by Jilly Cooper
‘Much rather unhook it,’ said the Brigadier, who had this afternoon signed a two-year Venturer contract to make another series of Buffers, along with some poetry drama documentaries kicking off with ‘Horatius’ and ‘Morte d’Arthur’.
‘“Steppin’ Out With My Baby”,’ sang the Brigadier, smiling at Lily as they reached the outskirts of Larkminster. For a moment, he thought he was back in the last war, as, like submarines gliding stealthily through the blue evening, stretch limos with black windows kept overtaking them. Then out of these limos on to the Appletree forecourt, like a conjuror’s coloured handkerchief, spilled the children, the boys in hired tuxedos with red, blue, green and tartan bow ties, the girls in pink or mauve satin trouser suits or ball dresses showing off pearly shoulders and pretty legs, enhanced by jewelled high heels and sparkling ankle bracelets.
With their hair descending in ringleted waterfalls and secured with combs decorated with flowers, their faces glittering with excitement, they could have been re-enacting the Netherfield ball from their set book. Intoxicated by their new beauty, they tore around Appletree, taking photographs, shrieking how wicked each other looked. Judging by the giggling, they’d already been at the booze.
The boys were fingering the Brigadier’s tailcoat.
‘That retro shawl collar’s dead cool, Brig, did you get it from Matalan or the internet?’
‘It’s my own,’ confessed Christian, ‘I used to wear it night after night to dances. I like your gym shoes, Graffi.’
‘Fort I’d treat myself.’ Graffi waved a dark blue and pale blue trainer with a two-inch heel in the air. ‘They cost a hundred and ten quid. What d’you think of Beckham’s new hair?’
‘Not as good as mine,’ said Rocky, patting four-inch-high vermilion-gelled spikes. ‘And you look even gooder, Lily.’
As the others laughed and agreed, Lily told them they all looked wonderful too.
The hall had been utterly transformed. Mags had blocked out any light from the big windows with full-length black curtains, which she and the other teachers had covered in silver and gold paper stars. On the stage below a huge glittering blue sign saying ‘Larkminster High School Prom 2004’, a group of suntanned men in black, known as the Butchers (as in ‘I’m butcher than you’), were belting out ‘American Pie’.
From the ceiling, concealing Graffi’s angels, who all looked like Milly Walton, hung hundreds of coloured balloons like an inverted bubble bath. The floor was carpeted with dancers, gyrating under the flickering lights, clapping their hands above their heads. Many of the boys wore luminous rings in blue, emerald or red round foreheads or necks. The air was a dense fog of cigarette smoke.
Chairs for spectators had been grouped along one wall on either side of a trestle table, offering Coca-Cola, lemonade and Fanta. Officially, because Ashton or Cindy might gatecrash, the evening was dry.
I could murder a proper drink, thought Lily.
As if reading her mind, Janna glided out of the dancers. She had at long last had a chance to wear her slinky black velvet dress, off one freckled shoulder and split to the thigh on one side. With the front of her hair coaxed upward in smaller russet spikes than Rocky’s, her huge eyes ringed with raw sienna, her big trembling mouth painted scarlet, she looked as young suddenly as any of her pupils.
‘You look stunning! Isn’t Pearl a genius,’ she and Lily shouted to each other over ‘American Pie’.
‘Keep this for yourself,’ added Janna, filling a glass with Sally’s white, then handing bottle and glass to Lily.
‘What’s that?’ Lily noticed Janna was drinking straight from a Fanta bottle.
‘Teachers’ lemonade, taught me by a primary head. No one can tell it’s half filled with vodka. Will you crown the Prom King and Queen for us?’
‘As long as I don’t have to make a speech. Who’s won it?’
‘Wait and see. But it’s a grand result.’
Next moment Pearl had rushed up.
‘I want a group photograph of my favourite teachers,’ she said bossily. ‘That’s you, Pittsy, you, Janna, you, Taggie and the Brig and Lily.’
Flattered, the five lined up as Pearl spent ages getting them in the right position. ‘You go behind Janna, Taggie, and Lily in front of Pittsy, or we can’t see you. Where’s Emlyn? I’d like him as well.’
‘Oh, get on,’ grumbled the Brigadier, ‘Lily and Taggie need top-ups.’
Dutifully they all waited as Pearl peered into her viewfinder, then, suddenly saying: ‘Oh, I’m bored with this,’ she wandered off to photograph someone else.
