by Kitty Wilson
Ten minutes later, Matt sat back in his chair, read the confirmation email from Susie and beamed from ear to ear. Take that, Edward Grant! #SaveOurSchool.
Chapter Fifteen
Rosy drove to work on Monday scared that the whole Matt thing was going to distract her from her main focus. He kept popping into her head at the oddest moments.
All that curly-haired boy-next-door charm was a lethal mix, and one she had no intention of being seduced by. They both clearly fancied the pants off each other, and if she didn’t stand firm there was only one way that was going. Judging by her diminished strength (both legs and backbone) around him, he was her kryptonite, so she would have to reduce his potency by ceasing all contact. She was not a home-wrecker; neither would she make a fool of herself in a village she was so happy in. Although if they lost the school maybe she could risk a kiss.
No! No, no, no, no.
School was the focus, her only focus, and that, she had a feeling, was going to be crazy. The building lay in front of her, Victorian and built out of the granite that played such a role in the Cornish landscape, with its two separate entrances that were the norm at the time it was built, when girls and boys were segregated. She smiled as she walked into the historic building. It had been a school for over one hundred and fifty years, standing firm through fire and flood, world wars and massive social change; she was damn sure she wasn’t going to let Edward Grant and his cost-cutting ruin that now. But she would have to assemble a crack team. She needed people who were good at playing the system, networking and then exploiting those contacts. People who liked responsibility, enjoyed a battle and winning. She needed someone who could motivate and mobilize the parents whilst ensuring it didn’t become too militant.
Luckily, she had the perfect person. She couldn’t help but smile as her eyes alighted on Marion Marksharp scurrying across the hall, shouting at other less alpha mothers about the correct placement of bunting. Angles were, apparently, of paramount importance for a Valentine’s disco. That woman was like a terrier with a rat; there was no escape.
She was perfect.
‘Marion, Marion!’ Rosy called across the hall. ‘That quick catch-up I mentioned on Friday, is now a good time?’
Rosy walked back to her office watching the children as they streamed into school, bags and hair flying around them, the clatter of lunch boxes and high-pitched chatter. Peering through windows she saw them start their pre-register activities: the little ones making fizzy rockets, finger painting and singing about five little ducks; the older ones reading, solving maths problems or putting the finishing touches to their papier-mâché Roman senate.
She knew then that nothing else really mattered to her.
She was going to make the most of this opportunity to ensure the Local Authority realized once and for all that this school was the heartbeat of this village, that these children with their eager faces and naughty smiles needed the security it provided, of walking home with their friends, cutting across the churchyard and piling into the village shop. The security of learning about their community, the farms surrounding them and the beach on their doorstep, not the town some ten miles away with little connection to them, their families and their neighbours.
She felt infused with a feeling of hope, of a purpose. This was something to get her teeth into. This was important. And Rosy recognized that the best person to help alongside her was that neurotic tyrant of a woman, Mrs Marksharp – currently quivering in her doorway with a sense of purpose that would have awed Joan of Arc.
Marion came and settled herself into the chair in Rosy’s office, fixing her with that stare and launching straight into things.
‘I assume I’m here because Edward Grant wants to close the school…’
‘Possibly close the school.’
‘Quite. There are rumours flying around the playground and they are getting louder, gathering momentum. I have of course done all I can to rein them in, but we will need to address the truth sooner rather than later. And I can’t help much more until you tell me the full story, then I can shape the narrative and practise damage limitation. At the moment there are whispers of home educating and online petitions and whilst we need to drum up a campaign of support, on viral levels, we need to be careful as to how we pitch it. Whatever happens we cannot have Harmony involved – she’ll have them burning bras and waving sticks at the moon. We’d become a laughing stock. Oh, or Amanda, we’d all be goose-stepping outside County Hall before the week was out.’
‘Marion, I think that that’s—’
‘We need to be approachable, friendly but organized, with a backbone of steel. Luckily I’m skilled at all these things. Obviously, you’ll be our campaigns figurehead but I’ll be…’
Goebbels? Don’t say it!
‘…in charge of the day-to-day organizing, the running of it. Are you happy with that? Excellent. Now, as you know, I do have my ear to the ground, and I’ve also heard that Angelina is a new member of the village. Pretty girl. Surely she’ll want to be involved. Perhaps you could talk to her? I understand they’ve moved in next to you.’
Villages… you couldn’t breathe in a different manner without someone noticing. And how did everyone know of Angelina except her? Trust Marion to home in on the one woman Rosy would have preferred not to work with. Rosy felt her teeth slide over the top of her lip as she swallowed, a little quicker, a little deeper than usual. This was fine, this was village life. Save the school. Be professional.
‘I’m afraid that whilst it is a great idea, I think she is back in London for the time being.’ That was the truth, after all.
‘But that doesn’t mean she won’t be back.’
‘True, I think the village is her Cornish base as such, but you know how the holiday home situation is down here. I can ask Matt if he can ask her to help, but she’s pretty busy from what I gather.’ Rosy didn’t add that someone who kicks small dogs was unlikely to have any strong desire to help children, but felt it was more politic to keep quiet. Maybe she was learning after all.
