I wrote and discarded several drafts. At last I settled on this:
Good evening, Mr Dawes,
Thank you for calling a governors’ meeting for tomorrow. I am sure that there is plenty to discuss. In fact, it would be beneficial if we could move it back till 3 p.m., provided that that is acceptable to all those participating.
Perhaps you would be kind enough to forward the agenda so that I may obtain any information you may require to ensure an efficient use of everyone’s time.
Having called his bluff, I had, of course, to prepare for a lot of eventualities. It wasn’t until after eight that I finished. But just as I was about to sign off the computer one last time, an email arrived from Mark Stephens, Acting Secretary to the Governors. Sadly, so many people had sent in their apologies for a meeting at any time the next day, he said, that the meeting would not be quorate, and he would have to discuss rescheduling it with the Chair. If that didn’t merit one last Mondiale Prosecco I didn’t know what did.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Designer jeans might have felt right in Dove Cottage, but ordinary workaday ones didn’t. Sadly that was all I had: to my disproportionate disappointment not all of my order – which in any case didn’t run to designer jeans – had arrived. I could do very smart or very shabby: which would better fit Pat’s notion of suitable gear for a pub lunch? I settled for some fairly smart culottes, with boots, of course, and a bright cashmere scarf under my parka – the weather was threatening to blow up yet more snow, French or otherwise. Walking poles? I dismissed them as an affectation since Dove Cottage was only a few metres from the main road, where the pavement had been liberally doused with salt spray.
If the wind outside was bitter cold, The Jolly Cricketers was cosy enough, with the same roaring fire and radiators pumping out satisfactory amounts of heat. There was no sign of Pat. I opened a tab, and established myself at the table I’d chosen before, nursing a G&T.
Diane swept in as I read the menu. ‘You’ve been busy, haven’t you?’ It didn’t sound like a compliment. ‘Talk about new brooms.’ Neither did that.
I decided to take it as one. ‘I’m lucky to have such amazing staff – all so hard-working and committed.’
‘All of them?’
‘Every last one. Even the visiting teachers. Did you know the music teacher has to bring along his own music stands as well as the children’s instruments? In fact,’ I said, ‘I wonder if your customers could do something about that. We’ve put an appeal in the parish mag for instruments people don’t play any longer but would hate to throw away. But the personal touch would be so much better – if I could put a poster up in here? Even organise a fundraiser?’
‘The grass doesn’t grow under your feet, does it?’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘When were you thinking of?’
‘When’s a slack time of year for you? We’d need to get the PTA involved …’
‘And – not that it’s any of my business –the governors, I’d say. Because I might want to do a bit of a deal. We support your musicians if you support our cricketers. They’ve lost the field they used to play on – it’s all pegged out for that new housing development.’
‘And we’ve got a lovely big playing field that’s begging to be used. I’m sure we could find somewhere in the school for them to change. Diane – it’s OK to call you that? – I’m sure we could do a deal. Governors permitting, of course.’
She gave a dry grin. ‘It might not be as straightforward as that. But drop round one Monday evening – it’s usually quiet then, and we’ll talk a bit more. In the meantime, yes, you can put up a poster. I’d best get back to work.’ She bustled to the bar, all smiles, to serve Pat. ‘Room all right, Mr Webber?’
‘Excellent, thanks. Hi, Jane!’ He waved across to me.
‘I’ve set up a tab,’ I said, getting up to give him a social double-kiss.
‘In that case, half of whatever beer you recommend, please, Diane. Thanks.’
Diane fluttered in response to his smile as if he were George Clooney.
As he’d done several times in the past, Pat rolled up his sleeves (yes, it was warm enough in Dove Cottage to do that) and helped me settle in. Not that there was much to do once I’d hung up my few remaining old and the sparse new clothes in the vast wardrobe. While I loaded the triple-A washing machine, suddenly realising what a luxury it was, especially as it came with a matching tumble dryer, he simply padded round touching things. What seemed to please him most was the soft-close kitchen drawers: he opened each in turn, cooing over the contents – top-of-the-range pans and china, not just crockery – before tapping them and watching them slide home. But he also appeared to like the bathroom, and who wouldn’t? It occupied more space than the entire ground floor of the caretaker’s house, and was infinitely warmer. Without invitation he moved into the bedrooms, first the master and its en suite, then the other.
