Wicked!

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘No,’ roared at least half the hall.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ spluttered Cindy.

  ‘As a Larkminster county councillor, you don’t seem to know what anyone’s talking about,’ cracked back Hengist to more cheers. His dark eyes had recaptured all their old sparkle. ‘It’s absolutely typical of a Lab/Lib Dim council to have no idea what other departments are up to, or to pretend they don’t to achieve their ends. This is a corrupt hung council which ought to be hung out to dry because the only thing that matters to them is selling off Larks’s ten acres of prime land and putting millions of pounds into their own and S and C Services’ pockets.’

  ‘Save our school!’ Stamp, stamp, stamp went a thunder of feet on the parquet as Emlyn grinned across at a flabbergasted Janna.

  ‘Can you tell us’ – Rupert had taken up the baton, his light, clipped, contemptuous drawl carrying just as easily round the hall – ‘why Randal Stancombe is putting up a large building for Rod Hyde to accommodate extra pupils? This building was commissioned in autumn 2002, at exactly the same time as the Review of Secondary Schools, with rigged figures, was sent out and a report, targeting Larks as the proposed choice for closure, leaked to the Gazette.’

  ‘I must protest,’ spluttered Rod Hyde.

  ‘Feel free,’ said Rupert sarcastically, ‘but first, tell us why Larks, particularly after such a good Ofsted report, was chosen to be closed down.’

  ‘Because it’s the pits,’ yelled Brute Stevens.

  As Emlyn grabbed Johnnie Fowler’s collar, Cindy saw a chance to dive in:

  ‘As I keep saying, because the people of Larkshire preferred to send their children to other local schools or, failing that, go private or out of county, rather than Larks.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ snapped Rupert. ‘Plenty of schools in Larkshire have empty desks. The difference is that Larks is sitting on twenty-two million pounds’ worth of prime land, with Gap and Borders and Waitrose nearby. S and C have had a catastrophic year; shares in all their other companies have fallen. Selling off Larks would put them nicely in the black.’

  Randal Stancombe was by now looking even less amused than Queen Victoria’s portrait, which hung on the wall at the end of his row.

  ‘How dare you make these slandewous accusations,’ squawked Ashton.

  ‘Because they’re true. You’ve targeted not the most failing school but the one that would bring in the most money. Janna Curtis has been dealt a marked card,’ said Rupert chillingly. ‘Her only crime was to succeed too well against all the odds, so her character and her school had to be repeatedly blackened by reports in your papers, Col, demoralizing pupils and staff and, in particular, changing the minds of parents intending to send their children there.’

  ‘Oh, well done, Rupert. Col the toad will soon explode,’ giggled Dora. ‘I am a poet and I do not know it.’

  ‘This is disgraceful,’ thundered Russell.

  ‘Disgraceful for Janna and Larks,’ shouted the Brigadier.

  Janna’s face was in her hands, she couldn’t believe such incredible support.

  Feral gazed at Bianca.

  ‘What are they going on about?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘This is totally out of order.’ Col Peters crashed down his hammer. ‘I hope Hengist Brett-Taylor can substantiate these accusations.’

  ‘Only too easily.’ Most of the platform, despite the heat, lost colour as, out of his inside pocket, Hengist produced a sheet of paper covered in writing and waved it at the audience. ‘This is a list of people likely to profit from the sale of Larks. The wages of Cindy, for example, will be considerably enhanced.’

  ‘How dare you?’ squawked Cindy Payne.

  ‘Shall I read it out?’

  ‘Mr Fussy doesn’t look too happy either,’ whispered Amber.

  ‘Perhaps little Gandhi needs changing,’ whispered back Dora.

  ‘Save our school!’ Stamp, stamp, stamp, thundered Larks supporters.

  ‘Well?’ taunted Hengist.

  The big hand of the hall clock was pointing directly upwards: nine o’clock. Saved by the hour and just managing to contain his fury, Col Peters gathered up his papers.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve run out of time,’ he said.

  ‘Cop out, cop out, read the list, read the list,’ roared the hall.

  ‘I have a paper to get to bed with a report of this meeting,’ Col said firmly, ‘and we mustn’t keep Sally and Hengist or Mr and Mrs Campbell-Black from their dinner party.’

  ‘Read out the list,’ shouted the Western Daily Press.

  Hengist laughed and shook his head.

