“Bert, you cheeky bastard!” shouted Ethel in my ear.
She pointed across the central reservation, past the rows of cars to where Bert was sticking a large square of cardboard to the side of the lorry. Printed in marker pen he’d written: TRACY IRELANDS FOR SALE.
“Bert told me it was just a trusted few people! I never liked ‘im, nor his scrawny diseased pidgins!” Ethel squawked. Four cars and a small van left the queue and turned off the road into the lay-by. “Do something, Coco! There’ll be none left!”
“Will you stop your mother shouting in my ear,” I snapped to a helpless Daniel.
“Coco, yer bloody useless!” cried Ethel.
“What can I do? We’re on a dual carriageway! You want me to abandon the car and walk?” I yelled.
People were now getting out of their cars in the lay-by and congregating around the back of the lorry.
“Well, if you won’t, I will!” declared Ethel. She opened the car door and jumped out.
“What are you doing, Mum?” yelled Daniel.
Ethel made for the metal barrier of the central reservation. She hitched up her skirt and hooked one leg over.
“Why did you have to go and put that idea in her head?” said Daniel.
“Oh, it’s my fault, is it? Ethel, this is a dual carriageway!” I shouted.
“Yer too bloody soft Coco!” she shouted back. “I survived the Blitz. I can survive crossing a bloody road!”
“Weren’t you evacuated to the Lake District?” I’m not too sure why I felt it relevant to contradict her, but she was ignoring me and was now straddling the central reservation, skirt hoiked up with her huge grey knickers on show to the line of cars behind. A couple of windows wound down and a huge bloke in a white van shouted, “Nice arse, grandma! You escaped from the funny farm?”
“You shut yer mouth, you fat bastard, I’m Christmas shopping!” shouted Ethel.
The traffic light was still red, and the lorry carrying dirt had nearly cleared the lane in front.
“Go and get her, Daniel, the lights are going to change,” I said.
He jumped out of the car and went round to grab Ethel but she managed to get her other leg over the central reservation and climb down on the other side. She dashed between the stationary cars and into the lay-by. Fifteen or twenty people were now congregating around the back of the lorry, waving cash at Bert.
“Come on, Danny! There’s gonna be none left for little Rosencrantz!” called Ethel.
Daniel was now over the central reservation and running around the cars to join her in the lay-by.
Seized with a crazed fear of losing out, I unclipped my seat belt and abandoned the car, leaping over the central reservation to join them. Ignoring the fat bloke behind who was still laughing.
There was an undignified tussle at the rear of the lorry. People were pushing and shoving, and Ethel was squaring up to a tiny little woman with fuzzy grey hair. In the interior of the lorry was a fast-dwindling pile of Tracy Islands. Ethel fought her way through and clambered up into the lorry, smearing what looked like engine oil down the front of her coat. Before Bert could stop her, she seized one of the last boxed Tracy Islands.
“Coco, ‘ere, I’ve got one,” she shouted, throwing it to me at the back of the crowd. Luckily I caught it.
“Ethel, get down,” said Bert.
“’Ow much, Bert?” she asked.
“Sixty,” said Bert, who was taking fistfuls of cash in one hand and handing out the last few Tracy Island boxes with the other.
“Sixty quid, Bert? Ain’t they in the shops for about thirty?” shouted Ethel. He reached the last of the Tracy Islands, and then the wooden pallet was empty. I clutched the Tracy Island box to my chest.
“It’s sixty quid, Ethel. I could get skinned alive for doin’ this!” said Bert.
“I’ve got fifty-five ‘ere, Bert, take it or leave it,” announced Ethel, putting her hand in her coat and pulling out a bundle of notes.
“The RRP is £34.99,” shouted the old lady with the fuzzy hair, “but I’ll pay sixty-five!”
“It’ll be RIP for you if you don’t keep yer trap shut!” snarled Ethel.
“I’ll pay seventy!” yelled another lady in a red woolly hat.
“Seventy-five,” chimed a young couple in matching winter coats.
“Bert. You owe me,” frowned Ethel.
