Wicked!

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘“Like an unbodied joy whose race has just begun”,’ murmured Theo.

  ‘Lovely little bottom,’ sighed Artie.

  Northcliffe growled at the sight of a passing Cadbury. Boffin clamped his hands over his eyes in horror. Anthea, who had been upstaging Poppet, turned back to the pitch.

  ‘Oh look, a streaker, how common. We should never have allowed this bonding with Larks!’ Then she gave an almighty squawk: ‘My God, it’s Dora. Dicky! Randal! Do something!’

  Randal, only too happy to show how fit he was, set off in pursuit.

  ‘“The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,”’ murmured Ian Cartwright.

  Hot on Randal’s heels came Joan. ‘Dora Belvedon,’ she bellowed, ‘come here at once.’

  ‘Sit!’ howled Cosmo to roars of laughter. ‘Stay!’

  Evading capture, circling, Dora galloped up to Paris.

  ‘Get your stupid finger out,’ she panted, breasts quivering, face red from running, eyes flashing, hair escaping from her plaits. ‘You’ve got to loosen up and win this game. You can’t let Feral beat you.’

  As she slid to her knees in the mud, pretending to shake an imaginary football shirt at the crowd, Paris started to laugh. Then he heard footsteps and caught a whiff of aftershave; Randal was thundering in from the left, Joan, like the Paddington-Larkminster Intercity, from the right.

  ‘Come here,’ yelled Randal.

  ‘Come here,’ bellowed Joan.

  The crowd were in uproar. Both Hengist and Emlyn tried to contain their laughter as Dora gave her pursuers the slip again.

  Scenting danger, detesting Randal, Paris tugged off his sea-blue shirt to more wolf whistles and belted after Dora, grabbing her and forcing the shirt over her head, but having to loosen his grip as he tried to shove both her arms in. Next moment Dora had scuttled off giggling – slap into Randal.

  Alas, in the slippery patch near the goalposts, Randal’s Guccis had no grip, and he slid past her flat on his back, covering his lovely new suit in mud. The press went berserk.

  ‘This is the way the gentlemen ride,’ shouted Amber, ‘gallopy, gallopy, gallopy and down in the mud.’

  ‘That ain’t no gentleman,’ said Cosmo, topping up Mrs Walton’s glass.

  Dora, running away, turned to laugh, and promptly hit the buffers of Primrose Duddon’s vast bosom.

  ‘I’ve got her, JJ.’

  Thundering up, Joan flung her duffel coat round a frantically wriggling Dora.

  ‘How dare you bring Boudicca into disrepute?’

  ‘I had to jolt Paris out of his despair.’

  ‘This way, Dora, to me, Dora,’ yelled the photographers, as, clapping and punching the air, Dora allowed herself to be frogmarched up to Anthea.

  ‘Take your daughter home, Lady Belvedon.’

  ‘You little slut,’ hissed Anthea, and the next minute had slapped Dora viciously across the face, then again with the back of her hand, catching Dora’s pink cheek with Randal’s huge sapphire, so blood spurted down Joan’s duffel coat and Paris’s blue rugby shirt underneath.

  ‘Stop that.’ Outraged, Janna shot forward. But Cadbury was quicker. Leaping to the defence of his mistress, he threatened Anthea’s tiny ankle with his big white teeth, making her scream her head off.

  ‘Get away, you brute.’ Randal, racing up, aimed a vicious kick at Cadbury.

  ‘Don’t you hurt my dog,’ squealed Dora, kicking Randal in the ankle, spurting blood all over the part of his white suit that wasn’t coated in mud, before grabbing Cadbury by the collar.

  On cue, Partner, who’d been chatting up his old friend Elaine, rushed up to Cadbury, jumping up and down, licking his ears in congratulation.

  ‘My leg,’ shrieked Anthea, pretending to faint into Alex Bruce’s skinny arms, as a tiny drop of blood seeped through her flesh-coloured hold-ups. ‘I must have a tetanus jab.’

  ‘And a tourniquet,’ murmured Amber.

  Randal was howling abuse at Cadbury and Dora. It took Hengist to restore order.

  ‘Neither you nor Dora are allowed back on to the field with blood injuries,’ he told Anthea. ‘You all right, Dora, darling?’ Whipping out a blue spotted handkerchief, he mopped Dora’s cheek. ‘Looks nasty. We better get on with the game. I’m sure First Aid’ll sort you out, Anthea. The ambulance is over there. Meanwhile we’d better find Paris another shirt and you take Dora to the sick bay, Joan.’ Then, when Joan looked mutinous: ‘Now.’

