A Village Affair

by Julie Houston

  ‘I never thought I could feel anything like this for another woman,’ Xavier whispered, holding me close as we made to say goodbye in the car park. ‘I know I’ve only known you a while, Cassie, but you have my heart. I can’t lose you. I don’t know what to do…’

  His arms were wrapped tightly round me and I had to gently unpeel myself. ‘I have to go: Freya will be waiting. Are you OK?’

  He nodded but couldn’t speak and, instead, kissed the top of my head. ‘I’ll call you,’ he said, and with that I unlocked the car door, fastened my seat belt and drove off. I didn’t look back.

  *

  Freya had invited her mate Gabby home for the night – she had asked at breakfast and, my head full of more important things, I’d totally forgotten. As there was little in the fridge apart from the rather suspicious-looking remains of a two-day-old spag bol to tempt two famished teens, I suggested they have a takeaway of their choice. Pleased, they grabbed the various takeaway menus from the kitchen notice board and were soon on the phone, my bankcard to hand, ordering ridiculous amounts of food.

  When Tom and Harry Kennedy appeared at the sitting-room door, Gabby went white and then scarlet.

  ‘See,’ Freya crowed, elbowing Gabby in the ribs. ‘You didn’t believe me, did you? How many poppadoms, Harry…?’

  *

  I went to see Paula.

  I loved it that my kids were happy and sociable but their euphoric banter did nothing to make me feel any better and I decided to leave them to it.

  The minute Paula saw me at the door she came over and put her arms round me, holding me while I wept.

  ‘I’m sorry it wasn’t Rowan,’ I sniffed.

  Paula laughed. ‘Well, I did hope he was a part of you, but I suspected a long time ago that he wasn’t. I don’t remember Rowan ever being at all tidy. I’m certainly not, and your nan and granddad weren’t overly so. It had to come from somewhere.’

  I didn’t like to remind her that I was convinced my obsession with orderliness was a directly proportionate reaction to her disorderliness; her ability to have two days’ washing up still in the sink while she meditated or went picking elderberries for her wine, or her total disregard for the unironed pile of washing sitting for three days on the kitchen table while she ate her meals around it.

  ‘I envy you, actually,’ I smiled. ‘It must be wonderful to not feel the necessity to make your bed as soon as you get out of it; not to bother unpacking your suitcase when you go on holiday; not to—’

  ‘“Life’s too short to stuff a mushroom”,’ Paula interrupted.

  ‘Actually, you’re probably right, and this sense of needing order in my life more than likely is genetic.’ I thought back to Edward’s sitting room. It had been immaculately tidy, cushions standing to attention, the two sofas equidistant from the Persian rug in the middle of the floor. I laughed shortly. ‘So, that wily sperm that won the race was carrying Edward’s blue eyes, blond hair, an astounding ability with maths and a bent for tidiness.’ I shook my head at the thought. ‘Amazing.’

  ‘One thing about all this, Cass,’ Paula smiled, almost shyly.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Do you think it’s brought us two a little closer?’ She looked at me hopefully.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Really sorry. There have been times when I haven’t always appreciated you.’ I felt a little embarrassed. Mum and I didn’t normally have these types of conversations. ‘I have sometimes cut you out of my life a bit, haven’t I?’

  Paula smiled. ‘Yes, but I’m more to blame. I was a pretty crap mother. Too idealistic, wanting to go and do other things, get involved with other things.’

  ‘You were very young. You could have not had me. But you did.’

  ‘And thank goodness I listened to your granddad and didn’t have a termination.’ Paula shivered slightly. ‘Let’s not talk about it. All I will say, Cassandra Moonbeam, is that you are the best thing that ever happened to me.’ She smiled, but her lip trembled.

  I leant over, kissed her cheek and hugged her.

  *

  ‘Cheeky thing, Edward Bamforth, asking you to stop the protests,’ Paula called ten minutes later from the kitchen as she made tea. ‘What he should have said was, “Now you’re my daughter and a part of the Bamforth family, we’ll of course withdraw all the plans from the planning department and leave everything as it is…”’

  I smiled. ‘Ha! Pigs might fly.’

