by Jilly Cooper
Everyone was listening.
‘Despite heavy borrowings at the last count the portfolio must be worth more than two billion.’
Mrs Walton was gazing across the table in wonder. That would sort out the school fees.
‘How many million times a million is that?’ hissed Janna. ‘He should be on the stage.’
‘Better on television,’ hissed back Piers. ‘You could turn him off.’
‘To what do you attribute your success?’ asked Sheena, who’d left the tape recorder running.
‘Hard work, seven days and seven nights a week.’
Stancombe checked his messages again. It was his thin line of moustache, Janna decided, like an upside-down child’s drawing of a bird in flight, which gave him a gigolo look.
‘Don’t you ever play?’ purred Mrs Walton.
‘According to Freud,’ said Janna idly, ‘work and love are the only things that matter.’
‘And children.’ Hanna smiled at Jupiter, thinking how she’d like to paint those white roses.
Stancombe glanced down at his abandoned coal heap of caviar, realizing everyone had finished.
‘I’ve had sufficient. I OD’d on beluga in St Petersburg last week.’
‘Christ, what a waste,’ exploded Jupiter.
‘Did you buy a resortski?’ enquired Janna.
Sheena was well named, she decided; she had a sheen of desirability about her but was very opinionated. As conversation became general and moved on to the war, she kept regurgitating whole paragraphs from a piece she had written on American imperialism earlier in the week.
‘Hell, isn’t she?’ muttered Piers.
As he moved on to William Morris on October: ‘How can I ever have enough of life and love?’ Janna had noticed a sweet little girl gathering up the blue glass plates. Then she realized it was Dora Belvedon, Jupiter’s stepsister, who’d emerged from the weeping willow by the lake with Bianca Campbell-Black, the day Hengist had shown her over Bagley.
Now she was bringing sliced roast beef in a rich red wine sauce round on a silver salver.
‘Hello, Dora, you’d better tell me what fork to use.’
Dora’s mouth lifted at the corner.
‘It’s very good, I tried some in the kitchen. I hear you met my brother Dicky earlier. I do hope that poor dog recovers.’
Dora loved waiting for Hengist and Sally. If she lurked and kept quiet, guests often forgot she was there, and revealed lots of saleable gossip.
Stancombe for a start was utterly gross, but good copy, and there’d been a lot about Janna Curtis in the press recently. She didn’t look pretty tonight with that schoolmarmish hair and shapeless white smock. Mrs Walton, on the other hand, was gorgeous. Stancombe clearly thought so, which might make a story: Dora bustled back to the kitchen, and taking a pad out of her coat pocket wrote ‘Randy Randal’ and vowed to ring the papers tomorrow.
20
The beef and the creamy swede purée were so utterly delicious, Janna, Sheena and Mrs Walton all simultaneously vowed to take more trouble.
‘Thomas Hood’s also brilliant on autumn,’ Piers was saying.
‘You mustn’t monopolize Janna,’ Sally called down the table.
‘He wasn’t, we’ve had a smashing time comparing notes,’ protested Janna, who had deliberately concentrated on Piers because the man on her other side was shy-makingly attractive. Outwardly unruffled as a great lion dozing in the afternoon sun, he had a spellbinding voice: deep, lilting and very Welsh, a square, ruddy face, thick blond curly hair, and lazy navy-blue eyes which turned down at the corners.
‘Welcome to Larkshire,’ said Emlyn Davies as she turned towards him. ‘How are you enjoying being a head?’
‘Not as much as I’d hoped,’ confessed Janna. ‘I keep looking back wistfully to the times when my biggest worry was getting a class through GCSE.’
Encouraged by his genuine interest, she was soon telling him all about Larks.
‘I made Paris and Feral mentors,’ she said finally. ‘I thought giving them some responsibility might make them more responsible. You know Feral?’
‘Everyone knows Feral.’
‘He and Paris are so gorgeous. All the girls are dying to be mentored by them, but Feral’s never in school and Paris has his nose in a book and tells them to eff off.’
‘Can you buttle, Emlyn?’ asked Sally a shade imperiously, ‘No one’s got a drink at your end.’
‘Feral’s a dazzling footballer,’ continued Janna when Emlyn returned. ‘If this bonding between us and Bagley takes off, would you keep an eye on him?’
‘I teach rugby.’
