Wicked!

by Jilly Cooper

  Janna was heartbroken to lose Lance and Lydia, who both needed to work full time. She was, however, touched by the teachers who wanted to stay on: Mags, Cambola, Mr Mates, even Basket and Skunk, who she prayed would rise to the challenge. They were all taking early retirement, but were allowed to work two and a half days a week which was all that would be needed to cover the new Year Eleven’s GCSE syllabus. This suited Mags who had been only doing two and a half days a week anyway.

  Among the younger teachers, sweet Sophy Belvedon had opted to stay. Wally and Debbie would both remain full time and, to the delight of the children, the Brigadier and Lily, who’d both been cleared by the Criminal Records Bureau, would respectively teach history and help Mags out with French, Spanish and German.

  One of the nicest compliments came from Rowan who, having signed on for an advanced course in the summer holidays, offered to come in and teach IT.

  ‘I know we’ve had our differences,’ she told Janna, ‘but I want to see Larks through to the end and, frankly, anything’s better than looking after children full time.’

  Gloria was staying on to take PE, so apart from maths and food technology, everything was sorted.

  Everyone was being so kind; Janna couldn’t think why she couldn’t stop crying. There was the afternoon at Appletree when she was dickering over what colour to paint the new hall, when Partner shot off into the park. Janna only just had time to hide her swollen eyes behind dark glasses before he proudly led in Cadbury and Dora.

  Dora was delivering a card which said: ‘Sorry about your school, good luck, Paris’, which nearly set Janna off again.

  Dora was also in low spirits. She’d had to spend a lot of time recently counselling her brother, Dicky, because his hero David Beckham had moved to Real Madrid. She had continued to put sweets in Paris’s locker but he hardly noticed her. He had been so gorgeous as Jack Tanner in the end-of-term play, Man and Superman, it had fanned the flames of her hopeless love for him. But life must go on. Dora cleared her throat.

  ‘I feel one must put something back into the community,’ she told Janna gravely, ‘so I’d like to offer my services teaching media studies at Larks next term.’

  Janna started to laugh and found she couldn’t stop. Dora got quite huffy until Janna began to cry, whereupon Dora rushed off to the Ghost and Castle and bought her a quadruple vodka and tonic. When she assured the landlord: ‘I’m not a binge drinker, it’s for Miss Curtis, whose school has closed down,’ he quite understood.

  81

  Bianca Campbell-Black was so dazzled that Feral had defended her with a real gun at the public meeting, she sent him a new violet and Day-Glo yellow football, a diamond cross and ear studs, did no work through the summer term dreaming of him and throughout the holidays bombarded him with cards inviting him home.

  Feral longed to accept. Time and again he hitched a lift or ‘borrowed’ a car to drive over to Penscombe. On his first visit, he mistook the dear little lodge at the bottom of the drive for Bianca’s home and thought how cosily he and she could live there. But when he knocked and was told by an ancient retainer that Bianca lived in the big house at the end of an avenue of chestnuts, whose trunk shadows striped the drive like an endless old-school tie, he turned round and went home.

  On subsequent visits through the baking summer, he had borrowed Lily’s binoculars and paused on the road out of Penscombe village. Here he had gazed longingly across the valley at fields filled with horses and the long lake squirming in the sunshine beneath Rupert’s big, golden house, in the hope of catching a glimpse of Bianca, but knowing there was no way of him ever affording her, particularly as he had a court case pending, and if it was held in September he would be sixteen and named in the paper.

  Nor had life in the big golden house during the holidays been peaceful. Xavier had got an even worse report than Bianca, indicating that he hadn’t a hope of a single GCSE unless he did four or five hours’ work every day in the holidays.

  Shut away in his bedroom, ostensibly wrestling with Macbeth and the Russian Revolution one stifling mid-August afternoon, Xav looked up at the posters of Colombian beauty spots and fine-looking Colombian Indians, which his mother had had specially framed to make him proud of his origins.

  Xav was very aware of the blood of his Indian ancestors flowing through his veins, blood tainted by an excess of drink and drugs, both of which he was now illicitly indulging in. Drunk or stoned, he felt capable of anything; the sadness and terror ebbed away. He forgot he was thick, friendless and had grown fat and spotty by stuffing himself with cake and chocolate when he was coming down.