‘All very nice,’ he said. ‘But before you settle down on that sofa, let’s stretch our legs. I like walking in the snow. OK,’ he continued, almost seamlessly, as we set out across the courtyard, ‘how do you feel about the place?’
‘Amazed I should have fallen on my feet,’ I said. ‘But uneasy: why should I get such luck?’
‘It’s about time you did. But I’m not picking up happy, relieved vibes, Avo.’
‘Funnily enough, I’m not picking them up from you, either.’
He looked genuinely disconcerted. ‘Eh?’
‘Were you looking for something when you were drooling over the fittings and fitments?’ I asked bluntly.
‘Should I have been?’
‘Probably not. Sorry. It’s just me who does that: Simon’s legacy.’
He nodded. ‘Still in therapy?’
‘My Blackburn therapist is trying to refer me to a colleague the other side of Canterbury … But she’s on sabbatical till the end of February. In any case, I simply don’t have time to hurtle round the countryside just to talk to someone about my past. I’m so short of time I’ve had to buy all my replacement clothes online.’
‘Come on: you know that it’s more than just talking about your past. It’s preparing the ground for you to have a future.’ He pushed himself gently across a thickly frozen puddle. ‘Hey, people pay pounds to do this in Centenary Square in Brum. Mind you,’ he conceded, wobbling to an ungainly halt, ‘you can pay a few more quid to hire a plastic penguin to skate with and hold you up.’
I couldn’t give him a proper conducted tour round the village because I’d barely seen any of it in daylight, let alone walked round it. So we just mooched. We passed the sad empty frontage of the abandoned shop, a former branch library ripe for redevelopment, the Rectory, a magnificent Georgian building, the three Bentleys parked in front of it suggesting that this was not where Mark Stephens lived, and at last, as we approached the school, an undistinguished house admitting under its breath that it was the vicarage.
By now it was almost too dark to read the times of service on the church noticeboard, but the beams from our mobiles penetrated the condensation enough for us to decide that there was a Common Worship (whatever that was) at nine-thirty the next morning. Pat decreed that we would be there, arriving separately.
‘What’s this all about?’ I asked, stung. ‘Is there some problem with Dove Cottage? Not literary enough for you?’
‘Don’t be daft.’ He set us in motion down the lane, which was already beginning to freeze over. ‘This is a village, Avo. Like I said, I stay at yours and it’ll be all over the village. Seems to me you’ve got enough problems, girl, without carelessly adding to them. Bloody hell,’ he added, as he nearly measured his length, ‘where’s a sodding plastic penguin when you need one?’
This time the congregation was a little larger, twenty or so. Most of the ladies sported wonderful fur hats, not many faux fur either, I suspected. I wish I’d been brave enough to sport a bobble hat: as it was I was grateful for my thick crop of hair. Brian Dawes and Toby Wells took their places in the front pew. Mrs
Tibbs scuttled into the one behind them. Sadly there was no sign of Meg Webster.
I wasn’t the only one to stare when we stood to sing the first hymn. All these years that Pat had helped and supported me and to my shame I hadn’t even known he sang, let alone that he was a tenor of pretty well professional standard. The choirmaster, if that’s the term for an elderly man beating time for three equally elderly wobbly sopranos and a youngish booming alto, didn’t have my inhibitions. He turned in mid verse with the most beatific expression on his face. Once the service was over, he positively elbowed his way through the parishioners and shook Pat by the hand, almost embracing him.
I took a step back: let the two men enjoy their musical talk. Mrs Tibbs nodded at me with a social smile, but her words weren’t especially kind: ‘Still burning the midnight oil, I see?’
‘And today it’ll be a bit of afternoon oil too,’ I said affably. ‘Better the day, my mother used to say, better the deed. I’ve had no responses from parents about those disgusting football shirts and I propose to get rid of them before school tomorrow.’
