by Kitty Wilson
‘Sorry about that, I saw they were leaving and just wanted to say hello.’
‘Pupil?’
‘No, not yet, although hopefully he’ll join us next year. I met his mum in Truro a couple of years ago; she used to be a professional ballet dancer. Amazing woman, Sylvie, she teaches self-defence classes now and that’s where I met her. She moved back down here, I think she wanted her son to grow up by the sea, and then her mother got ill, so sad. From what I understand her mum hasn’t got long left and I just wanted to say hello.’
‘I’m sorry. I suppose if there’s any positive to be found then at least she’s back in Cornwall to support her mother.’
‘True. From what I know of her she’ll be doing an amazing job as well. She looks so dainty, doesn’t she, but my goodness I reckon she could throw an elephant over her shoulder should she need to. I’ve never seen such strength.’
‘Well, ballet is notoriously tough so it doesn’t surprise me. Does this mean though that when you were telling me off earlier you could have actually beaten me up if I hadn’t done as I was told?’
‘You better believe it!’ She waved her arms in a faux martial arts style and put on what he assumed was her most threatening face.
Before he knew what he was doing, he leant towards her to scoop a lock of her hair that had fallen forward as she had been gesticulating. Without thinking he placed it behind her ear. They shared a look, and Matt – celibacy and career forgotten in an instant – wanted to sweep her into his arms and out of this crazy pub before any more interruptions, medieval musicians or grumpy landlords got in their path. Instead, he covered her hand with his. She drew her hand away, a little awkwardly, and placed it back on her lap.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that! That was crossing the line. Really, I apologize.’
He was mortified. What to him was both instinctive and unavoidable was making her ill at ease. Of course she’d pulled away – she was probably already dating and had come out with him out of neighbourly kindness and he had just touched her without even thinking. It had just felt so natural, as if they had been friends for years.
‘Oh, yeah, don’t worry about it… it’s fine. Seriously, I would have hurled you to the floor super-quick if you’d offended me. We’re all good.’ As she spoke a bizarre twanging filled the room as the Tudors started tuning up in the corner. ‘I’m just going to take the plates to the kitchen, save Roger coming in for them. Drink?’
She was flashing him that smile, the one he had seen her bestow on everyone that had stopped at their table. Although this time it didn’t quite reach her eyes as the earlier ones had. But still, she had offered another drink, so he wasn’t done yet.
‘Yes, please.’
* * *
Three hours later they both fell out of the pub, arms linked and giggling like fools. Matt took back everything he had thought about grown men dressing as medieval musicians. He couldn’t believe he had been so bad-tempered and so wrong! They were awesome. Absolutely awesome. Not only did The Smuggler’s Curse serve the best bloody roast in the south-west, he would swear to it now, they knew how to put on a party. Never, never in his life had he thought he would enjoy a musical stand-off, but it seemed it was a village tradition. The Penmenna Troupe had a mini battle of the bands every other Sunday, and this week they were challenged by a thrash death metal group from four villages along. But despite it being a battle, or the band being called Blood of your Scrotum or some such thing, there was nothing but bonhomie about it all. They played their own tracks, then they swapped instruments and played each other’s. Death metal hair – terribly greasy but still managing to move – flew around as guitars were half killed; jewelled velvet colours mixed in with the black skulls laden with viscera, as they helped teach each other various tricks. No one was precious about who touched what and how, as were most of the musicians Matt had encountered before. In fact, despite it being a supposed battle, people were so friendly and kind Matt wondered if he had suddenly arrived on a different planet entirely. Although, let’s face it, it wasn’t just the kindness that made him query this.
Non-musical diners were encouraged to have a go, the musicians of both bands played some belters as well as their own genre music, and people were happily singing, dancing, plucking, tooting and drumming. All before the watershed and all oiled by rivers of booze. This was the best Sunday ever.
He had learnt how to pluck a harpsichord, albeit briefly, and he had watched Rosy sing a solo, a traditional verse that Dave accompanied on the lute and made him feel in total awe of her all over again. Was there anything she couldn’t do? And best of all, he had discovered that there was no way in the world that Rosy had had Dave back to her house the night before, because it turned out he was married to her best friend Lynne, who only hadn’t joined them because, as Rosy let slip with a giggle, she had the mother of all hangovers. He also learnt jealousy, short-lived though it was, truly was a pointless emotion.
Chapter Nine
Rosy was sitting in her chair – Fridays were office-based days for her whilst Lynne taught their class – swirling as fast as she could. She knew she should be attending to the ream of paperwork on her desk, and she would, but twirling in her chair – just for a second – was one of her favourite things to do, taking her back to an age of pigtails, freckles and home-made perfume. Twirl, swirl, smile.
‘Miss Winter, Mr Grant is here for you. Shall I show him in?’
Rosy jumped from the chair as if it had adders swarming up the legs. She looked at the school secretary in abject horror. How had she not known about this? Could she say ‘No, thank you, not today’? Edward Grant was the bane of every Cornish headteacher’s life, and she needed at least a week of soothing music, meditation and mega-strength mojitos to prepare for their annual meeting. He had always reminded her of Gargamel, the villainous wizard from The Smurfs. He wasn’t due in for months. Maybe she had misheard.
‘Edward Grant, Sheila?’
‘Yes, he rang last… oh… oh, oh no… oh, I’ve done it again, haven’t I? Oh, I meant to put it on the system, honestly I did, but well now, what was it that happened? Now… was it… no, that wasn’t it.’ She furrowed her brow and looked down at the floor, shaking her head all the while. Her O’s were rounded with the deep Cornish burr of someone who’s never crossed the Tamar and possibly not even left the village. ‘Was it… oh, could’ve been, no, nope. No, you know what, Rosy, I can’t remember what it was, but I promise I did mean to put it in the thing. On the… oh, you know. Oh, which reminds me, you’ve had Mrs Pascoe and Mrs Trewithen on the phone already this morning. I think it was about… now what was – ah! Yes, they phoned about Mr Grant. Now isn’t that funny?’
