Wicked!

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘Bagley master arrested over sex abuse claim’, Paris read the headline, then, with dawning disbelief, the copy: ‘Theo Graham, aged 59, a housemaster who frequently took groups of boys on trips to Ancient Greece, was arrested last night for harbouring images of an obscene nature, but was released on police bail this morning.’

  Paris turned on Dora. ‘You didn’t flog this story?’

  ‘Certainly not. Poor Mr Graham’s been victimcised.’

  ‘Who’s he supposed to have jumped on?’

  ‘Why, you, of course.’

  The temperature had dropped; a mean east wind was systematically stripping the petals off Sally’s shrub roses. The A Level candidates were still wrestling with law and French papers and police cars were parked outside the Mansion when Hengist finally got back to Bagley.

  Marching into Alex’s office, he found his deputy head in a high state of almost sexual excitement, forehead white, eyes gleaming more than the gold rims of his spectacles, whole body shivering with self-righteous disapproval, damp patches under the arms of his shirt, whose sleeves were held up by frightful garters.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘Very grave news, S.T.L. Theo Graham’s been arrested.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Sexually abusing Paris Alvaston.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Theo’d never jeopardize a boy’s exams like that.’

  ‘His baser nature overcame him,’ said Alex heavily.

  ‘Is Paris OK?’ demanded Hengist. ‘Did he take his history paper?’ Then realizing how self-interested that sounded: ‘What’s he got to say?’

  ‘He became hysterical and leapt at both Biffo and the policeman when asked the simplest question, which pre-supposes . . .’

  ‘Bloody nothing,’ roared Hengist.

  ‘Theo entered Paris’s room last night. Bloodcurdling screams were followed by desperate sobbing.’

  ‘Probably a nightmare. Too much Macbeth, or mugging up Stalin’s purges and the death camps, for Christ’s sake. The boy’s always been highly strung. Who reported this?’

  ‘One of his peers, Cosmo Rannaldini.’

  ‘Whoever believed a word Cosmo says?’ said Hengist contemptuously. ‘He’ll have rung up the Scorpion by now.’

  ‘I think not.’ Alex put steepled fingers to pursed lips. ‘Concerned for a fellow student, Cosmo behaved caringly and approached me late last night. I phoned the police instantly. They arrested Theo in the early hours.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Alex, why didn’t you talk to Theo or ring me?’

  ‘Your mobile was switched off. I consulted with Biffo, Joan and the bursar who, as the foster father, was very concerned.’

  ‘You always wanted Theo out because he resisted your bloody modernizing.’

  ‘We are accountable for our students’ safety. In Theo’s drawers were found naked photographs of Paris’ – let Hengist think the police discovered them – ‘poems dedicated to Paris of a homo-erotic nature and an obscene DVD of child pornography.’

  Hengist looked out of the window at a blackbird splashing in the bird bath: such an innocent joyful pleasure. He felt a great sadness and said with less certainty, ‘Theo’s been framed.’

  ‘I’m sorry, S.T.L.’ Alex pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I know you were fond of the old boy. I was fond of him too. The whole thing has been most distressing.’

  And you want me to feel sorry for you, thought Hengist.

  ‘When did Paris find out?’

  ‘We didn’t apprize him this morning. I didn’t want to stress him before a science paper.’

  ‘Your subject, natch,’ snarled Hengist. He wanted to hurl Alex to his death through the window.

  ‘By lunchtime, Paris was searching for Theo. Rumours were circulating. The story had broken on Radio Larkminster. So Poppet broke the news to Paris, saying Mr Graham was helping the police with their enquiries.’

  ‘Poppet? How did Paris take that?’

  ‘Hard to tell, he never says much.’

  ‘Jesus, if he’s screwed up history, deputy heads will roll. I’m telling you, Alex, it’s a set-up. Cosmo was clearly jealous of Theo’s closeness to Paris.’

  ‘Even if Paris does deny everything,’ said Alex smugly, ‘the photos and the pornography are enough to suspend him. I emailed the parents first thing. Better they knew before it hit the press. I’ve already received several back, and many supportive phone calls.’ Alex handed Hengist a sheaf of paper. On top was a fax from Randal Stancombe: ‘Hope that bloody nonce goes down and gets the thrashing he deserves. He’s always sidelined my Jade.’