  On the wall hung a little wooden Madonna hollowed out inside to smuggle cocaine. These had been on sale in the Bogotá convent from which he and Bianca had been adopted by Rupert and Taggie. Rupert had nicked one as a souvenir and later given it to Xav, little realizing that Xav was putting it to its original use and, because Rupert himself indulged so rarely, that Xav had been regularly helping himself to his father’s stash of cocaine.

  At first, Xav had assumed people disliked him at Bagley because he was black, but seeing everyone swooning over Bianca when she arrived, he realized it was just him they didn’t like. This was reinforced when Feral, who was much blacker than Bianca, had rolled up, so agile, beautiful and larky that girls fell for him in droves, so Xav could no longer blame his colour for his not getting a girlfriend.

  Formerly his great passion and bond with Rupert had been horses, but after a horrible hunting fall in the Easter holidays, when he had smashed his elbow, he had lost his nerve and the one way he could always win his father’s respect. If he mounted a horse now, he trembled and poured with sweat. After a few abortive attempts to take him out on a lead rein, Rupert had given up and left him at home.

  Finally, Xav’s beloved, endlessly wagging, black Labrador, Bogotá, was on his rickety last legs. Rupert had never had any problem with adopting black children. Xav and Bianca were his son and daughter and that was that. Chided in the nineties by a social worker that Xav wasn’t making enough black friends, Rupert had insolently bought the boy a black Labrador puppy and called it Bogotá, after Xav’s birthplace. The puppy had ironically grown up into the best and truest friend Xav had ever had. Now Bogotá, temporarily oblivious of the arthritis that plagued him, lay snoring at Xavier’s feet.

  Rupert had been frantically busy all summer running the yard, politicking with Jupiter and Hengist and fighting off takeover bids for Venturer, the television company which he ran with his father-in-law, Declan O’Hara. Venturer was still very successful, but like all independent TV stations, was having an increasing battle attracting advertising.

  Nor did the bloodstock market ever sleep, as emails poured in from Tokyo, Dubai and Kentucky. Despite his legendary energy, chronic lack of sleep was making Rupert increasingly ratty and preoccupied, otherwise he might have attributed his son’s mood swings to more than adolescent angst.

  Hearing a terrific bang and the frenzied barking of dogs, Xav raced out on to the landing with Bogotá hobbling after him. Down the stairwell he could see his mother running white-faced out of the kitchen to be confronted by an outraged Bianca:

  ‘Daddy’s shot the television because Mr Blair’s on it. I’ll just have to go and watch Sky with the lads,’ and stormed off.

  Taggie clutched her head. She was desperately low both about Xav’s deteriorating relationship with the entire family and because she was quite incapable of helping either child with its holiday work. Her agonizing was interrupted by the telephone.

  ‘Helloo, helloo.’

  Recognizing the strangulated Adam’s apple whine of Alex Bruce, which instantly recalled her own disastrous school days, Taggie started to shake.

  ‘Just checking you’re on for our fundraiser for the new science block next week.’

  Oh God, she’d forgotten.

  ‘What date is it?’

  ‘Twenty-first of August.’

  Taggie went cold. That was Xav’s birthday; he went
berserk if it weren’t celebrated in style. Alex Bruce had caught her on the hop when, back in June, he’d issued the invitation, implying that Xavier’s behaviour wouldn’t be so ‘challenging’ or his learning difficulties so excessive if the parental back-up were more committed.

  Riddled with shame and guilt, Taggie had weakly accepted but failed to tell Rupert, who was allergic to being gazed at by mothers and forced to put one’s hand in one’s pocket, when one was already bankrupted by bloody fees.

  ‘Helloo, helloo?’ Alex was still on the line. Taggie shuddered at the thought of his pursed red lips framed by beard pressed against the receiver.

  ‘We’ll be there,’ she bleated.

  ‘Randal Stancombe’s agreed to host our promises auction. How about your spouse donating a helicopter trip to the Arc, complete with hospitality, or a peep behind the scenes at Venturer Television? Some of our parents might bid quite high for a chance to appear on Buffers.’

  ‘You’ll have to ask Rupert,’ gasped Taggie and rang off.

  Rupert, as she predicted, was insane with rage.

  ‘I’ll be in France – there’s no way I can get there before nine.’