  ‘Not yet. Unlike the editor of the Gazette, I feel it more honourable to substantiate rumours before spreading them.’

  ‘Where are you off to?’ asked the Stroud News as Sally and Taggie hurried towards the exit.

  ‘Highgrove,’ piped up Bianca proudly. ‘Have a lovely time, Mummy.’ Turning to Feral, she handed him three pieces of paper. ‘Here’s my number, put it in both pockets and in the pocket of your jacket, then there’s no excuse.’

  Danijela meanwhile had risen trembling to her feet.

  ‘Before we go, I am an asylum-seeker from Bosnia, we love going to Miss Curtis’s school, it is our home and best of England.’

  Janna’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Exactly,’ called out Jupiter who, having let Rupert and Hengist do his dirty work, totally distancing himself all evening, now moved in for the kill. ‘If Larks closes, all its children will have to find new schools, the teachers, cleaners and support staff new jobs. What will happen to the Shakespeare Estate without their school? Larkshire’s other schools and several greedy individuals will profit. That’s how private business works: targets must be met, so you sell off your best asset.’ The whole room had gone silent. ‘And so a whole community will be destroyed.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Save our school,’ croaked Rocky.

  ‘Janna Curtis has been dealt a marked card,’ murmured Dora to the Independent.

  ‘Let’s have a quick show of hands,’ said Cindy hastily.

  ‘Those in favour of closure?’ called out Col Peters, glancing round the hall as a lot of Rolexes and braceleted hands were held up and a County Hall minion did some cursory counting. ‘And those in favour of retaining Larks?’ Then as a forest of hands sprung up: ‘I think that gives closure a clear majority. I will convey the feeling of the hall to the appropriate authorities,’ he added and fled the hall to deafening boos.

  The place was in uproar. Hengist fighting his way towards the door met Emlyn coming back in.

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘Definitely not Oriana,’ said Emlyn, ‘it was a British soldier in a car crash, poor sod.’

  ‘Thank Christ.’ Throwing back his head, Hengist took in a great breath of relief. ‘And for you too. But, oh God, the poor man and his family. I must go and reassure Sally. See you in the morning. Thanks for everything.’

  Running through the deluge, Janna caught up with Hengist on the edge of the car park.

  ‘Thank you all ever so much,’ she stammered, ‘you were wonderful. I must have made you so late for dinner. Where did you get all that amazing info?’ Then, when Hengist laughed: ‘At least let me see that list of names.’

  ‘You can have it.’ He handed her the piece of paper. ‘It’s Dora Belvedon’s essay on why fox hunting shouldn’t be abolished. She got an A star.’

  ‘There were no names?’

  ‘Not before I began counting the people who turned green this evening. Rather a good bluff, don’t you think? I must go, darling. Just coming,’ he called to the others, waiting in Rupert’s revving up BMW.

  Desire made Janna ungracious. ‘You know how I disapprove of hunting,’ she said furiously.

  ‘Don’t look gift hunters in the mouth, you chippy child. I’ll come and see you over the weekend.’

  78

  Seeing a drenched Janna returning to the ha
ll, Emlyn assumed her air of desolation stemmed from the likely loss of her school and suggested they go and have supper.

  He swept away Janna’s protests that she had so many people to thank.

  ‘I’ve got to ferry several busloads of parents back to the Shakespeare Estate. I’ll meet you in the Dog and Duck at ten. And put something warm on.’

  The pub was packed when Janna arrived. Emlyn had already found a corner table and ordered a bottle of red and two and a half steaks for himself, Janna and Partner.

  At the next table sat a group of students from the local agricultural college and their pretty, Sloaney girlfriends, who all had long, clean streaked hair, endless jean-clad legs and were equally excited by Emlyn and Partner. ‘What a sweet little dog.’

  The men hardly gave Janna a second glance. She must make more effort. She hadn’t even bothered to comb her hair.

  ‘So exciting, this war,’ cried one of the Sloanes as the pub television was turned up for News at Ten, ‘one needn’t bother to get out a video any more.’

  ‘I feel so sorry for those poor Baghdad dogs,’ said a second, ‘that terrible howl going up just before the bombing started.’

  ‘Pretty amazing,’ said her boyfriend, ‘the way you can see the B52s leaving Fairford on television and, unlike British Rail, arriving on time in Baghdad.’

  ‘You feel so guilty sitting in a warm pub when all this is going on,’ shivered the first Sloane. ‘I’m crazy about Rageh Omar.’