‘Feral could adjust, he’s so fast and can do anything with a ball. If he felt he was achieving, he might come in more often. If Feral stays away, half the school does too and we’ll never rise in the league tables.’
Emlyn put a huge hand over hers. ‘League tables are shit, so many heads fiddle them. Schools like St Jimmy’s and Searston Abbey don’t improve: they just reject low achievers. Why should anyone want difficult children if they push you to the bottom?
‘When you think of the disadvantages with which your kids from the Shakespeare Estate start, it’s as much a miracle to get five per cent of them through as it is for us and St Jimmy’s and Gillian to clock up ninety per cent. League tables are about humiliation, delving into laundry baskets and washing dirty linen in public.’
Janna was delighted by the rage in his voice.
‘How does an independent teacher understand these things?’
‘I taught in comprehensives for nearly nine years.’
‘How could you have switched over?’ cried Janna in outrage.
‘A number of reasons. I like teaching history and the national curriculum’s so prohibitive. Nor do I like being bossed around by the Council of Europe. I also like teaching rugby. Bagley was unbeaten last season. Gives you a buzz. I like the salary I get. I adore Hengist and I’m very idle. Here, I get plenty of time to play golf and fool around – “displacement activity” our deputy head Alex Bruce calls it.’ He smiled lazily down at her.
‘Most Welshmen are small, dark and handsome,’ he added, patting his beer gut. ‘I’m fair, fat and funny.’
Not handsome, decided Janna, but decidedly attractive.
She hoped he’d ask her out. As if reading her thoughts, he said, ‘You must come out with us one evening. We drink at the Rat and Groom. If you’re going to be coming to Bagley a lot, someone ought to give you a minibus.’
‘I’m not very good at getting sponsorship,’ sighed Janna, remembering Mr Tyler who’d looked like a parsnip. ‘I get bogged down by administration.’ She took a slug of red. ‘I’m even wearing my admini skirt.’
Then she noticed the red and white hairs on the black wool, gave a sob, and told Emlyn all about the poor little dog.
‘I’m going to call in on the way home. Oh dear.’ As she wiped her eyes, smudging Sally’s mascara, her elbow slid off the table.
‘I’ll drive you, I haven’t drunk much,’ said Emlyn, adding, with a slight edge to his voice, ‘Don’t want to screw up in front of the boss and his wife.’
‘How kind of you,’ cried Janna, hoping Emlyn might stop her thinking so much of Hengist.
‘Can I come too and see this dog?’ asked Dora, who was hovering with second helpings. ‘Have some more potatoes, Mr Davies, keep up your strength. We had a Labrador called Visitor,’ she told Janna, ‘who adored fireworks, saw them as coloured shooting. He used to sit barking at them, encouraging them on.’
‘Get on, Dora,’ ordered Hengist, ‘and you move on too, Emlyn, I want to sit next to Janna.’
All the men moved on two places, which meant Randal ended up on Janna’s right and, to his delight, on Mrs Walton’s left.
Hengist was shocked how wan Janna looked. He didn’t tell her about the uproar there had been from Bagley parents reluctant to have Larks tearaways let loose among their darlings.
‘How are your hands?’
‘Numbed by b
ooze and painkillers. I’m having a lovely time tonight, sorry I snapped at you earlier.’
‘It was fear biting.’
‘Everything’s been getting on top of me.’
Except a good man, thought Hengist. Then he said, ‘There’s a dinner at the Winter Gardens – tomorrow week – to plan Larkminster’s Jubilee celebrations. All the local bigwigs’ll be there. Sally can’t make it. Come with me; I’ve got to speak so I can officially announce the twinning of Larks and Bagley.’
‘How lovely. Sure I won’t lower the tone?’
‘Don’t be silly. That’s a date then. How did you like Emlyn?’
‘Wonderful.’
‘He is. We didn’t lose a match on the South African tour; the boys had a ball but never overstepped the mark. They call him Attila the Hunk. A lot of people raised eyebrows when I tried to make him a housemaster, but the boys adore him and so do the parents. Sadly he refused – said the rugger teams give him enough hassle. You know he played rugger for Wales?’
‘Goodness,’ said Janna.
‘He used to be very chippy, but with success the chips go.’
‘Am I chippy?’
‘Very, that’s why I want to ensure you’re wildly successful.’ And he smiled with such affection, Janna had to smile back.
