As he often did, he ended the call just as I drew breath to protest.
A couple of hours later, I had a text: How many lengths?
Fourteen, I replied. One glass of Merlot. And an excellent steak.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fortunately I had separate insurance cover for vandalism, and the following day a new nicely anonymous silver Fiesta arrived at school during lunchtime. I left it parked with the other staff cars in the little on-site car park, which was the one place in the school with proper security – a really hefty combination padlock. The martyr half of me whispered that I ought to source cheaper accommodation; the other half knew I didn’t have time to repack and decamp, and what the hell since the problem wasn’t of my causing. I grabbed ten minutes of my lunchtime, which like any teacher’s was notional rather than actual, to go over to the house. In daylight it was easier to pick out which of my belongings I had to ditch, which I could revive and which put into store. I suppose there were about equal quantities of each. I ordered a mini-skip – no time for trips to the tip, of course – and tried to get on with my job, which this afternoon involved teaching again. As I went into class, I ran into Tom, laden with folders. Which reminded me: ‘Tom, any progress on the working party? We’ve had mice in one of the stockrooms, so God knows what lurks in the other.’
‘Let’s get this straight, Ms Cowan. I don’t have time to scratch my own fucking arse, and everyone else is as stretched as they can be. So no, I haven’t got any sodding progress to report. What do you propose to do about it? Put me in detention? Have me on litter patrol?’
‘Put a note on your file about you using unsuitable language in front of our pupils, Tom. And invite you to express the problems in writing, so I can take the problem to the governors. Your class is waiting.’
So was mine, but it would have to wait until my fury had dropped to manageable levels. My hope was that no one had heard the exchange. But I wasn’t surprised when Prudence materialised beside me like an avenging Cheshire Cat. ‘Mr Mason shouldn’t use words like that, should he, Ms Cowan? It’s very unprofessional. Are you going to suspend him? I think you ought.’
I suspected she saw the effort I was making not to lose my temper. ‘Thank you for your advice, Prudence,’ I said, with absolute calm. ‘I shall give it due consideration. Meanwhile you and I are both late for our class, which is very disrespectful to your colleagues, isn’t it? In you go.’
By the time the lesson got under way I had so much adrenalin charging through my system I was on fire – I probably gave the best lesson I’d ever taught. Fortunately. It was hard to concentrate on anything when I had the Tom Mason business hanging over me. It was almost as if he wanted to be suspended, but we were too short-staffed and there were too many other calls on my budget to contemplate doing without his services and bringing in a supply teacher to do his work. I’d gathered that Tom didn’t have too many fans on the board of governors – I’d been the only one to speak up for him. So I was tempted to phone Brian Dawes and drop the problem in his lap. If I did, Dawes would accuse me of being unable to discipline my staff; if I didn’t, and Dawes didn’t think my actions were strong enough, I’d be accused of weakness. Damned either way. Maybe a spot of lateral thinking …
What had someone once said? Make ’em laugh; make ’em cry; make ’em wait?
Tom was clearly disconcerted when, sitting him down in my office, I offered him coffee and asked what time he had to get away. Life couldn’t be easy when you had children of such different ages.
‘The youngest is in the Music and Movement club on sufferance – much too young, of course. And the others stay at their homework club till I roll up, whatever time that might be.’
‘And once you get them all home, it must be—’
‘Hell on wheels. If Naomi’s got a late surgery, I get Elly-May tea and try to shoehorn her into bed. But sometimes the older ones wind her up for the sheer hell of it, it seems to me.’
‘What time of night do you finish your marking and prep?’
‘When I’ve finished. Twelve. Or I get up at five to do a bit more.’ He suddenly remembered he was supposed to be truculent. ‘Are you about to send me on some time- management course?’
‘Can’t spare you. And everyone on the staff, including myself, would have to join you. But I can’t have you swearing at me, Tom, or rather I can – but not in front of the children. And in front of Prudence, in particular. I’m bracing myself for a shocked phone call from her horrified parents. I don’t know them well enough to know how to deal with them.’
