Elena put down her fork, but didn’t move. Knocks on the door meant only one thing. Sasha jumped up and left the table before she could stop him. He opened the front door to find a tall slim man, elegantly dressed in a long black coat with a velvet collar and a trilby, standing in the corridor.
“Good evening, Sasha,” the man said, handing him a card.
“Good evening, sir,” said Sasha, wondering how the stranger knew his name. He looked at the card, and thought he recognized the name. He certainly knew the address.
“I was hoping to have a word with your mother,” said Mr. Agnelli, his accent revealing his heritage.
“Please come in,” said Sasha, and led Mr. Agnelli into the kitchen.
“Good evening, Mrs. Karpenko,” he said, removing his hat. “My name is Matteo Agnelli, and I’m—”
“I know who you are, Mr. Agnelli.”
He smiled. “I’m sorry to disturb you while you’re having your supper, so I’ll get straight to the point. My chef has handed in his notice as he wishes to return to his family in Naples, and I have been unable to find a suitable replacement. So I would like to offer you the position.”
Elena couldn’t hide her surprise. She’d only been working for Mr. Moretti for a few months, and had no idea that his greatest rival was even aware of her existence. Before she could reply, Mr. Agnelli solved the mystery.
“One of my regular customers told me he’d recently dined at Moretti’s, and that the food had improved beyond recognition, so I decided to find out why. On my instructions, our maître d’ had lunch at your restaurant last week, and afterward he warned me that we now had a genuine rival on our doorstep. So I would like to offer you the position of head chef at Osteria Roma.”
“But—” began Elena.
“I can’t give you a flat above the restaurant, but I would be willing to double your wages, which would allow you to rent a place of your own.” Sasha began to listen with greater interest. “Of course, the challenge would be considerable, as we have double the number of covers as Moretti’s. But from all I’ve heard, you seem to enjoy a challenge.”
“I’m flattered, Mr. Agnelli, but I’m afraid I’m in debt to Mr. Moretti, who—”
“And if I was willing to cover that debt, Mrs. Karpenko?”
“It’s not a financial debt,” said Elena, “it’s personal. It was Mr. Moretti who made it possible for Sasha and me to come to this country. That is not something I can easily repay.”
“Of course, I understand. And how I wish it had been me who’d been traveling on that ship from Leningrad.” Mr. Agnelli handed Elena his card. “But should you ever change your mind…”
“Not while Mr. Moretti is still alive,” said Elena.
“Despite my countrymen’s reputation, I hadn’t thought of going quite that far,” said Agnelli. “But if you insist…” All three of them burst out laughing.
“It’s been a pleasure to meet you,” said Elena, rising from her place and accompanying Mr. Agnelli to the door.
“Will you tell Mr. Moretti about the offer?” asked Sasha, when she returned to the kitchen.
“Certainly not. He has enough problems of his own at the moment, without me threatening to leave.”
“But if he knew about the offer, he might offer you a raise, even a percentage of the profits.”
“There are no profits,” said Elena. “The restaurant’s barely breaking even.”
“All the more reason to take Mr. Agnelli’s offer seriously. After all, you might not get another opportunity like this again.”
“You may well be right, Sasha, but loyalty doesn’t have a price. It has to be earned. And in any case, Mr. Moretti deserves better than that.” Sasha still didn’t look convinced. “If you ever have to face a similar dilemma,” said Elena, “just think what your father would have done, and you won’t go far wrong.”
* * *
“The headmaster wants to see you, Karpenko,” said Mr. Sutton as he entered the classroom the following morning. “You’re to report to his study immediately.”
The tone of his teacher’s voice didn’t suggest it was anything other than a command. Sasha stood up and left the classroom, painfully aware that all the other boys were staring at him. As he walked along the corridor he wondered what the old man could possibly want. He knocked on the headmaster’s door.
“Come,” said an unmistakable voice.
Sasha entered Mr. Quilter’s study to find him sitting behind his desk, grim-faced. Another man was seated opposite him, who didn’t turn around.
“Karpenko, this is Mr. Tremlett,” said the headmaster. A large man with thinning red hair, whose sizable paunch meant he couldn’t do up the buttons on his double-breasted suit, turned and gave Sasha a smug look that would have told any poker player he had a full house. “Mr. Tremlett tells me you punched his son during a game of football yesterday, and broke his nose. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Tremlett has assured me that his son had done nothing to provoke you, other than to score a goal. Is that the case?”
The meaning of the word “sneak” had been explained to Sasha in his first week at Latymer Upper, along with the consequences.
“It’s called collaboration in the Soviet Union,” Sasha had told his friend Ben Cohen. “But the consequences there are likely to be a little more serious than being sent to Coventry.”
The headmaster waited for an explanation, the expression on his face rather suggesting that he hoped there would be one, but Sasha made no attempt to defend himself.
“In the circumstances,” Mr. Quilter said eventually, “you leave me with no choice but to administer an appropriate punishment.”
Sasha was prepared for detention, extra prep, even six of the best, but he was shocked by the punishment the headmaster prescribed, especially as it meant the school would suffer every bit as much as he would. But he suspected that wouldn’t worry Tremlett. Father or son.
