When it came to the consultation with Mr Collins at the college, I surprised myself. Poor Josh had developed full-blown flu – head like a bucket, eye-sockets lined with sandpaper, throat full of golf balls and a temperature only intermittently dipping below scorching. His afflictions and enforced absence from the meeting (I reasoned) would cast a more sympathetic light on him.
Glyn had Cy coming up for the day. ‘Sorry I can’t come,’ he said, ‘I know how much you hate these things.’
‘I don’t mind,’ I replied truthfully. ‘ I shall be fine.’
‘If they want to know what I think, tell them I think Josh writes like a pro – and he’s never boring, which is more than you can say for some of these dreary tracts that win prizes.’
‘I’ll stick up for him,’ I said, ‘ don’t worry.’
Glyn was right, I usually disliked talking to teachers. My experience of such discussions had not been happy. He and I had turned out a trio of prime teacher-baiters, from the refusenik Becca to the too-clever-by-half Josh with his intellectual brinkmanship. But today I felt clear-headed and exuberantly confident. I even managed to junk the ‘ good things are for best’ mentality which had dogged me all my life and wore my new suit – with Patrick’s card tucked into the inside jacket pocket.
I hadn’t met Mr Collins before, but my preconceived notions about what a Head of English would look like led me to expect someone pear-shaped and possibly bearded, in a V-necked tanktop and a jacket with leather at the elbows. I was therefore particularly glad I’d taken care with my appearance when I met the real thing, who was only a few years older than Josh, with a carefully arrayed mop of gelled hair, a baggy dark suit and a button-down chambray shirt. I could only assume Josh’s ‘trainspotter’ shaft referred to his taste in essays.
‘Hallo there.’ He held out his hand. ‘Thanks for coming in. Shall we go in the interview room?’
For me this conjured up a picture from police shows on TV, of a windowless box with a metal-frame table and chairs, lino on the floor and a seen-it-all sergeant in shirtsleeves standing against the wall. The reality, like Mr Collins himself, could not have been more different. There was a pale blue carpet, pink and blue curtains at the window overlooking the sports field, two upholstered chairs with wooden arms, and a teak table with copies of the college prospectus and the TES.
Mr Collins paused in the doorway. ‘Would you like some coffee? I can get you a drinkable one from the staff-room.’
‘No thank you.’
‘Tea?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Right.’
He came in and we sat down in the chairs. I leaned back in mine, hands relaxed, legs crossed; he perched on the edge of his, elbows on knees.
‘Now then. Josh.’ His brows furrowed as though the mere mention of my son’s name left him lost for words. ‘How is he by the way?’
‘Groggy.’
‘Do give him my regards.’
‘I will.’
‘Fine. Umm …’ He bent his head and combed his fingers through his hair.
I waited, for once resisting the urge to pre-empt things by offering any view of my own. It was after all he who had asked to see me and not the other way round.
Eventually he looked up. ‘Did you or your husband have an opportunity to read his essay?’
‘We both have.’
‘What did you think of it?’
There seemed no point in being anything but truthful. ‘I must say I was taken aback.’
For some reason this appeared to please Mr Collins, who brightened noticeably. ‘I can understand that.’
‘What did you think of it?’ I asked.
‘I thought it was an extraordinary piece of work.’
‘So your criticism is … what exactly?’
‘Well – obviously he was setting out to shock, and he succeeded. I can’t pretend to have been especially shocked myself, but there was a challenge being thrown down there. The thing is. Josh has such an original mind, such a command of language, such persuasive powers of argument. I’d be extremely loath to squash all that.’
‘That’s what my husband thinks,’ I said. I didn’t tell him that Glyn had said that Josh’s essay would make any examiner’s day. ‘I’m more cautious.’
‘Of course, I’d expect you to be, you’re quite right to be, but I wanted to talk to you in order to establish where we go from here.’
Suddenly I had the feeling that none of this mattered very much, and that I was becoming enmeshed in a discussion which was going nowhere.