‘Little madam,’ exploded the Brigadier as Janna and Lily got the giggles.
‘It’s the first time I’ve seen Aysha’s hair in four years. She looks absolutely gorgeous,’ said Pittsy as Aysha timidly followed Xav on to the floor to join the big circle of dancers.
Aysha had only been allowed to attend the prom if she was chaperoned. As a result, Mrs Khan sat in the darkness watching her daughter, knowing how sad Aysha would be tomorrow. At least tonight, as she swayed in flowing turquoise chiffon before Xav, she could forget her heartache.
‘Get Mother Khan some teachers’ lemonade,’ suggested Wally.
‘Where’s Emlyn?’ asked Janna for the hundredth time.
‘He was here shifting furniture until the last moment,’ said Cambola, who kept dragging boys on to the floor to dance; they lasted thirty seconds before belting back to their mates.
Outside, the sky was pale grey, the lace mats of elderflower caressing the window panes. Thinking Basket looked rather fetching in her tobacco-brown crimplene, Skunk led her off for a stroll.
They were passed as they went out by Feral wandering in, late because he’d been playing football. Unable to afford a tuxedo, he still looked a million dollars in black jeans and polo neck.
‘“Here’s mettle more attractive”,’ cried Cambola, bearing him off to dance to loud cheers.
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Janna was dancing with the children again, singing along to Katie Melua as she rotated two pink luminous flowers above her head, surrendering herself to the music.
‘One forgets how young she is,’ Lily murmured to the Brigadier, adding doubtfully, ‘You don’t think our cabaret’s too old for them?’
The Brigadier squeezed her hand.
‘To use a mendacious expression of Randal Stancombe’s: “Trust me.”’
‘Talk of the devil,’ complained Lily as Randal, resplendent in a dinner jacket, pink carnation in his buttonhole, appeared in the doorway.
I’d like to be his arm candy, thought Kitten, running her hand through her hair and sticking out her breasts. Oh hell, he’d brought a woman. No, it was that bitch Jade.
Graffi, drunk and furious with Stancombe for sacking his father, reeled over and handed him his glass, which Stancombe was about to drink out of, then realized it was empty.
‘Get me a Bacardi and Coke,’ Graffi ordered him airily, then, at Stancombe’s look of fury: ‘Oh, I fort you was a waiter.’
‘Graffi!’ Anticipating punch-ups, Janna ran off the dance floor. ‘Hello, Randal, let me get you a drink.’
‘Evening, Janna, looks as if you’re enjoying yourself.’ Stancombe then dragged her into the corridor, pointing to walls on which Graffi had caricatured every child in the school. ‘Made a bit of a mess of the property.’
‘Nothing a lick of paint won’t cure,’ answered Janna defensively. ‘One day, Graffi’s murals’ll be worth more than this place put together.’
‘Your geese are always swans,’ sneered Stancombe.
Suddenly photographers seemed to be everywhere.
‘Go away, this is a private party,’ Janna told them furiously.
‘Just a few piccies,’ insisted Stancombe, ‘with the kids beside the minibus,’ which had suddenly appeared, parked in the forecourt.
‘I can’t drag them off the dance floor.’
Jade, Kitten and Pearl were insincerely congratulating each other on their dresses. Jade in Versace was
miffed they were looking so good. She was used to being the belle of the ball. Feral, Graffi, Johnnie, Danny the Irish, even Xav, all looked gorgeous. Why weren’t any of them asking her to dance?
‘Come and dance,’ Rocky asked her a minute later.
‘Thanks, but I’m not stopping. Daddy’s about to make a statement to the press,’ answered Jade as the music died away.
‘As one who has enriched these youngsters’ lives,’ Stancombe told the reporters, ‘I’ve been haunted by the statistics that it’s six times as difficult for kids from poor homes to go to uni.’
‘You did it without a degree, Mr Stancombe,’ said a blonde from the Scorpion admiringly.
‘I was lucky,’ admitted Stancombe modestly. ‘I only hope my not insubstantial financial contribution to Larks High has paid off and the students get some good grades.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ muttered Janna.
‘Can we have a photograph of you dancing with the kids?’ asked the Gazette.
‘You’d better do it,’ Janna urged the children, as the band started up again, ‘then he’ll push off.’
Stancombe, however, had turned back to Janna.
