by Pat Young
‘Hello, Joe. The usual?’
‘Yep. A pint of your finest Diet Coke when you’re ready, barman, if you please.’
‘Coming right up.’
Joe felt a sudden draught as the door opened and Sean blustered in, shaking his jacket and muttering about feckin rain. He slapped Joe on the back, ‘How are you getting on? Are ya well?’
‘Not bad,’ said Joe and pointed to the taps on the bar. ‘The Black Stuff?’
‘Yup, if ever a man needed a drink. After the day I’ve had?’ Sean watched the young barman carefully pour his Guinness and put it on the bar to settle.
‘Today was not so good a day for you then, sir?’
‘Bolek, tell me this and tell me no more - have ye ever had to hold yersel back from hittin yer boss a kick up the arse?’
‘Sorry? I do not understand.’
‘I nearly assaulted my boss today.’
‘Ah, Sean, that is not good.’
‘Ye’re damn right, Bolek, it’s not good, but the little fecker deserves it, doesn’t he, Joe?’
Sean took a long, slow drink, eyes closed. Finally he put his half-empty glass back on the bar with a contented sigh and Bolek disappeared to serve another customer.
Joe took his drink and gestured with it to a table. ‘Want to tell me all about it?’ His own news could wait.
‘Indeed I do.’
They sat down and Sean drank deeply then wiped the froth from his lip. ‘Sure, I could drink this stuff off a sore foot.’ He burped, apologised, then said, ‘Ye’ll never believe what that wee gobshite Smeaton said to me today, Joe.’
‘Try me.’
‘He’s getting worse, so he is.’
‘What is it they say about absolute power?’
‘They say it corrupts absolutely, and it’s true. Didn’t he call me into his office this morning to tell me that all the funding is going to be cut from under us? There’s to be no budget at all for musical education.’
‘But what about your choirs?’
Sean shook his head. ‘Everything’s been slashed. The music instructors that go into schools to work with individual pupils? Finished. Sure, he’s only after telling me all contracts will be terminated at the end of the year.’
‘What, folk out of a job, just like that?’ Joe hadn’t considered that he too might be facing redundancy.
‘Luckily, a lot of them have private pupils in the west end, or they play church organs and the like, but yes, they’re out of a job. As you say, just like that.’
‘He can’t get away with it, Sean.’
‘Sure he can. Says we can’t afford luxuries like music tuition in these times of austerity. “Budget streamlining” Smeaton called it. Budget streamlining my arse.’
‘Did you not stand your ground?’
‘Joe. What do you take me for? Of course I stood my ground.’ Sean drained his glass then banged it on the table. ‘Christ, I need another drink. You haven’t heard the worst of it yet. At least he had the decency to tell me to my face about that decision. Wait till you hear this. I got home to find a letter from Make Music.’
‘Oh no,’ said Joe, guessing what was coming. ‘Not the kiddies’ orchestra.’
Sean took a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and made heavy work of unfolding it before he blew his nose and wiped his eyes. ‘Yes, Joe,’ he said on a sigh, ‘the kiddies’ orchestra. The bastard has slashed the budget on that too and without matched funding from the council, Make Music can’t continue to provide instruments.’
‘So the Bankside Blast can’t go on?’
Sean shook his head, like a man bereft.
‘Know how you’re feeling, mate,’ said Joe. ‘I had another meeting today, with him and Cooper. He hardly gave me a chance to speak. The man’s a lunatic. How he ever got to have that much power I will never know.’
‘Because he’s so far in with the councillors, especially that horrible woman, Cooper. I tell you, it’s too much for me, so it is. I haven’t the stomach to fight them anymore.’
‘Sean, you have to fight them. You can’t let Smeaton get away with this. Not after all the great work you’ve done with these kids. God, it makes me so angry.’ Joe made a fist and punched it into his other palm. ‘Come on, man, we could fight him together. Get other folk involved.’
‘Na, it’s not worth the hassle. We’d never win anyway. You know what he’s like.’ Sean coaxed the last few dregs of stout from the bottom of his glass. ‘No, Joe, I’ve decided. It’s time for me to retire, so it is. I’ve had all I can take of that man. Sure, it’s making me sick, the worry of it.’
