‘Right. OK. Are you sure?’
Deimante pulled a pack from her fluorescent yellow jacket, which should have been a giveaway to her occupation the minute she walked into the office. ‘Look, see, Anal gesic. Am spending last two days putting them up here,’ she hopped about a bit, indicating her bottom, ‘buts gyp in head still there. So, needs more work to make pounds and not make stress and pain in heads.’
I looked surreptitiously at my watch. Briefing in the staff room in ten minutes and I hadn’t even put the kettle on for coffee or found the glasses in which to pour the orange juice. Or looked at the notes I’d made last night. ‘Look, Deimante, could you leave this with me? I have a feeling that the kitchen staff may need someone because one of the cooks went off a couple of days ago with a burst appendix?’
Deimante gathered her lollipop and was about to launch further, but I managed to usher her towards the door. ‘Leave it with me,’ I repeated. ‘The children will be waiting on that pavement for you. Oh, and, Deimante, the pills? The pills definitely go down via your mouth with a lovely glass of water or cup of tea.’
‘I knews it,’ she tutted, swinging her lollipop onto her shoulder like one of the seven dwarves on his way to work, before heading down the corridor and the main entrance. ‘I bloody knews it didn’t go ups my back bottoms…’
*
The usual pre-school morning gossip and banter were in full swing in the staff room as I finally made my way down there, muffins and croissants still in their paper bags.
‘So now, since last night, I’ve got this gorgeous new boyfriend,’ Kimberley Crawford, the youngest member of staff, was saying as I walked in. ‘Met him in Lidl when I was in there after school. Six foot tall, fab tattoos on both arms—’
‘That was quick work. How did he ask you out? Over the baked beans?’
‘Well, to be honest, he doesn’t know he’s my new boyfriend yet. It’s a surprise…’
‘… And, she says he’s gone from weed and has started taking Meerkat now… Doesn’t know what to do with him.’
‘I think you mean M-CAT, Deirdre …’
‘… Loved the book. But not sure about that Russian character who kept popping up.’
‘Which Russian character? There was no Russian in it, was there?’
‘You know, wotsisname, er, Sonofabitch, he kept appearing but didn’t really add to the plot…’
‘OK, ladies, shall we start?’ I realised I was very nervous. ‘I’ve brought some goodies for us and Jean is bringing coffee once the kettle has boiled.’
‘Oh, just had my breakfast,’ Karen Adams drawled. ‘You should have told us you were feeding us: I’d have left some room.’
‘Ooh, lovely,’ Grace Stevenson said, jumping up to help me. ‘I can always eat a muffin.’
‘Me, too,’ Kath Beaumont nodded, reaching for a plate and a particularly large double chocolate chip specimen.
‘We can see that,’ Karen Adams mouthed at a couple of her mates, indicating with a nod of her head Kath’s somewhat large backside.
‘Do we all have a drink and something to eat?’ I glanced across at Karen. ‘Those of us who’re indulging at any rate?’ I noticed two of Karen’s cronies – Sheila Wilson and Debs Stringer – about to help themselves to coffee and croissants, but a quick look from Karen had them sitting back in their seats empty-handed.
I took a deep breath and launched. ‘I’m afraid I still don’t know what’s happening re my position here. The governors are trying to recruit an acting head from one of the other three schools in the academy trust but, according to David Henderson, they’re a bit thin on the ground at the moment. I know there’s one particular deputy head at Whitley Grange who would have jumped at gaining experience here but apparently she’s off having a hip operation and won’t be available for a term at least.’ I glanced over at Grace. ‘Obviously, you know that Grace has stepped into the breach this week, looking after my class, but she has two young children of her own at home. She has offered to do two days and knows someone who would be more than willing to do another two, leaving me to teach on the Wednesday morning—’
‘Job shares are never a success,’ Karen Adams interrupted, ‘particularly in teaching. There’s always one who doesn’t do as much as the other, and when things go wrong they blame each other and things never get sorted out as they should.’ She sniffed disparagingly and looked around the staff room for approval. She got it: several heads nodded in agreement.
