held weekly screenings of classic films and the best seats in the house were reserved for The
Chestnuts when it was their night out.
‘Can it be mended?’
‘No, it’s knackered. Fit for nowt but the scrapheap, like the rest of us. On the up side,
it’s been a good week. The minibus is the only loss we’ve had.’
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I hated it when Gran spoke like this, making light of mortality. Death held no fear for
her; she was fond of telling me that she’d had a good innings, and wouldn’t grumble when her
chips were up. She wanted to go while she still had full control of her mind and her bladder,
she would say, and I could understand that. But I wasn’t ready to lose anyone else. I wouldn’t
ever be ready.
‘So what will happen?’ I asked. ‘Will the minibus be replaced?’
‘Aye, but only if someone snuffs it and leaves money to this place. There’s nowt spare
in the kitty at the moment.’
I didn’t ask how Gran knew the financial situation of The Chestnuts. She knew
everything.
‘Could you use taxis for the time being?’
‘We’re banned since Mr Craig had an unfortunate accident in one a couple of months
back.’ Gran wrinkled her nose, and I didn’t press for more details. ‘We need to raise some
money, but heaven knows how we’ll do that. There’s barely one fully functioning body
between us.’
‘There’s the summer fair,’ I reminded her. It was well supported by the town, as so
many of the locals had sent relatives to The Chestnuts at one time or another. ‘That will bring
in some money.’
‘That’s earmarked for a new bathroom on the second floor. We need summat else.
Come on, our Eve. You were always the clever one. Can you not come up with something?’
Like what? My gaze roved around the room, seeing all the dozing residents. A
sponsored sleep? Then I paused at a painting of Winlow Hill over the fireplace. It wasn’t one
of the famous Three Peaks in the area, but it was still a popular climb, and one that walkers
liked to tick off the list.
‘What about a sponsored climb of Winlow Hill?’ I said.
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‘Aye, that’s one solution. Kill us all off and then there’ll be no need for a minibus …’
I laughed. ‘I didn’t mean the residents. Relatives, people from the town, and perhaps
tourists too … We could sell drinks and cakes at the bottom. I wonder if we could try for a
world record, for the most people to climb the hill in a day? If we could find an angle to interest
the press, we might draw a good crowd. How much would we need, do you know?’
‘Beats me. Do I look like a used bus salesman?’
I took out my phone, and quickly searched the internet for an idea of the cost of a
relatively new minibus. My heart sank.
‘It could be £20,000, depending on how many seats you need,’ I said. ‘I didn’t realise
it would be so much. We’d need hundreds of walkers to raise even a fraction of that sum.’
‘We’re not beaten yet,’ Gran said. ‘What we need is someone famous to head the
campaign.’
‘We don’t know anyone famous,’ I said, still flicking through minibus adverts on my
phone. ‘Old Fred Taylor from Fell Farm appeared on Countryfile last year, but I can’t see him
drawing a crowd …’
I trailed off as a horrible suspicion crept into my head. I looked up. Gran was grinning
at me and wagging her finger in my direction. How could I have missed where she was
heading?
‘No.’
‘Why not? Your Paddy would be perfect. Send him up the hill and you’ll have dozens
of lasses running up after him.’
‘No.’
‘Don’t be so stubborn. We need that minibus or we’ll all go doolally cooped up here
over the summer.’
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‘I’m not asking any favours from Paddy Friel.’ I couldn’t believe she had even
suggested it. But Gran didn’t know the full story behind his departure. She had been so fond
of Paddy that I hadn’t wanted to upset her. As far as she was concerned, we had mutually
agreed to separate, a platonic break with no hard feelings. She knew nothing of his
heartlessness, or my heartbreak.
‘Why not? He’s not shy of anything that brings him a bit of publicity, is he?’ She
reached over and patted my knee. ‘Besides, I think he owes you, don’t you?’
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CHAPTER 5
The last thing I expected to see, when I pulled into the school car park the following morning,
was a racy, low-slung sports car occupying a space. And not just any space; it was parked in
mine. We didn’t have official named spaces, but by convention we all had our regular spots
and would stick to them, unless there was a torrential rainstorm in the morning, in which case
it was every staff member for themselves in parking near the door.
‘Look at that,’ I said to Tina, who shared the journey in with me. I pointed at the
offending vehicle.
‘Graham would love one of those,’ she said, referring to her mild-mannered husband.
‘He fancies himself as James Bond in disguise.’
It was an excellent disguise: plump, quiet and kind, he suited his ancient Volvo estate
more than a sports car.
‘I wasn’t admiring it,’ I said, pulling in to the space next to it, and already dreading the
backlash from the head of languages. ‘It’s in my space.’