  Taggie said she’d go on ahead, which made Rupert even crosser. He loathed his beautiful wife being out on the toot without him: predators were everywhere.

  But his rage was nothing to the sullen fury of Xav that they were abandoning him on his birthday.

  ‘I’m so sorry, darling, I muddled the dates.’

  ‘You should have known it was my birthday from the date. Not that it’s my real birthday – that’s why you don’t care.’

  ‘Don’t be bloody to Mummy,’ protested Bianca, thinking how unattractively white-tongued and covered in zits her brother looked.

  ‘You can fuck off,’ spat Xav, then, swinging back to Taggie: ‘Can I have a party at home that night?’

  Taggie quailed. ‘Of course you can, darling.’

  What the hell was Rupert going to say? Mrs Bodkin, their ancient housekeeper, was far too doddery to keep order.

  ‘Will you ask Feral?’ pleaded Bianca. ‘And Paris? If you ask Paris, Feral might easily come. Oh per-lease.’

  ‘I might.’ Xav stormed upstairs, slamming his bedroom door.

  Talk about an own goal. Pushing aside a rug and raising a floor board, he lifted out a half-empty bottle of vodka and having filled a tooth mug, hid it again.

  He had been so endlessly sulky and difficult at Bagley he had no friends to ask. Girls were repelled by him. Sweet Aysha would never be allowed out by her bullying father. The only reason boys might turn up was to have a crack at Bianca or because the mothers delivering the girls wanted to gawp at the house and his father. He could try the children of his parents’ friends: Junior, Amber, Lando and Jack Waterlane. Milly, Dicky and Dora might come. As a brown-nosing gesture, he could ask the hateful Cosmo, but they were probably all away.

  Why did his father increasingly hate leaving his dogs and horses and not take them on holidays abroad, so they could row in the Caribbean or Mauritius like everyone else’s families? Then he wouldn’t have to have a party.

  Xav took a slug of vodka, then jumped out of his skin as the door opened, but it was only Bogotá, entirely white face smiling, pink tongue hanging down like a tie, black legs going everywhere.

  ‘You can be guest of honour,’ said Xav, giving him a piece of KitKat.

  He’d better text people with invitations. He was too shy to telephone. If only Paris were still his friend, then everyone would have come.

  Over the next week no one accepted.

  ‘No one answers invitations these days,’ Bianca consoled him. Not wanting her brother to be humiliated, she wrote to Feral: ‘Xav is having a party on Thursday. Please come, he has asked Paris who would love to see you, so would I. Love, Bianca’.

  As the party approached, the spats grew worse.

  ‘How many yobs from Larks are coming?’ demanded a departing Rupert.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ stammered Taggie.

  ‘They’ll chuck all your quiches at each other. For Christ’s sake, lock up the silver and bolt all the yard doors.’

  Taggie had racked her brains what to give Xav. Before his fall, it had been anything horsey, even on occasion a horse, or a drawing by Lionel Edwards or Munnings. Soon, but not yet, it might be a puppy. Xav didn’t want clothes until he’d lost weight. Desperate to placate him, she spent far too much on DVD portables and computer games and mobiles which became cameras. As Rupert was abroad on the day of his birthday, Xav felt free to play up and hardly opened anything, which resulted in a blazing row when Bianca accused him of being an ungrateful pig.

  ‘Mummy’s spent days making yummy food and mixing this gorgeous drink.’ Bianca pointed to the Pimm’s cup floating with exotic fruit in the big blue bowl on the terrace table.

  ‘I wanted people to have Snakebite or Black Russians, not piddling fruit salad,’ snapped Xav, who’d been smoking and drinking all day to cushion himself against the nightmare ahead.

  At least it was a beautiful evening, with air balloons drifting up the valley out of a soft rose glow in the west and flocks of birds returning home from scavenging in the fields. Beyond the stables, turning poplars soared like paintbrushes dipped in gold.

  Taggie had tied scarlet and blue balloons saying ‘Happy Birthday, Xav’ on the gate and the balustrade running along the terrace, on which panted Rupert’s pack of dogs, grateful that the cruel heat of the day was subsiding.

  Rupert’s horses were still inside to protect them from the flies and because he didn’t want them galloping about, laming themselves on the rock-hard ground. From the rim of brown rush on the water’s edge, the lake could be seen to have dropped a couple of feet. Eminem on the CD player battled with the roar of combines.