‘Well I can’t agree with you there, Karen.’ Grace took a final bite of her muffin and wiped her mouth on one of the napkins she’d found in a cupboard and distributed to those of us eating. ‘While I’ve never actually been employed myself on a job-share basis, I know loads of teachers who have. And they’re hugely successful. You usually get one of the pair who is brilliant at the science side or, like me, really good at all the arty stuff. The second half of the job share comes in midweek, fresh and with energy to do their two days and, the other goes off to recuperate.’
‘Shouldn’t be teaching if they need to recuperate after just two days,’ Karen said rudely.
‘I’ve already suggested a former colleague of mine who would love to work with me,’ Grace went on, ignoring Karen. ‘David Henderson knows both of us and of course wouldn’t recommend—’
‘Of course he knows the pair of you,’ Karen said a sneer playing on her thin lips. ‘David Henderson is your son’s grandfather, and Harriet Westmoreland – I assume it’s her you’re planning to drag in with you – Harriet Westmoreland’s husband is David Henderson’s business partner. Talk about jobs for the girls!’
I looked across at Grace, who had gone slightly red in the face. I’d had no idea that Grace was actually related to our Chair of Governors and felt a bit put out neither she nor David Henderson had deigned to tell me.
‘I hardly think my relationship with David Henderson is relevant either to you, Karen, or to my position here.’ Grace spoke calmly but I could see she was cross. ‘I have merely stepped in to help at David’s request, and tried to come up with a solution, putting forward the name of a perfectly competent teacher who would be willing to job-share with me. At the end of the day it’s up to the governors and Cassie.’
Grace was absolutely right. It was now Friday and I needed a teacher in my Y5 class on Monday morning. Grace had already taught the whole of this first week, but I knew she wasn’t willing or able to work full weeks from now on. I could, I supposed, trawl through the supply agencies in order to find a full-time temporary teacher but I was unlikely to get a better teacher than Grace Stevenson. According to David Henderson, Grace had been about to take up her own deputy headship when she discovered she was pregnant several years ago. Anyway, she’d been brilliant: competent and confident, with the class already in love with her, and I wanted her to stay. I made a decision. Wasn’t that what heads did?
‘Grace, before you go down to the class would you give me Harriet’s contact details? I’ll ring her myself as soon as we’ve finished here. And then could I have a meeting with you at lunchtime?’
Ignoring Karen Adams, who looked as if she’d swallowed a particularly bitter lemon, I turned to my agenda. ‘I’d like to see all your planning on a weekly basis, please. Mrs Theobold and I had discussed this during the summer break and it was agreed that I would be in charge of this. I’m not asking to see all your short-term plans in detail at this stage, but it would be really helpful to have a single weekly sheet with a learning objective for each lesson. I’ll make sure copies of these sheets are available to you by the end of the day and I would like them handed in to the office every Monday morning.’ I held my breath, waiting for the backlash, the looks of disbelief, but none was forthcoming, apart from Karen Adams’ folded arms and continued sour expression.
Instead, after the coffee cups were drunk, crumbs licked off fingers and bags and books gathered for the coming morning I overheard Kath Beaumont say to Grace, ‘To be honest, Grace, Mrs Theobold let us get away wi
th murder. She never looked at any of our plans – too busy schmoozing with the upmarket parents and those governors that she liked, or who thought she could do no wrong; it’s actually quite nice to have a proper plan in place.’
I walked down to my office, a daft smile on my face.
*
‘I hear you’ve asked Harriet Westmoreland in for a chat re working part time with Grace?’ David Henderson appeared at the office door just as school was about to finish for the afternoon.
‘Gosh, news travels fast round here.’ I stood up from the desk, glancing at the clock on the wall that had apparently been there since the year dot. According to Jean, Mrs Theobold had been trying to throw it out for years, determined to replace it with ‘something modern, electronic and that damned well keeps time’ but I really loved the heavy oak Victorian clock with its soothing, steady tick. Loved the thought that it had been in place when the school was built – one of the first C of E village schools in the country. ‘I need to be in the playground to see the kids off,’ I said. ‘Need to head off any parental problems at the pass, as it were.’