  I felt comfortable sitting there with my mother. I curled up in my old chair, remembering other good times she and I had spent together: planting seeds in Norman’s Meadow, her teaching me how to bake bread; a train ride to the seaside at Scarborough.

  ‘Did you never meet anyone else, Mum?’ I asked, looking across at her as we sat companionably together in front of the fire.

  ‘I had my moments,’ she smiled, ‘but you were far too precious to me to put you through the trauma of being part of a new family. After a while, I just didn’t bother. You get out of the habit. Having said that…’

  I looked at her. ‘What? Have you met someone?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, shyly. ‘Early days, but I’ll let you meet him soon.’

  32

  The Bully Is Sent Home From School…

  Although still only the third week in November, Christmas had arrived at Little Acorns with a bang. Nativity rehearsals were already underway and many an angel, bored with sitting waiting for her big moment, was seen picking her nose while trying to adjust her wings, or poking a tea-towel-attired shepherd with her broken halo.

  I missed and longed for Xavier dreadfully, but was determined not to slide back into the anxious depressed state that had characterised my first few weeks as acting head teacher and, instead, put all my energies into either running the school or being with the kids or my mother. Mum and I were the closest we’d been for years as we spent time with Granddad and Freya, discussing the NMLA’s next moves. Refusing to allow wonderful – but heart-breaking – pictures of Xavier and myself on the beach in Mexico to intrude, I got on with my life: holding meetings, covering classes, speaking to parents and helping Deimante with her English language work.

  Things with Karen Adams came to a head one morning after not one, but two, parents had rung me to complain about her. Their children were frightened of her, they said. She picked on them and didn’t explain lessons properly to them. While I assumed the two mothers had chatted beforehand, and made a joint decision to ring me and air their grievances, two complaints in one day was not good and at lunchtime I asked her to come and see me.

  Since I’d ambushed Karen in my office after drinking Deimante’s gira, weeks ago now, we’d kept each other at a safe distance, avoiding each other where possible and being icily polite when not. I’d never really worked out where her dislike for me had sprung from, and accepted she was just one of those women whose lack of self-esteem manifests itself in cynicism and unpleasantness in order to belittle those she felt were getting out of line.

  I didn’t mince my words. ‘Karen, I’ve had two separate phone calls within ten minutes from parents of children in your class.’

  ‘Oh?’ She folded her arms, immediately on the defensive.

  ‘Maisie Lewis’s mum and Daisy Ford’s mum.’

  ‘Troublemakers, the pair of them.’

  ‘Who? The mums, or the girls themselves?’

  Karen didn’t say anything, just did her usual eyebrow raising and tutted.

  ‘Both mums said the same thing: their girls are not happy at school any more. They’ve not been since they came into your class. Any idea why? Did you realise there was some problem?’

  ‘Oh, they’re just full of themselves, those two. Want to be top of the class, always want to finish first, want to be form captain, want to be this, want to be that…’

  ‘Surely we should be encouraging that?’ When Karen just glared at me again I said, ‘You seem not to like the kids who are bright and confident. Would you say that’s a fair assessment?’ />
  Karen sniffed and said, ‘Certain kids need putting in their place or they end up running the class. You know that.’

  ‘Well, I know there are always children who think they’re better than others. They can make life quite unpleasant for those who’re not as talented as they are, maybe.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  I frowned. ‘But I wouldn’t have thought either Daisy or Maisie come into that category. I’ve always found them charming, bright, helpful.’

  ‘Full of themselves,’ Karen muttered, but she refused to look at me or say any more.

  ‘Do you enjoy your job, Karen?’

  ‘Enjoy it?’ Karen stared at me. ‘I don’t believe anyone can enjoy teaching these days.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Yes, well, you’ve found yourself in a very nice position, haven’t you?’

  Something clicked. ‘Did you apply for the deputy headship here, Karen?’

  ‘Well, of course I did. I should have been given it, never mind had to apply for it. I’ve been here over ten years.’

  ‘So that’s why you resent me being here?’

