Scoring With Sir

by Judy Jarvie

  * * * *

  It’s the next day—life must go on. Lydia and I take the stage at Assembly. Lydia takes a seat behind me and I go to the microphone center stage.

  “To you, I’m Miss Tennant from the English department. But I’m more than a teacher—a long time ago I was a school pupil too. One with hopes and dreams and dramas and comedy moments as you all have. And regrets too. I’m not here today to talk about English, you may be relieved to know. I want to talk about how we treat people, and how we deal with the way people treat us can make the biggest difference of all. I urge you to think about facing the bullies around us. And letting your guidance teacher know if it happens.”

  I tell my personal story about my teenage brush with emotional abuse. How I so badly wanted to be accepted I agreed a dare with a forfeit—to befriend a girl I knew from chemistry. How we met at night in the park to be accepted into the Cool Girl Gang—but neither of us realized we were being set up to be humiliated then beaten up as entertainment.

  “I ended up in traction. I nearly had a broken neck—I was lucky. The end of this story is that Colleen ended up in hospital twice. The second time, after an overdose. She couldn’t face living with what the bullies had done. Fortunately she didn’t succeed. Think about it—if somebody doesn’t treat you with respect, tell your guidance teacher. It’s why we have them.”

  Lydia comes over to the mic, her heels starkly clacking as she walks. I’m so proud of her.

  “I want to thank Lydia for handling her own issue this week with bravery, courage and clarity. She realized she hid the truth because she thought she could handle bullying alone. Fortunately, she realized not letting her teachers help her was a mistake. By telling your guidance teacher and parents you enable us to put measures in place. She has come to tell you her story. I commend her actions.”

  Lydia stands and reads out a piece of her own creative writing—it’s a Lydia-fied version of Cinderella in which Cinders questions her treatment by the ugly sisters.

  She summarizes, “We have to speak out. The only fairy godmother is your decision not to settle, and to enforce change. Tell your teacher—she can help. Mine did. And my thanks go to Miss James and Miss Tennant.” For a girl who struggles to summon the confidence to communicate, she’s done herself and me proud.

  Tears well in my eyes as the applause rings out around the assembly hall. And even as I’ve said the words I realize Will would say he played a guardian role while he worked among us. And Annie started the process for justice when she spoke up to challenge Dibian’s behavior. I push the thoughts away. But I don’t feel like any hero here—I was doing my job. Which makes me think.

  At the end of Assembly, Rogerson tells the pupils that all filming is now off and explains that Mr. Darby is from Scotland Yard. The fraud stories in the newspapers are true and Netherfield has seen justice served.

  As I walk down the stage steps, I’d like to believe him.

  But, like Lydia’s story, life lately has a fairy-tale feel. The bubble’s popped and I’m left feeling empty. When I get back to my class there are three missed messages from Will on my phone. I power it down. As Lydia reminded me, time to change and move on.

  * * * *

  I’m sitting in the school’s sensory garden because it’s deserted and, while I have lunch on my lap, the last thing I want is food.

  When I see Jack wander in to find me, my heart dips. I’d thought I could skulk here—turns out there’s no isolation and misery time at Netherfield Secondary.

  I hit stop on my iPhone music player. I’ve been playing Adele songs—the morbid, toxic life-in-tatters mega-mix on repeat. It’s a nod toward self-indulgent self-flagellation over a relationship gone wrong.

  Jack sits down beside me on the bench, undeterred by my mascara tracks or the massive lavender bush that always attracts the bees. He’s a brave guy. I still don’t comment. I solemnly take my sandwich out of its foil and bite it. It tastes like a cardboard fusion shit medley but I do my best at feigning enjoyment face.

  “You can’t do pretend, girl. Never could,” Jack opines.

  “Don’t know what you mean. Can’t you go and pick holes in somebody else’s life mess?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, girl.”

  I want to spit the sandwich back out again but I won’t dismount my high horse. So I force down the arid crust.

