by Jilly Cooper
As she ran down the aisle and mounted the steps to the platform, Janna cheered and cheered. The clips of her brilliant rapport with the children were so touching that the tears spilling down Janna’s cheeks became a cascade when she glanced sideways and saw the winner’s incredibly proud husband also crying his eyes out.
From then onwards, Janna worked her way through her box of tissues and her bottle. All the winners – from Best New Teacher, the Teacher Who Used IT Most Imaginatively, to the Teaching Assistant of the Year – were so brilliant, innovative and imaginative, and the children so sweet, and the celebrities so exciting. Janna loved Sanjeev Bhaskar and had always been a fan of Imogen Stubbs, beautiful, clever, posh, but also a true socialist.
129
Rupert arrived at the Palace Theatre alone and in a foul temper. The last time he could remember being in London on a Sunday, except for the Countryside March, was when he’d taken his ex-wife Helen out on a first date – and look what trouble that had got him into.
He’d only agreed to give away an award because Jupiter had insisted it would be good for his image and that of the New Reform Party to get in with the lefties. Except for Janna and Hengist, who’d both lost their schools, he loathed the teaching profession. They’d been so bloody patronizing about his GCSE and got so uptight if you mentioned their long holidays.
Now, still in his dark blue overcoat so he could make a quick get-away, Rupert stood in the Green Room drinking whisky, watching the whole thing on a monitor and thinking he’d never seen so many ghastly beards in his life, nor so many old boots built like semis in Croydon and with Tim Henman hair. Rupert loathed very short hair on women, even more than beards, particularly when it showed off hulking great necks. Talk about the planet of the napes. Rupert was so fed up, he couldn’t be bothered to laugh at his own joke.
He’d been listening to the big match on the car wireless. Feral would shoot himself if Man U broke Arsenal’s run of 49 wins. It was a measure of Rupert’s increasing fondness for Bianca’s boyfriend (whom he’d watched scoring two goals for the Rovers yesterday) that he’d started taking an interest in soccer as well as English literature – any minute he’d be taking up Morris dancing.
There in the audience was that stuffed shirt David Hawkley, married to Helen, stepfather to Tabitha and Marcus. How small the world was. Muttering about gravitas, Jupiter was determined to give Education to David in place of Hengist, who’d been so much more amusing. Rory Bremner had done over Jupiter last night – bloody funny.
‘Isn’t it a fun evening?’ Bea from the Beeb broke into his thoughts with a plate of smoked salmon sandwiches. ‘You should have seen all those major civil servants, not known for their frivolity, bopping on the dance floor last night.’
‘Letting their lack of hair down,’ said Rupert sourly.
He loathed civil servants even more than teachers.
On the other hand, the blonde now accepting a Plato for school and community involvement was very pretty. He could happily have got involved with her. Lovely legs too; perhaps teachers weren’t such boots.
Again and again the camera crews ran backwards down the gangway, as though they were filming royalty, and the little stars in the indigo firmament brightened as each winner, the real stars of the evening, mounted the stage.
‘When’s Artie going to get his award?’ asked Janna.
‘I’m afraid it’s gone to that head of science, two categories back,’ whispered Emlyn.
‘Artie should have won,’ protested Janna noisily, and was shushed. As her big gold programme kept sliding off her knees, rather than bury her head in Emlyn’s lap when she retrieved it, she leant down to the left, which gave her the chance to take another slug from her bottle.
Emlyn was half laughing, but she wished he’d loosen up and get into party mode. He still seemed tense and watchful as the lights turned his face glowing ruby, then sapphire, then aquamarine, then Lenten purple, each time more gorgeous. I love him, thought Janna helplessly. I just adore him.
‘I know it’s going to be Rod Hyde,’ she cried in despair, then cheered and cheered, because the winner of the Lifetime Achievement Award wasn’t Rod, but a darling old duck from a London primary who let the children run all over her office in the lunch hour.
‘Please be quiet,’ hissed the horrified Number Eight in the row in front.
Janna would have raised two fingers, if Emlyn hadn’t held grimly on to her hands.