Bert wiped his face, looked at the cash Ethel was holding out, then took it.
“We got one, we got one!!!” said Daniel, turning to me with a grin.
“The littlun’s gonna be made up! ‘E’s gonna get a Tracy bloody Island on Christmas Day! Only the best for my grandson!” grinned Ethel as Bert helped her down from the back of the lorry.
By now the lights had changed to green. There was crazed honking and the road workers were screaming at us to get back into our car, which had three doors open and the engine running. We didn’t care though. We had Tracy Island!!
* * *
When we finally got back home, we sat round the kitchen table with a pot of tea and some fruit cake.
“You did well, Ethel. Thank you,” I said as we stared at Tracy Island in the middle of the table. The box was so colourful. I wiped away a tear.
“Rosencrantz is going to be thrilled,” said Daniel, his bottom lip trembling.
Ethel’s face crumpled in tears and she got up.
“Well, I can’t ‘ang around ‘ere gas-bagging’, I’d best be off. Don’t get up Coco, love.”
We all composed ourselves, feeling a bit embarrassed.
“Would you like us to get you a taxi, Ethel?” I asked.
“Gawd no, love, I’ll get the bus.”
“Thank you, Ethel. I know we don’t…”
“Save yer breath for blowin’ out candles, love. Where Rosencrantz is concerned I think we’re in agreement,” she smiled.
She patted me on the shoulder and then Daniel showed her to the front door. When he came back he grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze.
“It looks like Thunderbirds are go!” he smiled.
Wednesday 16th December
We had a few too many celebratory drinks last night, so when I woke up I was hungover and my black eye was very pronounced. To quote Rosencrantz, I looked like I’d been looking through Mr Cohen’s joke telescope again. I debated leaving my face bare, but decided to slap on some foundation, otherwise the kids in my class wouldn’t let me hear the end of it.
I arrived in the staff car park and checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. I realised I should have put on some lipstick and eyeliner. I was a rather odd, pale colour. The Ripper must have seen me arrive because he was waiting by the school entrance when I reached it. His cold blue eyes were arctic.
“Mrs Pinchard. A word. In my office,” he snapped.
I followed him inside, past Miss Marks sitting at her desk with a smirk playing across her pointed face. I’d never been in The Ripper’s office before. It was vast and rather bare. A couple of certificates dotted the walls, and on a bookshelf there were a few spider plants which looked like they’d been read their last rites. I could hear muffled shrieks from the playground outside, but the windows had blinds drawn against the weak December sun.
He motioned for me to sit at his large, polished wood desk. He sat opposite and stared at me. His eyes seemed to see into my head, poking around inappropriately at the folds of my grey matter.
“You informed Miss Marks yesterday that you were ill,” he said, finally.
“Yes. I had a concussion… Is it a concussion or just concussion?”
He shrugged. “You’re the English teacher, Mrs Pinchard.”
“I had concussion, Mr Sutcliffe,” I said, wishing I hadn’t covered up my black eye. I looked like an odd-coloured liar.
“A concussion at home?” he asked.
“Of course, where else would I be concussed?”
“I don’t know. A car accident? Your car looks fine though. Did you go to hospital?”
“
No.”
“Then how did you know you had concussion?” he asked. I paused.
“I was under the impression I only need to provide you with a detailed sick note after my third day of absence?” I said.
“Of course,” he smiled. “I’m just checking you’re okay. I know that concussion can make one forgetful.”
“No, I’m fine. Apart from the grammatical mistake re ‘a concussion’ or ‘concussion’.”
I was babbling now. He opened his drawer and pulled out a copy of The Sun. A page had been marked with a yellow post-it. He opened it, and placed the newspaper on the polished desk in front of me. The headline read: TRACY ISLAND MANIA! He tapped at a picture with his manicured hand.
“This woman looks a lot like you, Mrs Pinchard,” he said.
