Martin’s raised hands said ‘stop’. ‘We’ll talk about it in my office.’
Reading hour dragged interminably. Olivia could think about nothing but ‘the development’. What was so serious that Geoffrey had to be summoned? Dread accumulated in the pit of her stomach. When the bell rang for end of class, she braced herself for whatever lay ahead, half anxious to know, half not wanting to know.
Geoffrey was already there, in conversation with Claire Heather. Olivia threw him an unconvincing smile and he arched an eyebrow, as if to ask what was going on? She shrugged. Martin opened his door and invited them to step inside. Claire Heather’s quizzical glance said it all. What now?
Martin looked grave as he gestured for them to take a seat.
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news,’ he said. ‘The Burtons have involved the police.’
Olivia turned from Martin to Geoffrey. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘They want Edward charged with assault.’
Olivia hadn’t cried when Geoffrey told her about the bailiffs, nor when their belongings were driven away in a lorry. She sulked when Edward was around and rowed with Geoffrey when he wasn’t, but she vented without recourse to tears. Even the night he’d left her at St Bede’s, she had only allowed herself a few token tears of self-pity before she pulled herself together and resolved to make the best of it. But this – this was too much. Martin offered her a tissue from a box on his desk.
‘Please, take a moment to compose yourself,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask Mrs Heather to organise some tea.’
Martin could have picked up the phone but tactfully stepped outside, leaving Olivia and Geoffrey alone. He put his arm round her.
‘What’s happening to us, to our family?’ she said. ‘Why is everything going wrong?’
Geoffrey had no words of comfort. As a rule she disliked bland platitudes – it’ll be OK, everything will be all right, etcetera – but would have made an exception on this occasion.
Martin returned with a tray of tea and biscuits, the English answer to everything. Olivia blew her nose and mumbled an apology, which Martin dismissed with a sympathetic smile.
‘Can the Burtons be dissuaded?’ asked Geoffrey, taking a cup and saucer from the tray.
‘They’ve already made a complaint,’ said Martin. ‘Toby Burton called yesterday and told me himself. I tried to reason with him but he seemed determined.’
Olivia could feel herself unravelling again and reached for another tissue. ‘I know it was wrong of Edward to hit Freddie,’ she said. ‘But surely it’s not a police matter – just boys being boys.’
Martin sipped his tea and considered this. ‘It seems unlikely they will press charges,’ he said. ‘As you say, it was essentially a quarrel that got out of hand. However, Freddie was injured.’
‘What if I speak to Toby Burton?’ said Geoffrey. ‘Or maybe you could ask Ruth to talk to the mother – Alicia, is it?’
‘I will certainly ask Ruth if she would intervene on Edward’s behalf,’ said Martin, ‘but I think it’s Mr Burton who’s the problem. Just between ourselves, I got the impression he was angry that Freddie had come off worse.’
Male pride – really? Edward might end up in juvenile court because Toby Burton couldn’t bear to think of his son losing a fight. She remembered him on sports day, bellowing for Freddie to win every race.
‘I’ll talk to him,’ she said. Martin and Geoffrey stared at her. ‘Toby Burton – appeal to his vanity, his better nature; throw myself on his mercy if I have to. I’ll remind him I saved Freddie’s life.’
‘Well, that’s up to you, of course,’ said Martin. ‘But if you remember how adamantly he blamed the school for Freddie’s accident, for want of a better word, I do wonder if bringing it up again would be wise?’
Olivia thought about this for a moment. Alicia Burton had come to St Bede’s to thank her in person. Not a single word from Toby Burton.
‘But in the meantime,’ said Martin, ‘I would ask that you speak with Edward. I think it should come from you. He ought to be waiting in his dorm.’
‘Thank you,’ said Olivia, more composed now, but she pulled a handful of tissues from the box on Martin’s desk, just in case.
*
Edward looked so lost sitting all alone on his bed, his beloved Manchester United duvet crumpled beneath him. His hands lay restless in his lap, thumbs twiddling round and round. Olivia and Geoffrey sat down on the next bed, each waiting for the other to speak. Geoffrey went first.
