by Janet Davey
The gate clicks.
‘Here they are. Good.’ Randal brightens.
I glance out of the front window. ‘It’s a boy putting a flyer though the door. Yes, there’s the letterbox. Pizza delivery? What were we saying?’
‘Non lo so. How’s William?’
‘He’s doing well. I’ll tell him you asked after him. I’m seeing him soon.’
‘He’ll be lost without Helena.’
‘He manages.’
‘Let me give you a lift to Winchmore Hill.’
‘No. I like to walk. Thank you.’
At four o’clock Randal leaves.
I return to the living room and sit on the sofa. Through half-closed eyes I take stock of the scene in front of me – bay window, fireplace, mirror, books, pictures, armchair; its loose cover furrowed by recent occupation. I turn them into a kind of mosaic of colours and shadows in which no single object conveys a particular meaning – and wish I could do the same with my thoughts. I was once proud of my thinking. I graded and preferred: purple or black, Mum or Dad, Christmas or summer, slow change or revolution.
23
I WENT TO the Luptons’ house years ago. It is in one of the roads of tall Victorian terraced houses to the east of Green Lanes, the winding thoroughfare that runs from Mason’s Corner at Winchmore Hill down to Newington Green and was once a drovers’ route. The terraces fall away down the slope of the land, their gables a diminishing series of pinnacles. Ross, aged twelve, spent a weekend afternoon with Harry and Gervase. The Luptons kept a gong in the hall and at supper-time the family appeared in response to Deborah’s rhythmical banging. Deborah’s mother-in-law who lives in their basement staggered upstairs within a few minutes. She panted somewhat from the effort and from the long-term effect of smoking a thin cigar before dinner, a habit that Deborah forbade; indeed, she had made the renunciation a condition of Jean’s moving into the house.
The Lupton set-up made quite an impression on me. I waited among cases of musical instruments, cricket equipment, a rubber dinghy, a coil of marine rope, a wheelchair, a hoist and a solid, square-shaped object with a pink padded top that I took to be a commode. A modest chandelier hung from the ceiling and the walls were covered with nautical charts. Deborah talked as she banged the gong, warning me of Jean who duly appeared, puffing and heaving herself up by the banister rail, in many respects a normal woman, though Deborah had made out that she was some kind of living corpse. When Jean had recovered her breath she chatted pleasantly with me. I could see that she was in no immediate need of the aids, apart from perhaps the wheelchair for longer outings, and wondered whether they were placed there as symbols of decrepitude to deter her from her smoking habit – rather like the vanitas in old art, the skull or the fallen petal. I detected a whiff of tobacco as she talked. Harry, Gervase and Ross tumbled down the stairs soon afterwards. ‘It’s you,’ Ross said – a rare acknowledgement – and I caught a look of relief pass across his round face.
Deborah’s plan to get a group of parents together in the run-up to Christmas failed. One by one, people cancelled and in the end only the Luptons and Simon Petridis, Evie’s father, held onto the date. Emails passed to and fro as we tried to reschedule. Deborah said that it was like trying to herd cats. Work-related dinners, committee meetings, choir rehearsals, fiftieth birthday parties. They gave detailed explanations. I have less in the diary than the others though I have started seeing Richard Watson again in an on/off way and a Saturday morning meet-up with Dirk and Frances has been arranged. Oliver’s term dates are pencilled in. The New Year at 10 Dairyman’s Road is much like the old.
Deborah finally marshalled us and we settled on an evening in mid-January, two weeks into the term. As Giles Lupton hurries me through the hall and down into the basement, I have time to register that though the atmosphere of the house is the same as on my previous visit some of the paraphernalia has gone.
A fractured chorus of voices greets me. Hello, Lorna, Hi, Lorna, Hi there, as Giles shepherds me into the ‘snug’, the basement room on the garden side of the house. The parent-guests are already present: Cassie Styles, Ginny Lu and Deborah Lupton on a sagging sofa; Simon Petridis at a higher level on a dining-room chair; and Terence Levine, higher still, on a piano stool, though there is no piano in evidence.
