by Daisy Waugh
‘Well,’ says Geraldine, tossing her bag among the breakfast things still spread out on the kitchen table, ‘I hope you thought that was a worthwhile way to spend a family morning, Clive. One pyromaniac, guilty as charged, and free to roam. One pair of company solicitors. Over-qualified. Or under-qualified, depending on how you measure. Not charging at all. One hell of a lot of evidence. One foregone conclusion. One hell of a waste of time.’
‘It’ll go to court,’ mutters Clive. ‘And we’ll get him off. One excellent way of drawing attention to ourselves. Don’t be so bloody childish, Geraldine. You know perfectly well we can’t live on nothing a year. We need to work. Just like everyone else does.’
‘And one very lonely little boy,’ she continues, ignoring Clive, running her hands through the golden locks of her beautiful son, and bending to kiss his cheek. He is sitting at the breakfast bar, as he had been an hour before, playing with his Nintendo, with marmalade, butter and the remains of his and Kitty’s waffles still spread out around him. He doesn’t look up. ‘One wery wery lonely boy,’ blubbers Geraldine, pushing her lips forward and out, ‘who’s had to spend all his morning alone because his mummy and daddy wanted to do some silly work. On a Sunday. I’m so sorry, baby.’
Ollie doesn’t reply.
Neither does Clive, standing with his back to her, doing something fiddly with a mobile telephone. Nobody’s listening to her.
‘And by the way, Clive, thank you so much for letting Kitty know the practice was in trouble. I must say, that was brilliant.’
‘Hmm?’
‘Absolutely brilliant. You realise she’ll be telling bloody everyone.’
‘I thought she was your best friend.’
‘And by the way, I’m still a long way from being persuaded,’ she adds, taking some of Messy McShane’s organic courgettes from her walk-in larder-fridge, ‘that this morning’s desperate little ambulance chase didn’t actually impair the good name of our bloody practice, Clive… Clive?’ In a flash of rare temper Geraldine slams the organic courgettes on the kitchen-island slate counter. ‘For God’s sake! You could at least have the bloody decency to answer me.’
‘What?’ With a jolt, Clive puts the mobile into his pocket. ‘Sorry, Geraldine. What did you say?’
‘I said—’
But cerebral Clive is the sort of man who can take things in even when he isn’t listening. ‘I don’t know whether it helped directly,’ he interrupts. ‘We shall see. Look on it as an exercise of neighbourly goodwill, if you like.’ He gives a thin smile and his eye strays towards the Sunday Telegraph, spread out on the kitchen table. ‘It’s often the most futile-seeming exercises which pay off in the long run. Don’t you find?’
At last Ollie comes up from his computer. ‘So,’ he asks, with a big smile, ‘what happened then? Is Dane Guppy going to prison?’
‘Instead of reading that paper, Clive, you might be kind and start peeling the potatoes. Lunch is late enough as it is.’
47
At the Fiddleford Arms, meanwhile, Fanny Flynn and Louis are spending an equally ill-tempered afternoon. The day had begun badly, with Fanny waking to the sound of Tracey outside on the street, yelling at Kitty and the police. Fanny had clambered out of bed in time to see Dane, Tracey and Macklan being carted away in the police car.
‘Louis!’ she said. ‘Louis, wake up. They’ve taken Dane. They’ve taken him off to the police station. D’you think I should go down there and help him out?’
Louis barely grunted.
‘Louis? Louis!’
‘Mmm?…Why? What’s the day?’
‘It’s Sunday. It doesn’t matter what day it is. Poor Dane. He’s one of my pupils, Louis. He’s a part of the school. I can’t just—’
‘Ahh,’ Louis murmured, very wry. ‘Sunday. The day of rest…Come back to bed, Fan.’
She felt guilty then. Louis has to put up with her school rants from the moment they wake until the moment they fall asleep together, and she knows it isn’t fair on him. She forced back the impulse to ignore him – to drive straight to the police station – and instead climbed back into bed. They’ve not spent a morning in bed since they came back from Spain; Fanny’s barely spared the time for a drink with him.