‘I don’t know how much the headmaster has told you,’ he began gently, ‘but Freddie Burton’s parents have made a formal complaint.’
‘I know,’ said Edward, gazing at his hands.
His nails were bitten. When did Edward start biting his nails? He picked at a ragged cuticle and winced.
‘Freddie told me,’ he said. ‘Am I in a lot of trouble?’
He addressed his question to Olivia, who didn’t trust herself to speak. She turned her head to Geoffrey.
‘We’re hoping it won’t come to anything,’ he said.
Edward chewed at the raw skin around his thumbnail. Olivia couldn’t help herself – she reached over and gently moved his hand from his mouth like she used to when he was a toddler.
‘What happens now?’ he asked.
Olivia kept hold of his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. ‘Mrs Rutherford is going to speak to Mrs Burton and I’m going to speak to Mr Burton,’ she said in the soothing, nursery voice she used with Alice Rutherford.
‘Don’t,’ he said, alarmed.
‘Why not?’
Edward lowered his eyes and mumbled. ‘He called you a MILF.’
Had she heard correctly? She looked at Geoffrey.
‘Is that what you were fighting about?’ asked Geoffrey, his face flushing crimson.
A mute Edward picked at the cuticle again, this time drawing a speck of blood. Olivia wasn’t sure which shocked her more: to be referred to in that way by a St Bede’s parent, or that Edward knew what it meant. And yes, it was crass and even a little creepy that Toby Burton would make such an inappropriate comment to his twelve-year-old son, but it did explain why Edward had behaved the way he had. Imagine hearing that his mother was a MILF – such a vile acronym. And knowing Freddie, he would have enjoyed spelling it out. Olivia could just imagine him taunting Edward. Now she was even more determined to confront Toby Burton and shame him into dropping the complaint. Edward had stood up for her and she would stand up for him.
*
The café’s windows dripped with condensation, marring the view of Axbridge’s historic town centre. Olivia and Lorna used to bring the children here in the school holidays. Olivia tried calling her but when she didn’t pick up, left a message: I’m meeting someone in Axbridge but maybe we can get together afterwards. It’d be good to see you.
She put her phone on silent and ordered a cappuccino from the dewy-faced waitress, her prettiness spoiled by a tattoo that seemed to have colonised one side of her neck. A giant cobweb? Some sort of mesh? Olivia didn’t understand the appeal. She envisaged future generations of grandmothers still branded with what they’d considered to be cool thirty or forty years before.
A small bell on the café door announced Toby Burton’s arrival. He scanned the room, stuffy under heavy beams and a low ceiling, before locking eyes with Olivia. No smile, just a quick nod of acknowledgement. He wore the uniform of the hunting, shooting, fishing set and bore a remarkable resemblance to Freddie: same prominent eyebrows and dark, deep-set eyes. He slipped off his jacket and discarded it over the back of the chair. When the waitress offered him a menu he declined and asked for a double espresso. He watched her walk away, appraising her legs and bottom. Only when she was out of sight did he turn back to Olivia.
‘So,’ he said, evidently expecting Olivia to kick things off.
Fair enough. This had been her idea. ‘Thank you for meeting me,’ she said.
The speech she had prepared didn’t seem right now
they were face to face; too formal and evidential. She changed tack. ‘First, let me say how terribly sorry I am about what Edward did. There was no excuse for it.’
The waitress brought Burton’s coffee and this time it was her milk-white cleavage that caught his attention. Olivia waited for her to leave.
‘And I understand your anger. I would feel the same in your position.’
At this he took a hit of coffee, frowned and reached for a couple of packs of sugar.
‘However,’ she continued, ‘Edward has expressed genuine remorse and has been punished. I can’t see what’s to be gained by involving the police.’
Burton finished stirring and put down his spoon. ‘What he did constitutes assault. Do you think he should get away with it?’
Olivia needed a moment to get the words right in her head so ran her fingers through her hair, pulling a handful of blonde waves casually over her shoulder. That got his attention.