The room is furnished in timeless English comfort style – pieces of old rug on the floor, baggy cushions, singed lampshades, a dying azalea in a pot, a cathode-ray tube television, a rusty bagatelle board propped against the wall – and smells of something from the first-aid box, TCP, or some similar antiseptic. The curtains are drawn. The one to the left is dark green velvet, sun-bleached on the inner edge; the one to the right, a bold print of stylised poppies, is smaller in every dimension and its hem falls short of the floor. I imagine some kind of accident involving paint or red wine, or an incident that ended with a tearing. A family member who ran amok or a desperate pet – a cat with exceptional climbing ability and rip-sharp claws, or a fabric-eating dog.
Giles pours a glass of wine for me. I find a spare chair and sit down. I recognise everyone. This is a conspiracy of the like-minded. Because of the email exchange, I now know their first names. No Bennet-Neerhoffs. In fact, no one new and no one who lives in social housing. Less than a third of Mr Child’s English A-level group is represented.
‘Let’s cut to the chase, now we’re all here,’ Deborah declares.
‘I’ll just finish, if I may,’ Simon Petridis says. ‘Evie has to cover certain points in the assignments. “Assessment objectives” I believe they’re called. But she doesn’t know what they are. “That’s ridiculous,” I said to her. “Have you read Kafka? He is your ally, even though he’s dead.” If teachers are going to mark to some tick-box scheme – which I understand is current policy – they have to tell you what they expect from you. Otherwise, it’s divination – mind reading. And what is in the mind of Alan Child?’
‘Agreed. Third rate.’ Giles Lupton takes out a handkerchief and polishes his spectacles.
Even without seeing the half-empty wine glasses, I can tell from their voices and faces that they experienced the first rush of alcohol to the bloodstream a while ago. The time of the meeting – 18.45 – was as finely tuned as a doctor’s appointment, and I am not late. As they hark back to earlier points of discussion, I consider this and, though I am aware that these people can work themselves into righteous indignation from a standing start in a matter of seconds, for the first ten minutes I scarcely hear what is being said. I try to work out if I missed a last-minute message or – a more paranoid interpretation – whether Deborah deliberately invited me to arrive later than the others.
‘Do any of them meet the criteria?’ Terence asks.
‘I think maybe Grace has had a couple of high-band sixes,’ Ginny says modestly.
Grace Lu is of a different substance from my boys. You could deposit her, say, in an audience at Wigmore Hall and she would look younger than everyone else by fifty years but not out of place. She would listen attentively and her phone would be off and hidden in her bag. I admire her hugely. And Ginny. I admire her too.
She recounts that, each week, Mr Child’s English set leaves the sixth-form block and goes to the old school building for a lesson; something to do with timetabling. It is there that the worst of the Year 12 indiscipline breaks out. The students cram the desks together or sit on the wide sills and fiddle with the window ropes. They eat packed lunch. They talk among themselves.
‘Maybe they’re suffering from some kind of regression,’ Simon says, his rolled r’s like the purr of a cat. ‘Returning to the old school, they revert to earlier behaviours.’
‘Every Wednesday,’ Giles Lupton says. ‘Codswallop.’
‘Hamlet and Silas Marner. Slit-your-throat time. Enough to make anyone gloomy. Please, Giles.’ Cassie holds out her glass for a refill.
‘He was a different person in his NQT year. It’s as if all the spark’s gone out of him.’ Ginny alone of the group is drinking
water and covers her tumbler with her hand as Giles does the rounds.
‘“Suppose George Eliot hadn’t told us that sixteen years have passed? Would we know? Are there any clues?”’ Deborah’s mockney accent causes a few smiles.
She occupies the central position on the sofa; not a commanding position, since she sits at its lowest point. With her feet planted flat on the ground and her body tilted forward, she gives the impression of being ready to rise. In wide combat trousers, topped with a double-breasted Aran cardigan, she occupies twice the space of her neighbours.
‘It seems a fair question. I mean, by no means stupid,’ Terence says. ‘Or are you objecting to Mr Child’s vowel sounds, Deborah?’
‘Ah, but wait. “It’s Chapter Sixteen,” your bright spark said.’ Deborah points a finger at me. ‘“Sixteen years. Numbers are a parallel universe.”’
‘George A. Elliott is a distinguished mathematician at the University of Toronto, famous for his work on operator algebras in Hibbert space. It is conceivable that—’
Giles flaps his hand at Simon, as if batting a fly away. ‘Carry on, Debs. Say what you’ve got to say.’
