Just a week into September, autumn was already beginning to show off her colours, dressing the hedgerows in hues of yellow and carmine. Orangey-red rosehips, nestling in their toothed leaflets and ripe for picking, were already out in abundance, as were huge purple blackberries, clinging tenaciously to clumps of tangled and straggling brambles. Ted Jarvis, our local farmer, was already abroad on the huge plough.
Even though I had the feeling I was heading for the scaffold I began singing under my breath ‘We plough the fields and scatter’, a favourite at all primary schools.
Something was different. I came to a sudden halt as I realised I could go no further. The footpath, which had been trodden grassless by many a dog walker, rambler and schoolchild taking, like myself, a shortcut across the fields and through the hedgerows, had been rudely and abruptly terminated by ugly rolls of shiny, coiled barbed wire. Not the single or double rows of barbed wire the farmers sometimes laid in order to keep in cattle or sheep and through which walkers still persisted, catching hats or knickers as they did so, but malevolent coils of vicious-looking barbed metal more redolent of the Somme than the autumn fields of Westenbury. I retraced my steps, looking for a way through, but there was none. Tutting and glancing at my watch, I went forward once more, scanning the hedgerows for a possible way through. Again, there was none. Shit. I was going to have to go back home and get the car. I set off briskly back in the direction I’d come, dodging unpredictable hillocks that, with my current run of luck, would trip me up and sprain my ankle, and clumps of spitefully mischievous nettles that, now I was in a hurry, were just another damned obstacle to overcome.
Shit. Literally. The dry, crusted surface of the cowpat belied its viscous contents below. Up to my ankle in cow shit, I limped grimly home, uttering little mews of self-pity and frustration as I went.
*
‘Do you want my resignation?’
‘Do you want to tell me all about it?’ David Henderson and I spoke as one as we simultaneously opened our car doors and stepped onto the tarmac. ‘Come on.’ He glanced at his watch, unsmiling. ‘We have a good quarter of an hour before the first children start arriving.’
He quickly led the way into school, and I followed in his wake, visions of Anne Boleyn and her lost head swimming before my eyes. I suddenly realised, despite the fact that any imminent sacking would result in my not having to face a staff surely, by now, fully informed by Karen Adams of my disgrace, I wanted to fight my corner and stay.
David Henderson sat himself in Mrs Theobold’s chair – not a good sign – and I was forced to stand in the same position, at the other side of the desk, where many a recalcitrant child had found themselves before. David was about to say something when, instead, he frowned, sniffing the air.
‘Is there a bad smell in here? Drains, do you think?’ He sniffed again, trying to pinpoint from which particular area the odour was emanating.
‘Cow shit,’ I said shortly. I was in no mood for niceties. ‘Cow shit, I’m afraid. Some idiot has closed off the footpaths in the fields and I stepped in it. I’ve been home and rinsed my foot under the garden hose, but it’s pretty tenacious stuff.’ I raised my bare leg, my foot now shod in my replacement heels, and the noxious smell wafted up to my nostrils.
‘Right. Look, Cassandra, what I caught you doing last night was an act of criminal damage. I did tell my wife, Mandy, who happens to be a magistrate, what you’d done, and it was her who said, if the complainant reported this, you would find yourself in court.’
‘Well, if you don’t tell anyone, I won’t.’ Fighting talk, Cassandra Moonbeam. I was impressed.
David actually smiled. ‘Yes, but unless… Serpentina wasn’t it…? unless this Serpentina is in the habit of running off with a multitude of husbands as well as your own – and I’m assuming, by your art work, that that’s what she’s done – then it’s going to be pretty obvious who is the perpetrator.’ He paused, looking straight at me. ‘And if she wants to prosecute, I’m afraid you’re snookered…’
‘… Being reported in the Midhope Examiner,’ I finished for him, ‘and bringing Little Acorns into disrepute.’
‘That’s my worry, Cassandra. We have some pretty bolshy parents here, as I’m sure you’ve realised. The last thing we need is the local, and even the tabloids, getting wind of this.’