‘You’re his teacher,’ I said. ‘I think that’s your problem.’
He didn’t break stride but I could tell I’d surprised him. ‘You do regard it as a problem, then?’
‘It’d be nice if he passed his exams.’
‘If you read his last report you’ll know that I regard him as a potential starred A.’
‘And will writing about pudenda jeopardize that?’
‘It might do.’
‘Then I imagine it would be better if he cleaned up his act.’
‘Cleaned up his act … yes.’ Mr Collins tapped his forefingers against his upper lip. He was starting to get on my nerves. They say that with advancing years a person becomes more right-wing. I was suddenly ambushed by the unsettling and (till now) uncharacteristic notion that I was paying this young man’s salary and he was expecting me to do his job for him.
‘I think,’ I said firmly, that both Glyn and I would prefer that Josh was only allowed the licence that’s commensurate with him getting a good grade.’
‘Okay,’ agreed Mr Collins without warmth. ‘That’s fair enough. Have you actually spoken to him about it?’
‘Not since we read it. He’s got the flu.’
‘Sure, sure, but it would be best if you did.’
‘I dare say we will.’
I was flying. I hadn’t felt so good in years. Perhaps this was the recessive gene I’d passed on to Becca asserting itself.
‘Look, Mrs Lewis,’ said Collins, ‘ let me put my cards on the table.’
‘Do.’
‘I like Josh. I believe he and I understand each other. He’s a very bright lad, and English is his best subject—’
‘I know.’
‘We’re all on the same side when it comes down to it, we all want him to do as well as we know he can.’
‘Yes, yes.’ I let the merest hint of impatience show through.
‘My feeling is,’ said Mr Collins, ‘that if you can provide a bit of input your end it can only be helpful.’
He was in retreat, throwing up a smokescreen of teacherspeak to cover his tracks.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘when he’s feeling better we’ll let him know exactly what we think.’
‘And you’ll indicate to him the advisability of sticking to less provocative subject matter?’
‘I might,’ I said, ‘I can’t speak for my husband.’
‘Your support would be very much appreciated.’
I stood up. He did the same. My expensive suit slipped smoothly into place without a crease: his had concertinaed in all the usual places.
‘Thank you again for coming in to discuss this,’ he said, opening the door.
I smiled tigerishly as I swept by.
As I got into the Morris I saw Mr Collins crossing the car park between buildings, jacket flapping, folders under arm. I took some satisfaction from the knowledge that he was frightened of Josh. And now, astonishingly, of me too.
I stopped at the first call-box I came to and called Glyn. Cy answered the phone.
‘Hallo, sweetie,’ he said. ‘ Do you want the old man or will I do?’
‘It’s about A-level English.’
‘Count me out.’
‘Glyn?’ I said. ‘I thought I’d let you know that it went really well with Mr Collins.’
‘Great,’ he said when I’d outlined the exchange. ‘Well done. I think Josh is going to be the new Ken Tynan.’
They were laughing like a couple of schoolboys themselves as I said goodbye.
I took out Patrick’s card and dialled. Even if he hadn’t picked it up right away I knew, today, that I would speak to him.
‘Nadgers,’ he said, in an intense undertone. ‘I’ve got sodding students.’ He made it sound like an embarrassing ailment. ‘ How are you placed later on?’
‘How about three?’ I asked. I felt like a character in a play. I couldn’t believe I was doing it.
‘Three it is,’ he said.
It was midday. I did something almost unprecedented and went to call on Susan in her office.
I say ‘ office’, but the premises from which she and Simon ran Ideal Homes were more like a couple of elegant drawing-rooms. In spite of their longstanding, gossipy friendship they were from different planets, domestically speaking. Simon and Richard ran a full-blown fantasy country house with bunches of herbs in the kitchen, a cake always in the tin, fruit and vegetables in the garden, wood-burning stoves, and linen sheets which lay in the airing cupboard with sprigs of dried lavender. Computers, TV, fax and phones were kept out of sight as much as possible. Susan liked her technology get-atable and regarded baking bread and drying herbs as activities for which, like stuffing mushrooms, life was much too short.
