‘Honest, Cassie, I had no idea, I promise.’ Lovely reliable, motherly Fiona had been visibly distressed at the very idea that she might have been a party to this and worse, that I could even think her capable of such a thing.
‘Clare?’
Clare had hesitated. ‘God, it all falls into place now. How could I have been so thick? I guessed she was up to something: she and Simon haven’t been right for years; we all know that. And she has dropped a couple of hints to me over the years that there was someone else in her life but who was totally unobtainable… but I’m as shocked as you, Cassie, about who the someone else was. I honestly had no idea. It never occurred to me.’
‘I bet you encouraged her, didn’t you?’ I turned on Clare, venting my fury wherever I could. ‘You’ve never been able to understand being with one man, have you? Does it never occur to you that when you’re having sex with one of your married men that he’s someone else’s husband, someone’s dad?’
‘Cassie, don’t take this out on me.’ Clare was calm. ‘I’ve never pretended to be anything other than I am. Just because I’ve never wanted a husband—’
‘One of your own, you mean. You’re quite happy to have someone else’s.’
‘Stop it, Cassie, that’s not fair,’ Fiona interrupted my rant, shaking her head at me.
Perfectly calm still, Clare added, ‘Cassie, this isn’t about me. It’s about you. Mark and Tina and you need to sort it. I’m here for you, but please don’t bring my personal life into this.’
‘Clare’s right, Cassie,’ Fiona said. ‘Look,’ she added hopefully, ‘it might even be one big mistake. Maybe Simon just got so drunk and accused Mark because… well, because…’ She trailed off as Clare looked at her pityingly.
‘The bitch. The snake.’ I turned my anger away from Clare and back to the real perpetrator. ‘One of my best friends,’ I howled, ‘and she’s been sleeping with my husband all these years.’ Red-hot fury was coursing through every vein. I could feel it creeping, running, surging through every artery, every sinew, every bit of skin and bone.
‘I’m not sure there’s been much sleeping,’ Clare said wryly, but I wasn’t listening.
Where were my car keys?
‘Don’t even think about it,’ Clare said, obviously guessing my thoughts. ‘You’ve had too much to drink, for a start. And where do you think you’re going to go? Roam the streets until you find them? Look, it’s more than likely that Mark will come back in an hour or two. He’s going to have to face you.’
‘I can’t see him, well, either of them, going back to Tina and Simon’s place,’ Fiona said, taking my hand. ‘Jack will be there, for a start. She’s not going to suddenly arrive back at home with no Simon, and with Mark in his place. Jack might be a pretty laid-back seventeen-year-old, always plugged into his music, but I reckon even he would notice the difference. Come on, Cassie, take your jacket off and stop pacing the room. He’ll come back home and then you’ll have to… well, you’ll have to have it out with him and see what he has to say. And then decide what you want to do.’
*
‘Don’t talk with your mouth full,’ I now said automatically, but without much hope or even interest that Freya might change the habit of a lifetime. My daughter didn’t appear overly bothered about the whereabouts of her absent father, being more interested in the front-page headlines screaming out the infidelity of some minor MP. God, was everybody at it? Contrary to Fiona’s assumption that Mark would return last night, there had been no sight or sound of him: no text, no missed mobile call, no ringing of the house phone with gabbled apologies.
Fiona herself had left within an hour or so of bringing me home, but as Freya started on her third crumpet, dripping with butter and raspberry jam, I heard Fiona’s voice outside the open kitchen window. ‘Stick a couple of those in for me, Freya, I’m starving.
‘How are you? Clare still here?’ Fiona lowered her voice, mindful of Freya’s presence. ‘Bloody hell, Cassie, you look awful. Did you sleep at all?’
‘She’s upstairs having a shower, and no, not much.’ My head throbbed, my eyes were gritty from lack of sleep as well as the protracted crying I’d eventually succumbed to once Clare had tucked me up in bed, and I felt sick. Sick to the very core of me. I glanced across at Freya who, plugged into her music, one foot tucked up underneath her backside, was still in last night’s pyjamas and appeared to be at the breakfast table for the duration. ‘Come on, let’s go and take some coffee out into the garden.’
