your job very much, Kate?”
“Truth is, I’m glad to be back, Billy. I like being part of a team. That’s what I am really – a team player rather than someone who would flourish independently.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute, but I have to accept that you’re saying no and move on. I’m gutted though.”
“Don’t be. Things’ll work out for the best. You’ll get someone who’s just perfect for the job. I know it!”
“I’ve had lots of interest in it already, and I haven’t even advertised the post – but it’s you I wanted. Anyway, no point in going on about that anymore! I was thinking about having a party here on Halloween? As it’s your birthday and mine is two days before we can celebrate together. What do you think?”
“Sounds good. Can I bring a friend?”
“Bring as many friends as you like. I’ve a few of my own pals staying but I can sleep an extra five or six. Even more, if they’re happy to sleep on a sofa or in a sleeping bag on the floor.”
“Great. I’ll let you know nearer the time how many are coming. It’ll be like the old days with you boasting about being a year and two days older than me.”
“Not a boast any longer, Kate. It’s good to be the younger one at this age. We’ll have good craic at the party. Fancy dress, remember!”
It could be fun, I thought as I made a note in my diary to tell Ella and James. I hadn’t been looking forward to hitting forty-five and becoming well and truly middle-aged but now I had something to look forward to.
Chapter Thirty-one
The next two weeks were spent getting back into my old routine of planning my classes and going for a daily half-hour walk along the prom or occasionally in Barna woods where I would find a space to sit in quiet meditation. I’d become strangely fond of the woods since that day spent with Geoff and I thought about him often. I had to keep reminding myself that I’d built up a fantasy in my head of who I thought he was, since the reality was obviously so different. He’d sent texts and emails which I’d chosen to delete in case I was tempted to read them and fall for whatever line he was choosing to spin. I was curious and it killed me to block him. But I had to stand firm after his obvious deception. I was still beating up on myself for having been such a romantic fool.
Time passed and the second Friday in October arrived. This was the day of Ron Cl
arke’s repeat cookery exam. I’d met with him on Wednesday to give him a choice of two briefs, allowing him sufficient time to ensure all the necessary ingredients were ordered in for Friday. I hadn’t liked his attitude but I’d kept my mouth zipped as I knew he was just looking for a chance to say I’d marked him unfairly.
“I spent two months working in a French Michelin restaurant and they couldn’t understand how I didn’t get top marks in my exam,” he’d sneered. “And do you know that mark militates against me when applying for a full-time position?”
“I’d have thought if you’d gotten on so well in the Michelin restaurant they’d have given you a glowing reference to counteract any exam mark,” I said, smiling at him, but he’d merely tut-tutted in his customary off-hand manner. I knew from experience that Michelin restaurants often disregarded professional qualifications and only took on young chefs as gofers. Then, if the gofer earned his stripes by starting at the bottom, he could work through the ranks, but it required exceptional talent, stamina and patience along with a “yes sir” attitude and a “how high do you want me to jump?” willingness. I couldn’t see Ron Clarke fitting in there. I offered to help him in his choice of menu and he immediately rebuffed me.
“I have my own ideas after being in France. I’ll make my own choices. If you don’t mind … teacher.”
James briefed him on matters of hygiene but he was equally dismissive, telling him we were both “hygiene freaks” since they didn’t bother with all that nonsense in France.
Friday morning he arrived dressed in full chef’s regalia, an enormous chef’s hat on his head with the words “cordon bleu” embroidered in royal blue. Much sharpening of knives started up as he looked at me threateningly, his eyes narrowing. Then, pointing a filleting knife at James, he said, “What’s he doing here?”
“Mr Mitchell is co-examining with me to ensure you are happy with your result this time around.”
“No way, I’m not having it. Every other student had only one examiner and you think it’s fine to bring your best friend in here to support you.” He was about to rip off his apron when James asked, “Well, what about Miss McGrory? I happen to know she’s free at the minute.”
“Oh, the new one. That’s all right. I’ll put up with her but not with you.”
“I’ll relieve Miss McGrory then.”
As James headed out of the door, I thought I detected a hint of a smile from Clarke. I realised I was dealing with someone who didn’t believe in playing straight. I should have guessed, since his politician father was renowned for double-crossing people while smiling sweetly at them and promising the sun, moon and stars if he got their vote. Still it wasn’t fair to assume the son was cut from the same cloth. “Carry on with your preparation while we’re waiting for Miss McGrory, then.”
Helen McGrory had joined the staff last year as a part-time teacher. She had earned a good reputation in the Dublin college where she had full-time hours, but had given that up to move back in with her aging mother who suffered from Alzheimer’s. Fifteen minutes later she arrived, similarly attired to me with a white butcher’s apron tied over a lab coat and her hair secured in a net. Smiling a greeting, she went to the nearest sink to scrub her hands before coming back up to the podium where I stood with my paperwork spread out on the table. I handed her two A4 sheets, a breakdown of the marking scheme with blank areas to fill in comments and marks, and Ron Clarke’s cookery brief.
“I’ve only one copy of the menu he’s chosen but I can get you another.”
“No. I have it. James gave me his copy. An interesting and extremely challenging choice, I have to say.” Her eyes were wide as she glanced over the elaborate menu. “I’m dying to see his pressed duck. I believe the restaurant he worked for in Paris is famous for it.” Now how on earth did she know anything about him working in a French restaurant, never mind what it was renowned for? I felt a shiver of apprehension run down my spine.