As he wandered back to his empty flat, fish supper in hand, Joe made up his mind. He wasn’t going to take this lying down. There had to be something he could do. He transferred the hot supper to his other hand. It smelt amazing, proper old-school fish and chips wrapped, against all health and safety guidelines, in newspaper.
Newspapers.
The very thing.
***
CHAPTER 9
‘Finally,’ said Sheila, when her friend picked up at last. ‘Good morning. Listen, I know panto’s not your thing.’ Sheila paused, waiting for Liz to shout something daft like, ‘Oh yes, it is!’, but there was no response.
‘Hey, you okay?’
‘I feel grim, Sheila.’
‘Oh no, what’s up? Flu?’
‘I wish,’ muttered Liz.
‘It’s Saturday morning and you wish you’d caught the flu? Jeeso, things are grim. Was your meeting with Smeaton really that bad?’
When Liz didn’t respond, Sheila chattered on. ‘Why weren’t you at the Head-teachers’ Meeting yesterday afternoon, assuming you don’t actually have flu?’
‘Would you believe me if I said I was in the Happy Harvester drinking myself into oblivion?’
Sheila blurted a laugh then stopped. ‘So, where were you?’
‘I told you.’
‘Liz, are you feeling alright?’
‘Never better.’
‘Sure?’
‘Okay, I feel hellish. There, does that give you the picture?’
‘Liz! I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear.’
Liz said nothing.
‘Listen, I was calling to see if you fancy helping out with this community panto I’m doing at Bankside. I could use your organisational skills, plus you can be a right bossy bitch when you need to and my God, some of those kids need a firm hand.’ Again, Sheila expected a laugh and got nothing.
‘No, don’t think so.’
‘Fine, scrap that, how about just going out for lunch and a catch-up? I’ll fill you in on what happened at the meeting. Pity you missed it. Smeaton wasn’t there. John Hunt chaired it and what a different atmosphere.’
Liz made no comment.
‘Hey, I’ve just thought of something. Smeaton misses the meeting. You miss the meeting. Are you sure it wasn’t a secret assignation with him that took you to the Happy Harvester?’
That joke would normally have had Liz choking with indignation. She’d have spluttered and come straight back with something like, ‘Not in a million years. Not if we were the only two humans on the planet and the future of mankind hung in the balance.’ Today she couldn’t seem to muster so much as a snigger.
Sheila could hear the big grandfather clock in Liz’s hall ticking away the seconds. It had been Liz’s mother’s prized possession.
‘Liz, what’s happened? Talk to me.’
‘He’s going to send in the inspectors.’
‘What? Can he do that?’
‘I knew an inspection was on the cards at some stage. It’s inevitable, I know that, but it was the cruel way he told me.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Oh, a few things about my total incompetence. Complaints from the community, unhappy staff and so on.’
‘Liz, that’s crap. You’re one of the most super-efficient, professional people I know. You’re fantastic at your job.’
‘Obviously no
t. Unhappy staff?’
‘Bollocks! He’s making that up. Your teachers worship the ground you walk on. Everyone does. That wee janitor of yours would empty the furnace and dance on his own hot coals, if you asked him.’
Liz didn’t acknowledge the compliment.
‘Mr Smeaton’s not making it up about complaining parents though, is he? You’ve seen the stuff on Facebook.’
‘A bunch of nutters stirred up by that maniac who claims you’re victimising his kid? The same kid who kicked you in the groin last week? They’re well known, that family. The kids are practically feral.’
‘Yes, but it’s all there on Facebook. All that stuff the father’s saying about me. And those pictures of me. He’s been hanging about the school gates again, by the way, taking his photos.’
‘You need to get the police involved, Liz.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. Don’t mention the police.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. Mr Smeaton told me he would have to direct the inspectors towards social media when they came to evaluate my relationships with parents. You know his favourite expression.’