‘So it is. Who do you think it belongs to? Has someone been on a spending spree this
weekend? My money’s on that new maths teacher. I’ve caught him using my mug, and he
definitely has an inflated notion of his own sex appeal.’
‘I saw it here on Saturday, and it wasn’t the maths teacher driving. It was a woman, but
I didn’t recognise her. We’re not expecting a new teacher, are we?’
‘Only the interim head, and I’m sure she wasn’t due to start until next week.’
Tina promised to send me a text if she discovered a stranger in the staffroom, and I
headed the opposite way to my desk in what was laughingly called my office, although it was
no more than a cubbyhole outside the head’s room, and the enormous multi-function printer
took up more space than I did. This morning, I was surprised to see a scruffy cardboard box
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occupying the centre of the desk, in the one area that had been free of detritus when I had left
on Friday night.
As I was staring at it, wondering where it could have come from, and what unpleasant
task it must contain if someone had dumped it and run, the door to the head’s office jerked
open, giving me another surprise. Our head teacher, Mrs Armstrong, had gone off on long-term
sick leave a couple of weeks ago, and we’d bobbed along in rudderless fashion since then as
the deputy head had also moved on at Christmas and not yet been replaced; for some reason,
our middle-ranking school buried in the Lancashire countryside wasn’t attracting many
applicants for the role.
A woman stood in the doorway, looking me up and down in a swi
ft appraisal that
immediately raised my hackles. Not that they needed to be raised much further – even without
the scowl I recognised the driver who had knocked me over at the weekend. What was she
doing here?
‘Ms Roberts?’ She buzzed the ‘Ms’ in an unnecessarily emphatic way, and glanced at
her watch – another unnecessary affectation, when there was a perfectly good clock on the wall
between us. ‘Eve?’
‘Yes?’ I waited to see if she would remember me as her weekend victim, but there was
no hint of recognition.
‘Jo Blair.’ She approached and stretched out her hand for me to shake, smiling in a way
that seemed calculatedly hearty, putting me on edge rather than at ease. ‘I’ll be interim head
for the next few months, until a permanent head is recruited. I’m glad you’re early. I’m told
that you’re a wonder and will be my right hand. Come in and have a chat.’
Without waiting for my agreement – as my working hours hadn’t technically started
yet – she turned and walked back into Mrs Armstrong’s office – or her office, as I supposed I
would now have to think of it. I followed on behind, feeling uncomfortably like a naughty child
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about to learn my punishment. It was a pleasant room, with windows on two walls overlooking
the playing fields, but as Jo took a seat behind the desk, I could sense that the atmosphere had
changed already. Mrs Armstrong had made it warm and welcoming, so even the most wayward
pupil or anxious parent had felt at ease. Now all that warmth seemed to have been sucked out
through the open window. The room felt cold and impersonal; even the desk had been cleared,
so all that remained on it were a computer and keyboard, telephone and a paper coffee cup
from the petrol station on the Yorkshire side of town.
Jo waved at me to take a seat opposite her.
‘I didn’t think you were due to start until next week,’ I said.
‘I was due to go on holiday, but cancelled when this job came up. It was clear when I
looked at the figures and statistics that I couldn’t start a moment too soon. The exam results
aren’t impressive, are they? You must be aware of that.’
‘We’re low in the league tables, but …’
‘Exactly.’ Jo interrupted before I could point out that the school excelled in so many
other areas – in sport, in music and, most importantly, in sending confident, well-rounded
young adults out into the world. ‘That’s going to have to change. There’s been too much slack
management. We need to see streamlining and efficiencies. I’m meeting the staff this morning
to outline the vision for the way forward. Good teachers and good results will be at the heart
of it.’
‘We have some excellent teachers here. They couldn’t be more dedicated …’
‘Some? That’s not enough. We need all the teachers to be excellent.’ Jo leant across the
desk towards me. ‘The governors assure me I can rely on you. You’ve been here a long time.
You know all the staff – who isn’t on their game any more, who has lost their motivation, who
is letting standards fall. You’ll hear things that I won’t. I’m counting on you to help me, for the
good of the school. I need you to be not only my right hand, but also my eyes and ears.’
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It normally worked like a magic charm, someone asking for my help – I could rarely
resist. But this? Spying on my colleagues, who I had worked alongside for years? Betraying
the teachers who had taught Caitlyn, kept an eye on her for me, shaped her into who she was?
I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t.
‘I’ll help in any practical way I can,’ I said, choosing my words carefully. ‘But I won’t
spy on my friends, or tell tales about hardworking teachers who care passionately about this
school and their students, and who are doing their best in difficult circumstances. That’s not in
my job description, and not in my nature either. But if there’s anything else I can do, you need
only ask.’