‘You’ll probably have to give them my head on a plate.’
‘Only if they do the dance of the seven veils. Twice. So what would you do in my position?’
‘You can’t just fob them off or they’ll go straight to Dawes, and demand two heads. I’d tell them that you’ve given me a formal warning for unprofessional conduct, and I’ve given you a sincere and heartfelt apology.’
‘And have you?’
‘I suppose I have, haven’t I? I’m sorry, Ms Cowan: you’ve got enough pressure without the Digbys getting on your back. I will try to sort out a working party, but Saturday’s the one day I get to see my kids and keep them on the straight and narrow. Bloody hard when the school they go to is awash with pot and legal highs.’
‘It must be. We ought to make it a staff and their families day – have a barbecue and some fun on the sports field. Which means, according to the weather forecast, not yet.’
‘Quite. Jesus, I’ve never known snow lie as long as this down here – though someone was telling me that fifteen years ago it was eight feet deep on Church Hill.’
We shared a grimace. ‘Imagine a fine warm spring day … We could have quick cricket, and rounders. Even some tennis. Now, did you see that there’s a nationwide search for music instruments for schools – people are being asked to search their lofts for long-unplayed fiddles. Why don’t we use the parish mag to launch an appeal not just for instruments but also for tennis racquets?’
‘That’s a brilliant idea.’ He sounded sincere. Suddenly he produced an impish grin. ‘Anything I can do as immediate penance?’
Between us we managed to push and drag the boxes of books that had so offended me to the recycling bin, gasping for breath before we grabbed handfuls of books and consigned them to a more useful future. We must have dumped about fifty when Tom stopped suddenly.
‘You said you’d meant to get the kids to help you with this? It’s a good job you didn’t, Jane – look.’ He held up dog-eared copies of very old magazines. Not Beano or Bunty. Something altogether more adult. ‘Nothing compared with what you can get on the Internet, of course, but – well, I wouldn’t want my kids getting so much as a glimpse of these.’
‘Heavens: imagine if one of these got blown down the street when the bins are emptied! It’d be the Tower of London for the lot of us. I’ll shred them. Any more?’
‘Here – these look even nastier.’
We worked in silence on the second box, but found nothing else of note. As soon as we could we dived back into the warmth of the school. I switched on the shredder. ‘Tom, I want a signed witness statement from you about what we found and what we’re doing. One for you, one for me, actually. Because you never know what allegations might start flying if whoever dumped these … this … I’m sorry, I can’t think of a polite word! … whoever dumped the mags suspects we might have found them.’
The phone rang. He actually went pale. ‘That’ll be the Digbys now.’
It was.
He switched off the shredder, grabbed a piece of paper and started writing. Holding the handset from my ear, I watched. The first was the formal apology I really needed. The second was a statement explaining the circumstances of our unpleasant discovery and the action taken.
Eventually I had a chance to interrupt Mrs Digby’s impassioned flow. ‘I have Mr Mason’s letter of apology before me already, Mrs Digby. I appreciate all you say, and will do everything i
n my power to ensure that the incident is not repeated. No, I shan’t, as Prudence recommends, suspend Mr Mason. And I don’t think that asking Mr Mason to apologise to a child who should not have been listening to the conversation is appropriate. But I will discuss the matter with the governors at the earliest opportunity. Meanwhile, I am dealing with a matter of the utmost sensitivity, vital to the well-being of all the children.’
It took a little longer to end the call, and I suspected that neither of us had heard the last of the matter, but at least while I was mouthing platitudes I had come to a conclusion.
‘I’m not going to shred these, Tom. So you may have to redraft your statement. I’m going to hand them over to the police. For both our sakes. OK?’
He nodded. ‘Imagine if those had got into the kids’ hands …’
‘Quite. I know the doors to both stockrooms are always kept locked, but if you’re carrying something out someone might be tempted to take a peep. Tell you what, on your way out could you put some cones across that corridor? I’ll print off some notices saying that the corridor is out of bounds until further notice, and spell it out in kiddie-friendly language at tomorrow’s assembly.’