‘And I need to speak to you,’ David went on. ‘And yes, news does travel fast in a small village like Westenbury.’
‘Especially when the supply teachers I’ve set on are either your daughter-in-law or your business partner’s wife?’ I raised an eyebrow and David Henderson had the grace to look slightly shamefaced.
‘Well, first, Grace is not my daughter-in-law; her son just happens to be my grandson. Secondly, I believe it was Grace who suggested Harriet, not me. You’ll find they come as a pair. Always have done from being eleven when they were at school together.’
‘But it will only be for a week or two and then I’ll be back to taking my class myself?’
‘That’s what I need to talk to you about. As well as someone, apart from Harriet, who’s insisted on coming in for a chat with us after school. Do you have time to stop and meet him? Apparently, he’d arranged it all with Priscilla, but she’d never said anything to me.’
‘Why should she?’ I realised that sounded a bit abrupt, rude even, and hurriedly added, ‘I mean, I know governors basically run schools these days, but I’m sure Priscilla was more than happy to see people without one of you lot breathing down her neck all the time.’ Oh shit, that sounded even ruder and I gave a nervous smile to soften the comment. I didn’t want David Henderson to think I was getting cocky.
David laughed. ‘You’re finding your feet, Cassandra. Great. You’ll be buying Hotel Chocolat biscuits next and putting your feet up on the desk.’
‘I’m going to have to,’ I grinned. ‘I’ve eaten all of Priscilla’s.’
*
I walked out onto the playground, stopping to chat to a granny here, an au pair there, a lone father who seemed a bit out of his depth amongst the chattering playground Mafia planning play dates for their kids, as well as nights out and dinner parties for themselves.
I waved across at Deimante, who had a gaggle of Year 6 boys up against the perimeter fence, her red and yellow lollipop almost severing their windpipes as she scanned the road for a break in the cars parking every which way and anywhere they could around the school. Hmm, Parental Parking needed to be on the next governors’ meeting agenda, I reckoned, and then, chiding myself for my bossiness, picked up a toddler who, going AWOL from his frantically texting mother, was heading for the gate, and made my way back into school.
10
We’d Like to Build You a New School…
‘Cassandra, this is Edward Bamforth. I don’t know if you’ve met before?’ David Henderson stood as I walked into the office, indicating one of the two men sitting opposite him. The younger of the two nodded and rose briefly to shake my hand before continuing to study the paper he held in his other, while the man introduced as Edward Bamforth walked across the room to greet me.
‘Mrs Beresford, lovely to meet you. Now, this is a totally informal meeting: nothing will be noted or minuted and it’s a chance for us to sit down together and air a few views.’ He paused and nodded towards the younger man. ‘This is my son, Xavier. Let me start by offering our congratulations on your new appointment, albeit under such sad circumstances. Tragic news about Priscilla: I did wonder if we shouldn’t postpone this meeting, but Priscilla had been eager that we get together as soon as possible.’
I glanced across at David. If he knew what this meeting was about then he was giving nothing away, his face remaining impassive as I moved over to the one vacant chair. ‘Jean’s still here,’ I said. ‘I’ll ask her if she’ll bring us some tea.’
‘Already done,’ David said. ‘She won’t be long. And I’ve asked Ben Carey, the vicar of All Hallows Church, Westenbury, to be here too.’ He frowned. ‘I’m not sure where he is; he’s notoriously late for every appointment.’
While we waited for Jean, David and Edward Bamforth continued their chat about someone both of them knew, and I had a minute to size up the latter as he sat, totally relaxed, in the chair opposite. He was, I guessed, much older than David Henderson – probably in his sixties – but, while both carried an air of privilege about them, Edward Bamforth appeared somewhat arrogant. Despite the warm September afternoon, both he and his son – who still hadn’t said a word – were dressed formally in dark suits, white shirts and sober ties.