‘Yeah, yeah, ‘no smoke without fire’. Liz, this is outrageous. You have to get a lawyer involved, the sooner, the better, and the Union. Morons like that guy can go online and post appalling lies, get their illiterate friends to join in and we’re supposed to just take it. You’re not the only head-teacher being persecuted on Facebook. We were talking about it at the meeting yesterday. You need to log it all. Keep a diary.’
‘I just don’t think I can take any more, Sheila. The assaults, the Facebook smear campaign and that weirdo standing there whenever I look out my office window. I don’t know if I can cope with an inspection on top of all that. Especially if Mr Smeaton’s going to poison the inspectors against me before they start. I mean what have I ever done to make him hate me so much?’
‘You've done nothing, Liz. Don't you go blaming yourself for any of this.’
‘Do you know what else he said to me?’ Liz started to sob. ‘Everyone in HQ agrees I’m the coldest person they deal with. That’s not true. Is it, Sheila? I’m not cold, am I?’
‘Liz, you’re the kindest, warmest person I have ever known. I’ve heard you called a gem, a treasure, a sweetie, all sorts of beautiful compliments from all sorts of people. The kids adore you. They’ll probably stop the inspectors in the corridor and tell them how much they love you. Think of Shevonne.’
Shevonne was a likeable wee rogue whom Liz loved as much as any of her pupils, but a thorn in her side too. She was a tiny girl with a distrustful little face under scraped-back baby hair. On her very first day at school, aged five, Shevonne had picked up her pink back-pack, after only an hour, and got to her feet. ‘Right,’ she’d said, ‘that’ll do me. Ah’m away.’ Her attitude to education had altered little since then. She just didn’t see the point of it, but still Liz persevered, seeing promise in the wee lass.
‘Liz, are you crying?’
No answer.
‘Has something else happened? Something you’re not telling me?’
Liz sniffed loudly, then apologised and said, ‘I drove straight through a red light on the way to my meeting with Mr Smeaton.’
Liz never failed to refer to him as ‘Mr’ Smeaton although the man deserved no such respect.
‘I’d hardly slept, you see, even with two painkillers and a sleeping pill. It serves me right. I’m trying not to look at Facebook, but I was tempted before I went to bed and then I lay awake all night fretting about it.’
‘Were you in a collision, Liz?’
‘No. I stalled, right in the middle of the junction, causing mayhem. Horns were blaring, drivers were swearing, shouting at me to move but I sat there, nauseous from adrenaline. And do you know what I thought?’
Sheila waited, knowing her friend would answer her own question.
‘I thought a car crash wouldn’t be such a bad thing. If I got lucky I’d die outright, and if not, at least I’d have an excuse for not showing up at the meeting with Mr Smeaton.’
Sheila couldn’t speak; she had no idea what to say.
‘I wasn’t concentrating because I was too busy trying to work out why I’d been called in at such short notice.’
‘That’s a regular stunt of his.’ Sheila knew Liz had often asked for an agenda in advance of these meetings. Smeaton met the requests with derision.
‘Also I had one of my migraines.’
‘You drove with a migraine? Oh, Liz, you shouldn’t have done that. Why didn’t you take something for it and stay in bed?’
‘I took two Ibuprofen, but they don’t really help.’
Sheila often worried about the amount of painkillers Liz took. Once when she’d been visiting Liz, she’d opened the bathroom cabinet looking for a paracetamol. It was like a small pharmacy, stockpiled with drugs prescribed for Liz’s dying mother.
‘Why didn’t you cancel the meeting?’
‘Oh, come on, Sheila. Anyway, I needed to find out what he could possibly want. I mean, I’m doing my job to the best of my ability. Our old boss was more than happy with the way I ran the school, wasn’t he?’
‘Of course he was.’
‘But no matter how hard I work these days, how many policy documents and mission statements I produce, no matter how I try to please everyone, this man constantly finds fault. The school buses are causing pollution. Or parents are parking on the zigzags. I couldn’t understand how he even knows about some of the stuff that goes on. Turns out he looks at Facebook. I should have known. Forewarned is forearmed, Sheila, and I went in there as unarmed as a cow in a slaughterhouse.’