‘He was provoked,’ she said.
Burton sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. She wanted to be wrong, but got the impression he was enjoying this.
‘How so?’
Bastard. He was going to make her say it. She forced herself to look him in the eye. ‘You told Freddie I was a MILF, something he felt compelled to share with the entire changing room. I’d say that was provocation, wouldn’t you?’
Burton’s lips curled into a repellent smirk. ‘Is that what he told you?’
Was Burton trying to confuse her? Originally Geoffrey had said the argument was something to do with rugby – aggression on the pitch spilling over into the changing room. But then Edward owned up to the whole MILF thing. He wouldn’t lie, would he?
Burton uncrossed his legs and leaned towards her, so close she could smell the coffee on his breath.
‘Mrs Parry,’ he said smugly. ‘Olivia, if I may. It was your son dishing out the provocation, your son who ripped off my son’s towel, your son who pummelled my son’s face.’
His voice was quiet and controlled, but with an unmistakable edge of threat. What towel – what was he talking about? And pummelled? It was one punch. She had expected the MILF revelation to afford her the moral high ground, but maybe Edward had lied to her. Toby Burton obviously knew something she didn’t.
The waitress asked if she could get them anything else. Burton ordered another espresso and smiled at an elderly couple on the next table, who, in lieu of conversation of their own, appeared engrossed in theirs. In Burton’s version of events Edward sounded like a common thug. This wasn’t going well at all and Olivia was about to play her trump card – remind Burton who it was that had found Freddie hanging from a coat hook and saved his life – when his mood inexplicably lightened.
‘Relax,’ he said. ‘You were right about the police. An overreaction on my part.’
Had he just given her what she wanted?
The elderly couple got up to leave; a slow and laborious process assisted by Toby Burton. Olivia watched in mild amazement as he helped them move their chairs and put on their coats, then held the door open for them. Sleazy guy to nice guy in under sixty seconds. He slipped back into his seat.
‘Well,’ said Olivia, confused but determined not to show it. She should quit while she was ahead. ‘Thank you for understanding.’
Burton’s leering smile made her long for piping hot water and lots of soap. She checked her watch with feigned resignation.
‘I have to get back to school.’
When she reached into her bag and pulled out her purse, he laid his hand on hers: a dense, clammy weight. ‘Allow me,’ he said.
She slipped her hand from underneath his, smoothly, so as not to offend. He walked her to the door, just as he had the elderly couple. With his chapped lips almost touching her ear, he said, ‘In the spirit of full disclosure, I should point out that it was Freddie, not me, who called you a MILF.’ He straightened himself up. ‘The boy has taste.’
*
Olivia didn’t know how long she had sat there, watching sleet spill from a blank sky. Wet flakes tried and failed to settle on the windscreen, forming tiny tributaries that made her think of tears. She ached to go home but no longer had a home.
When Geoffrey phoned he said she sounded strange. Did that bastard Toby Burton upset you? She didn’t want to talk about it. Mission accomplished, she told Geoffrey, trying to sound a whole lot better than she felt.
Dusk blotted out the dull excuse for daylight. A traffic warden walked towards her car – ten minutes left on the ticket. She was waiting for Lorna to call back but gave up and called her again.
‘Did you get my message?’ asked Olivia when Lorna answered.
‘What message?’
‘I’m in Axbridge – wondered if you had time for a coffee?’
‘I can’t. Josh and Lily just got home.’
‘Isn’t Johnny there?’
‘Johnny’s leaving.’
Ten
‘Were you going to tell me?’
Geoffrey had barely walked in the front door before his mother ambushed him. Ever since the ill-advised conversation about selling the Rectory she had been noticeably frosty.
‘Tell you what?’
‘That Edward was in some sort of trouble.’
She looked at him and waited. When Geoffrey didn’t immediately respond – busy checking his pockets, taking off his jacket, finding a place for it on the coat stand – his mother ploughed on.
‘Fighting?’ she said. ‘Like some sort of delinquent. What on earth has got into him?’