Louis made a noise of warm, dozy satisfaction as she rested her head in the crook of his arm and she was shocked by how that little noise could irritate her. She stared at the ceiling for a while, worrying, waiting. And within minutes Louis was asleep again. Snoring gently.
She crept downstairs to the telephone, but by the time she got through to the station, Dane Guppy had already been charged and released.
Now she and Louis are in the pub. They’ve eaten the lunch – disgusting, as it always is at the Fiddleford Arms, but better than having to make their own, or so they thought beforehand. They’re feeling overfed and a little sick, and Fanny’s so preoccupied with worries about Dane that she’s hardly managed to speak. Tracey and Macklan wouldn’t come to the door after they got back from Lamsbury; not when Fanny knocked, nor when she sent Louis to try. So she still knows nothing. No more than she did first thing this morning. She daren’t call Dane’s mother nor, quite, his emphysemic Uncle Russell. It’s frustrating for her, and her ignorance is beginning to make her unpleasant.
‘I suppose you could call Kitty Mozely,’ she says sourly, breaking a long silence, during which Louis perused the soccer reports in the Observer, and belched a couple of times, very softly.
‘Hmm?’ he says, without looking up.
‘Well, she was there. Poking her nose in. And you two seem to be such good friends.’
He doesn’t bother to respond.
‘Oh, Louis,’ she says (moving blithely on). ‘I just feel so awful for him. He was just beginning to come into his own. He was joining in…He was really starting to look happy. But what can I do? I can’t let him stay at the school, not if he’s endangering everyone else there. I can’t. And I mean, he needs help. He’s obviously obsessed with setting fire to things…and I have a responsibility to all the children. Not just to Dane…Don’t you think, Louis?’ Again, she doesn’t seem to expect a response. ‘I feel like I’m letting him down…but I’d be letting the others down if…if they’re saying he’s done it. I mean, if he did it…Oh Christ. He’s just got to go.’
‘Mmm-hmm,’ Louis says, turning the page. ‘It’s a difficult call, Fan. It really is.’
Just then Macklan lopes in, eyes fixed to the ground. He’s come to fetch a packet of Silk Cut for Tracey, who’s too upset to do anything, for the moment, but lie on her bed.
‘Macklan!’ cries Louis, keen for some fresh company. ‘Macklan, over here!’
Fanny smiles. It sounds more like a cry for help. But Macklan doesn’t look especially pleased to see them. He nods, makes as if to pass on his way, but as he sweeps by their table Fanny grasps hold of his arm.
‘Macklan. Please,’ she says. Her voice trembles. ‘Please. He’s my student. Tell me what’s going on.’
‘Nothing.’ Macklan pulls his arm away, strangely hostile. He sounds uncharacteristically cold. ‘They charged him, that’s all. They were always going to.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Fanny says.
‘They found Dane’s fingerprints were on the petrol can. Or they say they did.’
‘Ahhh,’ says Louis ruefully, folding his paper away. ‘I guess that kind of decides it then. I’m sorry, Mack.’
Fanny says nothing for a moment. The news has sent a chill through her heart. Without the fingerprints there might have been a spark of hope that it had been someone else, some passing stranger. But the fingerprints are conclusive. ‘Poor Dane,’ she mutters. ‘Poor little Dane. He was doing so well…I should have known.’ She sighs. ‘I should have known. I mean, I did know…I should have got him some help.’
‘Did know what?’ Macklan snaps. ‘He didn’t do it.’
Fanny looks at him, amazed. ‘Oh, come on, Mack,’ she says, almost laughing. ‘How can you say that?’
&nb
sp; ‘He couldn’t have done it anyway.’ Macklan looks at his hands. ‘He was having breakfast with me and Trace that morning. If you want to know. So. And last I heard, a person – unless of course he happens to be called Guppy and lives in a village called Fiddleford – a person can’t normally be convicted of being in two places at once. It’s a ruddy frameup.’
Louis laughs. ‘Is that what you told the fuzz?’
Macklan flushes. He looks very young suddenly. ‘In fact, Tracey only remembered when we got back. So we’re going in later to tell them. We’ll tell them later.’
