Head Start

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Could you tell me why you and he were seen laughing and joking with each other last night?’

  Who on earth could have seen us and snitched? ‘Yesterday evening we were dealing with some rubbish I couldn’t carry by myself. I don’t recall any laughing and joking, as it happens – in fact, we had a very serious discussion about a confidential matter. Confidential,’ I repeated.

  He didn’t quite harrumph but would clearly have liked to. ‘I hear, by the way, that you have not taken aboard Mrs Tibbs’s criticisms about your use of school oil and electricity.’

  I looked him straight in the eye: ‘Whose criticisms would you rather I acted on, Mr Dawes’s, Mrs Tibbs’s or Ofsted’s? I simply have to work every evening. Ah, perhaps you’ve not yet heard that I don’t currently have a home to work in. No? A burst pipe has rendered the house uninhabitable.’

  ‘I heard you were camping here. Scarcely dignified behaviour, if I may say so.’

  ‘Exactly. So my current base is a hotel. I believe the letting agents are finding me a new base, albeit temporary.’ I got to my feet, smiling. ‘Thank you very much for your advice, Mr Dawes. You may rest assured that I will do everything in my power to obtain and maintain the highest standards of professionalism in my staff. As a matter of interest, I have copied you the letter I have sent to the Digbys.’

  ‘You’ve replied without even consulting me!’

  I stood. ‘Mr Dawes: if you and your colleagues did not think I was capable of running every aspect of this school, why did you appoint me?’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I neither expected nor received an answer to my question, but I was pleased to have asked it because it was one I should have put to last Saturday’s governors’ meeting. What had turned a group of perfectly decent men and women into a latter-day version of the Spanish Inquisition, and not the comic Monty Python version, either?

  It had to remain a rhetorical question. As Dawes swept out, lips zipped, the phone rang: it was Melanie to break the unwelcome news that the security firm installing the CCTV wouldn’t be able to get a vital part until late next week at the earliest.

  I could spit fire or do something useful. I did something I’d meant to do earlier – I drafted a piece for the parish mag appealing to my fellow villagers for tennis racquets and musical instruments in usable condition. That felt good too: all I needed was the editor’s email address, which I could get from Melanie at the end of her break. Riding high, I contacted Chance to Shine: it would be good to have proper cricket coaches in the summer, and their charity achieved the most amazing results.

  Ten minutes of lunchtime left? I deserved a reward. Shopping for clothes with a girlfriend would have fitted the bill nicely, but I had neither friend nor time. However, I was still a fairly standard size and could revert to the strategy I’d used when I was on the run: online shopping, delivered to the school itself. I would even go wild, and order next-day delivery. So there.

  I’d just filled my first John Lewis basket and was ready to pay when Melanie phoned through. She normally popped her head round the door: this must be serious. The Digbys were in the building.

  Should I quit now and lose all those lovely clothes? I saved the basket.

  ‘Tell them I’ll see them in ten minutes,’ I said coolly. ‘Offer them tea and a seat. And I’ll come and escort them myself.’

  I put some make-up on, not to mention my boots, which had been lurking under my chair. I cleared my desk of anything confidential. I phoned through to the staffroom to warn Tom to go straight to class. I typed with a speed that surprised me and printed off several documents.

  Only then did I sally forth.

  What Melanie hadn’t told me was that the Digbys hadn’t come alone. They’d brought a svelte, bone-thin woman in her thirties whom they introduced as their solicitor, Ms Fellows.

  At least I had a big desk to reinforce my authority. Or hide behind.

  There were only two visitors’ chairs.

  Suddenly I had another body in the room too. I’d warned Tom to make himself scarce, yet here he was, peering round my door, as penitent as it was possible to look without sackcloth and ashes. A swift look from me sent him back out again: I didn’t want him complicating the issue, or, worse still, getting drawn into whatever battle was going on that even I didn’t understand.