I loved our garden. While the inside of my house was immaculate, everything in its place, surfaces free of crumbs and mirrors smear-free, the garden was a different matter. I’d inherited Granddad Norman’s way of gardening and the area to my left was a mass of colour from the wildflower border I’d cultivated over the years. An abundance of species bloomed profusely, providing not only a display of which I was inordinately proud, but a rich source of nectar for the butterflies and other insects that were obsessively thrumming their paths around the flowers. On this beautiful early September morning, summer was stubbornly refusing any leeway to the autumn months ahead as Fiona and I made our way to a sunny spot at the bottom of the lawned area.
‘Who’s going to cut the grass?’ I suddenly asked, starting to weep once more. ‘I do the flowers and weeding and Mark cuts the lawn.’ I paused, looking round at the soft green velvet on which Fiona and I were sitting. ‘I don’t even know how to pull the wotsit to start the mower. Or where to put the petrol.’
‘Haven’t you heard anything from him?’
‘Nope. I honestly thought he’d have come back last night. You know, try to let himself in and slink upstairs to the spare room. I put the chain on so when he did appear I’d have to go down and let him in. Or not, as it turned out. Not a thing. Not a phone call, a text, nothing.’
‘He’ll be scared shitless.’ This from Clare, who now hunkered down at our side with a tray of coffee, before handing a plate of crumpets to Fiona. ‘Freya said these are for you.’
Fiona’s eyes lit up. ‘Yum… Actually, give me two minutes to do my exercise or I’ll never get myself up if I’ve eaten.’ She lay on her back and, hoisting her legs and white-jeaned backside in the air, turned her face fully towards us in order to carry on the conversation. ‘Crapping himself, obviously.’
‘What are you doing, Fi?’
‘Got a sodding prolapse. My pelvic floor has been totally vandalised by carrying and giving birth to four huge children. I tell you, it looks like a damned road accident down below…’
‘Too much information, Fi.’ Clare visibly shuddered.
‘… and I’ve done my research, googling fannies until the cows come home – and I’ve definitely got some sort of problem.’
‘Can’t you just have an operation and have it all hitched back up?’ Clare asked, wincing. ‘You can’t be doing with your bits and pieces around your knees.’
‘According to your mother…’ Fi breathed out before pulling herself higher and directing herself towards me.
‘My mother?’
‘According to your mother,’ Fi repeated patiently, ‘this is a First World problem. I was chatting to her the other day in Lidl and she was telling me that African and Indian women don’t have their collapsed wombs unceremoniously ripped out. There’s more walking wombless around than you’d realise. Anyway, Paula says exercise, gentle dance movements, yoga and plenty of rest…’
‘How about plenty of sex?’ Clare asked hopefully. ‘You know, push it all back up again?’
Fiona snorted, which is actually quite a difficult thing to do with one’s legs virtually over one’s shoulder. ‘It’s bloody sex that’s got me in this state in the first place.’ She suddenly swung her legs back earthwards and, face rather more puce than when she started, reached for a crumpet. ‘Right, that’s my little problem sorted – albeit temporarily. We’re here to support you, Cassie.’ She took a huge bite from the crumpet and, with butter running down her chin, raised questioning eyebrows
in my direction.
‘I can’t go to school tomorrow,’ I suddenly said in a panic. ‘I just can’t. How the hell do I start a new job as deputy head; a new class, new colleagues? Oh shit, I’ll have to take assemblies and I’ll just want to cry. I can’t do it.’ I could hear myself talking louder and faster, ending in a strangled sob as I pictured myself in front of an expectant staff exchanging glances as I broke down in tears while helping the head, the rather terrifying Mrs Theobold, deliver new strategies. I’d been rehearsing all summer, talking to a row of cushions in my bedroom, excited at the thought of passing on up-to-the-minute government directives.
‘I can’t remember any of it,’ I blubbed. ‘I can’t even remember how to take a register or teach the fucking chunking method of division…’
‘Chunking method?’ Clare stared at me. ‘Sounds like a Joy of Sex position for fatties.’