A silence. Nobody quite dares to look at the other, and Macklan’s blatant lie hangs between them, embarrassing them all. Finally Fanny says, very quietly, ‘Macklan, I hate to state the obvious, but you know you can get into a hell of a lot of trouble, saying things that aren’t strictly – true – to the police…Are you sure you want to do that?’
Macklan looks at her, green eyes shining wild. She wonders, briefly, if he’ll punch her. So does he. Instead he swallows. Shakes his head.
‘Dane was having breakfast with us,’ he says again, very quietly, and turns – without the cigarettes – and stalks out of the pub.
Louis gives a low whistle. ‘That was very brave.’ He smiles at Fanny. ‘I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him that.’
‘Well, he’s lying, isn’t he?’
‘Of course he is.’ Louis leans across, gives Fanny’s tense shoulders a friendly squeeze. ‘Of course he is. But Fanny—’ He can see her, mouth set, eyes glistening. She’s about to cry. ‘There’s nothing you can do about it.’ He shrugs. ‘People have to do what they have to do…People do all sorts of things for love.’
She makes her lips smile. Feeling guilty again. She knows she’s being obsessive, overwrought, boring, hysterical. She knows he’s trying to be kind. And for some reason, for no good reason at all, she finds that incredibly irritating.
‘I love you,’ she says.
‘Mmm-hmm,’ he says, dropping his arm, reaching for his cigarettes. ‘Thanks.’
48
Monday morning is, of course, one of Geraldine’s mornings at the primary school. She is still so angry with Clive for humiliating her in front of Kitty, that she left the house before he or Ollie had even come down for breakfast.
She arrives at the school over an hour early, expecting to find the place locked. But she finds Fanny, alone in the staff room with Brute.
‘Good morning!’ Geraldine says breezily. ‘You’re up with the lark!’
‘Morning, Geraldine.’ Fanny looks exhausted. ‘I hear you had a busy day yesterday. Tracey must be very grateful.’
‘I should hope she is. I mean,’ Geraldine corrects herself, ‘we were only doing what we—’
‘Actually, I’m glad you’re here. I could do with some advice.’
‘Oh!’ Geraldine chuckles. ‘Well, that’s a first, Fanny, I must say. How can I help?’
‘She’s claiming Dane was with her and Macklan when the fire started. She says she “forgot” to mention it at the police station when you were down there with them.’
‘She is?’ says Geraldine cautiously, mind on Red Alert. ‘I wasn’t aware of that…What does Macklan say?’
Fanny shrugs. ‘He’s saying the same thing. He’s in love with her. But Geraldine,’ Fanny leans forward, ‘they’re lying. I just don’t believe it. Do you?’
Geraldine blinks. ‘Do I believe it?’ she repeats. ‘Well. It’s not just—I mean, clearly, if Macklan says it too…’
‘Yes, but he’s young. He’s in love with her. Tracey’s trying to protect her brother. Macklan’s trying to protect Tracey.’
Geraldine, under such very direct questioning, prefers to divert Fanny’s attention towards coffee. ‘Would you like a cup, perhaps? Since I’m making some. Or perhaps you’d prefer tea?’
‘They’re lying,’ says Fanny again. ‘And I mean, Christ, I don’t want the poor boy to be locked away in some horrible juvenile centre, but nor do I want him roaming around the village setting fire to things. I think he’s dangerous, Geraldine. And I really do believe it was Dane who set fire to our school.’
‘Fanny, there’s—’ She stops. Starts again. ‘I’m sorry, Fanny. But there is absolutely no evidence to substantiate that.’
‘Except the fingerprints.’
‘Hmm? Really, Fanny, I don’t think it’s particularly fair or responsible—’
‘I think he’s a danger to the school. I think he’s a danger to himself. I think he’s a danger to the whole village, actually…’
Geraldine looks down, takes a deep breath. ‘Fanny,’ she gives a tight, short laugh, ‘you said you wanted my advice. But it sounds to me as though you just want me to—’
‘You’re right. I was just looking for a bit of support, I suppose. Truth is, my mind’s made up. I want to exclude him, Geraldine…Which is a shame,’ she sighs, ‘when you think of all the trouble I went to to get him to come back here in the first place.’
‘But there’s no evidence to substantiate your allegations,’ Geraldine says. Recites. She’s sounding like a robot. ‘None at all.’