“And should such an incident ever be repeated, Karpenko, I will have no choice but to withdraw your scholarship.” Sasha knew that would mean his having to leave Latymer Upper, because his mother certainly couldn’t afford the school fees. “Let’s hope that’s an end to the matter,” were his final words.
* * *
“Why didn’t you tell him the truth?” said Ben Cohen when Sasha explained why he’d been demoted to the Second Eleven for the rest of the season.
“Tremlett’s father is a school governor, as well as a local councilor, so who do you think Quilter is more likely to believe?”
“This isn’t the Soviet Union,” said Ben. “And Mr. Quilter is a fair man. I should know.”
“What do you mean?”
“My father is a Jewish immigrant, and several other schools turned me down before Latymer offered me a place.”
“I always think of you as English,” said Sasha.
“I’m sure you do,” said Ben. “But the Tremletts of the world don’t, and never will.”
* * *
Sasha didn’t tell his mother the reason he was no longer playing in goal for the First Eleven. However, the rest of the school became painfully aware who was responsible for the team no longer having a clean sheet, while the Second Eleven were enjoying a vintage season.
When the headmaster asked to see Sasha at the end of term he couldn’t think what he’d done wrong this time, but felt sure he was about to find out. He knocked tentatively on Mr. Quilter’s door and waited for the familiar “Come.” When he entered the study, he was greeted with a smile.
“Take a seat.” Sasha was relieved. If you remained standing, you were in trouble; if you were invited to sit, all was well. “I wanted to have a private word with you, Sasha—” the first time the headmaster had called him by his Christian name. “I’ve been going over your mock A-level papers, and I think you should consider entering for the Isaac Barrow Prize for Mathematics at Cambridge.”
Sasha remained silent. He had no idea what the headmas
ter was talking about.
“The Isaac Barrow is one of Cambridge’s most prestigious awards, and the winner is offered a scholarship to Trinity,” Mr. Quilter continued. The fog was slowly lifting, but it still wasn’t clear. “As Trinity is my alma mater, it would give me particular pleasure if you were to win the prize. However, I must warn you, you’d be up against pupils from every school in the country, so the competition would be stiff. You’d have to sacrifice almost everything else if you were to have a chance.”
“Even playing for the First Eleven next season?”
“I had a feeling you might ask me that,” said Quilter, “so I discussed the problem with Mr. Sutton, and we felt you could be allowed just one indulgence, especially as cricket has failed lamentably to capture your imagination, and captaining the school chess team hasn’t proved too demanding.”
“I’m sure you know, headmaster,” said Sasha, “that I’ve already been offered a place at the London School of Economics, subject to my A-level results.”
“An offer that you could still take up should you fail to win the Isaac Barrow Scholarship. Why don’t you discuss the idea with your mother, and let me know how she feels?”
“I can tell you exactly how she will feel,” said Sasha. The headmaster raised an eyebrow. “She’ll want me to enter for the prize. But then she’s always been far more ambitious for me than she is for herself.”
“Well, you don’t have to reach a decision before the beginning of next term. However, it might be wise to give the matter some serious thought before you make up your mind. Never forget the school motto, ‘paulatim ergo certe.’”
“I’ll try not to,” said Sasha, daring to tease the headmaster.
“And while you’re at it, please warn your mother that I’m taking my wife to Moretti’s for dinner on Saturday evening to celebrate our wedding anniversary, so I hope it’s not her night off.”
Sasha smiled, rose from his chair, and said, “I’ll let her know, sir.”
He decided to take a walk around the school grounds before heading home to tell his mother why the headmaster had wanted to see him. He strolled out onto the close to see that a cricket match was taking place on the square. The school were 146 for 3. Despite his fascination with figures, Sasha hadn’t mastered the subtle nuances of the game. Only the English could invent a game where logic couldn’t determine which side was winning.
He continued walking around the boundary, occasionally glancing up when he heard the smack of leather on willow. When he reached the other side of the ground, he decided to go behind the pavilion so he wouldn’t distract the players. He’d only gone a few yards when his reverie was interrupted by the sound of a girl’s voice coming from the nearby copse. He stopped to listen more carefully. The next voice he heard was one he recognized immediately.
“You know you want it, so why pretend?”
“I never wanted to go this far,” protested the girl, who was clearly crying.
“It’s a bit late to tell me that.”
“Get off me, or I’ll scream.”
“Be my guest. Nobody will hear you.”
The next thing Sasha heard was a loud cry that sent the starlings perched on top of the pavilion scattering high into the air. He ran into the copse to see Tremlett lying on top of a struggling girl whose skirt was pushed up around her waist, her blouse and knickers on the ground by her side.
“Mind your own business, Russki,” said Tremlett, looking up. “She’s only a local tart, so get lost.”
Sasha grabbed Tremlett by the shoulders and dragged him off the girl, who let out an even louder scream. Tremlett cursed Sasha as he picked up his shoes and, remembering the broken nose, sauntered off through the copse.
Sasha was kneeling by the girl’s side, handing her her blouse, when the cricket master and three boys came running out of the back of the pavilion.