‘OK, if that’s how it is. Hmmm. We can leave it for now, maybe revisit it later. Right then, let’s get started! From what I understand from my contacts in County Hall, Edward Grant is tasked with shutting down six village schools in the mid county area – purely for budgetary reasons. He will do it. He is a very ambitious man who enjoys his work. I wouldn’t be surprised if he attempts to shut more than necessary. Rosy, I will not see Penmenna School closed, but we are going to need to fight.’
‘Marion, I’m going to give it my best shot. There’s no way I won’t fight for the kids in this school – of course I am. They need this school. Most might survive a transfer and a crazy long bus journey in the morning, but for a couple of them, it could mean the end of a chance of mainstream education and that’s so many different types of wrong that I don’t know where to begin. But politics, the ins and outs of local government, that game I’m not experienced at playing, let alone winning.’
‘Well, luckily, like I said, you can carry on running the school superbly and leave winning the political campaign to me. As it happens I am very good at that sort of thing. Really very good.’
‘So, what do we need to do? What’s the first step?’
‘Knowing Mr Grant’s weaknesses.’
‘And they are?’
‘From what I can see, ego and celebrity. We weaken him by publicly, very publicly, strengthening ourselves and securing the school into a politically unclosable position.’
‘OK, that sounds great, but how? How on earth do we do that?’
‘We concentrate on our strengths, and we have many; we make sure the whole world knows them too. Our Ofsted reports, for example, let’s use that to our advantage. Why close an outstanding school? Then let’s look at what makes us outstanding. We have quite a lot of special-needs children on the roll, don’t we? You have done wonders boosting the school’s reputation in that area since you joined. Don’t you have that boy in your class? Let’
s flag these kids up.’
‘Yes, I have Bradley in my class – he’s waiting on an ASD diagnosis and has lots of input from external professionals. Katie Holden, the educational psychologist, is due in to see him in a few weeks…’
‘Oh, is she that blonde that looks like she’d be more at home wearing hot pants in front of a whirring fan than in a suit and in a primary school? Fabulous for television, let’s have her!’
‘If you mean the blonde with the PhD and an utter commitment to the welfare of the children in her care, then yes, her. As I said, she’s due in soon to check on Bradley and see how he’s coping since he started full-time. She would probably be happy to submit a report saying that a move would be detrimental, but I’d have to ask. She sees several of the children here so would be able to include an impact statement for a few of them.’
‘OK, that’s a great start. Now, seeing as we’re talking visuals…’
Rosy thought they had been talking special needs, but then she supposed this was the politics bit.
‘Is there any chance we can get that Bradley child to play up in front of the cameras? You know, have some kind of meltdown?’
Rosy’s eyebrows shot through her hairline, expressing how offensive this was, and at complete odds with all that Penmenna stood for. But then, bearing in mind it was Marion and subtle never seemed to work, she vocalized her outrage, in her strictest voice just to make sure.
‘Bradley doesn’t have “meltdowns”, Marion. He can struggle with social interactions, situations he doesn’t understand, and it’s our job to support him, to teach him tools to help him, not to exacerbate him, in any way, ever.’
‘Right, understood, sorry. But it’s a pity we don’t have more disabled children. I don’t suppose you’d be prepared to pop a couple in a wheelchair? Just for photos for social media, and television if I can get them involved. Rufus could do it, although it would be better if the children picked looked a little… um, I don’t know… poorer.’
‘No.’
‘Really? It would be very visually effective.’
‘No.’
Three hours later and Rosy was feeling breathless. Marion had idea after idea after idea. All of which were accompanied by plans of action covering implementation, continuation and expected conclusion. Rosy had tentatively raised her belief that the schools on the list were selected for personal reasons rather than professional ones, and Marion had wisely reconfirmed that evidence would be needed before action could be taken. She’d also suggested that when such evidence was collected it may be best to take it through the back channels and deal with it that way so that the attack was double-pronged, both by raising the school’s public profile sky high as well as pointing out the potential illegality that Edward Grant could arguably be involved in. So far, both Mrs Pascoe and Mrs Trewithen had confirmed what she suspected and the absence of St Ewer on the list, a school widely known to be failing, located just on the outskirts of Roscarrock but with a man at the helm, indicated that Rosy may well be correct and that Edward Grant’s outdated and illegal views on women in leadership positions was in play here. But due diligence was a necessity before making an accusation which, if proved incorrect, would be slanderous.
Marion’s plans for raising the school’s profile meant that the local newspapers were going to need a dedicated hotline at this rate, and the plans she had for social media were nothing short of frightening. The school’s name would soon be known by everyone in the county. Rosy was quite surprised that Mrs Marksharp didn’t clasp her hand to her bosom, rise and start singing the national anthem at one point. She was almost beginning to feel sorry for Mr Grant. Yet still Marion wasn’t satisfied.