‘Oh dear, dear,’ Piers muttered to Sheena. ‘Little Miss Curtis is going to get hurt.’
‘What d’you think of Stancombe?’ Hengist had lowered his voice.
‘Challenging,’ said Janna.
‘And deeply silly. Parents have to kill to get into one’s school; once in, men like Stancombe compete to build science blocks, sports pavilions.’
‘And an indoor riding school,’ said Dora, putting out pudding plates.
Hengist laughed and patted her arm. ‘Dora keeps me young.’
Stancombe had moved on to art. ‘I’m a big art person, Ruth. I frequently make large donations to the Tate; they’re talking of naming a staircase after me.’
‘I’ll slide down your banister any time,’ murmured Mrs Walton.
‘How about making a generous donation to Larkminster Comp?’ asked Emlyn idly. ‘And give them a minibus.’
‘Oh, hush,’ said Janna, blushes surging up her freckles.
‘What a good idea.’ Mrs Walton smiled. ‘Then they could name the bus after you.’
‘Even a second-hand one,’ suggested Hengist. ‘If Larks is bonding with Bagley, they’ll need transport.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Oh, go on, Randal,’ cooed Mrs Walton.
Stancombe was trapped. A muscle was rippling his bronzed cheek, but he was so anxious to impress her.
‘Right, you’re on, Jan.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ gasped Janna. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘Make a note of it, so you don’t forget,’ insisted Mrs Walton.
‘Larks minibus,’ wrote Stancombe on his palmtop, then looked across at Mrs Walton, the hunter setting the deer in his sights. ‘You owe me,’ he mouthed.
‘I hope he won’t pull out of this science block,’ whispered Hengist. ‘Alex Bruce insists it’ll look good on the prospectus, but oh dear me, builders in hard hats here for over a year and a sea of mud. I’ll probably have to take Stancombe’s dunderhead son as a quid pro quo, but I’m not having him on my board. And if he wants to get into Boodle’s, he’ll have to buy the building.’
‘Why are you so ungrateful?’ asked a shocked Janna.
‘At heart, I don’t trust him.’
A vibration in Stancombe’s trouser pocket signalled an incoming call. Fascinated by Stancombe’s mobile, the very latest model, which could actually take pictures and even flashed up on the screen a little photograph of who was calling, Dora shimmied forward to offer Stancombe more wine. Then she nearly dropped the bottle as a disgusting photo of a naked blonde with her legs apart indicated one of Stancombe’s girlfriends was on the line. Stancombe hastily killed the call, and started taking photographs of everyone at the table, which gave him the excuse to immortalize Mrs Walton.
All the same, thought Dora, it was a wonderful invention and would hugely help her journalistic investigations to have a little camera inside her mobile. What a good thing too that revolting Stancombe was off his grub. His untouched beef would make a terrific doggie bag for Cadbury, who didn’t like caviar.
‘My daughter Jade is in a relationship with Cosmo Rannaldini, Dame Hermione Harefield’s son,’ Stancombe was proudly telling Mrs Walton. ‘Dame Hermione was very gracious when Jade went to visit. As Milly and Jade are good friends,’ he continued, ‘I hope you’ll be able to make a long weekend skiing before Christmas.’
‘I’m sure we could fit it in.’ Mrs Walton’s exquisite complexion flushed up so gently, Stancombe could just imagine her generous, sensual mouth round his cock.
‘Come home with me tonight,’ he whispered.
‘I can’t really, Sally’s offered me a bed.’
‘It’s awfully kind of you to offer us a minibus,’ Janna told him when he finally tore himself away to talk to her. ‘I hope you haven’t been compromised.’
‘No way, I come from a poor family myself, Jan, seven of us in a tiny flat. Your kids deserve a leg-up.’
‘I’m particularly grateful for Feral Jackson’s sake . . .’ began Janna.
Stancombe choked on his drink. He’d been so knocked sideways by Mrs Walton, he’d been manoeuvred, without realizing it, into benefiting his bête noire Feral Jackson, who rampaged through the Shakespeare Estate and nearby Cavendish Plaza terrifying tenants and, only this evening, chucking around lighted fireworks.
Twigging he wasn’t exactly flavour of the month, Janna suggested Feral would behave much better if he had a focus in his life.
‘It’d better not be my Jade,’ snarled Stancombe.
‘Rugger channels boys’ aggression in an awfully positive way,’ said Sally, scenting trouble.
