by Freya North
Miranda shrugged. ‘I'm going for a job interview.’
‘A job?’ said Nigel. ‘What sort of job?’
‘A teaching job, of course.’
‘But you already have a teaching job,’ said Nigel.
Miranda shrugged. ‘Head of English.’
‘You're Head of English here, aren't you?’ Arlo said.
‘Yes, but I don't want to base my entire career here at Roseberry Hall. Unlike you two.’
She looked at them while they looked at each other, baffled.
‘Don't know why not,’ Nigel muttered, a little affronted.
‘It's easy to forget that there's life outside Roseberry Hall,’ Miranda said.
‘But isn't the sense of belonging, of community, the point, surely?’ said Arlo.
‘You sound like the school's prospectus,’ Miranda said. ‘Anyway, how about “Good luck, Miss Oates”?’
‘Good luck, Miss Oates,’ Nigel said flatly.
‘Good luck,’ said Arlo, ‘of course good luck. But you'd be sorely missed if you left.’
Paul noticed how a sparkle enlivened Miranda's eyes, that the smile she shot over to Arlo was laced with a glance of hope.
Roseberry Hall was not a large school in terms of population, but in terms of acreage it was vast. The estate was contained, yet also heralded, by the original fine stone wall, something of a rarity in the hedge-bound locality. It was some eight feet high, crowned every few yards by a small decorative turret echoing those which were a feature of the Hall itself. From a distance and depending on the time of year, ramblers walking the Norse Lyke Wake Walk could look down on the Roseberry Hall estate in its entirety; from that perspective, the buildings and grounds and the wall running the entire perimeter resembled a well-constructed sandcastle complex. The eighteenth-century Hall itself, with its turrets and thicksilled casement windows and magnificent arched doorway, managed to be imposing in its grandeur without being intimidating. The founder of the school, Radcliff Lawrence Esq., a wealthy philanthropist whose special interests were education and architecture and the consequences of the one on the other, was sensitive to the effect that entering through that portal could have on a schoolboy. Lawrence believed that a school's job was to teach by nurturing, not by fear. A child will not want to learn in a building he is intimidated to enter; but if the building inspires awe then the passage to the classroom will be an eager one. Lawrence's ethos has lasted as well as the buildings themselves and to this day, despite the school being called Roseberry Hall Public School for Boys, the pupils themselves continue to be known as Radcliff Lawrencers.
It wasn't a league-topping school in terms of academic excellence but in terms of producing well-mannered, bright and confident boys, it was exemplary. Everyone who worked there and every parent who paid handsomely for a son to be educated there, understood this to be the higher point. Roseberry Hall wasn't about bullying astronomical grades out of the boys nor was it about saturating Oxford and Cambridge universities with alumni. Rather, the school was about not forcing a child to learn but inspiring them to want to listen. David Pinder, headmaster for over two decades, would reiterate in every speech he gave – to the boys, the parents, the governors, his staff – ‘Manners Maketh Man: our pupils join us as boys and leave us as fine young men, fully equipped to deal with the world at large.’ It was a proclamation that could be repeated by rote – by parents, pupils, governors and the staff alike. As if carrying Radcliff Lawrence's torch, Mr Pinder, with his jolly demeanour and ebullient commitment to the school, instilled in everyone connected with Roseberry Hall his belief that the school occupied an important and enviable niche within the British public boarding-school system. For the staff and the three hundred and fifty boys from the ages of eleven to eighteen, no one could doubt that the school also occupied a privileged niche of English countryside. Tucked safely and scenically into genteel grassland at the foot of the North York Moors, the school was positioned twenty minutes from stunning coastal scenery yet just a short journey to many of the most picturesque villages in the area. The lie of the land was perfect for sports: manicured pitches within the school's grounds opening out to serious cycling and running country. It was as if Roseberry Hall sat in state, receiving the varied gifts of the region. Depending on the weather conditions, even the plumes and fugs of effluence, the occasional colossal flares from the monstrous ICI works stretching for miles like a space-age city outside Middlesbrough, were considered to add drama and aesthetic intrigue to the big skies above the school.