He managed a smile. ‘Good idea. And, you know what, if I were you I’d even text or email the parents to hammer home the point.’
‘Excellent idea. I’ll do it as soon as I’ve phoned the police. Heavens, is that the time? Go and collect your kids – you may want to wash your hands first!’
Lloyd, in civvies and nursing a lager, albeit a non-alcoholic one, made the Mondiale bar a whole lot less impersonal. His wife, Jo, a woman petite enough to make me feel like a giant, joined me in a life-enhancing prosecco. It seemed they were keen ballroom dancers, and since they were on their way back from a class in a village hall it made sense for them to break the journey here. They’d practically had individual tuition tonight, she said, since the snow had put off a lot of people.
‘It’s so hard for us, Lloyd being tall and me not tall at all,’ she said. ‘But we love it. And it’s one wonderful night together away from the children’s homework squabbles.’
Lloyd waited till we’d worn out the topic before tapping the porn mags, which he’d shoved back into the large but discreet Jiffy bag I’d brought them in. ‘As you say, there’s nothing here as bad as the stuff that’s swamped the Net. But someone might prefer others not to know it was there.’
‘And someone might have stashed other stuff there,’ I said. ‘Perhaps the stockrooms silted up accidentally with the passing of time. But they may have been deliberately crammed with rubbish to conceal this cache.’
‘If it’s anything like the schools I’ve taught in it’s just as likely to be the former,’ Jo said.
‘You’re a teacher? Why didn’t I realise? There’s usually an instant recognition – as if we all bear an otherwise invisible mark of Cain.’
‘Not any more. I had enough of teaching maths to the innumerate. So I moved to insurance. Much better paid, less stress, shorter hours – why work myself into a breakdown? Then I got made redundant.’
‘You’re a trained, qualified, experienced maths teacher? You’re a mythical creature! Actually sitting next to me!’ I fanned myself in mock shock. ‘You wouldn’t be looking for work, would you?’ Why else would Lloyd have fixed this meeting? I looked quizzically from one to the other. ‘Even as a supply teacher, though, you’d have to have an interview – the governors have removed the hire-and-fire option from my contract.’
Lloyd held up a hand. ‘Hold on, hold on – yours might not be the happiest school to work in. What if someone took against Jo like they’ve taken against you?’
I raised my hands, dropping my head in acknowledgement of a killer blow. Then I said, ‘But our maths teaching is well below par. Ofsted picked it up as one of our worst weaknesses. I have to try, don’t I?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Jo said. ‘Or we could talk about it over a meal?’ She jerked her head in the direction of the restaurant.
Lloyd produced an uxorious sigh. ‘I suppose it’ll save me having to cook.’
I was in school by six the next morning, trying to catch up on the work I should have done last night. The evening with Lloyd and Jo Davies had been a bitter-sweet experience. On the one hand I had enjoyed myself hugely, free for an hour or so from worries about my safety and with two very affable people who could well become my friends; on the other I was given a tantalising glimpse of what a loving partnership might be – and try how I might, I could never imagine letting another man get within touching distance of me.
Assuming I ever had time to meet a decent man.
First I had to deal with a silly little boy, who’d interpreted the edict I’d delivered during assembly against going down the stockroom corridor as either a challenge or an invitation to hop over Tom’s cones and my No Entry signs and go and check if the doors were locked. He wasn’t just caught in the act – he was caught in it by me.
Not surprisingly, Robert couldn’t quite explain why. His responses to my questions mostly involved the words, ‘No, Ms Cowan; not sure, Ms Cowan; sorry, Ms Cowan.’
In other words, I might have put the fear of God into him, and possibly deterred him from trying again, but I still had no idea what had motivated him. What or who. Why did his eyes keep sliding sideways, as if he was afraid that someone was listening? It was something to discuss with Helen when we broke for lunch.