  People had been invited for eight. At five minutes to, Taggie hurtled downstairs. Insufficiently dried, her dark hair fluffed out like Struwwelpeter. Her big, silver-grey eyes were red and tired. Never had her and Rupert’s huge four-poster seemed more inviting.

  ‘You look lovely,’ lied Bianca, her hands shaking as she fastened a double row of pearls round her mother’s slender neck.

  ‘And you look heavenly,’ said Taggie, very aware that her daughter was showing too much flesh in a pale pink crop-top and ice-blue shorts and wearing far too much make-up. Bianca had ironed her black curls straight, so a long lock fell over one eye. Jewelled flip-flops showed off ruby toenails and Taggie recognized her own Arpège on Bianca’s hot, excited body and her own rubies in Bianca’s ears. Rupert would have gone ballistic.

  Xav was smouldering in the doorway to the terrace.

  ‘Have a lovely evening.’ Taggie tried to kiss him, but Xav, humiliated that, in her high heels, his mother was about seven inches taller than he, shoved her away. Although longing to bury his face in her lovely, scented bosom and beg her to make the party disappear, he couldn’t thaw out.

  ‘Don’t expect we’ll be late, Daddy’ll have had a long day.’ Then when Xav mumbled about olds not spoiling the fun: ‘Don’t worry, we’ll creep in.’

  The moment his mother had left, Xav chucked a bottle of gin into the Pimm’s cup.

  82

  Over at Bagley, the Mansion, square-walled and square-windowed like a great doll’s house, was softened by floodlights. Someone had tied pink balloons to the bay trees on either side of the front door and left an empty champagne bottle in one of the dark blue tubs. From the open ground-floor windows came the yelping roar of suntanned parents being force-fed drink to elicit more generous promises later in the evening.

  On the way in Taggie bumped into dear Patience Cartwright, who, when he’d kept a pony at Bagley, had been one of the few people Xav had liked and talked to.

  ‘Summer has been rather wearying,’ Patience now confessed in her raucous voice.

  Ian had let the school to a football academy, who’d trashed the kitchens on their last night, and a youth orchestra rehearsing for a prom, which had entailed no
n-stop Stockhausen and Hindemith. ‘If only it’d been a nice Haydn symphony.’

  ‘How’s Paris getting on?’ asked Taggie, wincing at her gaunt reflection in the hall mirror.

  ‘All right.’ Patience touched wood, then, lowering her voice: ‘Could we have lunch and compare notes sometime?’

  ‘Oh, do let’s.’

  ‘Paris has been a bit up and down. We love him,’ Patience went on firmly, ‘but we’re not quite sure how much he loves us.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ sighed Taggie. Crossing her fingers, she asked: ‘Is he coming to Xav’s party?’

  ‘Oh dear, didn’t he answer? I’m so sorry. He’s going to Jack Waterlane’s. A whole crowd: Amber, Milly, Junior, Lando, Kylie, Pearl and Graffi have hired a minibus and taken sleeping bags. That’s why David Waterlane isn’t coming tonight. He won’t pay fees, let alone for promises, and he wants to keep an eye on the Canalettos.’

  Oh God, thought Taggie in horror. That lot were the core of Xav’s party.

  The next moment Daisy France-Lynch had hugged her. ‘I’ve got a message from Lando. Will you apologize profusely to Xav, but he’d already accepted Jack’s party which is only a couple of miles down the road. Cosmo and Jade are going there too.’

  Next moment Dora was offering Taggie a trayful of brimming champagne glasses. ‘Can you tell Bianca and Xav I’m terribly sorry I had to work. Mummy gives me no pocket money. Anyway, if Feral turns up, Bianca won’t have eyes for anyone else. Paris has gone to Jack Waterlane’s,’ Dora added wistfully.

  Taggie grabbed a drink, gulping down half of it. Poor, deserted Xav. She wanted to rush home to Penscombe but she had to wait for Rupert.

  Creeping into the General Bagley Room, which had just been repainted in a glowing scarlet called Firestone, appropriately since so many of the mothers had acquired spare tyres cooking three meals a day for their offspring and visiting friends all summer. Most of them hid these bulges beneath floating flower prints or white caftans to show off suntanned breasts and shoulders.