Geoffrey was trying hard not to think about what might have got into him. He dropped his keys on the heavy walnut sideboard. Family heirloom – ugly thing.
‘Claire Heather, I assume. So much for confidentiality.’
He had no idea if school secretaries were bound by a code of confidentiality but felt they should be. His mother sniffed defensively.
‘I called her about the village newsletter and she mentioned you and Olivia had been in to see the headmaster.’
‘It’s all been sorted out,’ said Geoffrey.
No thanks to him. That Olivia had dealt with it was particularly emasculating. Geoffrey should have been the one squaring up to Freddie Burton’s bully-boy father, man to man.
In the quiet solitude of the study, Geoffrey brooded. The question of how to dig himself out of the shit had consumed him for months and he always came up with the same answer – money. But it was starting to dawn on him that it wasn’t that simple. Even a huge lottery win wouldn’t magically heal his damaged reputation, his friendships, his relationship with Olivia. It wouldn’t bring his father back.
Geoffrey had finally begun to realise that material concerns and emotional concerns were qualitatively different. With money he could pay his debts, get another house and end the physical separation from Olivia. But what about their emotional separation? They hardly spoke – although that wasn’t usually through choice – and hadn’t made love in three months. Would money mend their marriage? And if it did, what did that say about their marriage?
A black and white photograph of his parents on their wedding day hung on the opposite wall. It was hard to imagine them young and in love. He barely recognised them. His mother was thirty-seven when she gave birth; his father two years older. On his first day at school, Geoffrey came running out with a drawing he’d done and scanned the group of waiting mothers for his own. He distinctly remembered thinking she looked old and rather stern, and wondering what it would be like to go home with one of the young, smiley mothers instead.
The days when his father collected him were a rare and wonderful treat. His father wasn’t young either but he was smiley. Geoffrey would gabble on about what lessons he’d had, what he’d eaten for lunch, who he’d played with at break, his father supremely interested in the minutiae of his day. As a boy, the way Geoffrey loved his father was so real and immediate it felt big inside him, like when he stuffed himself with ice cream and fizzy pop. Even at a very young ag
e, Geoffrey sensed his mother’s presence enforced a subtle form of restraint: don’t laugh too loud, don’t run too fast, don’t love too much. With his father, there was no restraint. Sometimes missing him felt like being underwater: the weight, the silence, the lack of air.
Not everything could be solved with money.
*
A swirl of snow had fallen on ice, rendering the lanes glassy and lethal. The car skidded twice before Geoffrey adjusted his speed to match the conditions. What was the hurry anyway? He wished he had never agreed to coach the rugby team, now captained by the perfidious Freddie Burton while Edward was exiled to the library.
Geoffrey managed to swallow his feelings, though, and other than a bad tackle by Finn Harding, who remonstrated aggressively when Geoffrey threatened to take him off, the training session was uneventful. Geoffrey spent the last five minutes talking them through their positions for Saturday’s match against Colstons, then dismissed them. It was as they made their way towards the school building that he overheard Ben Scott-Lessing ask Freddie how he would feel next week when Goldilocks was back in the team. Geoffrey didn’t catch Freddie’s reply but it made the other boys howl with laughter. An incensed Geoffrey was about to tear into them when he spotted Olivia heading in their direction. It took a lot of restraint for him to walk straight past the ingrates laughing at his son, and the anger must have shown in his face because Olivia mouthed ‘What’s wrong?’ as she approached.
‘Freddie fucking Burton.’
‘Geoffrey,’ she hissed. ‘You can’t use that language here. Suppose someone heard you?’
He took a lungful of air, held it for a few seconds, then exhaled. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘He’s just the most insufferable little cunt.’
‘Geoffrey!’
‘Sorry, sorry. You’re right.’
‘You can’t say that, especially about a child.’
He nodded. ‘I know. I’m sorry. He winds me up.’
Olivia took his arm. ‘Tell me over coffee,’ she said, turning back towards the school.
It wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have in the staffroom, so he told her as they walked.
An Unsuitable Marriage Page 15