The rooms where they worked reflected these differences. Simon’s was opulent and chintzy with squashy cushions, swagged curtains and a Casa Pupo bowl full of fruit: Susan’s inclined towards pale, sharp chic – ash-grey leather sofas, huge paintings of daunting modernity and a chrome espresso machine.
Their PA/receptionist, Fiona, occupied a small room between the two, off the hallway. Considering the grandeur of their own surroundings, I thought Simon and Susan were a bit mean with Fiona who had to pop out of her cubbyhole like a weatherman when visitors arrived. She was a nice, sensible, well-brought-up girl (as Susan was always telling me), incapable of upstaging anyone.
‘Hallo, Mrs Lewis!’ she greeted me. ‘Hang on a mo, I’ll give her a buzz.’
Two seconds later Susan burst forth. ‘How lovely! God, you look amazing! Come on in and have a glass of wine.’
Fiona smiled indulgently at us as we went through. As Susan poured the wine Simon knocked on his way in.
‘Laura …’ He held me by the shoulders and kissed me. ‘ I thought I heard your voice. Is this a private party or can anyone join in?’
‘It’s private,’ said Susan. ‘You may have one small glass now you’re here and then we’re throwing you out.’
‘Girl talk?’ asked Simon, ‘because if so, I’m better at it than anyone.’
Susan handed us our wine. ‘Don’t take that old queen’s line with us, Simon, it won’t wash.’
‘Old queen?’ He laid a graceful hand on his lapel. ‘I’m wounded.’
Simon was sixty – his birthday had been celebrated with some state the previous September – but looked fifteen years younger. His good looks were of the Lucky Lucan variety, with luxuriant greying hair and moustache, and heavy-lidded dark eyes. A regular hundred lengths of the pool kept his tall figure slim, and perfect grooming presented it to advantage. He lacked the hint of raffishness to make him irresistible, but there was no denying he was a handsome man.
‘Now, drink up and run along,’ said Susan.
‘Don’t be so mean,’ I protested, turning to Simon. ‘It’s good to see you. How’s Richard?’
‘Frantically busy in the garden – it’s that time of year.’ It was hard to imagine Richard being frantically anything. ‘And,’ went on Simon,’ he’s been offered some work on television.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ I exclaimed. ‘What?’
‘Some comedy or other about growing old disgracefully.’ It was clear Simon was referring to one of the most popular shows on TV, but would never in a thousand years have admitted to knowing its name.
‘Something you guys should know all about,’ observed Susan.
‘I’ve seen that,’ I said. ‘ It’s funny.’
‘Really? Thank heavens for a trustworthy testimonial. Richard’s playing the chairman of the residents’committee. A blazer-and-cravat job, but who cares?’
I raised my glass. ‘ So here’s to Richard, and success on the box.’
Something occurred to Susan. ‘They record those things in front of a studio audience, don’t they? We can all go down and be the ones with the peculiar laughs.’ She screeched. ‘No problem in my case!’
I’m not sure that would be a good idea. He’s slightly embarrassed by the whole thing.’
‘Well, give him our love, won’t you?’ said Susan, eyebrows raised pointedly. ‘When you next see him?’
‘I shall do that. Now, not another word, I’m gone. May I take this with me?’
‘Do, and tell Fiona to see off all-comers, or send them to you. I’m going to be busy with my friend here.’
Simon kissed me on the way out. He smelt delicious.
‘Now!’ said Susan. ‘ I want to know everything.’
She often began conversations in this way. Generally speaking it was a device to get my small beer out of the way before moving on to the fine wine of her own news, but today I detected a genuine interest in her manner. Or maybe it was just that I had gone round there bursting with something I knew she’d want to hear.
‘About what?’ I asked.