‘OK, we’ll get the disco out of the way and in the meantime we’ll just have to put our thinking caps on. If your theory proves correct that could do it, but either way I can’t help feel we need something bigger. Rosy…’ Marion clasped the headteacher’s hand and stared deep into her eyes. Rosy wished she could just shrink like Mrs Pepperpot and scamper out the classroom and escape whatever was coming next. But no, magic minimization didn’t suddenly occur even with all the power of positive thought. ‘Rosy, together we can do this, together we’re women of steel. We shall save Penmenna!’
Phew, that wasn’t too bad. At least she hadn’t tried to make Rosy sell a kidney and stream it online. Yet.
Chapter Sixteen
Matt was turning to drink. It was Wednesday evening, and he was currently standing at the buffet of the Great Western train wondering how much he could down in five minutes without giving an outward appearance of being utterly sozzled. He could have stayed in first class with Angelina but the need for a break was compelling and, whilst not doubting the correctness of his decision to temporarily move her to Cornwall, the maintenance of his sanity was very definitely under question.
Despite all her bravado, being ejected from the club and rejected by Andrei had hit her hard. After he had returned from his beautifully artery-clogging breakfast the other day, he’d found she had finished ranting about Scramble and her overpriced shoes and had sunk right back into sobbing and claiming that she had failed at life.
He had fed her soup, let her sob, watched Gone with the Wind after all and secretly booked two train tickets home for today. He had considered doping her morning tea prior to the train journey with any one of the array of pharmaceutical options he had found in her bathroom cupboard but the involuntary shiver he had had whilst looking at them reaffirmed how he could never be comfortable with such an act, even if it would make things easier. He was fairly sure a man such as Andrei Sokolov would have no such scruples.
He didn’t, however, have any problem with feeding her a little white lie about the latest big budget production being filmed near Penmenna Beach. He may not actually be able to secure her a spot on set but he had enough faith in her own abilities to slide herself in should she wish. And she did wish. The minute he had dropped hints about the presence of Hollywood’s new big thing – a man who smouldered sex so powerfully through a screen that Matt even found himself hypnotized – Ange was racing to her room. It turned out that getting her to pack to leave London was a cinch, no bathroom cupboard needed. Getting her to limit herself to bags they could comfortably carry, not so much.
Knocking back a whisky, he decided that instead of fretting about his sister, he would instead try to concentrate on calm images; images and daydreams that made him happy. So automatically he summoned a mental picture of Rosy presenting him with all the love hearts that had been on her floor as she fell into his bulging muscular arms, panting that she was a fool not to have realized that he was the only one for her. Her eyelids would flutter with adoration and overwhelming sexual desire as he clasped her to his chest and—
‘Sir… sir. Sir, your sister is calling for you, it really seems quite urgent, and unfortunately it is somewhat disturbing the other passengers. Perhaps if you could come this way I could organize your refreshments for you.’ The green-jacketed train conductor looked frazzled and Matt couldn’t simply ignore him. Or push him out of the train door. Maybe these fantasies of Rosy were no good after all, clearly driving him to murderous thoughts. Besides, it was far more probable that she’d be throwing the cardboard hearts at him and telling him to do up his top button!
‘Sir! I really must insist.’
‘Yes, yes, I’m sorry.’ He smiled at the man by his side. ‘I’m coming now. I was in a daydream. Is she making a dreadful fuss?’ His brow furrowed. Why did he even ask these questions?
The man gulped, clearly torn between saying that she was a gigantic pain and being professional. A shriek from two carriages down pierced all conversations in range. Matt patted the man’s shoulder and released a deep sigh.
* * *
Matt gulped down his orange juice and quickly rinsed the glass. He had not slept well last night, despite being back in his own bed. He had been plagued with dreams about Rosy, but not the sort he had indulged in on the train. He kept losing her,
catching sight and losing her again. She seemed to be waiting for him, then, just as he got close, running away, towards someone ill-defined. Everything in the dream was intangible, misty and just outside his grasp. There had been mazes full of Tudor magicians morphing into fog-hidden cliff edges and cold, murky, lurky swamplands. He had not woken up feeling rested.
Yawning, he glanced at his watch and realized half the morning had gone. He had so much to do today. The time in London meant things were piling up and he had a heap of practical changes he would need to make in the gardens now that the production company were happy to go ahead with the new format for Green-fingered and Gorgeous. Pulling his wellies on, he shuddered at the new name. Pushing his arms through his coat sleeves, he smiled at the greater good. He had structural changes to implement and oversee in the gardens, and secret projects – one to finish before tomorrow and one to instigate for later – that needed his presence. He glanced up the stairs where he could hear his sister beginning to move and considered making her coffee before he left, but as the clock chimed in the hall he called for Scramble and headed to his car.
Walking down the pathway, Matt couldn’t help but glance over the little dividing wall at Rosy’s cottage. All neat and perfect and missing her car. She would already be at work; Rosy would be surrounded by children, doing good and generally brightening the world with her simple charm and kind nature. She might be in the middle of the biggest fight of her life but she just seemed to bring calm to all those around her. He had never known anyone do that before.
Smiling, he opened the car door for Scramble to jump in, and reversed down the drive, narrowly missing a determined-looking woman, thin as a rake, make-up trowelled onto her face and clutching a bottle of champagne.