He was certainly a student with unbridled enthusiasm, but he was sloppy. He fought with the duck as he tried to bone it, turning the leg inside out as he yanked and pulled on the bone until it flew out of his hand. He slipped over backwards and the duck hit the window, leaving skid marks down the glass as it plonked into the sink. I almost laughed out loud before my mirth turned to compassion. After all, he was around the same age as Julie and I knew how conflicted she was in trying to assert herself. I walked over to him as he was pulling himself up, all red-faced and flustered.
“Are you okay, Ron? At least your duck hit the sink rather than the floor. Let me give you a hand.”
“No thanks,” he snarled at me like a rabid dog. He had serious anger issues.
I had regularly helped students during exams and not docked marks from them, but this boy was determined to go it alone. Watching him was agony as he thumped pasta around with a rolling pin and horsed it through a ravioli cutter. I had to intervene in his treatment of the lobster as the poor creature kept climbing out of the pot of boiling water, one side of it partially cooked as it fought for survival. I told him, “Please kill the lobsters humanely by piercing the head, between the eyes, with a sharp knife or skewer. It’s cruel to cook them alive and the endorphins produced by their fear will toughen the meat and ruin the flavour.”
With the continuous clatter of pots and pans, he was a one-man symphony, producing only cacophony and chaos. His wash-up now filled five sinks. I looked at Helen and we rolled up our sleeves to tackle the colossal mountain of dirty plates. As we cleared it, the pile never seemed to diminish, with Clarke feeding in more pots, pans, crockery, cutlery and equipment.
By twelve thirty he had his table set with a white damask tablecloth, a beautiful printed menu standing at the top beside a silver stem vase holding one red rose and a sprig of gypsophila. All the wash-up was done and put away and each of his dishes was well presented as he placed them on the table. I was about to tell him he could leave when he produced a very professional-looking camera from a bag under the table and started taking photographs of the dishes and table layout from various angles. When he’d finished, he looked at me with a steely glint in his eyes, his jaw puckered. He’d managed to make things look a lot better than they were by adding clever garnishes he’d prepared the night before.
“Very good, Ron. You may go now,” I said. “How do you feel that went?”
“I think I did brilliantly. What time can I come back to collect all this?”
“Exactly one hour.”
As soon as he left, Helen McGrory said to me, “That was definitely overly ambitious for his standard.”
What a relief. At least we were singing from the same hymn sheet. I’d sent James a text to come over and join us in case there was any discrepancy in the marking. After he arrived, the three of us tasted the food. “Ravioli’s like shoe leather. Duck’s okay, but it’s not what you’d call pressed duck,” James said.
“No, you’d need to press it overnight. I had to stop him from stacking a tower of your precious cookery books on top of the bird this morning.” I laughed at the look of horror on his face.
“You mean he didn’t have the proper equipment to do it?” James’s eyebrows had almost taken flight.
“Since I saw him stick his fingers in the ice-cream after handling raw duck, I’m afraid to taste it in case of salmonella,” said Helen.
When the hour had passed, Ron Clarke arrived as Helen left for lunch. “So did I get my distinction?”
“I haven’t totted up your marks yet. I’ll let you know on Monday.”
“Well, I won’t stand for him having any say in my results.” He pointed at James.
“There’s no need for such antagonistic remarks, Clarke.”
“I’d say plenty more to the two of you if I didn’t have to hold with political correctness.” Ron returned to the business of packing his dishes into a large cardboard box.
I was about to say something firm when James put his finger over his own mouth, signalling me to keep quiet. As soon as Ron h
ad gone, I spluttered, “He still thinks he deserves a distinction!”
“No way. You heard Helen. We’re all of like mind.”
“God, I’m tight as a spring.” I tried to swivel my head, while massaging my vertebrae with my right hand. “I’ve had a very stiff neck recently. Maybe it’s because I find this business with Ron Clarke such a pain in the neck.”
“Kate, forget about him. It’s over. Do your meditation and the Qui Gong Raúl taught us,” James advised me.
Monday morning arrived and I was in the middle of collecting books from my locker in the staff room when Helen McGrory handed me a copy of her exam report on Rob Clarke. At sixty-nine per cent, her mark was slightly more generous than mine but it wasn’t going to bring him close to a distinction. Ten minutes later, as I was speaking to James, Mike Darcey’s secretary came up to me, asking me to call into the head’s office. James winked as he stood up to follow me.
Darcey was sitting at his desk, peering out over his glasses. “Well, have we a result?”
“It’s not as good as his summer result but we can allow his previously higher mark of seventy-two per cent to stand,” I said.
“And I’ll stand by Kate on that one. I saw the finished exam,” James offered.
“With due respect James, it has nothing to do with you since Helen McGrory was co-examiner.”
“There’s no disagreement between me and Helen,” I insisted.
“I’ve just spoken to Helen and she’s willing to up her mark to a distinction for the sake of peace.”
“What? There must be some misunderstanding!”
“I’m merely saying, we need to find the marks somewhere.” He began nervously scattering papers about in front of him.
“I have principles and I’m not going to be blackmailed by one student who’d enjoy telling everyone it’s possible to intimidate Ms Canavan into giving you a higher mark. It’s an insult to the other students who work very hard to achieve their mark in an honest manner. The result stands.”
Love & The Goddess Page 27