  There was no way he was going to abandon Dora to the untender mercies of Randal and Anthea.

  ‘She can’t bring that dog,’ announced Joan. ‘Hand him over to your mother, Dora.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Tears, near the surface, spilled over, mingling with the blood on Dora’s cheeks. ‘Randal will put him down. He and Mummy hate Cadbury.’

  ‘I’ll take him.’ Ian Cartwright took off his tie for a lead but Northcliffe’s golden hackles were up, his teeth bared.

  ‘I’ll take him,’ said Dicky, borrowing Ian’s tie.

  As the second half began, Paris, in a no. 16 shirt, could hardly bear to see Dora being dragged off, defiantly yelling: ‘Come on Bagley,’ to deafening applause from both sides. Joan looked absolutely furious.

  Amber shook her head. ‘How can that woman, who has no heart, teach us about the heart in biology?’

  The heat of the day had subsided; the horizon was ringed with rose; through still bare trees a moon to match the yellow stripe in Larks’s shirts was rising to aid the floodlighting switched on for the second half.

  ‘What a dreadful waste of electricity,’ chuntered Poppet. ‘Why couldn’t Hengist schedule this match earlier in the day?’

  Johnnie and Graffi, who’d played their hearts out, had been subbed, which gave Graffi the chance to chat up Milly, and Johnnie a chance to chat to the media.

  ‘Emlyn’s cool,’ he was telling the BBC. ‘I always got sent off at football because I had scraps. Emlyn’s helped me wiv my anger management.’

  ‘He could give Lady Belvedon a few lessons,’ said the interviewer.

  Primrose and Pearl were discussing their respective revision of the Russian Revolution.

  ‘We’ve been watching a video of Doctor Zhivago,’ volunteered Pearl proudly.

  ‘Hengist is taking us to St Petersburg for a long weekend after Easter,’ said Primrose.

  The roaring and cheering were continuous now. Bagley had come back with a vengeance and two tries from Paris who, feeling he owed it to Dora, was playing like a man possessed. Rupert had abandoned his sulks and Stevie Smith, and was yelling his handsome head off. ‘Come on Xav, come on Larks.’

  ‘“You’ll Never Walk Alone”,’ sang Kylie, her sweet voice ringing out to the accompaniment of Cambola’s trumpet, and all the Larks parents, children and teachers joined in.

  Janna wiped her eyes. It was wonderful seeing Skunk and Pittsy really cheering, and she was so proud of Emlyn.

  Probably the only people not concentrating were Cosmo and Mrs Walton.

  ‘I’ve always wanted you,’ murmured Cosmo. ‘Will you come back to my cell?’

  ‘I thought you were injured,’ teased a once more radiant Ruth.

  ‘I’ve sprained my ankle, not my cock. You must give me lessons. One cannot be too good in bed.’

  Five minutes to go. Bagley was playing catch-up. They were six points behind Larks. A try and a conversion would do it. Somehow Larks hung on with heroic tackling and covering work, but gradually their defence was driven back.

  Only a minute to go. Janna couldn’t bear to look. Please dear God, for Emlyn’s and the children’s sake.

  Paris had the ball and was scorching down the pitch.

  ‘Come on,’ yelled Theo, Artie and the Cartwrights. He was through, but with Aston Martin acceleration, Feral stormed in from the right, tackling him five yards from the line, his arms clamping round Paris’s hips, bringing him crashing to the ground. The line was a foot away – beyond it, the heavenly city. Wriggling forward, Paris lost control o
f the ball, which fell forward over the line.

  ‘Let go of me, you fucker,’ he howled, trying to struggle forwards in the mud to touch it down. But Feral clung on. A second later, Rocky had pounded up and kicked the ball into the crowd as the whistle went.

  Feral and Paris lay on the ground, hearts thumping, both winded, checking they weren’t hurt. Then they turned to look at each other, both faces caked in mud, Paris’s as brown as Feral’s. For a second, panting and exhausted, they scowled.

  Then, as if in a dream, their hands stretched out and, as they grinned, their hands met in a grounded high five.

  ‘You was wicked, man,’ gasped Paris.

  ‘We’ve won, we’ve beaten Bagley.’ All restraint gone, screaming her head off, Janna raced on to the pitch, running from exhausted Larks player to player, kissing their dirty faces before falling into an equally ecstatic Emlyn’s arms:

  ‘We did it, we did it.’

  Tipping her head right back, Janna smiled up into his rugged, ruddy, overjoyed face, feeling his hot sweating body and his heart pounding against hers. They were brought back to earth by the jeering of Johnnie Fowler.