  I phoned through to Melanie asking her to find another chair, acknowledging as I did so that it wasn’t part of her job. And when she asked if she should bring more tea, I gave a swift negative response.

  Bless her – she brought a child’s chair. The svelte solicitor was suddenly reduced to a cartoon character, knees particularly knobbly as she tried to hitch down the sort of pencil skirt I’d seen no one except myself wear in the country. At least mine, with the accompanying stilettos as high as this woman’s, had gone into the skip with the other ruined items. Trousers and boots felt altogether more appropriate.

  With a smile, I gestured to the three of them: what did they want to say?

  Ms Fellows uttered the sort of jargon that might have made sense if written in a letter but that had very little use as an oral utterance. The Digbys frowned and nodded as if they comprehended every last phoneme.

  I reached for my pen. ‘Since I have to report this conversation to the governors and probably to the council, may I just check that I am summarising accurately? You believe that Prudence Digby has suffered lasting psychological damage as a result of hearing an offensive word? And you believe that this damage can be redressed by punitive monetary damages and the permanent removal of the speaker from his post. Is that a reasonable precis?’ I stressed the penultimate word slightly.

  Was I mistaken? Surely Fellows flashed a quickly suppressed grin.

  ‘If this is the case, you must see that I can’t continue this conversation: it is a matter for the council’s legal advisers, so I must wish you good day.’ I stood.

  They didn’t.

  So far, so good.

  ‘Perhaps you have not yet received – rural mail is so slow, isn’t it? – my formal apology for the incident. The teacher in question has accepted a written warning. The incident is on file. As Ms Fellows can tell you, this is very serious should he seek promotion here or anywhere else. On the other hand, he’s getting the school some very favourable publicity as he leads a drive to get sports equipment for us: here’s the press release sent to several local papers.’ I passed over three copies.

  Search for the next Andy Murray

  Former tennis star Tom Mason, head of sport at Wrayford Primary School, wants his young charges to follow in his footsteps. But the children of Wrayford don’t have any racquets. He’s appealing to all tennis players – past and present – in the area, to donate any racquets they no longer use, whatever condition they’re in. ‘We want to give all youngsters the chance to participate in this most wonderful game,’ says Tom, 35. ‘It helps their fitness, develops co-ordination and most of all is great fun.’

  Please contact Tom at the school if you can help.

  Ms Fellows shot the Digbys a glance. I wouldn’t give them time to exchange words, however.

  ‘But now I think we should address the issue of Prudence’s persistent lateness in class. It is rude and disruptive to enter a room when everyone else is focusing on their learning experience.’ I hated such clichés, but they deserved them for firing legal ones at me. ‘Many of her comments to and about staff are completely inappropriate, whether in front of teachers or her peers. She refuses to accept criticism: as I am sure you’re aware her handwriting is so poor that it would embarrass a Year Two child, but when offered help to improve it she declined, telling her teacher that no one needed to write by hand when computers were universal.’

  ‘That’s perfectly correct,’ Mr Digby said. ‘Who needs to worry about - what do you call them? Hooks? Loops?’

  His wife joined in. ‘When could you last read a professional’s handwriting? I mean doctors, lawyers, and so on … I’m sure you’ll agree that with
her enormous talents she’ll reach the top of her chosen profession. We thought her next school should fast-track her so she can aim for Cambridge when she’s sixteen.’

  Poor Prudence. When could she simply enjoy her childhood? But this wasn’t the time to comment on their parenting skills.

  I gave a non-committal nod. ‘She has also started to lurk in corners, behind furniture, that sort of thing, apparently the better to … I hesitate to use the word spy. Let us describe what she does as eavesdropping. You may wish to see this memorandum, the contents of which her class teacher would normally raise with you on parents’ night. There is in fact talk of referring her to an educational psychiatrist to address her behaviour, which is making her very unpopular with her classmates. If it became known that she was responsible for the departure from the school of a well-liked and very talented teacher, whose own daughter is a pupil, I cannot imagine that the children would be very happy – or their parents, for that matter, with the eleven-plus looming over them.’