The demarcation of work and rest was another of Radcliff Lawrence's philosophies, thus schooling was contained in either the main Hall itself or in the newer science block built sympathetically from local stone with a more modern take on the turret emblem. The boys were lodged in five accommodation houses with sizeable apartments for the house-master or mistress and their families, and lesser apartments for their deputies. The rest of the staff were scattered through the grounds, either in annexes, or in quirky little turreted follies just large enough to comprise a living room, kitchenette, small bedroom and compact shower room. Miranda Oates had a folly. Paul Glasper was deputy house-master of Armstrong House. Nigel Garton's rooms were part of the pavilion on the sports field. Arlo had a folly. Steven Hunter, the art teacher, lived above the decidedly grand boat-house. David Pinder resided in the headmaster's house, an ornate turreted cottage that looked a little like a cake. After prep each evening, the Hall was shut, as if it was as important for the building to have a rest from the scamper and flurry of school-time as it was for the community to have a break from school. If the staff wanted a place other than their private quarters to spend their evenings, they used the Old Buttery, a self-contained building whose atmosphere was part staff room, part den. It was a healthy mix of shabby old leather suites and a huge plasma screen; Cook's home-made cakes and the staff's lethal home-brew. The evening of Miranda Oates's interview, fortunately a Friday night, the Old Buttery was heaving with her colleagues glad of the excuse to test Barrel number 4 which had been fermenting since the New Year.
‘How did it go?’
‘Pretty damned well – if I say so myself.’
‘When will you know?’
‘By half-term.’
‘Have you told Pinder?’
‘He'll take it personally, you know.’
‘Bet he cajoles you into staying.’
‘Go on, Oatcake, stay!’
‘Look, I haven't got the bloody job yet!’
‘Christ, this stuff is good.’
‘Bet your new school won't have beer this brilliant.’
‘Bet it bloody will, Nige. Anyway, will you all just quit! You'll jinx me.’
‘Where's Arlo?’
‘He said he'd be along.’
‘Speak of the devil.’
Arlo arrived with a bag of tortilla chips and an affable smile to bat away the taunts and jests from colleagues already well under the influence of Barrel number 4.
‘He loves to make his entrance, does our Mr Savidge.’
‘And lo! He comes bearing gifts of frankincense, mirth and Doritos.’
‘Shit – I left the frankincense behind. But here – Doritos.’
‘Look at you, all primped and preened and perfumed. Anyone'd think you were on the pull, Savidge.’
‘Thanks, Glasper – you know I've always had a bit of a thing for you.’
Arlo held the pint glass up to the light, observing the cloudy liquid the colour of burnt caramel, the head on the beer not so much a creamy foam as a rather unnerving beige spume. ‘Barrel number 4, hey?’ He tasted it. He was never really sure if, objectively, their communal efforts at home-brewing created a great-tasting beer, nor whether, penny for pint, the financial savings were worth forsaking the excellent beer of the local pubs. But really the pleasure was in the process – the anticipation of when they would be drinking their carefully nurtured product – and ultimately the beer's status was lauded before a drop had been tasted.
‘Hey, Miranda,’ said Arlo, ‘how did it go this evening – did you get the job?’
Later, much later, with Barrel number 4 running dry, the Doritos all gone and Cook's cake nothing but crumbs on the floor, the staff congregating in the Buttery began to bid each other goodnight; envy from those who had to be on duty for Saturday morning school or sports fixtures, relief from those who didn't. Barrel number 4 had both emboldened Miranda and loosened Arlo. With the prospect of a new job, a getaway clause, she could afford to take liberties with her current position.
‘Walk me home,’ she nudged Arlo.
‘I can practically see your front door from here!’
‘I'm pissed. Give me a piggy-back. Go on.’
‘God almighty, woman, come on then.’
To depleted cheers and a drunken nudge-wink from Paul, Arlo set off from the Buttery with Miranda humped against his back. It felt weird, to him, to have such close physical contact in such a prosaic manner. But for Miranda it felt wonderful to be against the body she desired; even if her legs were being pressed slightly too tightly against his sides. She tried to cross her ankles tantalizingly close to his groin but the effects of Barrel number 4, or perhaps Arlo's stride, made this awkward. She could, though, let her lips linger enticingly close to his neck.