  ‘Cheer up, you fat commie. At least you came second.’

  ‘Take zat back, you smug little vanker,’ howled Anatole.

  It was only Emlyn’s lightning reaction, dropping Janna, swinging round and catching Anatole’s arm before his fist smashed into Johnnie’s face, that prevented a riot.

  ‘Break it up, you two,’ he roared, in addition grabbing Johnnie’s shirt collar, ‘or I’ll bang your thick skulls together. It’s only a game.’

  ‘That’s not what you told us in the dressing room beforehand,’ panted Johnnie, aiming a kick at Anatole. Then seeing Emlyn’s face blacken: ‘Sir!’

  ‘That’s enough, Anatole,’ said Hengist, taking him from Emlyn. ‘Be more gracious, you were outplayed.’

  103

  Ashton, Cindy and Randal, having had a good stretch of their legs to take in Badger’s Retreat, were now claiming credit for Larks’s victory to The Times.

  ‘We felt it crucial to give these disadvantaged youngsters a second chance,’ Cindy was saying. ‘Yes, “Payne” with a “Y”.’

  ‘We’re keeping a close watch, of course,’ purred Ashton. Catching sight of Hengist, he added, ‘Bad luck, you must be very disappointed and surprised.’

  ‘Not when you consider Emlyn’s been coaching them,’ said Hengist lightly. ‘After those rather worrying reports in your Sunday paper today’ – he smiled at The Times’s reporter – ‘about S and C’s catastrophic involvement in the educational field, they must regard Larks High, particularly after today’s triumph, as the jewel in their crown.’ Then, nodding at a scowling Ashton and Cindy: ‘Do grab a drink before the presentation.’

  Captain Xavier went up to shake hands with Randal in his muddy suit and to collect the gold-plated rugby ball to deafening applause from his parents and those from the Shakespeare Estate, who were already legless.

  Xav was followed by his players who, in the floodlighting, cast giant shadows in two directions. But Randal, on the podium (provided by himself), cast the biggest, blackest shadow of all.

  Feral was Man of the Match.

  ‘Well played,’ said Pete Wainwright, handing him his card. ‘For once your supporters didn’t exaggerate. Football isn’t that different to rugby. Give me a bell and I’ll fix a date for a trial.’

  ‘That’s wicked, man,’ muttered Feral.

  Maybe, maybe Bianca soon wouldn’t be so out of reach after all. ‘Give me time, baby.’

  Inside, Hengist was seething, but he’d learnt to be magnanimous in defeat.

  ‘Fantastic victory, Emlyn, terrific entertainment for the spectators.’

  Emlyn grinned. ‘I think Dora should have won Man of the Match rather than Feral.’

  ‘That bitch of a mother,’ exploded Janna.

  ‘Hush, darling,’ Hengist took Janna’s arm. ‘Come and have a drink. You’ll want to be with your boys, Emlyn.’ It was an order. ‘Join Janna and me later. You must be so proud,’ he told her as they set off towards the pavilion.

  The first pale stars were coming out, as if the deepening blue sky wanted to boast it had primroses too.

  ‘So pleased about Feral’s trial,’ said Hengist. ‘If he needs any advice about converting to soccer . . . ?’

  How generous and sweet you are, thought Janna.

  ‘Paris played really well in the end,’ she said. Then, as they were out of earshot: ‘Do you think he’s still hung up about us?’

  ‘Not at all, he’s working incredibly hard. Well played!’ Hengist ruffled a passing Xav’s black hair. ‘Really good to see you back. Your parents must be ecstatic.’

  As they moved on through a copse of young wild cherry trees, he murmured, ‘Are you still hung up about us, darling?’

  Janna started. Hengist turned her to face him, gazing down at her, laughing eyes for once serious. ‘I truly didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  ‘But you love Sally,’ finished Janna. ‘I know – and it doesn’t hurt any more,’ she added, realizing in amazement it was true. ‘It’s just lovely we can be friends. I do love you.’

  ‘And I, you,’ and he dropped a long kiss on her forehead.

  Emlyn, still euphoric, accepting congratulations from Artie and Theo, about to round up his team for the plunge bath, reflected that he hadn’t thought about Oriana since he arrived. Irked by being dismissed by Hengist, he glanced idly towards the pavilion, then saw Hengist and Janna had not even reached it but were lurking in the wild cherry copse, talking intimately, smiling at each other; now Hengist was stealing a kiss. Emlyn felt his great blaze of euphoria turn to ashes.