‘I can’t argue with that. Such an eyesore on that house. At least no one could have seen the refuse sack.’
‘I hope not. They were so rank and smelly after their soaking I couldn’t have had them back in the building – a health hazard, I’m sure.’
‘And of course Health and Safety is king these days. Poor Mrs Gough got tired of being supposed to do risk assessments for simply everything.’
‘I’m sure every head does,’ I said diplomatically. But I said it to thin air. She had found someone else to speak to, a woman with a hat that was surely mink.
As the rest of the congregation absorbed her into their huddle – I was reminded irreverently of emperor penguins – Mark took pity on my isolation and addressed himself to me, his smile, though tired to the point of exhaustion, gently conspiratorial. He eased me towards the font, massive and surely Saxon in origin. ‘We governors rotate the role of secretary,’ he said quietly. ‘I thought it was time to exercise some common sense over these weekend meetings. If we’re not careful we shall have one every Saturday, and it happens,’ he added dryly, ‘to be the day I write my sermon.’
‘I wish I could say I was a connoisseur of sermons. But I’ve never been a churchgoer. Until now,’ I conceded, in response to his smile. ‘Anyway, it sounded very good to me: concise and beautifully argued. Who could ask for more?’
‘Taking a text from The Guardian was a bit of a risk,’ he said. ‘I knew I could get away with it with the usual stalwarts, but I didn’t expect such distinguished company.’ His eyes slid towards Dawes. You know,’ he said, unexpectedly easing us out into the icy porch, considerately closing the heavy door behind us to keep the feeble warmth inside, ‘I might like to take up your offer of the church hall for Sunday worship while the weather’s this cold. It’s not without its risks, but on the quiet I’ve sounded out some of the governors and many are sympathetic to the idea.’
‘But not all? You’d need a clear majority,’ I warned. ‘Does anyone have power of veto?’
He looked swiftly over my shoulder; the door was opening and Toby Wells shot out so fast he almost knocked Mark over. Over his shoulder he shouted something about swimming lessons.
Mark sighed. ‘I know of many parents giving up chunks of valuable weekends to get their kids to pools. And junior rugby. And cricket nets.’
‘I’ve never been one for getting fit while getting wet myself, but I can’t deny the benefits. Even if it does mean sprinting out of church,’ I said.
‘Is that friend of yours – the good-looking young man with the voice – staying long?’
‘Pat? Just for the weekend. Because we had no idea of the accommodation I was going to be offered he’s observing the proprieties and staying at The Jolly Cricketers.’
‘Oh! You’re not—?’
‘Not in that sort of relationship, no. Old friends,’ I added firmly.
‘And an old friend is better than a new lover,’ he agreed quaintly. ‘It’s a pity for the choir’s sake he’s only a visitor. If he’s kidnapped and only appears in church on Sundays, please don’t be surprised.’
‘I’ll try not to be. I just hope for your congregation’s sake that it’s for Sundays in the school hall.’
Pat insisted on a brisk walk, followed by an early lunch at the pub. I steered the conversation to him this time, in particular, of course, to his previously hidden talent.
‘What else is there I don’t know about you?’ I joked, only to see shutters of a surprising formality come down. ‘After all these years,’ I added, referring to his strange reluctance as much as the past.
‘You only know me as your support officer,’ he said.
Slapped verbally in the face, I took moments to respond. ‘Of course. We’ve always talked about my needs, my feelings. But we’ve had a lot of other conversations, Pat – about your parents wanting you to be a doctor, about your sister wanting to go into politics but pulling out when your mother got cancer. Your car crash. Your marathon training. A lot of people would say I know you quite well. But I can see now I don’t. Is there stuff you can’t tell me?’ Did he have a wife and children, for instance? And if so, how did they feel about his trotting round the countryside all hours of the night and day, and even at weekends – when there might well be children’s swimming lessons? Somehow I couldn’t ask outright. And if he had, he wasn’t going to admit it freely right now.