‘Ross went on for about ten minutes. Fairly tedious for the others.’ Deborah shifts from side to side. ‘Mr Child should have taken control of the situation. He should have said, “Well spotted but let’s move on.” Then little Cara started up. “I don’t like it when books jump time. It’s like you’re told you’ve got a terminal illness. Say you’re twenty and you’re expecting to live another eighty years. Suddenly the doctor says you’ve only got two left.”’
Cassie, who has been examining her fingernails, jerks up her head at the mention of her daughter and shoots Deborah a look of pure hatred. ‘That was her step-brother,’ she spits out. ‘His last weeks were beyond terrible. A vet would have—’
‘Ha, ha. All very amusing these anecdotes but let’s progress, Debs.’ Giles Lupton rocks on his heels, in front of the boarded-up fireplace. He waves an empty bottle. ‘There isn’t time for an adverse Stroop Effect. I don’t know whether any of you have heard of John Ridley Stroop?’
He looks at Terence and Simon. Women are excluded from having heard of anybody, though Deborah has benefited from years of instruction. ‘Stroop demonstrated that when the word for a colour – for instance, yellow – is printed in, for instance, blue, naming the colour on the page takes longer than when the colour of the ink and the word for the colour match. From what Debs tells me, this Child fellow reacts as though his yellow is always printed in blue. There is a significant time lag in his responses. I wonder whether drugs are causing the problem.’
‘I think I have this Stroop thing,’ Terence murmurs. ‘Give or take a green or two.’ He winks at me.
‘Hang on. Just let me make my point and then you can talk away to your heart’s content. Starting well is key. It establishes a virtuous circle.’ Giles pauses as if to ascertain that we are familiar with the expression. ‘When students fail it is invariably because they get behind. Catching up means fulfilling the previous demand and the latest one. Then along comes another. Before they know it they are snowed under. It is like debt accumulation, only the scarce resource is time not money.’
I worry for Jean, who, if still alive, will be stuck in the front basement room, waiting for this meeting to end so that she might nervously risk lighting a small cigar.
Cassie is fidgety. She has started to hum a belligerent little tune. She flexes her shoulders and stretches out her feet, revealing bare flesh between the end of her leggings and her fringed ankle boots.
Giles frowns at her. He clears his throat. ‘In conclusion, the man’s not on the ball. It’s crucial we act now. Not this time next January when it’ll be too ruddy late. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.’
‘I think he leaves the premises in the lunch hour,’ Ginny says. ‘Very unusual. I mean, there’s nowhere to go, is there?’
Cassie stops humming. ‘Cara’s seen him in a tracksuit. He cycles. Bradley Wiggins, eat your heart out.’
‘We can’t hand out time, much as we’d like to.’ Simon Petridis smiles sadly at her. ‘But, with respect, these young people are not getting behind. They are failing to move forward. “Rewrite part of Silas Marner in the future.” What kind of essay question is that?’
Simon is a full ten years older than the rest of us. His eyes are set in dark, baggy pouches. Their gaze has settled on the women in the group, each in turn. I felt pleasantly flattered when it happened to me, less so when he moved on to Deborah.
‘And which future?’ Terence asks. ‘The 1890s, or nowadays, or some kind of sci-fi scenario?’
Deborah revs up. ‘Typical of the man. Nothing is clear. You can be sure he isn’t meeting his performance objectives. Goode won’t divulge data concerning individual members of staff but he’s told me the criteria: SMART. Specific, measurable, achievable, realistic and time-bound. Hurrah!’
‘There is no rewind button,’ Simon says.
‘Action!’ Deborah slaps her knees.
Giles bends down to put the empty bottle in the hearth and pick up a fresh one. He unscrews the cap.
‘Lorna, you’ve been quiet. What’s your take on the situation?’ Ginny asks.
Light-headed from listening without taking part, I have a gulp of wine. I am tempted to share the information about the cupboard. Jude Bennet-Neerhoff has seen him go in there. They would fall on it and I would join the inner circle. I could use the word ‘hide’. He hides in a cupboard. No, I do not know what he does in there. I imagine it’s some kind of refuge. I would sound concerned. The kind of person who worries about the victim while offering him up. They are looking at me, expecting an answer.