‘Oh Liz, I feel so sorry for you. Listen, you had a near miss in busy traffic. That’s not the worst thing you can do, is it?’
Liz heaved a sigh enormous enough for Sheila to hear.
‘No, there’s something much, much worse. And I did it.’
‘Did you kill Smeaton?’ Sheila immediately regretted her flippancy. ‘Sorry, Liz, that was stupid. Come on, tell me what happened and it won’t seem as bad.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Yes, you can.’
‘Sheila, you’re the one person left in the world who makes me feel loved and valued. I can’t risk losing your respect.’
‘Listen, Liz, I think you should go and wash your face. I’ll come round and hear whatever’s on your mind.’
‘No, don’t come. Please. I don’t feel like seeing anybody.’
‘Excuse me. I’m not anybody. I’m your best friend and it’s my job to cheer you up. Cancel the face-washing. I’ve seen you looking rough before. I’ll bring some lunch and a nice chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio.’
‘No, Sheila, please. I’m really not feeling up to it. Come tomorrow. Not today.’
‘Well,’ Sheila dragged out the word, giving Liz time to change her mind. No response. ‘Okay, then. If you’re sure.’
‘I’m sure.’ Liz sounded relieved.
‘I’ll come straight from church, okay?’
Sheila listened to the dead line for a moment before hanging up.
***
CHAPTER 10
‘What are you planning to do today, Darling?’
Marty didn’t bother looking up from the toast she was spreading. ‘Thought maybe I’d jet down to London. Lunch in Harrods. Spot of shopping.’
The silence that followed made Marty wonder if she’d overdone the sarcasm. ‘Sorry David. That was unnecessary. Short answer is, I have no idea what I’m going to do with my day. That’s the trouble.’ She offered a corner of toast to Chance who had appeared at her side. ‘Sit,’ she commanded and when he obliged she gave him his reward. He licked the butter from his moustache and looked hopefully at her. She caught David’s disapproving look and, with an apologetic smile at the dog, said, ‘No more. Lie down.’
‘You could take that fat lump of a dog for a good, long walk. Look at the size of him.’
Despite her ill-humour, Marty had to l
augh. At the sound of the W-word Chance had stood to attention, his skinny frame quivering in anticipation. He was a typical, if somewhat hairy, lurcher, thin as a racing snake, every rib visible under his shaggy, grey coat.
‘I’ve seen more fat on a chip,’ said Marty, ‘I wish I had his metabolism. That’s one of the awful things about this retirement lark. I’m getting fat.’ She heard David sigh although she was sure he did his best to disguise it as a cough at the last minute.
‘Don’t be silly, you’re about as fat as Chance.’
‘There’s a compliment in there somewhere, if I dig deep enough.’
‘You know what I mean, you’re gorgeous. As slim as the day I first set eyes on you.’
‘Okay, enough flattery. Go play golf. I’ll see you later.’
When David had gone, she cleared the breakfast dishes, switched on the dishwasher, put a load of washing in the machine and wondered what she could do next to fill the morning. ‘I bet my grandmothers never had too much time on their hands, eh, Chance?’ The dog’s ears perked up at the mention of his name. He walked over to the peg where his lead always hung and stood looking up at it. The hint was too strong to resist. ‘Okay, you win. Let’s go down the canal for an hour and see some of your pals. It’s either that or daytime telly, for God’s sake. And I’m not that desperate. Yet.’
She always let Chance off the lead when they reached the path that ran alongside the canal. He loved to race up and down the bank and weave in and out of the bushes that grew there, in some crazy canine game of hide and seek. He would disappear and reappear on the path ahead, or sometimes double back and come charging up from behind. At the bend in the canal she spotted him prancing around a man lying on the path. Every so often Chance would lick at his face then dart away. The dog had obviously mistaken an accident for some sort of game. She broke into a run, calling ‘Chance, come here!’
‘Bloody dog!’ shouted the man, swiping at Chance, who was clearly enjoying the sport. She called again and this time the dog heard and came to heel. She rubbed his ears and tried to assess the situation. ‘Are you okay?’