All the newly acquired fight went out of me and I sat on the one other chair in the room. ‘OK, what do you want me to do? Resign?’
‘Resign? Good God, no.’ David looked astonished. ‘You did such a brilliant job yesterday, stepping in to the breach, sorting parents. You’d have thought you’d been in charge for years.’
‘You would?’
‘Of course,’ he smiled.
God, he was handsome when he smiled. Bit George Clooney really, I thought, taking in every aspect of his blue shirt, navy pin-striped suit, a full head of dark hair going grey at the temple, gorgeous brown eyes…
‘… So, what do you reckon?’
‘Sorry?’ I brought myself back to Priscilla Theobold’s office, rather than the log cabin with open fire in the snowy Welsh hills I’d transported both of us to, and felt myself redden.
‘It’s really just a matter of keeping this between us and hoping Serpentina doesn’t report this to the police.’
‘It’s Tina. She’s called Tina. She’s – she was – my best friend and she’s been my husband’s mistress for the past two years.’
David stared at me. ‘You poor thing. And you’ve just found out? And on top of all that, you’ve been thrown in at the deep end here?’
‘Yep. That’s about it in a nutshell.’ I felt my bottom lip begin to wobble and looked out of the window, willing myself not to cry because of this rather gorgeous man’s sympathy.
‘Bloody hell, Cassandra, I’d have taken a stone to the side of the car if it had been me. Right, I’m assuming lipstick is removable so there’d be no permanent damage. And, at the end of the day you were simply leaving her a message spelling out the truth. No harassment, alarm or distress. Sorry, magistrate-speak again. Actually, she probably was alarmed but, compared to the distress she’s put you through I don’t think a bench would be overly sympathetic. Right. Forget what you did, Cassandra. Move on. You’ve more important things to consider than some philandering so-called best friend.’ He shook his head. ‘Jeez, best friend?’
I stood and David stood too, beckoning me over to the chair he’d just vacated. ‘Yours, come on.’
‘For how long? How far have we got with finding a replacement head?’ I raised my eyebrows.
‘Nowhere. Look, if you’re happy to keep on for a few more days until the end of the week…? Myself and the other governors have a meeting with the Academy Trust this evening and we should be able to make some decisions. Now we’re an academy, all decisions about employment and recruitment go through the Trust. It’s quite possible there’s a deputy in one of the Trust’s other schools who’s not only qualified but desperate to stretch their wings, as it were.’
‘What about covering my class? Is Grace happy to continue? I feel awful I didn’t have chance to speak to her really, yesterday.’
David nodded. ‘I spoke to her at home, last night. She’s certainly happy to stay for the week. Let’s take it a day at a time and I’ll keep on trying.’
*
The rest of the day continued in a blur of activity. At lunchtime I held a staff meeting – at which Karen Adams lounged on her seat, doodling on a pad and refusing to take part unless there was a particularly contentious issue, when she rudely, and quite aggressively, overrode all of my suggestions before raising her eyebrows at whom I very quickly determined were her band of cronies.
I certainly wasn’t going to throw my weight around at this stage but kept calm, going over with the staff new government directives that they’d have to take on board. I’d pored over these during the summer break in order to know what was up and coming, aware that it’s often the job of the deputy to introduce such mandate
s. Safeguarding and Budget issues were always at the top of the list and, while I wasn’t really up to speed on the state of the school’s finances now that we were an academy, I was top of the class when it came to rules about keeping the kids, staff and school safe.
‘Well done.’ Grace Stevenson popped her head round the office door just before the end of lunch.
‘Thanks, it’s not easy trying to establish oneself.’ I smiled wryly. ‘Listen, have you got ten minutes?’ Grace came in, closing the door behind her, but didn’t sit down. ‘How’s it going? Thank you so much for stepping in like this. I really couldn’t have taught my class as well as try to do all of this.’ I indicated the desk that was overflowing with paper at the same time as a tapping came at the door.
Grace opened it and a little voice sobbed, ‘Please can I see Miss Beery Ford?’
‘It’s Mrs Beresford. Do you think she wants to see you?’