‘Thank you, kind sir,’ she said, her mouth just catching the back of his left ear.
‘My pleasure, milady,’ Arlo said, wondering whether it was the beer that made her feel heavier than he'd expected, or whether he simply wasn't as brawny as he used to be. ‘Here we are.’
‘Down, boy!’
‘Easy there. Well, goodnight, Miss Oates.’
‘Arlo – come in?’
Her features – illuminated becomingly by the poetry of moonlight and the effect of home-brew. His body – feeling suddenly chilled by not having her against him.
‘Me come in?’
‘Yes. Just for a mo'. I wanted to – show you something.’
Arlo glances around her room looking for what it is she might show him. Those old sepia photographs of a relative, perhaps? The two goldfish in a tank with a small fake skull as their playground? The painting on the wall, not a very good one, of Roseberry Topping? Please don't let it be her own artwork. The ethnic rug that looks slightly greasy? Not that ugly old clock. The half-bottle of blue-label vodka, perhaps?
No, Arlo. None of those. None of my things. I just want to show you that I really really fancy you.
Fuck. She's kissing me.
*
Kiss me back. Why don't you kiss me back?
‘It's late, Miranda. I really must go.’
‘No, you don't. You really can stay.’
Why are you shaking your head? Christ, I'm a sure thing, Arlo. And last time I checked I was a pretty attractive package. And I'll probably be leaving the sodding school anyway so I don't even come with any strings attached.
‘I have to go, Miranda.’
‘Well, that's a shame.’
‘It is late.’
‘Sure, Arlo, it's late.’
‘Yes, very late. But sleep well, Miranda. Sweet dreams.’
‘You could stay?’
‘No. I'd better go.’
Chapter Eleven
‘It's one minute past midnight,’ Petra says to the sleepy silence of her flat. ‘It's Friday. It's officially his birthday now.’
She sends him a happy-birthday text message and waits a long ten minutes for no reply.
She is not to know yet that the day Rob turns thirty-five will be the day that her life will change. And even then, it will take some time before she will see that the change is for the better. For now, though, she goes to sleep. Drifts off, dreamlessly, with sixteen paperbacks and almost 40 carats of tanzanite under her mattress. She doesn't sleepwalk and she wakes feeling rested and excited about the day ahead.
‘You look chipper,’ Eric said to Petra who had bounded into the studio with cappuccino for everyone, and doughnuts too.
‘It's Rob's birthday today.’
‘You're not expecting us lot to sing, are you?’ said Kitty, pointing her safety-back needle file at Petra. ‘Don't stick your tongue out at me.’
Petra laughed and stuck out her tongue again. Then, with eyes a-sparkle, she drew the velvet pouch from her bag. ‘Look.’
‘Sweet Jesus, she's brought in her tanzanite,’ said Eric, feigning a faint.
Gina, Kitty and Eric crowded round. The upper side of Petra's hand was outstretched and steady. Placed over the line between her index and middle finger, the tanzanite dazzled. The other jewellers had seen it before but still they stared, momentarily speechless, as if seeing it for the first time. Gently, Kitty took Petra's wrist and moved it so that the gem's kaleidoscopic colours shot out according to the axis.
‘I know I should be most impressed by the size of it, the cut, that it's perfect and flawless,’ Kitty said, ‘but what gets me is the colour. I've never seen colour like it.’
‘Colours,’ Eric quantified and for once Kitty didn't chip back at him.
‘Trichroic – I love that word,’ Gina said, holding out her own hand onto which Petra carefully placed the stone.
‘Part of tanzanite's great allure is that it is trichroic,’ said Petra, ‘that it actually radiates a different colour from each of its axes. It's not a trick of the light. Those different colours exist, simultaneously. Look through it this way – how vivid is this blue? Now look that way—’
‘As dreamy-violet as Elizabeth Taylor's eyes.’
‘God, you're so gay, Eric.’
‘Sod off, Kitty. It's as if a violet-blue flame burns at the heart of the stone.’