  ‘Mrs Theobold was a brilliant head teacher. She would have soon sent complaining parents packing.’

  ‘But she didn’t give you an interview for the deputy’s job?’

  ‘Well, yes, I applied and was interviewed along with all the other applicants. But she gave the job to you. New blood and all that…’ Karen gave a little sniff. ‘And then you and David Henderson got together and offered Debs Stringer the acting deputy headship.’

  ‘But, Karen, we asked for applications in writing. Debs was the only one who applied. You had the chance to apply like everyone else.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have had to apply,’ she snarled. ‘It should have been given to me. I am the most senior teacher here.’

  ‘Karen, you know as well as I do, it doesn’t happen like that. I think we’re getting off the point here…’

  I looked at her and was just going to get back to Daisy and Maisie when Karen sniffed again and then again. She fished a hanky from the sleeve of her cardigan and made to stand up, tears streaming down her face.

  ‘Karen, sit down. You can’t go back to the classroom like this.’

  ‘I’ve had enough,’ she sobbed. ‘I’ve had enough of it all…’

  ‘What? Enough of what?’ I passed the box of tissues that always sat on my desk and she took a handful, burying her face into their white softness.

  ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she eventually managed to say.

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Drugs,’ she started sobbing again.

  ‘You’re on drugs?’

  ‘No, not me,’ she tutted crossly, wiping her eyes. ‘Gareth.’

  ‘Gareth?’

  ‘My son. He’s twenty-five. He’s a heroin addict.’

  ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Why should you be sorry? With your smart kids, over at the grammar school… What would you know?’ Karen glared at me and blew her nose loudly.

  ‘There’s always something with one’s kids…’

  ‘My husband has thrown him out. I don’t know where he is. He was stealing from us… and I don’t know why I’m telling you all this but John’s business has gone down the pan…’

  ‘John?’

  ‘My husband. He’s a builder. He was hoping to get the Bamforth Estates job…’

  ‘If it goes ahead,’ I murmured.

  ‘Yes, and you’re doing your damnedest to make sure it doesn’t. John needs that contract. We’re going to have to sell the house otherwise.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Karen.’

  ‘And… and…’

  Oh, heavens. Was there more?

  ‘And I’m frightened…’ She buried her face once more into a fresh supply of tissues.

  ‘What of?’

  ‘A lump. I’ve found a lump in my… you know…’

  ‘Your breast?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Right, OK, Karen, you’re going to go home now. I’ll take your class this afternoon. Ring for an emergency appointment at your GP; don’t be fobbed off. Say you need to see someone today. I’ll speak to Maisie’s mum and Daisy’s mum and tell them you and I have had a chat and I’ll have a chat with the girls themselves, too.’

  Karen looked at me, tried to say something, but ended up in tears once more.

  ‘You’ve got a lot on your plate, Karen,’ I said. Go and see if you can at least sort some of it with your GP this afternoon.’

  ‘OK. Thank you. And, I’m, you know, I’m… sorry…’ She suddenly thrust out her hand towards me.

  It seemed very strange, her standing there, hand held out stiffly and I wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. I wanted to say, ‘Don’t be daft, Karen, you don’t have to shake my hand.’ But instead I took it and she shook mine briefly without looking at me, picked up her bag and headed for the door.

  *

  I had a lovely afternoon with Karen’s class of eight-year-olds. I missed being actually at the chalk face, and her kids were a particularly nice bunch, enthusiastic and friendly, and we ended the afternoon singing a rather lively and raucous rendition of ‘The one-eyed, one-horned, flying, purple person-eater’. Well, it was Friday afternoon and it had been a long week.

  The house seemed cold and unloved when I finally got home around six. Both kids were out with friends, and I considered ringing Paula and asking if she fancied joining me for my usual cheese on toast and glass of red wine. Get used to being on your own, I scolded myself.

  I pulled off my work clothes, donned an old tracksuit and set to, cleaning the house, stripping beds and cleaning loos and basins. Tom’s room was immaculate: not a thing out of place. Freya’s was a jumble sale.