‘You’ve got to behave yourself.’
‘That’s it for the evening,’ said Janna, then nearly fell off her chair with excitement as a blow-up of a beautiful sulky little boy appeared on the screen, and a grinning Eamonn Holmes announced one last award to be presented by someone often described as ‘the handsomest man in England’, an owner/trainer, ex-showjumper and Minister for Sport, who’d called himself ‘the most immature mature student’ when he recently gained a ‘B’ in GCSE English literature.
And on stalked Rupert to a frenzy of wolf whistles and catcalls. He still had his overcoat on, but smiled slightly when Eamonn asked him the Arsenal/Man U result.
‘Rooney scored in extra time,’ replied Rupert. ‘It’s his birthday. He’s a Scorpio like me.
‘I was so useless at school,’ he went on, in his clipped, flat drawl, ‘that I normally don’t like schoolmasters or -mistresses one bit, but I have to confess, watching the television in the Green Room, I have seen some fantastic examples of teaching that might have galvanized even myself.
‘I’m here to hand out a special new award: the People’s Prize, to the teacher whom the most pupils, parents, teachers and members of the public all round the country felt had done the best and most heroic job, and in the winner’s case, pulled in five times as many votes as the rest put together.
‘This was a head who fought against all odds for their school,’ went on Rupert, ‘and kept it open under remarkable circumstances, who inspired confidence in children who believed they were worthless, who inspired the staff into believing every teacher can teach and every child achieve, and who never gave up on a child.’
Tears rushing down Janna’s cheeks took away the rest of Pearl’s make-up. ‘What a wonderful person she must be,’ she murmured and, turning, seeing tears in Emlyn’s eyes, added, ‘Don’t be sad.’
As she stroked his cheek, he trapped her hand.
The cameras were slowly creeping up the aisle.
‘And the winner . . .’ As, utterly deadpan, Rupert slowly opened the gold envelope, Alex Bruce, halfway out of his seat and deliriously punching the air, was sent flying by the overhead camera.
‘The winner . . .’ repeated Rupert with a triumphant smirk, ‘is one of the few schoolmistresses I like: Janna Curtis of Larkminster High School.’
An explosion of cheering rocked the theatre, particularly from the South-West and from Yorkshire up in the gallery.
‘I don’t believe it,’ gasped Janna, turning to a tearful, beaming Emlyn.
‘Well done, lovely, you did it, just watch these clips.’
Among the television crews who’d been doorstepping Larks for the past year had been one from the BBC. Now they showed clips of Janna racing round hugging all the team when they beat Bagley at rugby; yelling, ‘You’re worse looters than the Iraqis,’ at Searston Abbey staff when they arrived prematurely to remove earmarked books and computers; crawling across the park, waving branches of swamp cypress, bringing Birnam Wood to Dunsinane; and finally of her praising or comforting her children on Results Day.
Glowing testimonials followed from Stormin’ Norman and Chantal Peck, who said Janna was just like a ‘Citizen’s Advaice Bureau,’ and the Mayor of Larkminster, who said she was a ‘cracker’. Even the Bishop described her as a ‘very live wire’.
Then there were clips from children all round the country who’d followed Larks’s progress on the news.
‘Janna seems so nice, we’d love to go to her school.’
Finally, Dora appeared saying how much they’d all liked
her at Bagley.
‘I cannot believe this,’ muttered Janna as the film came to an end.
‘Yes, you can.’ Standing up to let her out, Emlyn steadied her, before setting her off on her tottering path.
Utterly shell-shocked and extremely drunk, she staggered up on to the stage, where Rupert caught her, enveloping her for a second inside the blue silk lining of his overcoat.
‘Bloody marvellous, darling. Can you manage a few words?’
Turning, Janna reached out for and nearly missed the microphone. Freckles were the only colour in her face. As her speckled Little Mermaid dress, damp with champagne and tears, clung to her, people could see how thin she was.