‘Well, I can tell you this: my gaffer wants to pull me out of what I’m doing now. With all these budget cuts there’s a dire shortage of bodies. And he reckons that now Simon’s been sent down for so long, I ought to be doing something else. I didn’t want to tell you straight out like this. I told him I wanted you to suggest it – to say that you could take your L-plates off and drive on your own now.’
My chin went up. ‘I’m sure I can.’ It’s a good job that working with kids teaches you to lie convincingly.
He touched his water glass to mine. ‘Well, I’m damned sure you can’t. Not until you’ve really found your feet in this village. And in the school. You might have that vicar eating out of your hand, but a lot more would rather bite it off. And I can’t see for the life of me why. What I’ll do is try to nip down at the end of the week – I doubt if it’ll be the whole weekend, mind – and I’ll sniff around some more.’
It sounded as if he was about to leave now, when I’d somehow persuaded myself that I had his company for the afternoon, at least. My voice as even as I could make it, I asked, ‘What has your nose told you so far?’
‘Nothing I could put my finger on, if you forgive yet another mixed metaphor. If it’s any consolation, I don’t think they’ve anything against you personally. But no small community likes change, and though you’re acting on orders from Ofsted, people don’t know that. The vicar’s not exactly Mr Popular, either: apparently even the sainted Mrs Gough had a row with him, and he only started to take occasional assemblies after she’d retired. Did you know he’s not picking up a salary or whatever the C of E calls it? He’s a “house for duty” priest – in other words, he lives rent-free in quite a nice house but pays for it by leading services and doing pastoral work.’
‘How on earth can he afford that?’ I demanded. ‘How can anyone work for free? Freeish,’ I conceded.
‘I gather he joined the church quite late in life – he’d already had another career when he had the call.’
‘It must have been a pretty lucrative one to fund – how many years of penury?’
‘Ten, fifteen years?’
‘A very lucrative one. And why stay, if he’s never really fitted in? I tell you, I won’t stay that long, unless things improve,’ I promised either him or myself. ‘Anyone else in their black books?’
‘Not by name. The question for you is whether you’re going to strike up an alliance with the vicar – safety in numbers – or whether you’re going to keep a safe distance from him.’
�
�And thus avoid adding his enemies to my existing ones? It seems sensible but not very moral. In any case, I’ve already suggested he applies to the governors for permission to use the school hall while the church boiler is out of commission.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Looks as if you’ve already nailed your colours to the mast, then.’
‘So you’re into naval as opposed to nasal metaphors now. Time – cliché alert! – for you to hit the road, isn’t it, Pat? The weather forecast’s pretty poor, isn’t it? Again!’
‘And for the next few days. Whatever happened to global warming?’
‘They decided to call it climate change – which is what this is, just that it’s cold when we’ve come to expect mildness.’
He rolled his eyes at my teacherliness. ‘And what’ll you do? Hunker down in your new palace?’
I shook my head. ‘I shall be back in school. I want to get rid of those shirts once and for all and attack another couple of boxes – either because they’re full of useless rubbish or because it’ll provide something else for our nice neighbourhood cop, PC Lloyd Davies, to worry about.’
‘More porn? Let’s hope you don’t find anything worse. And, no messing, call me or this Davies guy if you do. It’s not exactly hiding in plain sight, but it’s not a bad idea, stashing stuff in an overfull school stockroom. It’d be more sensible to sort it out during school hours, though. Wouldn’t it?’ he prompted me.
‘It would. But there aren’t exactly hours of spare time when the kids are there. And wearing gardening clothes isn’t entirely compatible with my head teacher image.’
We said an awkward farewell in the pub car park. I wasn’t at all sure what had gone wrong, and was as usual inclined to blame myself. I knew from bitter experience that the only way to stop myself going over and over every word of every conversation was to get physical. It was the stockroom for me this afternoon. Or perhaps, I thought, as the snow came down again, I should confine myself to getting rid of the noxious shirts and retreat to what was rapidly becoming a holiday igloo for the rest of the day.
Head Start Page 11