‘… Can’t do it. I can’t…’
‘Get her a brown paper bag to breathe into,’ Fi ordered, licking butter from her fingers. ‘She’s having a panic attack.’
‘No, she’s not.’ Clare gently took both my hands. ‘Come on, Cassie. You’ve had a terrible shock but it’s quite probable Mark will be back later on. You’ll need to talk to him, work out where you’re both going, but meanwhile you have to turn up tomorrow, smile on your face, ready for the challenge.’
‘Mum?’ Tom was shouting from the kitchen, phone in hand. ‘Phone for you.’
‘That’ll be Mark now,’ Clare said. ‘Be calm, be brave. Don’t blub all over him.’
I ran up the garden, heart racing. I just wanted to hear Mark’s voice. For him to tell me it all wasn’t true.
‘Mrs Beresford?’
Obviously not Mark then.
‘Yes?’
‘David Henderson here, Chair of Governors at Westenbury C of E, sorry, Little Acorns. Can’t get used to the damned silly new name now that we’ve become an academy.’ He coughed, cleared his throat. ‘Bit of a problem, I’m afraid. Only just heard myself what happened last night…’
I closed my eyes. Shit, news travelled fast. Of course, a lovely little village school like Little Acorns would have no place for a deputy head who had been publicly shamed in front of half of Midhope.
‘Mrs Beresford? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m here. I quite understand, Mr Henderson. Did Mrs Theobold ask you to ring me?’
‘Well, hardly.’ I could hear surprise in his voice.
‘Right.’ I didn’t know what else to say. Thank God, I wouldn’t have to go into school in the morning. I could stay in bed with the covers over my head and not have to face new staff, new parents and new children. I knew within a few weeks I’d be devastated: my dream job was no more. But at this moment I just felt profound relief.
‘So how do you feel about it all?’ David Henderson sounded cautious.
‘To be honest, Mr Henderson, I’m going back to bed with a bottle of my mother-in-law’s disgusting cherry brandy and I’m going to stay there until I’m very drunk and most probably passed out.’
‘Right.’ There was a long silence and then he said, ‘Bit excessive that. I didn’t realise you had become quite so fond of her.’
‘Who? My mother-in-law?’
‘Sorry?’ Another pause. ‘Mrs Theobold, the head? I think we’re at cross purposes here, Cassandra.’ David Henderson spoke slowly and gently. ‘Mrs Theobold died of a massive heart attack last night. As from now, you’re acting head of Little Acorns.’
4
She’s Right Off My Christmas Card List…
At 1 a.m. on the Monday morning – the morning when I was apparently supposed to breeze into Little Acorns and take over at the helm, steering both staff and pupils in the direction demanded by the local authority, the governors and, more pertinently, bloody Ofsted, my husband slunk back home. I say ‘slunk’ but to be honest I didn’t have a clue as to the speed or mode of his arrival, being dead to the world as a result of a couple of Fiona’s little helpers.
Totally shattered from lack of sleep and the shock, as well as the bombshell of my sudden promotion, I was in a pretty catatonic state by the time Fiona and Clare left, late in the afternoon, to sort out their weeks ahead.
Clare, who was in the process of expanding her rather successful stag do business, Last Stagger, to incorporate hen dos, had been given a lift by Fiona to get her own car and laptop and, on her return, set herself up at my breakfast bar dealing with emails and the many enquiries for new business. Fiona, who believed any problem could be solved through food, and lots of it, found my pinny, ingredients in the fridge and freezer and set to rustling up a meal in order to have some semblance of normality for the kids. At least when Freya and Tom finally got around to realising this particular Sunday was shaping up to be rather different from the usual Sunday in the Beresford household, I had the excuse of being in shock and terror at suddenly finding myself head teacher instead of deputy. Having said that, while there might be a shepherd’s pie in the oven, I still didn’t know how I was going to explain Mark’s absence.
Before Fiona left to feed her own brood, she’d nipped down to Sainsbury’s, returning with an enormous chocolate cake, concealer and a pack of Nytol.