  The housework helped a little and, once I’d stuck a load of washing in the machine, I ran a bath, lit a candle I’d brought back from Mexico and poured myself a glass of red wine. I slid beneath the scented water, breathed in the combined scents of cinnamon and honeysuckle from the candle and sipped my wine. I closed my eyes and almost immediately found myself crying, tears running down my face and joining the bathwater. Maybe I should ring Julian and Ritchie and have a good weep down the phone to them. No, nobody loves a cry baby on a Friday evening. Paula? No, she’d gone for a curry with her new friend. Clare? No, too loved up with Rageh. Fi would make me laugh and bring me round, I reckoned, but then I remembered it was her wedding anniversary. My new dad? Hardly. Samaritans? A big possibility.

  Xavier?

  I wanted Xavier.

  I needed to see him. He was my brother, for heaven’s sake. I’d always wanted a brother.

  I jumped out of the bath, dried myself, pulled on jeans, sweater and trainers and half an hour later was sitting outside his house in the car in the pouring rain. Lights were on in the downstairs windows and the curtains were drawn. Oh God, what if Ophelia were there? In a panic, I was about to put the car into reverse when his door opened and Xavier stood there, hair rumpled and feet bare.

  I opened the car door, got out and he came towards me.

  ‘You’ve no shoes on,’ I said.

  ‘Cassie…’ He took me in his arms, stroking my hair.

  ‘I can’t bear not to see you. Look, you’re my brother. There’s no reason not to see you… I’ve always wanted a brother…’ Rain was running down my face and I wiped it away with my hand. ‘We don’t have to… you know…’

  Xavier pulled me inside into the warmth of the house and then held me at arm’s length so he could look into my face. ‘Cassie, do you really think I can be with you, in a room with you, without wanting to…? I can’t do this, Cassie. I’m so sorry…’

  I looked over his shoulder. ‘Is Ophelia back? Is that it?’ I asked, looking round the room for signs of female belongings: a pair of shoes, a scarf, a handbag maybe.

  He shook his head, stroking my face, wiping the tears and rain away. ‘No, of course she isn’t. As far as I know she’s in London or possibly South Africa
. I really have no idea and I really, really don’t care. Cassie, I can’t do this, I can’t be your brother. Do you want me to drive back with you? Make sure you get back OK?’

  I shook my head numbly and walked back to the car.

  *

  Freya turned from buttering crumpets as I pushed open the kitchen door.

  She peered at me. ‘Are you OK? Where’ve you been? You were supposed to pick me up from Gabby’s. Her dad had to drop me off.’

  She took a bite of her crumpet, indicating, with a nod of her head, upstairs. ‘And, er, I’m not sure how to tell you this, Mum, but I think you’ll find Dad’s back, too.’

  33

  But Does He ’Ave Your ’Eart…?

  At least Mark had had the decency to leave his cases downstairs in the hall even though he’d had the temerity to take himself up to our bedroom. I found him sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, the very picture of sorrow and remorseful regret.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Cass, I’m so sorry.’ Mark raised his head but was unable to meet my eyes. ‘I want to come home.’

  ‘Looks like you are home,’ I snapped. ‘Why?’

  ‘I love you. I love you and the kids.’

  ‘So, has Tina thrown you out?’

  ‘No, no, not at all. It was my decision to come home.’

  ‘Oh, so is she going to be knocking on my door – my door, Mark – demanding you back?’

  ‘No, she knows I’ve come back…’

  I just looked at him, this husband of mine, this weak man who’d deceived me for so long, who’d made such a fool of me. I didn’t care, I realised. I really didn’t care what he did.

  ‘Whatever,’ I muttered, sounding like a thirteen-year-old who’d be told she was grounded. ‘Do what you want. I really don’t care anymore.’

  ‘So, is it OK then?’ Mark made to take my hand but I shrugged him off.

  OK? Mark had been messing around with my best friend for two years, he’d been gone for almost four months and then suddenly decides he wants to come back to us. And the pillock wanted to know if it was OK? I just looked at him, this man that I’d loved and had my children with, this man that I’d made a home with.