“It wasn’t me,” protested Sasha. But when he turned around, expecting the girl to confirm his story, she was already running barefoot across the grass, and never looked back.
* * *
“It wasn’t me,” repeated Sasha after the cricket master had marched him straight to the headmaster’s study and reported what he had witnessed.
“Then who else could it have been?” demanded the headmaster. “Mr. Leigh found you alone with the girl, who was screaming before she ran away. Nobody else was there.”
“There was someone else,” said Sasha, “but I didn’t recognize him.”
“Karpenko, you don’t seem to realize how serious this matter is. As things stand, I have no choice but to suspend you, and place the matter in the hands of the police.”
Sasha stared defiantly at the headmaster and repeated, “He ran away.”
“Who did?”
“I didn’t recognize him.”
“Then you must return home immediately. I strongly advise you to tell your mother exactly what happened, and let’s hope she can bring you to your senses.”
Sasha left the headmaster’s study and made his way slowly home, any thoughts of Trinity or the LSE now far from his mind.
“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” said his mother when he walked into the kitchen.
He sat down at the table, head in hands, and began to tell her why he’d come home early that afternoon. He’d reached, “I was kneeling by her side…” when there was a loud banging on the front door.
Elena opened it to find two uniformed policemen towering over her. “Are you Mrs. Karpenko?” the first officer asked.
“Yes.”
“Is your son, Sasha, with you?”
“Yes, he is.”
“I need him to accompany me to the station, madam.”
“Why?” demanded Elena, blocking the doorway. “He hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“If that’s the case, madam, he has nothing to fear,” said the second officer. “And of course you are welcome to come with us.”
Elena and Sasha sat silently in the back of the squad car as they were driven to the local police station. Once Sasha had been signed in by the duty sergeant, they were escorted to a small interview room in the basement and asked to wait.
“Don’t say a word,” said Elena, once the door had closed. “Being suspended from school is one thing, being sent back to the Soviet Union is quite another.”
“But this isn’t the Soviet Union, Mother. In England you’re innocent until proven guilty.”
The door swung open and a middle-aged man in a dark gray suit walked into the room and sat down opposite them.
“Good evening, Mrs. Karpenko, I’m Detective Inspector Maddox. I’m the officer in charge of this case.”
“My son is innocent, and—”
“And we’re about to give him a chance to prove it,” said Maddox. “We would like your son to take part in an identity parade, but as he’s a minor, we can’t do so without your written permission.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then he will be arrested, and will remain in custody overnight while we continue our inquiries. But if you’re convinced he has nothing to hide…”
“I have nothing to hide,” said Sasha, “so please sign the document, Mama.”
The inspector placed a two-page form on the table in front of Elena, and handed her a biro. She took her time reading every word before finally adding her signature.
“Please come with me, young man,” said the inspector. He rose from his place and accompanied Sasha out of the room and down the corridor. The detective then stood aside to allow Sasha to enter a long narrow room with a raised platform on one side. Standing on the platform were eight young men, roughly the same age as Sasha, who had clearly been waiting for him.
“You can choose where you would prefer to stand,” said the inspector.
Sasha stepped onto the platform and took his place between two lads he’d never seen before, second on the left.
“Will all of you now please turn and face the mirror in front of you.”
Th
e inspector left the room and went next door, where a frightened young girl, her mother, and a female police officer were waiting for him.
“Now, Miss Allen,” said Detective Inspector Maddox as he drew back the curtain along one wall of the room, “remember that although you can see them, they cannot see you.” The girl didn’t look convinced, but when her mother nodded, she stared intently at the nine young men. She only needed a few seconds before she pointed to the one who was standing second from the right.
“Can you confirm that is the young man who attacked you, Miss Allen?” asked Maddox.
“No,” said the girl, barely above a whisper. “That’s the boy who came to my rescue.”
* * *
She rang the doorbell twice. She knew he was at home, because she’d sat in her car for the past two hours waiting for him to return. When he answered the door he looked down at her and said, “What do you want?”
“I’ve come to see you about your son.”
“What about my son?” he said, not budging an inch.
“Perhaps it might be wiser if we were to discuss this inside, councilor,” she said, glancing across at an elderly lady who was peeping through the lace curtain next door.
“All right,” he said reluctantly, and led her through to his study.
“So what’s this all about?” he demanded once he’d closed the door.
“Your son tried to rape my daughter,” she said.
“I know all about this,” said the man, “and you’ve got the wrong lad. I think you’ll find that the police have already arrested the culprit.”
“I think you’ll find that they’ve already released him without charge.”
“So what makes you think my son was involved?”
Mrs. Allen opened her handbag, took out a gray sock, and handed it to the councilor.
“This could be anyone’s,” he said, passing the sock, back to her.
“But it isn’t anyone’s. A conscientious mother has taken the trouble to sew a Cash’s name tape on the inside. Perhaps you’d like to have another look?”
He reluctantly took the sock back and checked the inside, where he found the name TREMLETT neatly sewn in red on a thin piece of white tape.
Heads You Win Page 9