  Then soft dark hair brushed against his cheek, and a childish little voice said:

  ‘Well done, Emlyn, I couldn’t help cheering like mad for my old school.’

  It was Vicky, pretty as ever in a turquoise blazer, with a schoolboy’s turquoise and olive-green scarf round her neck, looking as young as any of her pupils.

  ‘I’m having a party at my flat here tonight. Why don’t you come? Lots of Bagley people will be there. You can always stop over in the spare room, if you don’t want to drive.’

  ‘I’ve got to take the team home,’ said Emlyn, noticing Hengist and Janna were still gazing into each other’s eyes. ‘But thanks, I might well look in later.’

  Paris wandered towards Badger’s Retreat in total confusion. He cringed at the memory of the missed penalties. He’d played atrociously, only redeemed by those tries in the second half, when Dora’s streak had shaken him out of his despondency. As if he were coming round after an operation, not knowing how much it would hurt, he hadn’t worked out how he felt about Feral and Bianca. Like Philip Larkin in their poetry set book, he’d probably been ‘too selfish, withdrawn And easily bored’ to love Bianca.

  Now he was haunted by the thought of Anthea cutting up Dora’s round, sweet face. Randal had ruined his suit; Lady Belvedon had ruined her image as a ‘lady’ – the vicious bitch. Neither would forgive Dora.

  After half an hour, when Emlyn hadn’t joined the uproarious party spilling out of the pavilion, happily remembering how lovely his arms had felt round her earlier, Janna went in search of him. She found him among the crowd waving off the still stunned Larks fifteen.

  ‘Are you coming back to the Dog and Duck to celebrate?’ Janna tucked her arm through his. ‘Lily and Christian and Cambola are just leaving.’

  ‘I’ll give it a miss tonight,’ said Emlyn brusquely. ‘Some of the Bagley teachers are having a party; I said I’d join them.’ Not meeting Janna’s eyes, he didn’t see the hurt and disappointment. ‘Can you get a lift with the Brig?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Janna in a small voice. ‘Thank you for all you did for Larks today.’

  But Emlyn had stalked off towards the car park.

  As Graffi’s father and Stormin’ Norman were decanted on to the last bus and went home singing ‘’Ark, ’Ark! the Lark’,
Hengist reflected that being a host without Sally was very hard work.

  How sweet Janna had looked; he’d have loved to whisk her upstairs to bed. All the same, he felt unusually tired – must be the end of term.

  Back in his study in the Mansion, he poured himself a large whisky, put on a CD of Fischer-Dieskau singing Winterreise and, picking up his note-laden copy of Matthew Arnold’s poems, settled down on the sofa with a weary Elaine’s head on his lap. Headmasters’ dogs get tired too, trailing after them, her gusty sigh seemed to say.

  These holidays, vowed Hengist, he was going to write his book rather than politicking. Jupiter was too bloody demanding.

  There was a knock on the door. Elaine, a good judge of character, didn’t wag. It was Alex.

  ‘A word, headmaster.’

  The bloody man would only accept Perrier and sat bolt upright, as though it would be an act of decadence to collapse into the bear hug of one of Hengist’s armchairs.

  ‘That was a catastrophe.’

  ‘Losing to Larks, I agree.’

  ‘No, Dora Belvedon’s disgusting display. How should we address the problem?’

  ‘Having that bitch of a mother, not to mention the odious Stancombe as a possible stepfather, should be punishment enough.’

  Alex looked pained and cracked his knuckles, his Adam’s apple wobbling as he swallowed. ‘Anthea and Randal are supportive friends.’

  ‘Not to poor Dora, they aren’t.’

  ‘She must be excluded for the rest of the term if not permanently.’

  ‘Don’t be fatuous, there are only a few days left. It was just high spirits.’ Hengist drained his drink. ‘At least she shook Paris out of his doldrums and brightened a dire afternoon.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s press will be disastrous.’

  Hengist’s anger boiled over.

  ‘If you hadn’t engineered the departure of the best bloody rugger coach Bagley has ever had, we’d have walked it today.’

  ‘Too much emphasis is placed on competitive sports.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ roared Hengist. ‘It’s crucial for strengthening character, fostering qualities of leadership and channelling aggression. Look how Xavier Campbell-Black blossomed. He looks great and played a terrific match. But you had to kick him out without any kind of investigation. We failed him – and we’ve made an enemy of Rupert. How d’you think it feels having Campbell-Blacks yelling for Larks? Well, you’re not getting rid of Dora. Now get out and wreck someone else’s evening.’