‘Mrs Atkinson said I had to come and tell Miss Berry Ford what I said at dinner time.’ Six-year-old Robbie stood at the open door, his hand firmly grasped on the handle as if frightened to let it go.
I glanced across at Grace and mouthed, ‘Mrs Atkinson? Who’s Mrs Atkinson?’
Grace pulled a face and shrugged. ‘No idea,’ she mouthed back.
‘Emily told Mrs Atkinson I said…’
Grace and I leant forward to catch what Robbie was trying to get out.
‘… Emily told Mrs Atkinson I said that school dinners smell like your bum.’
Both Grace and I managed to compose our faces and look suitably shocked at such an appalling slight on the school meal system although I could tell, by the twitch of her mouth, Grace was desperate to laugh.
There was a long silence while both of us glared at the little mite and then, realising what he’d said was open to being misconstrued, Robbie added, in a panic, ‘But not your bum, Miss Beery Ford. I didn’t mean, your bum.’
‘I’m so glad to hear your bottom is fragrant and not at all resembling stew and Spotted Dick,’ Grace giggled after Robbie, suitably admonished, had scuttled away. ‘I’ve really missed being at the chalk face,’ she laughed, wiping her eyes with her finger, but then, grimacing slightly, added, ‘apart from all this new stuff on Safeguarding: I mean, can I really not hug a child if he’s fallen down or upset?’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Anyway, I have two kids at home, both under four – always demanding my hugs – and I can’t possibly do this full time every week. One of the supply agencies or, now that you’re an academy, the Academy Trust should be able to help out next week. Unless…’ Grace looked at me hopefully. ‘Look, I’d love to do a couple of days a week, a job share maybe? I’m probably jumping the gun here, but I did have a word with David. Anyway, I have a very good teacher friend, Harriet, who basically is in the same boat as me and would also like to get her hands dirty as it were… you know, job share a couple of days? Good supply is so hard to get, I know. Hat’s a bit dizzy but she’s pretty sound as a teacher. We used to work together over at Farsley. If you find you’re actually going to be in charge here for a few weeks until a new head is appointed, we’d love to do a bit each. We could do two days each, which just leaves you a morning for yourself because Wednesday afternoon is covered with your class doing Games and French.’
I smiled. ‘You seem to have it all worked out, but I’m not sure sharing a class at this stage would be a good idea.’
‘Sorry, that does sound a bit presumptuous, doesn’t it, but the offer’s there if you want it. Harriet’s twins and Jonty, my son, have just started at the Little Forest nursery school over where we live, and Harriet’s previous mother’s help has just returned from the Italian Alps and is desperate to get her hands on the kids again.’
‘Doing a ski season or something was she, this mother’s help?’ I wasn’t sure why I should be talking about someone I’d never met before, but Grace was so bubbly and interesting, I wanted to know more.
‘Oh, no, no, nothing like that.’ Grace laughed out loud. ‘Lilian – we all call her Mrs Doubtfire – refused to come home with us. She fell for the chef in the chalet and had been shacked up with him ever since, but came back without him last month.
‘Handsome, was he?’
‘Well, if you fancy seventy-year-olds – which, I have to say, I don’t.’
‘Seventy? A young nanny stayed out there with a seventy-year-old?’
Grace laughed again. ‘Lilian’s pushing seventy herself. She’s got more energy than anyone I know and is desperate to be looking after the kids again. So, you see, it’s all sorted. Harriet and I can leave our children for two days with Lilian. She’s happy, the kids are happy and Harriet and I can re-join the world of work.’
I smiled at her enthusiasm. ‘Leave it with me,’ I said, as the outside bell for the end of lunch was heard from the playground. ‘I’ll talk to the governors and see what they want to do.’
We headed out, Grace down to my classroom and me to ensure the children were coming back into school in an orderly fashion. At the end of the corridor, before we went our separate ways, she turned and said, quietly, ‘None of my business, I know, I’m only the hired help…’
I looked at her.
‘… but just watch your back with some of the staff.’ She turned, smiled at me and carried on walking.
*
Cassandra, any chance you can get over and see your granddad after school?