‘It’s been a wonderful evening,’ she began. ‘I’ve never been so proud of my profession.’ Then, pulling her thoughts together: ‘I’d like to thank everyone who voted for me, and all the Larks teachers and children who worked so hard, and the parents, and particularly the anonymous donor who gave us a hundred and twenty thousand pounds so we could keep Larks open for another year, although S and C Services and the county council did eff-all to help us,’ she added to equal laughter and gasps of disapproval.
‘Rather a looshe cannon,’ murmured a grinning Rupert, thinking there was something infinitely touching about Janna’s little bitten nails clutching the mike.
‘And we’d never have done it without the help of the staff and children from Bagley Hall,’ she went on defiantly, adding, over a storm of booing, ‘particularly without Hengist Brett-Taylor.’
‘Hear, hear,’ shouted Rupert.
‘Cheat!’ yelled the audience.
‘Hear me out,’ yelled back Janna. ‘We must stop demonizing the independents as they demonize us. We’ve got to work together for all children. Hengist gave so many of our pupils a chance. He enabled Paris Alvaston, for example, to learn Latin and Greek. This is a Plato’ – she brandished her award – ‘but how many of you can quote a single line Plato wrote?’
There was a long pause.
‘Plato said democracy leads to despotism, which is happening in this country today, when schools are closed down just because the powers-that-be want to make a fat profit selling off the land.’
The horror and alarm on the faces of the majority of the audience turned to sympathy as Janna burst into tears.
‘But what does it matter? How can I be a great head if I lost my school? All I want is my children back.’
Emlyn was on his feet about to vault on to the stage. Rupert and Eamonn were moving forward when a dirty violet and yellow football rolled across the stage towards Janna’s feet, followed by Cameron Peck, followed by his mother, carrying Ganymede.
‘I’m training as a nursery nurse,’ Kylie Rose told the audience, ‘and taking singing lessons.’
She was followed by Aysha and Xavier, hand in hand, who were going to the same FE college. Graffi, waving a paintbrush, unrolled a scroll showing a draft of the mural he was painting for the long room at Penscombe. Kitten, looking breathtaking, was modelling and back in love with Johnnie, who was working in a racing car garage. Danijela was altering clothes at Harriet’s Boutique. Monster had got a job working as a bouncer in a nightclub and, despite Rooney scoring in extra time, a beaming Feral came bouncing on, like Tigger, in Larkminster Rovers orange and black colours, leading a giggling Bianca, who was in turn leading Rocky, who was working on the Penscombe Estate as a chippy, until miraculously, every Larks High pupil was crowding the stage.
Pearl came last strutting around with her royal-blue rooster hair.
‘I did Miss’s make-up earlier,’ she announced, then, turning to Janna: ‘Looks as though you could do wiv a touchup, miss. Miss didn’t have a clue we was all coming up, or she was getting an award. Mr Davies organized the whole fing. I’m working wiv Trinny and Susannah now, so I get paid for telling people they look gross. And if anyone wants my card . . .?’
The audience smiled fondly, particularly when Pearl took Janna’s hand: ‘Larks didn’t die, miss. Honest. We just want to say it lives on in us and in all our memories, so thank you for everything you did.’
Great were the cheers and the rejoicing as they were all swept off the stage to make way for Lords Puttnam and Attenborough.
Afterwards it passed in a dream. Dazed and amazed, all Janna wanted to do was get stuck back into the champagne and talk to the children and find out about Graffi’s dad and Feral’s mum. But once Pearl had redone her face, everyone, particularly the press and the photographers, wanted a piece of her.
Overwhelmingly important at the back of her mind was what was Emlyn’s part in it? Had he come over to Larks merely to lure her up to London? Had he persuaded all the children to vote for her because he cared for her or was it the altruism of a colleague wanting justice and recognition for a colleague?
She must ask him. She was just taking another slug of champagne to give herself courage, when Stew, her old head from Redfords, hove into sight and kissed her on both cheeks.
‘Well done. I couldn’t be more proud. Good, you stuck up for Hengist Brett-Taylor. Nice man, if misguided. I must have trained you jolly well. It’s a crime you’re doing supply,’ he continued, lowering his normally loud commanding voice. ‘How’d you like to be deputy head at a city academy I’m taking over in Lancashire?’