There was some good news, however. It was delivered by James Ford in person just after my encounter with Robert. They had conjured up a holiday let for me just outside the village – though for a short period only, until the existing bookings had to be honoured. With luck, he added, as with very little certainty, the original property should have been repaired and dried out.
As I remained unconvinced, he produced a tablet and showed me a series of photos of delectable interiors.
‘When can I move in?’
He grinned as he picked up the ill-suppressed glee in my voice. ‘The sooner the better as far as our insurance company is concerned. Tomorrow? I could organise a welcome hamper too?’
Raising an eyebrow, I gestured at my desk. ‘I was here this morning before any sensible person had made their first cuppa of the day. I shall leave as they make their cocoa. I shall do the same tomorrow. So Saturday is the earliest I can manage. And I shall still probably need that hamper,’ I added. After all, Saturday was the day I had set aside for tackling the mess in the stockroom with Pat. Well, it would be just a different sort of mess we had to deal with – mine.
His voice was pleasantly conspiratorial. ‘I’ll make sure the hamper is a really good one. And I’ve told the holiday people you’ll be using their towels and linen, too.’
My smile at the thought of what would no doubt be an enormous thread count must have verged on the blissful. ‘And their heating? Ah, you don’t know about my theft …’ I explained.
He looked duly appalled and promised to pay for the oil tank security lock.
‘You may have to buy a new hob, too. Using more than one red ring fuses the whole house.’
‘Really? Everything’s supposed to be in good condition. I’ll mention the issue to the owner when I can reach him.’
‘Who is it, as a matter of interest?’ I asked, not quite idly.
He shook his head. ‘Some owners are happy for their tenants to know them; this one isn’t. But I assure you that I will raise your concerns as soon as I can.’ The way he looked at me was familiar: it was the way I look at children like Robert I suspect of fibbing. ‘The loft insulation … the lagging: it’s all very puzzling …’
‘It puzzles me too: if the loft and the tank were once properly lagged, I’d like to know what happened myself. I’ve a nasty feeling that you suspect it was I who stripped everything out. You do, don’t you!’
‘Actually not me. But there was someone who floated it as a possibility.’
I spread my hands. ‘Why on earth should I? And where would I put all
the lagging? In my car, which had to be towed away because someone had spiked all the tyres? In a skip? Quite noticeable. And even if I’d had an hour free to remove everything, can you tell me why I should want to? Without oil the house was freezing, and it was in my interests to save every last little therm of heat. It was so bad I spent most of my time working here – one of the governors complained about the number of hours I spent in school.’
He threw his head back and laughed. ‘I’ve never heard of a boss complaining that someone worked too hard!’ His smile faded. ‘This used to be a good little school, you know. Mrs Gough let it go, sadly – didn’t move with the times. And the best teachers left. A great shame. Anyway, I’m glad you’re going to take it in hand. Good luck to you. I’ll meet you at Dove Cottage at – say ten o’clock on Saturday morning?’
‘Aren’t we a little far south for Dove Cottage?’
To my delight he grinned. ‘So long as you don’t expect to lodge with a poet …’
‘I demand that you suspend the wretched man!’ Brian Dawes said, banging his fist on my desk and ruffling not just my temper but also two piles of paperwork and a heap of folders. ‘Immediately. As for your telling the parents that it isn’t appropriate for the fool to apologise to their daughter, what planet are you on? What if they go to the papers? What if they sue?’
‘I assured Mrs Digby that I had taken immediate and appropriate action. Tom has formally apologised. The matter is on his file. I have emailed all you governors. In truth, Mr Dawes, I hope you don’t expect me to take further action: staffing here is stretched so tightly that if I suspended him – and it would have to be on full pay, remember – the children’s education would suffer: they need solid, regular presences, not a succession of supply teachers. And, for all his faults, Tom is absolutely committed to the school. He has the sort of devotion that you can only expect of a full-time member of staff, not to mention having an enviable talent.’ Would Tom stick his neck out like that for me? I rather doubted it.
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