Fortunately Stancombe was distracted by Dora. He liked her shrill little voice, her gaucheness, untouched by masculine hand, her antagonism, her tiny breasts pushing through her blue dress, her figure which hadn’t yet decided what it was going to do with itself. He wondered if she had any pubic hairs yet. He’d met Anthea, her mother, at Speech Day, a tiny, very pretty lady. Dora was larger than her mother already. That sort of thing made a young girl feel lumpy and elephantine. Dora would benefit from a little attention.
Dora was serving white chocolate mousse with raspberry sauce when she noticed Stancombe’s hand burrowing under Mrs Walton’s green silk skirt and was so shocked she piled an Everest of mousse on to Mrs Walton’s plate.
‘Heavens, Dora,’ cried Mrs Walton, tipping half of it on to Stancombe’s plate, ‘are you trying to fatten me up?’
Dora watched appalled as Stancombe removed his hand to spoon up his mousse, then shoved it back up Mrs Walton’s skirt.
Marching furiously back to the kitchen, Dora made another note on the pad in her coat pocket, before returning with a brimming finger bowl, which she plonked in front of Stancombe. ‘Like one of these?’ she hissed.
Emlyn glanced over and roared with laughter. Everyone else was distracted by a querulous knock on the door.
One of Hengist’s tricks for keeping people on the jump was to exclude from dinner parties those who felt they should have been invited. A case in point was his deputy head: Alex Bruce, a fussy-looking man with spectacles and a thin, dark beard which ran round his chin into his brushed back hair, edging his peevish face like an oval picture frame. He now came bustling in:
‘A word please, Senior Team Leader.’
‘It can’t be that important.’ Hengist patted a chair. ‘Have a drink and sit down. You know everyone except Janna Curtis, the marvellous new head at Larks. Janna, this is Alex Bruce, the superpower behind the throne.’
Alex nodded coldly at her, and even more coldly at Mrs Walton, whose presence on the board, making things easy for Hengist and Jupiter, he bitterly resented.
This must b
e Hengist’s cross, thought Janna, the man he feared was going to strangle him in red tape. He certainly looked cross now.
‘Joan Johnson’s just been on the phone,’ Alex told Hengist. ‘She caught Amber Lloyd-Foxe and Cosmo Rannaldini snorting cocaine. Dame Hermione was incommunicado when I tried to call, but I took the liberty of suspending Amber Lloyd-Foxe. When I phoned her mother, Jane, she complained it was the middle of the night – it’s actually only eleven-thirty – and when I appraised her of the situation, she said: “How lovely, Amber can come to the Seychelles with us.” I don’t believe Jane Lloyd-Foxe was entirely sober; anyway she refused to drive over and collect Amber.’
Typical, uncaring, public-school parent, thought Janna disapprovingly.
‘I’m afraid I hit the roof, Senior Team Leader,’ went on Alex.
Cosmo Rannaldini up to no good with Amber Lloyd-Foxe? Randal was also looking furious: was his precious Jade being cheated on?
‘Shall we go upstairs?’ said Sally, glancing round at the women.
Do they still keep up that ritual? thought Janna, outraged to be dragged away, particularly when she heard Alex recommending exclusion, and Hengist replying in horror that Cosmo was an Oxbridge cert.
21
Upstairs, Sally drew Janna aside on to the blue rose-patterned window seat. ‘My dear, it’s so nice you’re here. Jolly tough assignment, Larks, but I’m sure you’ll crack it. You will come to me if I can be of any help?’
Advise me how not to fancy your husband, thought Janna.
‘I’m so glad you got on with Emlyn,’ went on Sally. ‘You must go to the cinema with him and some of the other young masters. I’m awfully fond of naughty little Piers. And you must meet our daughter.’ Sally pointed to a photograph in a silver frame on the dressing table.
‘Oriana Taylor,’ gasped Janna. ‘My God! But she’s an icon. So brave and so brilliant during September the eleventh and the war in Afghanistan. Hengist never said she was her. I didn’t realize. I’d die to meet her, and so would our kids.’
‘We must arrange something next time she’s home. Oriana is rather left-wing,’ confessed Sally. ‘Bit of a trial for her father. Having profited from a first-rate education, she now thinks we’re horribly elitist.’ Sally smiled. ‘I expect you do too. She gets into dreadful arguments with Hengist.’