Paula had left a message on my mobile, but it was mid-afternoon before I had a chance to check my phone. Granddad Norman, now a ninety-one-year-old widower, my nan having died two years ago, still lived in the same house as they had in my childhood, the neatly compact terraced home on the edge of a small rural village just ten minutes’ drive from where I now lived in Westenbury. Fiercely independent, he still managed all his own housework and shopping and, apart from Meals on Wheels serving him lunch twice a week and me taking round the odd casserole for his freezer, fed himself as well. Paula lived nearby, moving herself and me out of my grandparents’ house into a small, rented two-bedroomed cottage when I was around two years old, and where she’d lived ever since. Having been there so long, she reckoned she had security of tenure and the house was, by rights – Paula’s rights, at least – now her own and no one would ever be able to shift her.
Is he OK?
I texted back, knowing that, as much as I loved Granddad Norman, I didn’t really have the time for a visit, no matter how fleeting, that evening. I still had to sit Freya down for a chat, but I knew I was putting it off, hoping Mark would get over this madness and come back, and I wouldn’t have to put myself through the trauma of explaining where her dad was and what was going on.
He’s upset
Paula texted straight back.
You know, because you’re a teacher, he thinks you can sort everything. Call round for five minutes this evening, if you can.
*
I was just gathering my things together at the end of the day and about to make a sneaky exit to go over to Granddad Norman’s when my door was pushed open and a tiny woman, with an even more diminutive man in tow, walked straight in.
‘Oh? So, are you our Liam’s new head teacher, then? I remember you from the other school. Well, fancy you being the head teacher.’ The woman, all bleached-blond hair and tight jeans, looked me up and down for what seemed an age.
My heart sank. During the summer break the Simpson family had been relocated to the small council estate in Westenbury and once again their kids were now mine.
‘Mr and Mrs Simpson?’ I smiled sweetly. ‘And Liam, Demi, Chelsea and Rocky, too? You’ve all decided to come and pay me a visit?’
All I needed was Kylie, who had constantly badmouthed her way through my first class at my last school, and I’d have a set. A set of Simpsons at the end of the day when I was trying to make a quick getaway. Marvellous stuff.
‘And Kylie as well,’ I smiled through clenched teeth as Kylie came through the door, skirt up to her knickers and a chest that had
expanded threefold in twelve months.
‘’Lo, Miss.’ Kylie hitched herself up on to my desk, safe in the knowledge that she was no longer under my jurisdiction.
‘How’s High School, Kylie? Enjoying it?’ I asked.
She moved her wad of gum to a new resting place in her mouth before replying.
‘’S’orright, I suppose. Not as good as it was when I were with you, at the other school, Miss.’
Blimey, she’d had a change of heart.
Glancing surreptitiously at my watch, I turned to Ma and Pa Simpson, who also seemed to have settled themselves for the duration.
‘What can I do for you?’ I asked, sending up a silent prayer that they weren’t here to complain about something.
‘We’ve just come to let you know that our Liam can go.’
Go? Go where? Had there been some school trip planned that I was unaware of?
‘Go where?’ I asked, genuinely puzzled.
‘To that university place you was on about yesterday,’ Mrs Simpson continued, her small, beady eyes and sharp nose reminding me of a terrier.
I really had no inkling as to where they were coming from, and it must have shown.
‘Our Liam came home yesterday and said that you’d said he could go to that there university when he was old enough. We’ve just come to tell you we’re really pleased with him and he can go. No one has ever been to university from our family, and we’re behind you all the way. Any extra work you want to give him to make sure he gets there, well, we’ll make sure he does it at home.’
Well, that would be a first. I don’t think one piece of homework of Liam’s had been returned when he’d been in my class last year. I racked my brains as to the actual conversation I’d had with him when I’d dropped into his class yesterday. It had gone something along the lines of, ‘Liam, see what you can do when you try hard. You’ll be off to university when you’re eighteen if you carry on like this.’ He’d given me his usual look which, roughly translated, said, ‘Get a life, woman.’ But obviously he’d taken it to heart.
A Village Affair Page 6