‘The cake’s for pud to stop your two talking,’ she announced drily. ‘If their mouths are full, they can’t be asking too many questions. You’ll need the concealer to cover up those red eyes in the morning and the Nytol…’
‘I’m not taking sleeping tablets,’ I protested. ‘I don’t believe in them…’
‘They’re just antihistamine,’ Fiona said calmly. ‘Far better that you actually get some sleep to face tomorrow than have another night like last night. You probably won’t need them, you’ll be so exhausted. I usually drop a couple when Matthew is snoring horrendously and doesn’t respond to my clapping.’
‘Clapping?’ Clare looked up from her laptop, bemused. ‘You applaud him for bloody snoring. God, I’d be kicking him, not encouraging him. Clapping?’
Fiona laughed. ‘Honestly, it works. Try it next time one of your men happens to be a snorer. You just gently clap two or three times and they turn over and sleep without another sound. It doesn’t always work.’ Fiona started giggling. ‘The other night I was so fed up with him I clapped really angrily – staccato – in his left ear, and he shot out of bed shouting, “What is it, what is it, wassamatter…?” fell over his bloody great size-fifteen boots – that I’m always telling him to shift from the bedroom – and landed in a naked heap on the carpet.’ Fiona carried on chortling. ‘Great entertainment,’ she added.
‘I think you need to get out more,’ Clare said. ‘Why don’t you go into the spare room when the snorer from hell kicks off?’
‘Haven’t got one any more. Now that the girls are horrible adolescents and can’t stand sharing a bedroom – or each other, come to that – Bea has purloined the spare room for herself. Moved all her stuff in there a couple of months ago and refuses to move.’
‘I’d smack her bottom,’ Clare said.
‘Not when she’s almost six foot and her hockey stick’s a constant accessory, you wouldn’t,’ Fiona said mildly. ‘Anyway, enough of my lot. How are you feeling now, Cassie?’
‘Like I’m in a dream,’ I shrugged. ‘Totally not with it. Even if Mark hadn’t done what he’d done, if he was here now with me instead of you two, I’d still be in a state about tomorrow.’
‘But why?’ Clare looked up again. ‘I thought you wanted to be in charge?’
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself as terrifying thoughts of the next day replaced incredulous thoughts of Mark’s recalcitrant behaviour. ‘I know you two – particularly you, Clare, not having any kids in the system – don’t know much about what’s going on in education at the moment, but being a deputy head in a primary school is totally different from being the head. I have a class of my own to teach, albeit on a slightly, and I emphasise the word slightly, reduced timetable. I’m given two afternoons off to p
erform my deputy’s role.’
‘Sounds much better now then,’ Clare said, draining her cup of coffee. ‘As head, you won’t have a class to teach and you can shut yourself away in your office and swivel round on your chair, pressing those red and green lights that say, “Come In” or “Bugger Off”.’
I actually laughed at that. ‘You don’t know the half. I’m still going to have to deal with my new class tomorrow; someone will have to teach them and I can’t see David Henderson having sorted out any supply.’
‘David Henderson.’ Fiona whistled. ‘I’m still amazed that the man they call “the Richard Branson of the North” is actually your Chair of Governors. What’s he like? Rather attractive, isn’t he?’
‘Rather?’ Clare snorted. ‘Very, you mean. He’s gorgeous…’
‘With a very attractive wife,’ I smiled.
‘Since when’s that stopped Clare?’ Fiona sniffed, giving me an anxious look. ‘Look, Cassie, you can’t do everything. You can’t be expected to teach a class of thirty ten-year-olds and be deputy head and now head as well. What did David Henderson say? What’s likely to happen?’
‘Well, in cases like this, where the head is suddenly no more, if the deputy has been in situ for years then they will be acting head and another member of staff will be acting deputy until the post of head is advertised and filled. In my case, where I’m brand new, a new acting head is usually brought in from the authority. You know, someone who’s been a deputy for years in their own school and is actively looking for a headship. They’ll ship them in to take over temporarily.’
Clare looked disappointed. ‘Oh, so you’re not going to be head after all? Well, that’s all your problems halved in one fell swoop. You just need to sort Mark out and you’ll be back to square one, job done.’
A Village Affair Page 3