  The second came from Boffin’s mother: ‘I don’t want my Bernard at risk.’

  ‘With an arse that size, he’d hardly be in jeopardy,’ said Hengist contemptuously.

  ‘That was uncalled for. I’ve arranged for Jason Fenton, who knows a little Latin, to take Theo’s classes. Fortunately, the classics don’t attract many students. Goodness knows who’s going to write Theo’s reports.’

  Alex paused as Miss Painswick, who’d never been berserk about Theo either, rushed in in a state of high excitement.

  ‘Oh, you’re back, headmaster. Thank God, there are so many messages.’ Then, turning to Alex: ‘The police want to talk to you, Mr Bruce, and afterwards, the press would like a word.’

  Quivering with self-importance, Alex bustled off.

  ‘The TES want that piece on the advantages of the baccalaureate by tomorrow,’ Painswick added to Hengist.

  Finding the general office empty, Hengist unlocked the safe and took the GCSE history papers, which had just been handed in, upstairs to his office and groaned when he saw Paris’s booklet. The boy had scrawled his name: Alvaston, Paris; his candidate number; and signed his name at the bottom. The rest was gibberish, the work of a fast unravelling mind. What did they expect with yet another father figure snatched from him?

  Hengist was demented; his great scheme fucked. He turned to Boffin’s booklet. In his greed to get at the paper, the little beast had forgotten to put his name at the top, only his candidate number which ended with a three which could easily be curved and billowed out into an eight.

  Hengist glanced through the questions.

  ‘The main reason for the collapse of the provisional Government in 1917 was the work of Lenin and the Bolsheviks. Discuss.’

  That was a doddle.

  ‘Do you agree that the increased Nazi support in the period 1930–32 was due to the personal appeal of Hitler?’

  Hengist suddenly had a better plan. Picking up the telephone, he rang Painswick.

  ‘I better get shot of that TES piece before anything else blows up, Miss P. Won’t take more than an hour. I don’t want to be disturbed.’

  Alex was relishing his interview.

  ‘Mr Graham was a scholar of the old school, officer. He had that rather Greek thing of cultivating friendships with boys, never girls, and insisted on working one to one with vulnerable youngsters like Paris Alvaston. He liked to flout convention.

  ‘Believing in transparency, officer, I installed glass panels in classroom doors so one could monitor practice. Theo Graham deliberately hung his coat over the panel. He could be very subversive.’

  An hour later, Hengist was just deciding how best to handle the Theo debacle when his office door was pushed open and Elaine flew in, throwing herself on him, chattering her teeth in delight, circling and sending all the urgent messages flying. She was followed by Sally, who’d clearly been crying.

  ‘Darling, why didn’t you tell me you were back? This is so terrible.’ Quickly she kissed Hengist. ‘Thank God you’re here. Poor Theo could never have done this. We’ve got to rescue him.’

  ‘I’m just off to nail Alex, come with me.’

  In Alex’s office, they found Poppet dropping some herbal painkiller made from drops of valerian into a glass of water, which Alex gulped down noisily, his Adam’s apple heaving. Hengist couldn’t bear to look at him and went to the window, fro
m which he could see pupils, aware of some great crisis, milling about, talking, glancing worriedly up, then looking away.

  ‘What did the police say?’

  ‘They’re taking it very seriously.’

  ‘So am I. They’ve hijacked my best teacher,’ snapped Hengist.

  ‘And granted him bail,’ said Poppet, who was now massaging her husband’s shoulders. Alex closed his eyes.

  On a side table, copies of A Guide to Red Tape rose to the ceiling.

  ‘I’ve signed you a copy, S.T.L.’

  Then, when Hengist didn’t answer, Poppet said accusingly, ‘Alex didn’t get any sleep last night.’

  ‘Didn’t bloody deserve to.’

  ‘Alex has a duty of care for young people,’ reproached Poppet.

  ‘Theo’s name should never have been released to the media before there was any proof of guilt,’ said Sally furiously. ‘Why couldn’t it have been dealt with internally, Alex?’

  ‘Things are so much better handled in the maintained system,’ piped up Poppet. ‘Theo could have sought help from the union. We could have called an emergency meeting of the governors. The union rep would have then rolled up with the offending member.’