  ‘Not nearly as crazy as I am about Oriana Taylor,’ said her boyfriend.

  Janna glanced at Emlyn, who put a finger to his lips.

  According to Breaking News, as it was now known, the Americans were pushing on towards Baghdad and a British soldier had been killed in a car crash. His parents, the sadness already carved into their faces, showed great fortitude.

  ‘He was such a wonderful young man,’ said the mother, ‘he’d been ten years in the army and knew it would never happen to him because he was invincible.’

  There were clips of the soldier’s divine baby and lovely blonde wife, now a widow, but so brave.

  Janna blew her nose noisily; even the Sloanes were hushed. Then it was Oriana reporting from Baghdad, her face growing thinner, paler, more shadowed by the minute and looking so beautiful – as if the stars and rockets and coloured smoke behind her were purely backdrop to enhance her fragility and the suffering and outrage in the same dark eyes as Hengist’s. Predictably her sympathies were entirely with the beleaguered Iraqis.

  ‘She’s awfully left wing,’ protested a Sloane.

  Emlyn never took his eyes off Oriana’s face.

  ‘You must be so proud,’ whispered Janna.

  Their steaks had arrived. Janna cut up Partner’s on a side plate and put it on the floor.

  ‘Oh how sweet,’ said the Sloanes, smiling at Emlyn.

  Janna, who hadn’t eaten all day, found she was starving.

  Emlyn, for once, poured his heart out, expressing his doubts that Oriana would ever settle down. ‘It’d be like caging a song bird.’

  ‘“We think caged birds sing, when indeed they cry,”’ quoted Janna. Seeing Emlyn wince, she asked quickly, ‘How did you become an item?’

  ‘More an out-of-sightem, these days,’ said Emlyn bitterly. ‘I used to glimpse her from afar at Oxford. She broke men’s hearts like Zuleika and had the added lustre of having a legendary rugby player as a father. Then, some years later, we actually met at a party, the night Tony Blair won his first election. Both euphoric; suddenly there was hope. We got hammered and ended up in bed. I couldn’t believe my luck. The first months were miraculous, but in retrospect I always made the running.’

  Janna let him bang on but finally, fed up with hearing about Oriana and having nearly finished her steak because Emlyn was doing the talking, she said, ‘That meeting was wonderful,’ and, having thanked Emlyn profusely for all his hard work, added, ‘And Hengist and Rupert really turned things round.’

  When Emlyn didn’t say anything, she glanced up and to her horror saw only pity in his eyes.

  ‘You don’t think I’m going to save Larks?’

  ‘I don’t guess so, lovely.’

  ‘But Hengist ripped them to pieces.’

  ‘Hengist is a fox, he kills for the hell of it. Tonight he got what he wanted: publicly discrediting the Lib Dems and Labour.’

  ‘You think he was only making political capital?’ Janna’s voice was rising.

  ‘No, no, he’s fond of Larks and devoted to you. But at the moment, he’s out of it. He lost Mungo, and he’s overwhelmed with terror he’s going to lose Oriana.’

  ‘But he proved S and C are crooks and in bed with the county council.’

  ‘I know, but despite the bribes they’ll dole out and the cut they’ll take for themselves, they’ll still hand over such a hefty whack to Larkshire’s schools. By not saving your school, they’ll help everyone else’s.’

  ‘Torture the one to save the half-million? Why in hell did you waste your time ferrying all those parents over?’ Realizing she was shouting she lowered her voice. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Because I couldn’t live with myself if we hadn’t tried every avenue. I’m truly sorry. I just think S and C’s minds are made up and all the protests, placards and petitions are piffle in the wind. They’re not going to change anything.’

  ‘I can’t give up.’ Janna thumped the table in real anguish. ‘I’ll sell my house or get a second mortgage. At least I must save Year Ten.’

  ‘Hush, hush.’ Emlyn came round and sat down beside her, engulfing her with a huge arm. ‘I may be wrong.’

  ‘Don’t humour me. I only need a hundred and twenty thousand to pay for a handful of staff and for a building to teach them in, just for a year. Jubilee Cottage is too tiny. Just to give them a chance of getting some GCSEs.’

  ‘Don’t be unrealistic, lovely. Have another drink.’