‘There are the fingerprints,’ Fanny says again. ‘And the fact that the last time I went round to his house they had to call out the fire brigade because he’d started a fire in the sitting room. And, judging by the way his mother reacted, it obviously wasn’t the first time he’d done it.’
Geraldine, groping for the right response, sits silently shaking her head.
‘And finally,’ with another sigh Fanny pulls out Louis’s photographs, the same images, only larger, that Clive, Geraldine and Kitty had been squinting over yesterday morning, ‘there are these. Louis took them. He took them during Kitty Mozely’s press conference.’
Geraldine flicks through them – familiar images now, of course, but she makes a good show, emitting little sounds of shock and awe, as if she’d never before set eyes on them. ‘Mmmh!’ she says. ‘Goodness!’
‘While you guys were all at the back, applauding Kitty’s pearls of wit, Dane Guppy was up front – by the girls’ cloakroom, as you can see. Attaching fireworks to dead birds and throwing them on a bloody bonfire.’ She waits for some other reaction from Geraldine, but Geraldine just keeps flicking through the images, making the little noises and shaking her head. Her brain whirrs for the safest way to deal with the situation.
‘I know,’ says Fanny, misinterpreting Geraldine’s silence, ‘I should have said something at the time. But I felt sorry for him. I felt sorry for Tracey. Christ, I don’t know what I was thinking. I could just sort of see his life stretching out in front of him and it’s as if nothing good was ever going to happen. Like he has a thick cloud of bad luck squatting over his head. I wanted to give him another chance.’
‘Yesss,’ Geraldine says distractedly.
‘Like you and Clive did yesterday, I imagine…And I know everyone’s entitled to a defence. But, Geraldine, I also know he’s guilty. And I believe anyone who saw those pictures would be forced to agree. He needs help. And I’m going to get it for him. But first I’ve got to get him away from the school.’
‘Mmm,’ says Geraldine. ‘Yes, of course…’ But she isn’t listening. She’s just flicking through those photographs, faster and faster, and wishing that Clive were there to tell her what to do or say next.
‘Anyway,’ Fanny continues, ‘I’m going to ask Reverend Hodge to call a meeting tonight. A disciplinary hearing. Can you make it? We need all the governors together. We can hear the case and make a vote…But as the head teacher I’m telling you – and I know my vote doesn’t count any more than anyone else’s – I don’t want him at school. Or anywhere near it. I want him out.’
‘A meeting tonight?’ Geraldine finds her voice at last. ‘Of course I can make it. Of course.’ Seeing those pictures again, and blown up, with all Dane’s glee so large and apparent; hearing Fanny’s certainty that the school – that Ollie – is at risk, Geraldine feels terrified. She’d like to loc
k the boy up herself and throw away the key. Of course she would.
On the other hand, everyone knows now that she and Clive represented him at the police station yesterday. He is their client. She plops the photographs on to the coffee table without making any comment at all. ‘Could you excuse me a moment, Fanny? I’m just going to make a quick call.’
In the empty playground, behind the oil tank, she calls Clive. He’s still at home.
‘Hello, love. You left early,’ he says, sounding hurt.
‘I was angry. Never mind that. We’ll talk about it later. Listen, Clive. Minor crisis. Major crisis, actually. Tell me what to do…’
She returns to the staff room a few minutes later, wreathed in cooperative smiles. ‘Sorry, Fanny. So sorry about that. I was just checking with Clive. Because it seems awfully silly to me, all the governors squeezing into this wreck of a school this evening. Why don’t we have the meeting at ours? We can have a few glasses of wine, perhaps. Try to make the whole thing a little less gruesome. A little more civilised. Don’t you think? There’s so much more room.’
Fanny eyes her warily. ‘Well, I suppose that would be nice.’
Geraldine nods. ‘Would it be helpful if I were to call the vicar for you? He and I have become quite chummy recently and you’ve so much else to worry about.’
‘Thanks, Geraldine,’ Fanny says, wondering if perhaps she’s been underestimating Geraldine all this time, ‘but I should probably do it myself.’
‘I can do a quick ring-round to all the governors. It would only take me a few minutes.’