I looked down in horror at the double-page spread. Pictures from around the country showed empty shelves in toyshops, fights breaking out in queues at the till, and it included a series of photos taken yesterday at the lay-by. I leaned into the picture: tiny images of me, Daniel and Ethel could be made out amongst the throng at the back of the lorry. Who’d been taking photos? A lurking journalist? Miss Marks?
“Do you think so?” I said. “That photo is a little blurred…”
“And that’s your husband, yes?”
“Um, is it? As I said, it’s very blurred…”
“This is a very clear picture of your husband, Mrs Pinchard. I have met him twice and I can recognise him. So?”
“I suppose it could be him. Although, what he was doing at that lay-by…”
“It could be him? If so, who would this woman be he’s got his arm around, if it wasn’t you?”
“Ooh, I’m going to have words with him when I get home!” I grinned manically. I started to sweat.
“This is not the time to joke!” he said, slamming his hand down on the polished wood, making me jump.
Say something normal! a voice screamed in my head. But I just sat there and looked guilty. The Ripper swallowed and sat back in his chair. The silence was deafening.
“Was the Christingle assembly a success?” I chirruped eventually.
“Was the Christingle assembly a success, WAS THE CHRISTINGLE ASSEMBLY A SUCCESS?” he roared.
“Is that a yes?” I said.
The Ripper went a funny shade of purple and tried to compose himself.
“Your form was unsupervised, and started throwing Christingle oranges at the choir,” he growled. “They changed the words from ‘Walking In A Winter Wonderland’ to ‘Wanking In A Winter Wonderland’ and one boy asked the Lady Mayoress to show him her fanny.”
“And what did she do?” I heard myself ask. Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut?
“Well, she didn’t, OBVIOUSLY, MRS PINCHARD!” shouted The Ripper, losing it again. He stood up and thumped his desk.
“SO I’LL ASK YOU AGAIN. WHERE WERE YOU YESTERDAY?”
I reacted like a naughty year eight pupil caught smoking behind the bike sheds: I sang like a canary. I blurted out that I had done what any mother would have done, and I had gone to track down a Tracy Island toy for Christmas. I waited to hear that I was sacked but…
“You’ve got a Tracy Island?” he said sharply.
‘Yes.”
“A genuine one?”
“Yes.”
He stood and went to the window. He lifted the blind for a moment, then let it drop.
“Look, Mrs Pinchard,” he said evenly. “I also have a son. A son I rarely see due to the pressures of being a headmaster.”
“So you must understand, Headmaster,” I pleaded.
He was composed now. He came and sat back at his desk. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a file. I noticed it had my name on the front.
“I’m having to make some difficult decisions about St Duke’s. We’re experiencing budget cuts and I have to make a teacher redundant.”
“I thought Miss Bruce was retiring?”
“Only if she decides to… If not, I have to make a tough decision. One teacher will be getting a P45 for Christmas.”
“Are you threatening me?” I frowned.
“No, no, no,” he said as if I were a silly little girl. “You are an able teacher, popular with pupils. But, I have a great deal of able teachers who are just as popular, and when I make my decision I have to be fair. I have to look at things like attendance records, and of course you are one of our newest staff members. So…” He tapped the file against his teeth.
“So?” I asked.
He pulled the newspaper toward him and twisted it round.
“So I wish I’d known about those Tracy Islands. Getting one for Christmas would make my son happy, my wife happy, and, naturally, me happy. And when I’m happy I’m a much more reasonable Headmaster,” he said. He was now calm, collected. Then the penny dropped.
“You want me to give you the Tracy Island?” I said. He kept staring at me. “No. No, NO, I’m sorry, Headmaster. This is my son’s Christmas present. Please. No…”
He kept staring at me with his cold eyes. I jumped when the bell rang to signal morning registration. Miss Marks knocked and came in.
“Mr Sutcliffe, I’ve got the Lady Mayoress on the phone, asking about the written apology?”
“Yes, thank you, Miss Marks. I was just discussing the pupil in question with Mrs Pinchard.” He turned his attention back to me. “I’ll need that written apology on my desk by lunchtime, and think carefully about what we discussed.”
I nodded and tried to compose myself. Picking up my bag I left his office.