‘Terrible news about Theo Graham. I’d castrate all paedophiles.’
‘Hengist is convinced he’s innocent.’
Stancombe was about to argue, when he noticed Xav, euphoric after another dance with Aysha, bopping off the floor and demanded, ‘How did your dad get on in his Eng. lit. exam?’
‘Very well,’ replied Xav coldly, then as Stancombe’s eyebrows shot up. ‘My dad does everything well. He’s got a horse running on Saturday called Poodle. I’d have a big bet if I were you. It’s the only way you’ll pay the money you owe the Bagley Fund when the results come out.’
Scenting trouble, it was Xav’s mother this time who rushed over.
‘Ah, the lovely Taggie – a quick dance?’ Randal seized her hand.
‘I don’t think so.’ Xav stepped in front of his mother, scowling up at Stancombe. ‘My father asked me to look after Mum – he wouldn’t like it one bit if she danced with you.’
Stancombe, who now much regretted leaving his guards behind, said furiously:
‘I can only assume you’ve been drinking.’
‘I don’t drink,’ said Xav.
‘I’ll get even with you and your arrogant bastard of a father.’ Hurrying Jade towards the door, Stancombe went slap into Emlyn.
‘I was just saying,’ he yelled over the band, ‘Theo Graham ought to be castrated and not allowed near vulnerable youngsters.’
‘Get out,’ growled Emlyn, holding open the door.
Jade suddenly longed to stay. As she watched Xav rushing back to Aysha, she decided he’d become very attractive, not least in the way he’d stood up to her father. She’d love to join the great ring of dancers. She wished she had friends like that. It was all her parents’ fault for not sending her to a comprehensive.
‘Come on, princess,’ shouted Randal.
‘You OK?’ Janna asked Emlyn, noticing how tired he looked, but his answer was blotted out by a roll of drums. It was time for the awards.
‘At least it might mean the music is a bit less loud,’ the Brigadier murmured to Lily.
Janna grabbed the mike and announced she was now going to give each pupil his or her year book and certificate of achievement.
‘I’d rather have some money,’ shouted Rocky to roars of applause, which continued as each child went up and Emlyn took photograph after photograph, because everyone wanted a record of themselves beside Janna.
When it was Johnnie’s turn, he grabbed Janna, kissing her on and on to whoops and catcalls until Emlyn tapped him sharply on the shoulder: ‘That’s enough.’
‘Your turn now, Mr Davies,’ chorused the children, screaming with laughter as Emlyn handed a blushing Janna his handkerchief to wipe off her smudged lipstick.
Who would have dreamt a year ago, I could have had a ball at a ball without a drop of booze? thought Pittsy.
Janna then thanked all the children for making the year so memorable and rewarding.
‘I’d also like to say on behalf of all the weird staff who came to teach you, that we’ve never had it so good.’
‘Hear, hear,’ shouted Skunk, squeezing Basket’s spare tyres.
‘And I’d like to thank all the teachers, wondercooks’ – Janna smiled at Taggie – ‘terrific dinner ladies, Rowan and, most of all, Wally, who’s taken care of us all, and made this evening possible.’
‘Don’t forget Mistah Davies,’ shouted Graffi.
‘And of course, Emlyn, thank you all.’
Pittsy then seized the mike and admitted:
‘In twenty-nine years of teaching, this is the best year I’ve ever had because of that woman over there.’ He pointed to Janna, to deafening applause. ‘She’s the best boss I’ve ever had—’ His voice cracked. ‘She’s been dead good.’
Are they talking about me, wondered Janna in bewilderment, particularly when a big screen to the right of the band lit up and there was Kylie, clutching her new baby and singing: ‘To Miss . . .’ instead of ‘To Sir, With Love’.
‘Oh hell,’ grumbled Pearl. ‘There goes my make-up again,’ as Janna’s tears swept away a flotsam of mascara and glitter, particularly when Kitten curtsied and presented her with a gold pen engraved ‘To a great head’.
‘Thank you ever so much and I’ll write to you all with this pen.’ Janna mopped her eyes with Emlyn’s handkerchief. Then, desperate to get the praise on to someone else: ‘And now Lily is going to crown the Prom King and Queen, voted by their peers.’
‘I first have to read the citations,’ said Lily, putting on her spectacles and joining Janna in the middle of the floor.