  ‘If they can persuade the offending member to withdraw,’ added Alex – for a second Hengist’s eyes met Sally’s – ‘i.e. resign at once, things can be hushed up.’

  ‘Why should Theo resign?’ shouted Sally. ‘He’s innocent.’

  Theo drove north until he found a church that was open, such was his need of sanctuary. How would he cope without James Benson’s morphine? But the pain in his heart was far crueller.

  Gasping for breath, he collapsed in a front pew, resting for a long time . . . When he looked down, he saw a pool of tears on the stone floor of the church.

  Over at Larks, insulated against the outside world, the Brigadier and Emlyn heaved sighs of relief to find the history paper had included a question about the number of people killed on the Somme.

  ‘On the other hand,’ said Emlyn, ‘Rocky’s just informed me he was so pleased he remembered to tell the examiner we’d never have won World War I if Hitler hadn’t attacked the Russians. How d’you get on?’ he asked Feral.

  ‘Bad as usual.’ Feral shot outside to join his friends, who, euphoric the last exam was over, were playing football. Partner raced about yapping encouragement, particularly to Feral, who seemed to have wings on his heels. No one could stop him as he found goal again and again.

  But what was the use? I’m thick, thick, thick, he told himself as he psyched himself up to ring his mother to let her know he’d screwed up yet again.

  Pete Wainwright had just rolled up with a crate of wine to say thank you for the suggestions Taggie and her class had put forward for the Rovers’ next season’s menus. Bottles were therefore being opened in the staffroom to celebrate the end of the GCSEs when Emlyn walked in looking wintry.

  ‘Afraid I can’t stay.’

  ‘Whyever not?’ asked the Brigadier, who was mixing a pink gin for Lily.

  ‘I’ve got to go over to Bagley. Artie’s just phoned. Theo was arrested last night for possession of child porn and sexual abuse.’

  ‘Paris?’ whispered Janna.

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  Oh God, she thought, we should never have let him go to Bagley.

  113

  The last exam at Larks was followed two nights later by the end-of-term prom. Janna and her staff had such a frantic scramble getting everything ready that they had scant time to agonize about Paris and Theo – particularly as they were full of their own regrets that the year of grace was almost over.

  Lily spent the day of the prom at home making sausage rolls and mushroom vol-au-vents for the buffet supper and trying not to cry. She was going to miss her Larks friends horribly, particularly seeing so much of the Brigadier. They’d planned a dance routine of Fred Astaire songs as a cabaret. Christian, rather smug he could still fit into them, was going to wear tails, and Lily had been forced to sell a last piece of Georgian silver to pay for a blue silk ball dress and pretty silver shoes in which to perform. Her cottage was achieving fashionable minimalism faster than she would have liked.

  Lily was nervous of making an idiot of herself. If she drank enough to give herself courage she’d probably fall over. One of the numbers was ‘Stepping Out with My Baby’, and how could she pass as a ‘baby’ when she was over eighty with hair drawn into a dreary bun? If only she could afford to go back to Sadie, her darling Larkminster hairdresser, who’d cut her hair so beautifully.

  As she packed bottles of elderberry wine into a cardboard box, she wondered who would feed the birds at Larks or the silver carp gliding, like Concorde, through the pond. She mustn’t cry. Weeping at her age so devastated one’s face. Sometimes she thought Christian loved her, but she was terrified her bridge might dislodge if he kissed her, leaving a great red toothless gap, and her body undressed was not a pretty sight, and with her too-long grey hair down, she looked like a witch.

  Despite being poor, Lily had never stinted on General, who, too fat for the cat door, was mewing to go out. Wiping her eyes with a drying-up cloth, she opened the front door to find Pearl on the doorstep, weighed down by make-up kit.

  ‘You’ve been so kind to me Lily, I fort I’d give you a makeover.’ Then, at Lily’s look of alarm: ‘You’ve got such pretty hair, I’d love to cut it, and there’s a new blue rinse called Sapphire Siren to bring out your blue eyes.’

  ‘It’s very kind. I’m not sure.’

  ‘You’ll look great.’ Pearl marched into the house, dumping her cases in the kitchen. ‘You’ve got such lovely skin. Christian says you’re wearing blue tonight for the cabaret.’

  ‘It’s a secret,’ squeaked Lily. ‘We may not do it, depends how the evening pans out.’