  Mr Digby’s nostrils flared. ‘Are you trying to blackmail me?’

  I gave a dry smile. ‘What? In front of witnesses? I wouldn’t be so stupid. What Tom did was very wrong, very wrong indeed. There is no excuse. He hasn’t tried to make one. Within minutes he came to me to offer his sincere apologies. I’m sure he’ll offer them to you, too, for his unprofessional behaviour. But I have a feeling that when we deal with young children least said is soonest mended, if you’ll forgive the old saying. I’m not sure it would be in any way beneficial should he have to apologise face to face to a child who will be in his class next year.’

  ‘If he’s still teaching here,’ Digby growled.

  ‘And if she’s still a pupil here!’ Mrs Digby added, her voice rising in pitch. ‘If he stays, we’ll have no option but to take her away. We’ll send her to Ewen House.’

  I employed my best I-know-you’re-fibbing expression. But I said nothing. They would know what I knew.

  ‘Unfortunately the first class of the afternoon is still in progress,’ I observed, ‘but if you would like me to ask Tom to slip out for a minute or two, I could … If, however, you feel you need a longer conversation I will have to ask you to wait till the bell goes for break. We are so short-staffed, as I’m sure Mr Dawes will have told you, that I haven’t another teacher to spare to sit with the class.’ My gamble paid off: they chose the shorter option.

  Tom threatened his class with extinction if he could hear a sound when he returned to the room.

  I could have stayed on guard, of course, but I wanted to witness his apology and the Digbys’ response. He grovelled; they were appeased.

  Possibly.

  ‘What I can’t understand,’ Tom said, at the end of school, ‘is why you were prepared to put your head on the block for me.’ He was sitting, head in hands, on the chair lately occupied by Mr Digby. He was very close to tears.

  I wasn’t about to explain the principle of keeping potential enemies inside your tent pointing outwards rather than having them behaving badly on the outside. In any case, what I said was broadly true. ‘If a head can’t stand by a member of staff, we’re living in a poor world. I chose a bad moment to ask you in public what I should have asked in private, so I was at fault too. What we now need to do is work better together. I’ve emailed the press release – there’s a daily and a weekly paper, right? But I think you should contact the parish mag yourself. People in the village will know you and the personal touch will work better. Personally I’d be happy if you fronted the appeal for musical instruments too: we can’t have music in the school without hours of practice at home, can we?’

  ‘Right. Of course. Jane, I’m really, really grateful … I can’t tell you—’

  I cut him short with a grin and a wave of the hands: ‘Tom, I’ve got a really urgent issue to deal with. Go home – shoo!’

  I meant to give the impression, of course, that it was school work that was about to occupy me. There probably was something I should have been doing. But what I wanted to do was to complete my online order for new clothes. Then I could celebrate with one of Melanie’s pikelets, propping up her radiator. She joined me, as I heaped praise on her for her dealings with the Digbys: we roared with laughter at the thought of the solicitor on the tiny chair. She was careful not to comment on the way I’d resolved the situation: I had a suspicion she didn’t entirely agree with me. So I changed the subject: ‘Can I ask you for a non-school bit of information? I met an elderly lady called Meg at morning service the other day – full of life and spirit. I’d love to invite myself round for the coffee she said she always has to hand, but I don’t even know her full name.’

  The mention of my churchgoing rounded Melanie’s eyes. Then she narrowed them. ‘There are several Megs. How old is yours?’

  ‘Seventies? Lives in a very nice cottage near the church.’

  ‘That doesn’t narrow it down very far. Able-bodied?’

  ‘Helped me clear a path down Church Hill.’

  ‘Ah! Meg Webster. I’d have thought her place was not so much a cottage, more a candidate for the National Trust.’ Melanie’s tone had changed. Not for the better.