‘Ross is pretty silent on the matter. On most matters. I mean, how do you know all this stuff? Your children come home and talk?’ I see from their expressions that the origin of my son’s shortcomings is in my face. ‘I’m against persecuting Alan Child,’ I say. ‘He’s young. He’s in his second year of teaching. He made a good start but it’s all gone a bit flat. It happens. Maybe he’ll fall for an Australian who pines for the sun and will transport him down under. There are usually plenty of Antipodeans at Lloyd-Barron Academy.’
‘A touch fatalistic,’ Terence says. ‘The romantic solution.’
‘Damned wishy-washy,’ Giles snorts.
‘Miss Robartes is fit. I think she’s from South Africa,’ Simon says.
‘Watch it, Simon. We didn’t hear that.’ Deborah raises her eyebrows at him.
‘I don’t think anyone wants to persecute Mr Child, Lorna,’ says Ginny. ‘But it’s in everyone’s interests that complaints are resolved at the earliest opportunity.’
‘He’s a victimmy type.’ Cassie holds out her glass. ‘Just a small one, Giles. I’m driving. He should have been a librarian.’
‘The first stage is informal, verbal or written,’ Ginny says.
‘Verbal. I’ll do it.’ Deborah bounces up from the sofa, causing Cassie and Ginny on either side to elevate too. ‘If you need something done, ask a busy person.’
‘Thank you, Deborah. Are we all happy with that?’
We nod.
‘Done!’ Giles booms.
‘I’ll give you chapter and verse on the correct procedure,’ Ginny says.
‘Do you remember when Miss Bhimji played “The Last Post” and “The Rouse” on her tenor recorder to give emotional substance to the Selected Poems of the First World War?’ Simon positions his fingers over the imaginary holes of an instrument. We fall silent.
24
‘WHAT IS THIS?’ Ross asks when I take the plum crumble from the oven.
‘Crumble of the most basic sort. I used flour, white sugar, butter and plums. No rolled oats, flaked almonds, orange zest, pine nuts or any other additional ingredients. Help yourselves.’
‘Looks like that leeks-and-breadcrumbs thing.’
‘Gratin. It isn’t. Why would I give you two main courses?’
‘Short-term memory
loss?’
He wolfs down the pudding and has a second helping.
‘Sorry, Lorna. It’s nice but I’m not hungry,’ Jude says.
‘It doesn’t matter at all. Are you not feeling well?’
Jude pushes her spoon in and out of the mush on her plate.
‘I keep thinking of Sadie.’
‘Sadie?’
‘Her dog, Mum. Catch up,’ Ross says.
‘I’m sorry. For no good reason, I thought of the dog as male.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘Right at the beginning I envisaged two boys and a dog. You, Jude and, as it were, Jackson. It’s disturbing that I see maleness as the norm. Three sons, a brother in Peterborough, a father, an ex-husband, my mother snatched from me by sudden cardiac arrest, my best friend in Aberystwyth – these are insufficient excuses.’
Jude’s eyes fill with tears.
‘Look what you’ve done, talking such drivel,’ Ross says to me.
‘I’m sorry, Jude.’ I lean back, take the kitchen roll from the worktop and pass her a few torn-off sheets.
‘Mum forgot to book up the kennels for the weekend. She remembered just as they were leaving. She called up but they were fully booked. ‘Let’s just not go,’ she said which made Pappa furious. He said it was her responsibility to deal with the dog. She said it wasn’t. In the end, she rang the hotel and asked if they could bring a dog and they said they could but they had to have a different, not-so-nice room. Poor Sadie. She hates long car journeys and she hates a bad atmosphere. There won’t be anything for her to do in Manchester.’
‘Oh dear. How difficult.’
She sniffs and wipes her face all over, as though drying a dish. ‘Pappa doesn’t care about Sadie and Mum doesn’t care about any of us. She probably wishes we were dead. Then she’d be free to do whatever she wants.’
‘And what does she—?’ I begin.
‘Mum. Please.’
‘My father was married before. Pappa left Adrienne because of Mum. Now the shoe’s on the other foot. Mum’s having a relationship with someone at work.’