‘Oh Stew, it’s good to see you. You haven’t met Emlyn Davies.’
The two men shook hands without enthusiasm.
‘You must have been planning this for weeks,’ said Stew, then, turning back to Janna: ‘Mike Pitts has been telling me that everyone decided Emlyn would be the best person to hijack you, darling.’
Janna was hazily wondering why she loved Rupert calling her ‘darling’, but bitterly resented it from Stew. He was also too old for that trendy short hair at the front, as though a rat’d been nibbling it all night. Then she looked up at Emlyn, who didn’t have a millimetre of meanness or weakness in his big kind face.
‘What happened to Artie’s award?’
Emlyn looked sheepish. ‘I made that bit up.’
She was now seeing him through swirling black clouds.
Next moment Bea from the Beeb was asking, ‘Could you bear to have your photograph taken with the rest of the winners?’
‘All right, but don’t go away,’ Janna begged Emlyn. ‘I want to ask you something. Oh look, there’s David Puttnam, my hero. Oh dear, I don’t feel very well.’ She suddenly buckled, stumbled and flopped to the ground.
‘She’s fainted, give her some air,’ shouted Stew.
‘I think you’ll find she’s passed out,’ said Emlyn. ‘I’ll take her home.’
Janna’s children, quite used to bringing parents back from the pub, hoisted her aloft and carried her out of the theatre.
‘“Go, bid the soldiers shoot”,’ said a grinning Rupert.
‘Utterly deplorable,’ chuntered the Bruces and Hydes.
‘So unnecessary to bring up Hengist. She only won that award because of all the publicity,’ grumbled Poppet.
‘Shut up, you jealous old bitch,’ shouted Aysha to everyone’s utter amazement.
Emlyn wrapped Janna in her bracken-brown pashmina and his jacket and drove her back to Larkshire with the winter stars, Castor and Pollux and the big and little Dog Stars, accompanying him all the way home.
Janna was a winter star, he thought wistfully. The darker the night and things had got at Larks, the more brightly and cheerfully she had rallied everyone. She looked about fifteen; occasionally she muttered in her sleep, but as he took her little hand in his, she slept on.
She had been so reluctant to accompany him earlier and so defensive until she got pissed. Was she still keen on that asshole Stew, or on Hengist, whom she’d defended so fiercely this evening?
Using her keys to let himself into her cottage, he put her down in the hall while he switched off the burglar alarm. Next moment Partner hurtled in from next door, but even when he barked joyfully and rushed up and down hurling all his toys in the air, Janna didn
’t stir.
‘I hoped I’d carry you over the threshold a different way,’ Emlyn told her as he took off her shoes and put her to bed in her clothes, then, dropping a kiss on her lips and switching off her mobile, he left her Plato in her arms.
130
Janna was woken by Newsnight on the landline, congratulating her and asking her to come on the programme that evening. Clutching her head, wincing at white sky glaring through the window, noticing the time, she gave a screech of horror. She’d be fatally late for work.
‘Can I call you back?’
But, as she started scrabbling for clean pants and tights, she caught sight of herself still in her bronze speckled party dress and then of the Plato gleaming in the dark folds of the bedspread, and, attempting to piece last night together, she remembered it was half-term.
Having splashed her face with cold water, scraped moss off her tongue and cleaned her teeth, she tottered downstairs. There was no note anywhere. What had been Emlyn’s part in all this?
She was simultaneously reassuring Partner she’d feed him in a second and groping for Alka-Seltzer when a hammering on the door made her clutch her head again.
Outside Lily was looking distraught.
‘You were wonderful last night, Christian and I were so proud, but, darling, I’ve done something dreadful.’
‘You’ve never done anything dreadful.’
But Lily, it seemed, had been having a tidy-out, prior to moving into a new house, and had discovered a recorded delivery she’d taken in for Janna two days after the Prom.
‘I was so excited to be marrying Christian, I must have shoved it to one side and forgotten to give it to you.’