Susan took a cigarette from the box on the table. ‘Don’t be disingenuous,’ she said as she lit it. ‘You and I have known each other since dinosaurs ruled the earth, remember?’ She waved her lighted cigarette at me, up and down like one of those body-search devices at airports. ‘Look at you.’
‘It’s new,’ I admitted, smoothing the sleeves lovingly.
‘I can see that. But it’s my duty to tell you that today you could make a bodybag look good.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So spit it out. Otherwise I shall just make it up anyway, you know me.’
‘You’re bullying me, Susan—’
‘And I shall tell everyone what I’ve made up.’
‘For heaven’s sake!’ I was appalled. ‘ If I tell you you mustn’t tell a soul, not a living soul!’
‘I promise.’ She sat back and crossed her long, wicked legs in sheer black. They seemed to snap at me like scissors, or pincers, holding me in place. ‘I promise – now you’ve got to tell.’
‘I’ve met this man—’
‘Oh!’ Susan closed her eyes and hugged herself. ‘That line! That phrase! It’s the best start to a story that there is! I love it!’ She composed herself theatrically. ‘ Continue.’
‘I met—’
‘Where?’
‘At our house – in our garden actually—’
‘When?’ Her eyes were still closed. She was like Sherlock Holmes mentally constructing a case.
‘About … four weeks ago?’
‘How?’
‘That’s what’s so incredible. It was at our party.’
‘I knew it!’ yelped Susan. ‘ Do you remember what I wished you for your anniversary? Do you remember? I wished you to have an affair – and it came true! I’m the wicked fairy!’
‘He wasn’t supposed to be there,’ I said. ‘He just turned up.’
‘Really? He did? More, more – I want to know every detail.’
In one way I wanted nothing more than to debrief completely, but an inner voice warned me that to do so would be akin to selling my soul.
‘Younger than you?’ she asked.
‘I believe so.’
‘Excellent. Married?’
‘No. At least he said he lived alone.’
‘That’s good enough. It doesn’t matter who’s hanging around in the background as long as they’re not tapping the rolling-pin every time he’s out.’
I reminded her: ‘I am, though. Married.’
‘So? You’re long overdue a fling. I regard it as not just desirable but essential that you make the beast with two backs with this chap as soon as possible – or have you done so
already?’
I shook my head. I could feel my whole face fighting with a smile, it was like trying to contain a kitten in a blanket.
‘No. But—’ I glanced at my watch. ‘Today may well be the day.’
Susan shot to her feet and held a tightly clenched fist at shoulder-height.
‘Yes!’
Chapter Nine
Patrick Lynch’s house was in Calcutta Road, near the town centre. There were trees along the kerb, and all the houses had steps up to the front door and pointed iron railings separating them from the pavement. It was a terrace with pretensions. The basement appeared to be a separate flat, or perhaps he let it, because as I approached I saw a girl in jeans trying to squash a bag of rubbish into an already overflowing dustbin.
I rang the doorbell and there was a shout from far back in the house, indicating that he wouldn’t be a moment. I stood with my back to the door, keeping the street under observation in case anyone I knew passed by.
He opened the door to me and an exquisite oriental girl stepped out, swinging a rucksack full of books over her shoulder.
‘See you Thursday,’ she said to him, paying me no never mind.
‘Till Thursday,’ he agreed. He held out his hand to me. ‘Come on in.’
‘Who was that?’ I asked.
‘Lili, one of my students.’
‘She looks like a model.’
‘She is lovely, isn’t she? Chinese. Mind like a razor as well as all that. Come through.’
The hall had a strip of faded red carpet with a key pattern, an uncomfortable-looking throne-like chair with a threadbare tapestry seat, a mirror on the wall with a lot of notes stuck into the marquetry frame, and a large and rather gloomy teak chest carved with elephants and trees. There was also a pair of trainers with the laces done up and the backs trodden down, and one of those palm-tree stands with several coats hanging from it, including the lumberjack jacket.
Life After Lunch Page 14