  ‘Everyone’s looking forward to it,’ said Pearl. As she unpacked her bottles, six tenners from the Brigadier crackled comfortingly in her breast pocket.

  ‘I think I’ll cut your hair before I wash it. Have you heard about Paris? Do you think Mr Graham’s really been giving him it up the bum?’

  ‘I’m sure not,’ said Lily faintly.

  ‘I often wondered whether Paris wasn’t a woofter. Never made a pass at me,’ said Pearl.

  The rest of the staff kept trying to send Janna home early to make herself beautiful. Twenty years wouldn’t be enough, she thought wearily; she’d need her jaw wired up in a permanent smile to get her through the evening.

  She had been trying to complete the children’s year books and certificates of achievement, when Sally had popped in with ‘a bit of blotting paper’: namely a mountain of smoked salmon wrapped in cling film and ‘some nice white wine for you and Emlyn to drink behind the bus shelter’.

  Janna thanked her profusely and, thinking for the first time Sally looked her age, begged her to stop for a cup of tea.

  ‘My dear, I’d have loved to – look how well those oriental poppies are doing – but we’re all in a bit of a state over Theo and Paris. Paris hurled a brick through Alex’s window last night, because no one will give him Theo’s address. Emlyn’s been wonderful with him, but the poor boy’s hysterical, says he’ll only talk to the police if he’s allowed to talk to Theo first, which the police say is impossible. Nadine and Cindy Payne are putting their oars in; press everywhere.’

  The sympathy in Janna’s eyes prompted Sally to further revelations. ‘Emlyn’s also had a bit of a shock, poor boy. Oriana’s expecting a baby – I’m not sure who the father is – due in November.’ For a second Sally’s face crumpled. ‘I’m sure I’ll love it once it’s born, but Hengist doesn’t want anything to do with it or Oriana. He’s terribly cut up about Theo. Oh Janna, I do hope you don’t feel we’ve failed Paris.’

  Janna was reassuring Sally she didn’t and was kissing her goodbye when Randal Stancombe came on the line. God, how she now hated his oily, over-intimate, threatening voice.

  ‘Hi, Jan
, can I be frank? Feel rather let down; I didn’t get an invite for tonight’s end-of-term do. Didn’t think our friendship was that shallow.’

  ‘Oh, it isn’t, it isn’t.’ Janna curled up in embarrassment. ‘It’s only small, just staff and children.’

  ‘Don’t weaken,’ mouthed Rowan from the doorway.

  ‘But do drop in,’ mumbled Janna.

  ‘I’m actually taking Jade out for a meal, but we’ll look in on the way. You asked any media?’

  ‘No. Doesn’t mean the bastards won’t turn up.’

  ‘Gosh, you’re brave,’ said Bianca, ‘I should so die of embarrassment if Mummy was tempted on to the dance floor.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ said Xav as he tied his black tie. ‘Dad’s ordered me to shoot anyone who comes near her.’

  He was delighted that the waistband of his DJ trousers had had to be taken in six inches and the legs let down.

  Downstairs, Rupert helped his wife, ravishing in a scarlet halterneck, load chocolate torte and bowls of strawberries into the car.

  ‘Keep an eye on her,’ he said to Xav. ‘You both look marvellous.’

  He wouldn’t have admitted to a soul, that he couldn’t wait to get back and finish Emma. Mrs Elton was even more like Anthea Belvedon than Mrs Bennet.

  ‘I’ll be down in a minute, pour yourself a drink,’ Lily shouted down the stairs as Christian Woodford put the elderberry wine, the crumbles and the sausage rolls into the car.

  The Brigadier choked on his drink as Lily came down the stairs. Her short silver-blue hair softly caressed her cheekbones, brought out the intense blue of her eyes and matched a dress short enough to reveal the most charming ankles. She had pawned all her jewellery except her sapphire engagement ring and her pearls, which she asked him to do up.

  ‘“My precious Lily! My imperial kitten!”’ sighed the Brigadier, letting his fingers linger on her neck.

  With his white tie and tails setting off his golfing tan, his fine square features and his thick silver hair, the Brigadier looked infinitely handsomer than Fred Astaire and Lily told him so.

  ‘Could you also zip up my dress, which is beyond my arthritic fingers?’