  ‘To hell with you, you’re so bloody defeatist!’ All Janna’s Yorkshire vowels spilt out so loudly and angrily that Partner shot off to observe battle from the knees of one of the Sloanes, who were all listening, shocked and fascinated, to every word. ‘I’m going to save Year Ten.’ Janna wriggled out from under Emlyn’s arm and, slapping thirty pounds on the table, gathered up Partner and fled into the night.

  The rain had stopped. Climbing the sky was a sad orange half-moon. With a headscarf of black cloud lining her face, she looked like an Iraqi.

  ‘Don’t bug me either,’ shouted Janna, ‘I’ve got my own war to fight.’

  Tomorrow she would seek out Randal Stancombe, who had smiled at her this evening, and ask him for help.

  She was so shattered, she didn’t check her messages until morning. The first of many was from Mags. Feral had been arrested for pulling a gun on Brute Stevens and, when grabbed by a Stancombe heavy, had misfired, taking an eye out of Queen Victoria’s portrait.

  As Feral was only fifteen he was later bailed by the Brigadier and the case adjourned.

  ‘How could you, Feral?’ stormed Janna. ‘Everything was going Larks’s way.’

  ‘Brute stole my football and he dissed Bianca,’ said Feral. ‘He called her a posh black bitch. He showed no respect.’

  ‘None of that’ll emerge till the case comes up, which’ll be too late for Larks.’

  Brigadier Woodford wasn’t pleased either.

  ‘If you don’t pull yourself together, Feral, and stop carrying guns, you’ll be in and out of prison for the rest of your life.’

  Feral chucked his jacket and jeans into the washing machine at the launderette deliberately blurring all Bianca’s numbers.

  The Gazette predictably ignored any reference to skulduggery and led on Feral being arrested in front of the Bishop and Ashton Douglas, confirming everyone’s worst fears of Larks. They also reported a show of hands in favour of closure and drew attention to Larks’s normally vocal headmistress, Janna Curtis, having no words to say in her school’s defence.

  79

>   It was not until well into the holidays that Janna screwed up courage to ring Randal Stancombe, who couldn’t have been more charming.

  ‘Come and have a drink this evening, any time after seven. I’ll warn the guy on the gate.’

  How did one dress for a man whom one wanted to convince one was worth a loan or, better still, a gift of £120,000? Peanuts to Stancombe, but the rich got rich by watching the pennies. A hundred and twenty thousand might buy another Ferrari, or a diamond necklace for Mrs Walton, both of which could be sold. You couldn’t sell Year Ten.

  At least she’d got some sleep and soaked her hair in coconut oil for twenty-four hours so it gleamed glossier than the coat of any Crufts red setter.

  She wore a brown velvet pencil skirt and a cotton jersey twin set in the same soft apricot pink as the glow which ringed the horizon as she drove towards Cavendish Plaza.

  ‘One, two, three, four, five, once I caught a big fish alive,’ sang Janna.

  Despite the deluge on the day of the public meeting, drought and late frosts, as if in sympathy with the war, had bleached the fields khaki. Hungry horses had stripped trees blown down in the gales of their dark bark, leaving pale bone below.

  On the car radio she learnt that five Americans taken prisoner had been paraded on television and that, after bashing hell out of the Iraqis for nearly three weeks, the Americans were having the temerity to bang on about the Geneva Convention. She was so ashamed it was Labour who’d taken Britain to war. Great unpatriotic cheers had gone up in the staffroom every time the Iraqis were reported as fighting back bravely.

  Stancombe, on the other hand, who was rumoured to be, among other things, an arms dealer, would probably be madly pro-war. She must keep her trap shut.

  Janna didn’t know which was more beautiful: Larkminster, gold in the setting sun, seen through Stancombe’s telescope, which was so powerful she could pick out primroses on Smokers’ and even the crumbs Wally, to distract himself from the war, was putting on the bird table, or Stancombe’s apartment itself, which was a soothing symphony of sands and terracottas with soft suede sofas, fake fur cushions and fluffy rugs. Two walls of the vast lounge were window, the other two were crammed with wonderful pictures: Rothko, Chagall, Tracey Emin, Sam Taylor-Wood, CDs largely classical and admittedly many of them still in their cellophane wrappings and surprisingly interesting books: biographies of Alan Sugar, Bill Gates and Philip Green rubbing shoulders with Louis de Bernières, Sebastian Faulks, Donna Tartt, a first edition of Lolita and even some poetry.