* * *
I had to give my class a dressing down when what I really wanted was to tell them well done for trashing The Ripper’s Christingle assembly. When morning break came round I went to the ladies loos near the domestic science block, which are always empty. I locked myself in a cubicle and had a good cry. I didn’t hear anyone come in, and was surprised when there was a knock on the cubicle door. I froze. The knock came again.
“Yes?” I said.
“Mrs Pinchard, is that you? Are you all right?” asked Miss Rolincova in her Slovak accent.
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you,” I said.
There was a pause.
“You don’t sound fine, you are crying your head off.”
Bloody woman, I thought, bugger off.
“No I’m fine, really,” I insisted.
“There is much chatterings in the staffroom about you pretending to be sick from work yesterday. And they are all passing round a newspaper with a picture of you in it.”
I wiped my eyes, undid the lock, and opened the door. Miss Rolincova was perched on the line of sinks. She offered me a tissue.
“Thanks,” I said, taking the tissue and blowing my nose. “So everybody knows?”
She nodded. “They say The Ripper caught you bonking off.”
“It’s bunking – bunking off,” I said. “And yes, I was caught.”
“I have never properly introduced myself. I’m Marika,” she said smiling.
“I’m Coco.” She nodded and we shook hands. “What else are they saying?” I asked.
“Who cares what else they’re saying. That old crone who eats perished fruit is, as usual, being a bitch, and Mr Gutteridge, who smells like urine, was agreeing you should be given the sack. What is this sack? Some kind of bag?”
“It means I’ll be fired. I’ll lose my job,” I said.
“Ah, sorry.… Fuck. My English, I feel it will never get better.”
“You speak really good English,” I told her, wiping my eyes with the tissue.
“My God, woman!” she cried.
“What?” I said, peering into the mirror. “Oh…”
My tears had uncovered my black eye. I told her about slipping over on a pile of exercise books. She pulled a little pencil case out of her handbag, made me wash my face, then gently she re-applied my make-up. I couldn’t help but stare at her as she worked. She has a kind face, amazing cheekbones and beautiful long dark hair. She
grinned when she was finished and turned me to face the mirrors.
“Wow,” I said, admiring her handiwork.
“How do you say? Army paint?”
“War paint,” I laughed.
Marika nodded and smiled. “Now you can face the battle,” she said.
The bell rang out as if it had heard us.
“What are you doing for lunch?” I asked. “I can’t face the staffroom today. You fancy coming to the caff round the corner? My treat.”
She hesitated. “Okay, yes.”
We agreed to meet outside the staffroom, and we dashed off to our respective classes. I was intrigued to go out for lunch with Marika. I’d been teaching at St Duke’s for nearly four months, and she was the first person I felt like I’d connected with. I wonder if she felt the same, or was she just taking pity on me?
When lunch came round I was nervous. Marika was waiting for me outside the staffroom in her winter coat. As we walked out of school The Ripper was leaning over Miss Marks’s desk and in conversation. He looked up at me.
“Thank you for the note of apology, Mrs Pinchard. Do think carefully about what I said.” His eyes bored into mine and I shivered.
Outside it had started to snow, so we took my car the short way to the Italian café. The windows were steamed up, and a row of Christmas lights gave the mist a multi-coloured hue. I ordered lasagna, a green salad, and a large glass of red wine. Marika spent a long time studying the menu and settled on a green salad and a glass of tap water.
“Aren’t you very hungry?” I asked. She shrugged. “You’re slimming?”
“Yes,” she said unconvincingly.
When our food arrived my lasagna was thankfully enormous, so I offloaded a quarter onto Marika, saying that if she didn’t help me it would end up in the bin. We ate quickly and when the plates were cleared away I ordered a coffee and offered her a cigarette. There was a copy of The Sun on the next table and I grabbed it to have a proper look. I told Marika about everything that had happened. She listened attentively. When I finished she was silent. She could see I was uncomfortable and looked back down at the newspaper.
Coco Pinchard's Must-Have Toy Story Page 3