  I went into neutral-but-jolly mode, as if I was praising a child’s ugly artwork. ‘It is splendid, isn’t it? Not that I got beyond the kitchen.’ I left the sentence hanging in mid air, fishing for more information.

  ‘New money.’ A distinct note of criticism oozed out.

  Taken aback – I would have thought Melanie above such feudal distinctions – I asked mildly, ‘What was her job, then?’

  ‘No one’s quite sure. She doesn’t talk about her past.’

  That made two of us. Actually, I’d registered how cautious Meg was on my behalf. Perhaps she was a kindred spirit in more ways than one. Suddenly I was too weary to continue what seemed to have become an interrogation.

  ‘It’s time you were off, Melanie – you work such long hours we must owe you weeks of time off in lieu.’

  She blinked, jerking her head back as if attacked by a midge.

  Was this an entirely new concept? I explained how it had worked in my old schools. But I seemed to have offended her.

  ‘We don’t all work just for the money, you know.’

  ‘Who does in teaching?’ I asked mildly. ‘Melanie, are you OK? Has someone done something to annoy you? Have I offended you somehow?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Mrs Gough would have sacked Tom, whatever the repercussions.’

  ‘I don’t have that power: only the governors do. I’ll say to you what I’d say to them and what I’ve already said to the Digbys and their knobbly-kneed lawyer: with staffing this close to the bone the kids can’t afford to lose a good teacher.’ I was about to come out with the tent theory again, but I thought better of it. ‘In any other school the head could simply stand in and take classes. But tell me where I’d find the time.’ Can you believe it? I choked back a sob!

  She looked at me with less condemnation. ‘And of course it’s your first headship. Never mind, Jane, some things come more easily with experience.’ So I was half-forgiven.

  ‘And with having a roof over your head and time to buy a supply of clean clothes,’ I said affably. ‘OK, it’s really time to call it a day. I’ve got a pile of marking to do and a mountain of prep. If I need to nag other people to have up-to-date lesson plans, I can’t get behind with my own. Oh, just to let you know I’m expecting a few private deliveries here: those clothes I just mentioned. If I’m in class, could you stow everything out of sight? I don’t want any passing governor to get the impression that either of us is running a mail-order business.’

  ‘I’ve booked myself into the village pub and that’s all there is to it,’ Pat declared when he phoned that night, interrupting as I drafted a lesson on the apostrophe. ‘You don’t know about village life, that’s clear. That lot get so much as a whisper that you’ve got a bloke – they’d probably call me your fancy man – staying over at yours, your name’ll be mud. Trust me. P
lus, I shall be able to keep my ears and eyes open and see what gossip I can pick up. I’ll see you in the bar at one, OK?’

  It had to be OK. I had too much work to prepare to argue – but at least I could look forward to my clothes delivery.

  Which came, after an all-day wait, when I had sent everyone home, including Melanie, at six twenty-five. Just as I’d given up hope. Tom had dropped by a copy of the letter he’d written to the parish news. He’d got an interview with both of the local papers and a photo shoot due with one for next Tuesday. The kids had behaved and Prudence had slid into class only a minute after the others, though I had a suspicion that she’d been talking to Robert – not a good combination. I’d got a lot of marking done. So I could celebrate my last night at the Mondiale with a good long swim and an excellent meal.

  Tomorrow might be just another day but at least it promised hope in the form of Egyptian cotton sheets and a new outfit or two.

  But then, on the dot of six-thirty, came one last email, telling me that the governors wished to convene another meeting for ten the next morning.

  It’s not often I stare in disbelief. But I almost had to push my jaw back into its original place it had dropped so far.

  If I had allowed my blind fury to take over, I would have lost my job. Of course I couldn’t be there at ten: I would be moving into a temporary sanctuary. Rationally, I accepted that Brian Dawes couldn’t have known that. But I also knew that to call a meeting at such short notice, sending through the email (no agenda again) at a time when I could rightfully have left the building, was at very least unreasonable.