  Jack takes out a greasy aromatic sausage roll and my stomach growls with longing. Comfort food of the highest denominator. He looks at me with a sidelong Jack-ish glance, then splits it in two and hands me a half. The pastry flakes and lands on my trousers but I don’t care. I want to sniff the sausage like a coke addict.

  “Get that inside you.”

  “Cheers.”

  “Don’t want you fading away. Apparently most of my stuff is coming back—Dibian’s handed over her spoils. It’s been impounded as evidence but it’s out of her clutches. Your money will be sorted out too.”

  “Good news. That’s novel. Wonder when the birds will crap on that too.”

  “Glass half-full if you please. Or I’ll leave and take my sausage roll back.”

  I take a bite. Sometimes sausage roll is the best and only Band-Aid salve worth sampling. Good old Jack.

  “Can we just not talk?”

  “Will called me from Scotland Yard this morning and gave full details. When you’re ready to know about it, you can ask me.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Izzy. Your book is big news, I hear. You’re going to be a very wealthy woman. Somebody has to claim the payments eventually.”

  “By all accounts Rogerson is keen on me going for head of department, I’ll have no time for writing. And I’ve had my fingers scorched by writing heat, above my temperature range.”

  Jack doesn’t talk of what I’ve written. We’ve never had that conversation. Which is good. He’s like the dad I never had. Erotica conversations would make my toes curl.

  “He’s coming into school later.”

  “Who?”

  “Detective Inspector Darby. The man you’re faking doesn’t exist.”

  “Don’t want to know.”

  “He’s still Will. We fell for his charms because he’s a good man.”

  “He’s no charms for me. He hid the truth about various things. He wasn’t honest or upfront plus he got his lines blurred. For a policeman he broke rules himself.”

  “Said by the Maverick of the English department.”

  I parry back with a death glare. I do not want to talk this over. Ever.

  Jack wipes himself down to eradicate the pastry crumbs. “Remember Ada, the cake supremo who makes the perfect pies? Turns out she’s taken a fancy to yours truly. It’s never too late, you know. Sometimes you have to take a chance. I think I could make a go of this if she’ll let me. Believe me, her haddock bake’s better than a Thierry Henry hat-trick.”

  “I’m pleased for you, Jack. Truly. She’s a lucky woman.”

  “Trust me, one bite of her steak and mushroom lattice pie and I was smitten. I’m the one who stands to win most.” Jack stands and stares down at me, blocking out my sunlight with his bulky form. “For God’s sake, girl, what I’m trying to say is, you’re cutting off your nose here. It was more than his job was worth. If your allegiances meant you inadvertently told Dibian the truth, he’d have been sunk. He was investigating us all, not just you.”

  “He told me falsehoods. There are too many question marks and I can’t see past the lies. I think he may have a woman on the side too.”

  Although I’ve had a mini epiphany with the Annie truce, I still wouldn’t put it past her to have lied about Tessa being a lesbian merely to get back at me. After all, I did tell her Will was gay.

  “Oh, well. That paints a different color of sky. And craps on the ship’s mast into the bargain. Well, I’m to pass on a message—Will says he wants to see you. He’s tied up in London with casework but he asked if you’d call. You won’t return his calls—he’s asked me for direct
access.”

  I’ve finished the sausage roll and now it feels wrong inside my tummy. I could well be throwing up into a flower bed for the second time in my life. And that thought makes me want to howl. “I won’t. You don’t know the full facts.”

  I roll up my own lunch and foil and fire it into the bin with a great aim.

  “Goal!” Jack declares and punches the air lightly. But the mood doesn’t fit. Usually I’d laugh but I can’t. My laughter chip’s corroded. Nothing’s funny.

  And nothing but Miley Cyrus singing Wrecking Ball full blast hits my spot on how I feel. I have it bad for a man. I’ve been through all this crazy shit at school and yet the thought of being taken for an idiot again in my life hurts me.

  “I came,” Jack tells me, “to tell you I’m proud of you. You sorted young Lydia out with a good outcome. You have to stop beating yourself up about Dibian. You seem to forget that you have a lot of wonderful friends—crazy, some would call ’em—but loyal works too. Did you know they went an’ bawled Will out on your behalf?”