‘Tea, anyone?’ Jean trilled somewhat nervously as she knocked, came in and then attempted to push the piles of last summer’s maths SATs papers to one side before placing a loaded tea tray of the school’s best white china onto the desk. In her wake came a tall, bearded man whose dog collar announced his identity before David Henderson was able to introduce him. Jean smiled at us all and sang, in a top soprano, ‘When your day seems topsy-turvy and as stormy as can be, there’s nothing quite as tranquil as a nice hot cup of tea.’
We all stared at Jean who, now obviously somewhat embarrassed by the silence that had greeted her little ditty, had gone slightly pink.
‘A good woman is like a cup of tea: the stronger the better.’ David came to Jean’s rescue and she smiled gratefully across at him and it suddenly dawned on me that our school secretary was slightly in love with him.
‘And on the sixth day, when God created tea, he was well pleased,’ Ben Carey laughed, and went to help Jean unload the tray.
The younger man frowned and looked bored but Edward Bamforth came back with, ‘Never trust anyone who, when left alone with a tea cosy, doesn’t put it on their head.’
I was just contemplating standing, one hand on my hip and the other outstretched, and singing, ‘I’m a little teapot, short and stout, here’s my handle, here’s my spout…’ when Xavier Bamforth looked across at us all and said, ‘Do you think we could get on?’
Jean retreated, smiling coyly at both David and Edward as she went.
‘Right, let’s get down to business,’ Edward said, stirring sugar into his tea before taking a sip and grimacing slightly. ‘I’m sure you both know why we’re here?’
I glanced across at David. ‘No. Sorry. David?’
‘I’ve a good idea,’ he said shortly. ‘Do you want to see if I’m right?’
‘OK. I’ll come straight to the point. The Bamforth Estate wants to build you a brand-new school.’ Edward Bamforth paused for effect. Xavier Bamforth said nothing.
‘Really?’ While I dislike intensely the phrase ‘gobsmacked’, that’s all I could bring to mind to describe the impact of what Edward Bamforth had just said. ‘Why?’
‘You’re a brand-new head teacher.’
‘Hang on, I’m acting head for a few weeks until we find someone suitable.’
‘You’re a brand-new head,’ Edward repeated smoothly. ‘What better than a brand-new school to go with it?’
‘So, is the Bamforth Estate a philanthropic charity then?’ I asked shortly. I knew I was being a bit rude, confrontational even, but Granddad Norman’s distress earlier this week because of this man and his desire to concrete over the surrounding area, had alr
eady put me on the defensive.
‘No, Cassandra, the Bamforth Estate is a huge land-owning company. It owns the fields, the farms, much of the land around Westenbury…’ David pushed his cup and saucer across the desk and leant back, folding his arms.
‘The village of Westenbury itself, really,’ Edward smiled. ‘We own it all.’
‘But not our little bit.’ David smiled back, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. ‘The Church owns the land Little Acorns is built on.’
‘But we own all the fields, all the land that surrounds the school…’
‘And you want our little bit of land because, without it, you can’t access your huge amount of land to build the three thousand plus houses the Bamforth Estate has put forward the plans for to Midhope Council.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it as bluntly as that.’
‘So how would you put it?’ David asked.
‘Three thousand houses? Hang on a minute,’ I interrupted. ‘First, it’s all green belt round here. You can’t build on that. The council wouldn’t allow it.’ I remembered the difficulty we’d had getting plans passed for our conservatory: because our garden on Tower View Avenue backs onto green belt land, the authority had taken a hell of a lot of persuading to let us encroach onto the edge of it. ‘There’s no way they’re going to let you cover all the beautiful fields in concrete. The farmers won’t let you either. They’re not going to give up their farms to you.’
‘We own the farms. We’ve already given notice to several of our tenant farmers.’
‘Just like that?’
‘You’re implying we’re throwing people onto the street.’ Edward laughed shortly. ‘The majority of the farms around here are tenanted, as they have been since the year dot. And most are only just scraping a living. Farming in the UK is going the same way as British Leyland, the coal mines and the woollen mills – down the drain.’
A Village Affair Page 9