Gina had gone very quiet, mesmerized by the tanzanite nestling on her fingers. ‘And you won't sell it? You really won't sell it?’
Petra shook her head.
‘Thought not – and still no clearer what to do with it?’ Petra gazed at the stone. ‘I have ideas – but I don't know yet what this stone wants to be.’
‘It would make one huge fuck-off ring,’ Kitty laughed.
‘Isn't tanzanite too soft for rings?’ Eric asked.
‘That's a bit of a myth really,’ Petra said. ‘I mean, tanzanite is nowhere near as hard as diamonds – but it's still a 6–7 on the Mohs scale so it's hardly soft.’
‘Shaun Leane produced some stunning rings with tanzanite.’
‘But I don't know if my tanzanite wants to be a ring. I feel it should be seen in the round. Somehow.’
Gina passed the stone to Kitty who smiled and smiled, a warm gentleness washing over her face as she gazed into the depths of the stone. ‘It seems to go on forever,’ she said.
‘I think it was of its time to leave the pavilion at the base open, not finish it to a precise ridge or point – possibly because they didn't have the cutting technology in the 1960s that they have nowadays. But in all other respects, the proportions of the cut are near perfect.’
Kitty admired the flat table at the topmost part of the stone, then the crown facets, the girdle, the pavilion.
‘My go,’ said Eric, who held it up to the natural light, moving it between finger and thumb so that colour and light and energy shot out. He draped the velvet pouch over an upturned plastic cup and balanced the tanzanite on top. ‘If that's not the ultimate touchstone of inspiration for us all today, then what is!’
And they set to work. Every now and then looking up intentionally or otherwise to catch sight of the rare profound blueness, the flashes of violet, the sparkle and the beauty. The gem seemed to hum, to have a resonance that flowed into the room and touched the tools, charging the jewellers' hands as they worked.
‘The thing is, even when you've made it up into something – will you actually be able to sell it then?’
‘It depends if I win the lottery in the meantime,’ said Petra.
Mid-afternoon, Petra announced that she was sloping off. ‘And the tanzanite is coming with me.’
‘Spoilsport,’ pouted Eric.
&n
bsp; ‘Don't stick your tongue out at Petra,’ Kitty barked.
‘I'm taking it straight back to my bedroom. Then I'm going to nip round to Rob's flat before I meet him in town this evening. You know – scatter rose petals, put champagne on ice, a silk blindfold on fresh sheets.’ Though she said it lightly, Petra's Studio Three could see how earnest she was.
‘He doesn't deserve you,’ Gina said, so kindly that Petra heard it only as a compliment. And though Kitty made vomiting gestures, she did so with a soft wink.
‘Well, have a lovely time,’ Eric smiled but with a sly barb to his voice. ‘You can thrill us with the details when we see you on Monday morning.’
Petals. Can one actually buy petals or must I demolish entire flower heads? Do roses have a season? How far will the petals from a dozen roses stretch? Perhaps I ought to buy two dozen. And will they still be fresh and fragrant by late tonight or might they wilt and discolour? How can I prevent that? Perhaps I should ask the florist for the tricks of the trade. A florist or a wedding specialist. Or a romantic novelist. Oh shut up, me.
Champagne. I don't really know much about champagne because I don't really like it. But Rob does. Isn't Bollinger a bit clichéd? Bolly this, bolly that? I could buy pink champagne to colour-coordinate with the rose petals but Rob probably won't notice that. And perhaps pink champagne is naff. Look at the choice, even here in my local offy. I can't pronounce that one – but fortunately I can reach it. It's pretty expensive so it must be good.
I'll take my Diptyque candle – and some matches – and I'll light it as soon as we're through the front door. Chocolates! Hand-made truffles! There's that shop in Islington – it's walking distance from Rob's. I'll go there on my way to his.
What else what else what else.
Does Rob have a bucket?
Music! I can't work his iPod so I'd better set up a CD and then all I'll have to do is press Play when we get back later.
Play indeed. This is fun! I hope he'll love it. I hope it touches him. I hope he'll really love me for it.