If I’d thought the atmosphere was cold before, it was nothing to how low the
temperature dropped now. Jo sat back and crossed her arms, sending me a patronising smile.
‘I think you misunderstand, Eve. I never suggested you should spy, only to work with
me to identify areas of improvement. Of course, if you don’t want the increased responsibility,
I respect your decision. It is disappointing, when I had heard such good things about your
commitment to this school.’
Jo tapped at her keyboard, and I took this as a sign that I was dismissed. I stood up,
feeling bizarrely as if I had done something wrong. Had I? If nothing else, I’d clearly annoyed
Jo, and that would make working in such close proximity awkward. But I couldn’t regret my
decision. I hesitated, wondering whether I ought to say something else, to try to smooth things
between us.
‘Oh, Eve?’ Jo didn’t look up. ‘There’s a box on your desk. It contains Mrs Armstrong’s
belongings. Please get rid of it. And on the subject of your desk …’ Now she looked at me, and
it wasn’t a friendly look. She clearly wasn’t in the mood to smooth things out. ‘I intend to
introduce a clear desk policy. Have you any idea how much a data protection breach would
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cost, financially and reputationally? Everything confidential must be locked away. Your first
job this morning is to clear your desk.’
She focused on her screen and started typing before I could tell her that I was fully
aware of the rules and regulations concerning data protection, and that whilst my desk may
look untidy, there was nothing confidential on there. I walked back out to my cubbyhole and
glanced over at the desk. Perhaps untidy was an understatement. How long had it been since I
last sorted through the piles of stationery catalogues, magazines and junk mail? Mrs Armstrong
had kept me too busy. Well, I would soon show Jo Blair that a clear desk policy held no fear
for me …
It was lunchtime before I could catch up with Tina, and she did a double take when she
saw me sitting behind my immaculate desk. I had reproduced Jo’s minimalist look to
perfection, with the exception of the photo of Caitlyn beside the computer monitor. No amount
of arm-folding or disapproving looks would persuade me to part with that.
‘Have you been fired?’ Tina asked, goggling at the expanse of clear desk between us.
Not even a paperclip besmirched the tidiness now. Of course, the desk drawers were bulging,
but Jo couldn’t take control of those too, could she? ‘Have you managed to irritate our new
boss already?’
‘It wouldn’t take much, would it? She’s not fired me yet, but I’m wondering if it’s only
a matter of time. We’ve worked together for one morning, and so far, she’s objected to the state
of my desk, the smell of my peppermint tea, that I didn’t divert my phone when I nipped away
for two minutes to go to the loo, and that she doesn’t like the way the computer files are labelled
and arranged. She’s also told me that I won’t need to do any more typing for her, as she has a
digital dictation system on her computer, which is more
efficient. If I hear the word efficient
one more time, I’ll …’
The door to the corridor was flung open and Jo strode in, abruptly cutting off my rant.
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‘The lunch system is inefficient,’ she said. ‘There’s a queue halfway down the corridor,
and staff members are wasting time having to police it. Make a note for the next staff meeting.’
I nodded but didn’t move, and she continued to stare at me until I reluctantly opened a
drawer a crack to try to remove a notebook and pen without her noticing the untidy state of the
drawer.
‘Can I help you? Mrs Wade, isn’t it? History?’ she said to Tina. Assuming Tina had
only come around to gossip, I began to give a spurious excuse for her presence, but she waved
at me to stop.
‘I have some excellent news, Ms Blair,’ she said, in a fawning manner that I thought
unworthy of her. She held up a sheet of paper that I hadn’t noticed before. ‘The popular TV
archaeologist Paddy Friel has agreed to come and give a talk one evening. It’s excellent
publicity for the school, and a great enrichment event for the students.’
‘We won’t be able to fit it in,’ I said, glaring at Tina. How could she go ahead with this,
after what I had told her about Paddy? ‘Next term is too busy already, with the prize-giving
and end-of-year musical evenings, and the hall will be set up for exams for most of the time.’
‘I know all that, so I begged him nicely and he’s agreed to come in the last week of this
term. Isn’t that great?’
The last week of term? There were only two weeks left until we broke up for the Easter
holidays, which meant Paddy would be coming in next week. That was too short notice to
arrange an event with anyone, let alone with someone I didn’t want to see within twenty miles
of here.
‘That doesn’t give us time to organise it,’ I said. ‘It’s not just a question of advertising
the event, but we need to make arrangements for school to be open late, and for staff members
to stay behind … Think of the costs for the small benefit it might have.’
A Dozen Second Chances (ARC) Page 5