‘“We thought you was very snooty when you joined Larks,”’ she read, ‘“but we realized you was just shy and now you’re a good friend to all of us.” Very nice too.’ Opening the envelope: ‘And our Prom Queen is none other than Aysha Khan.’
Aysha gasped and clapped her hands over her eyes:
‘I don’t believe it.’
As Xav proudly led her up, Mrs Khan stood up and cheered, then shushed herself in horror. Lily placed a gold cardboard crown, inset with red, blue and green jewels, on Aysha’s dark head, and the room erupted.
‘She looks absolutely gorgeous,’ sighed Pittsy.
‘She certainly does,’ agreed a grinning Xav as he slid back into the crowd, but not for long, as Lily read out the next citation.
‘“We was worried when you came to us, but you mixed in really well, and you was never posh.”’ Hands trembling with excitement, Lily ripped open the envelope. ‘And the Prom King is Xavier Campbell-Black.’
More deafening roars of applause followed as Lily had difficulty getting the crown over Xav’s Afro.
‘Thank you so much,’ shouted Xav, ‘I can’t believe this.’
‘Nor can we,’ yelled Graffi. ‘Never had a poof on the frone since James I.’
‘Give your queen a kiss,’ shouted Pearl, and Xav turned and kissed Aysha on the lips for the first time since Ramadan, and Aysha, after a terrified glance at her tearful, ecstatic mother, who had nearly finished her bottle of teachers’ lemonade, kissed Xav back to a thunder of stamped feet.
‘Look at Taggie,’ whispered Lily as Xav’s mother wiped her eyes with her crimson pashmina.
Xav and Aysha reopened the ball, never taking their eyes off each other. A second later, Emlyn led a laughing, protesting Taggie on to the floor.
‘It’s so refreshing,’ beamed Mrs Khan as Janna replaced her Fanta bottle.
Supper followed and the starving hordes fell on tuna and cucumber sandwiches, bridge rolls filled with egg mayonnaise, Lily’s sausage rolls and vol-au-vents, Sally’s smoked salmon sandwiches, strawberries, blackberry crumbles and chocolate torte.
The girls were back on the floor dancing together, flashing lights picking up glossy tossing curls and gleaming bare shoulders. Janna was among them, swaying like a maenad, wav
ing a glittering blue butterfly in figures of eight.
Why haven’t I asked her to dance? wondered Emlyn. What am I afraid of?
Out in the limos, groups were drinking Cava and smoking weed. Others were signing each other’s T-shirts, certificates and year books. There was a second roll of drums. ‘It’s now time for your cabaret,’ shouted the lead singer, ‘performed by Brigadier Christian Woodford and Mrs Lily Hamilton.’
Clapping and whooping, the dancers retreated to be joined round the edge of the floor by others running in from the cars.
Lily fled to the Ladies, shaking with terror. If only she’d had a little more to drink. Pearl was waiting when she came out of the loo.
‘Just let me fix your face.’
Getting out a brush, she added blusher to Lily’s blanched cheeks, used another brush to repaint her trembling lips and another to fluff up her hair, before spraying on some rather bold scent.
‘You look great, Lily. Let’s hide that bra strap, and straighten your dress, off you go. Good luck.’
The children had begun to stamp their feet and slow handclap. Christian, waiting with a mike in his hand, was looking anxious, but his smile was beautiful, even when Lily muttered, ‘You got me into this bloody thing,’ as he led her on to the floor.
‘Doo di doo, doo di doo di, doo di . . .’ sang the Brigadier in a delightful baritone, then, brandishing both mike and a large green umbrella, launched into ‘Singing in the Rain’, ending up with a little tap dance round Lily, before sweeping her into ‘Stepping Out With My Baby’.
For a second, Lily stumbled; the Brigadier held her tightly and they were off. It was such a beautiful tune.
After that Lily was fine. In no time, Christian was singing ‘Cheek To Cheek’, as with faces pressed together, they glided round the floor.
Lily would never in a thousand years have accused the Brigadier of showing off, but she was not displeased when he too stumbled, and this time it was she who had to hold him up.
The pupils, utterly entranced, bellowed their approval.
‘Good on yer, Brig. Wicked, Lily. Come on, Fred and Ginger, give us an encore.’
‘I’m out,’ said Lily firmly, so the Brigadier, gazing into her eyes, sang ‘Our Love Is Here To Stay’.