  I suck in a breath. But Jack’s always had the innate talent to get to me.

  “Who did?”

  “Fiona, Janey. That woman who runs the chocolate shop with the enormous—”

  I interject, “Mo.”

  “That’s the one. Dressed him down good and proper.”

  I hadn’t realized they all knew about my dangerous liaison. But, while I’m at it, I still have issues with the Dibian thing and how it came to pass. “I still feel guilty, Jacko. After all, I introduced you to her. I feel responsible for what she did.”

  “She was her own worst enemy. You’ve a good heart and saw the best.”

  “I admire you and should have protected you at a vulnerable time.” It’s been going round my mind in a crazy loop of guilty mind corrosion.

  “Izzy. I got off effing lightly, girl. What if she’d inveigled herself into my life and tried to pair up with a sad, old, lonely geezer? What if she’d taken me for a ride? I was lucky.”

  It still doesn’t take the sting off my wounded trust. That I took Dibian so readily at face value. My prior experiences haven’t helped to educate my choices.

  “It’s because you trust that you’re the treasure we know you to be. I know it. Your friends know it. One bad apple and all that.”

  I sigh and finger my temples. “I’ve been foolish of late. Will’s no exception.”

  “Tea at mine? Tea and a truce? And we won’t discuss events. I have Hobnobs—half-covered chocolate kind. With the sports pages.”

  I nod. Some things—not many—but some, I can still rely on. And Jack’s the rock to which I cling. The kind of man you can trust.

  * * * *

  There is a good side to Class Wars at Netherfield being stalled, a.k.a. called off, and revealed as a clandestine ploy to catch a thieving rat teacher.

  Firstly, the fuss and extra work abate and I can get on with being a teacher. Secondly, the kids will knock off the exuberance and quit trying to outdo each other in the fashion, hairstyles and spray tans department. But mostly I get to see Andy Regis slope off with his camera, lenses and assorted tripods.

  He salutes me as he walks past, but doesn’t approach. I’m guessing he’s a copper too. Which makes his double-crossing even worse. I’m piqued enough to confront him.

  “So it wasn’t a BBC expenses account? And trying to date two women at once is just one of your foibles?”

  He sighs but doesn’t answer.

  I continue, “I always figured you were a crap cameraman. Sometimes your camera was upside down. Annie’s well shot of you.”

  “Cheeky cow. I am BBC—this will be shown on Crimewatch primetime next week. I’m ex force. Scotland Yard. Fraud Squad—trained with Will. Hicks got too greedy. Great book, by the way.” He winks at me. “I’ll pre-order a sequel. Great to know what women want. Be even better if you could put a word in for me with Annie. She was hot.”

  “Hell will freeze over first. And the hero of my next book won’t be police.”

  “Dunno. Will has it pretty bad for you. He swore he’d tear my head off if I went near you again. Said he’d use my balls for penalty kick masterclasses. He’s been pissed off about some expenses account gaffe I’ve made—don’t remember anything about an old couple when we had our meal? Booked a free room on my expenses, thievin’ old codgers.”

  I’d like to be flattered about Will but I’m too raw.

  I’m cheering about the expenses rumble.

  Andy was always a dick. I never figured on Will being one too.

  Tarquin, on the other hand, does not take the weasel’s route of trying to skulk off. He’s more than happy to come up for another Yank-a-Hand demonstration in how to paralyze a writer–cum handshake.

  “It’s been a pleasure working with you. There’s a chance we may come back for filler filming later. I believe we’d be interested in having you come in at airtime—perhaps an interview, as she was your department head and friend? I’ll let you get your head together on events.”

  “I think I’d rather forget it’s all ever happened. We never did get to share that raspberry pastry,” I add. And, damn me, I wish I hadn’t. Why did I let my brain even go there? I don’t want a revisit.

  “Then I must pop by and rectify. Soon. I’ll be in touch. Adieu then. Do think about that interview—you’re a key witness.”

  The BBC slash Scotland Yard leave the building.

  I’d like to say I’m happy. But, given the circumstances, I’m sad.

  It was Netherfield’s hope of a bright new shining future. It ended up crapped on by life. And eye gouged. Like a Game of Thrones season ending that’s left the star players buggered, bullied and beheaded. And I’m left discombobulated and traumatized.

  * * * *

  “Come in.”

  I’m answering a knock on my office door, but nobody appears. So I shout for the visitor to enter again, this time more firmly.

  Mickey Peters appears around the door. His Mohawk hairdo looks like it hasn’t been brushed this week. I’m somewhat shocked. I haven’t seen him around much since I bawled him out in the car park. I think back on how much has happened since then. And how my car is barely holding itself together, having wrapped it around Totteridge street furniture. Shit. I need to get that sorted or buy a new car. My Omazod statement arrived this morning so maybe there’s hope?

  “How can I help?”

  “Jack Carson sent me, miss. He wants your ’elp, miss.”

  “What with? I’m in the middle of something.”

  “Didn’t say, miss.” Peters sniffs. It’s a filthy habit of his, yet so characteristic. I know he’ll never stop.

  “Get a tissue.” I hold out the box and he takes one, then pockets it. I simply follow his lead. I lock the class door and he’s sniffing as he goes. “Use the tissue, Peters. They’re not on ration.”

  He shrugs, then blows and we proceed. Not talking. Just the clack of my heels on the parquet. Accompanied by the occasional sniff.

  * * * *

  “Fuck.”

  I’m saying it out loud and Peters is still there but I don’t care. I should’ve seen this coming. Jack’s in cahoots.

  “You may go,” Jack tells the boy.

  I walk into the basement and Will’s drinking tea with Jack. My heart goes crazy tempo when our eyes meet. It’s clear Jack’s got me here under false pretenses, so blow me if I’m staying to have them gang up and give me crapola.

  “Not you!” says Jack. “This time, lady, you’re gonna listen and listen good. And not to me.” He removes his keys from his janitor’s coat pocket and shows me them pointedly. Then he locks us both in the room together. With a bold click and wobbling jowls and a glower, he stitches me up good and proper.

  “So?”

  “Hi would do,” says Will.

  “Is there any point to this? And why are you back here when you only came to do Taggart does High School Musical?”

  He shakes his head as his jaw fle
xes and his eyes narrow. “It’s not as cut and dried as you’re assuming.”

  “Look. Can we make this discussion brief because I’ve marking waiting. You came, you got your collar. You fulfilled your jurisdiction and got a shag into the bargain. Can we leave it there?”

  “Izzy. Does everything have to be so ruddy black and white with you?”

  “Yes. I don’t respect liars, Will.”

  “I never lied to you. I was doing a job.”

  “Did you use me as your motive to get a way into the English department?”

  “Initially I wanted to question you. It’s why I approached you in the car park. Believe me, I got so much more than I expected.”

  “Did you fail to tell me any of that?”

  “Detectives don’t break confidences. We were something entirely different. I would’ve told you in time. There was rather a lot of drama in the mix as it was.”

  “Oh, and now I’m a drama-seeking missile in this?”

  He stands to full over six feet height and paces the room. Must be said—a three-piece suit looks phenomenal on him. “You’re the only reason I’m back. And whether or not you believe me or want to hear what I have to say is up to you. I want you to hear the truth, then I’ll go.”

  He hangs his head and watches his shiny dapper shoes. The suit gets my juices frantically flowing. Betraying juices that they are.

  “Been in court?” I ask.

  “No. Been for an interview. Got the job. At Hendon Police College.”

  “My, but the job offers keep stacking up. Do you collect them?”

  “Look. I didn’t come here for a war of words. I wanted to see you—needed to see you and urge you not to believe all the crap you’ve read and assumed about me. Yes, I’m a police detective inspector. Yes, I came here undercover. The thing is, before I even started proper pro football, my sights were on a police career and the dream didn’t fade. As soon as I left football, I took a criminology degree. Did well, then fast-tracked onto the force graduate track. Until now, I’ve mostly kept my head below the parapet, media-wise.”