‘Right, OK, please show him in. Thank you, Sheila.’
This was not going to be good news. Mr Grant rarely made sudden visits. The only time he visited, outside his annual check, was if he had something alarming to report. This was, it was rumoured, because of the deep joy he took as he delivered bad news, stretching it out in whichever way he could for maximum enjoyment.
‘Miss Winter, an absolute pleasure.’ Edward Grant, black hair slicked across his forehead and shiny suit far too tight around his midriff, entered her office and came forward to shake her hand. She hated this bit, but proffered her hand with her most professional smile, ensuring the shake was as quick as could be and managing not to wipe her hand down her skirt.
‘Mr Grant, do sit down. What a pleasure to see you. How can I help?’ How she wasn’t struck down on the spot she didn’t know.
‘Miss Winter. Always a pleasure. Let’s get right to it. There are some changes afoot and I felt it only right to talk to you in person.’
‘Changes?’ Rosy heard her voice lift up at the end, half daring him to continue, half terrified of what came next.
‘As you know I’m tasked with overseeing all the primary schools in the area, ensuring standards remain high and—’
‘As I’m sure you’re aware, we’ve j
ust been inspected and were deemed outst—’
‘Yes, yes, Miss Winter. If you’d be so kind as to let me finish. I’m tasked with overseeing all the primary schools in the area, ensuring standards remain high and budgets remain under control.’ He took a deep breath and fiddled with his tie. Was she allowed to speak now? She waited a bit longer, just to make sure. He dropped his tie and looked at her, eyebrow raised, stare bold. OK, so now she should speak. God, she hated him. She had visions of oil pooling around the chair where he sat. She hoped there was a sturdy supply of antibacterial spray in the cleaning closet.
‘Well, Mr Gr—’
‘If you’d let me finish.’
Rosy used all her self-control not to roll her eyes or clench her fists, repeating the mantra ‘stay calm’ in her head. Along with ‘don’t give him the satisfaction’. And ‘twat’.
‘And whilst Penmenna is both on target and on budget I’m afraid not all the schools are and, as a whole, the county needs to do some restructuring in specific areas to reduce costs. I’m sure you’re aware that these are lean times, Miss Winter, and we must cut our cloth accordingly.’
I hate him. Twat. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
‘Now, I don’t need to bother your little head with too much detail about county financing, ring fencing and budgets…’ Did he actually just say that? Clearly he had skipped the training about equality and respect within the workplace. ‘…but the upshot is that we will be merging five of the village schools in the surrounding area into one large primary in Roscarrock with four-form entry, which obviously will involve a large initial investment but will ensure year to year running costs are substantially reduced.’
‘Mr Grant, surely—’
‘Miss Winter. I was still talking.’
I hate him. Twat. Don’t give him— Merging? Rosy felt her heart stop, her body freeze and her mind whirr. Four-form entry. No. No, this couldn’t even be a possibility. He was mad. Merge? Breathe. Breathe and listen. Maybe you misheard.
‘…substantially reduced running costs and a much more streamlined delivery of curriculum. Now, obviously you may be concerned about your position in this new school…’
She wasn’t concerned about any such thing! What she was concerned about was the children of Penmenna being uprooted to some kind of soulless, cheap-to-run mega-build, bloody ages away. She took pride in the quality provision Penmenna delivered to all its pupils but especially the children with additional learning needs. Children like Bradley in her own class, whose mum was due in later to discuss how he was doing now he was coming in for full days after an extensive staggered start – the answer was really well, far better than anyone could have hoped.
And not just her own class. Children like Jordan, who really struggled with social interaction and needed the security that a village school can offer so well, sitting in the heart of his community and all that was familiar. Jordan had been selectively mute when he started school and with the help of his specially appointed teaching assistant, Alice, was now able to communicate with his peers and build friendships. Children like Imogen and Jake, both of whom were in Amanda’s class and had such an appalling home life that the security of Penmenna school was what was providing them with a much-needed rudder.
And now that Rosy and her staff had got these children settled and happy they wanted to uproot them and he dared think she was only worried about her own position! Rosy was ready to explode but knew she needed to play a more careful game than that.
She had come into teaching and revelled in being a head because of the positive changes she could make, not to play political games. She wasn’t sure she had the skills needed to play politics, not at that level. She found it hard enough managing the PTA. She guessed she’d better find the skills, though, and fast. And the first step was to hear this odious man out, then formulate a plan – preferably one that involved people who could play politics, and win.
She looked across at him, still pontificating about the importance of cost-cutting measures to the county and not one single word about the welfare of the children or educational outcomes coming from those nasty little lips, which were still moving at speed and managing to weave remarkable levels of condescension and misogyny in as he spoke.
If he had pitched that they were building an improved school, a school that would better the children’s life chances, then she would have been more open. She may have been able to overlook the further references to her inexperience and the fact that she was, apparently, a girl, but not once did he discuss anything other than cost. His eyes glinted as he delivered unacceptable one-liners, as if he knew he was crossing a line, and that his words weren’t innocuous but deliberately designed to demonstrate the power he had.
She remembered when she’d first moved down here, seeing him on local news, well before she met him in real life. There had been a spate of closing village schools back then as well. Long-established village schools that were operating with only a handful of children on the roll were being closed down with the pupils sent to neighbouring villages for their education. There had been an outcry at the time and he was wheeled in front of the camera to defend the county’s position. Even through the television set he had emanated grease.
Then there was the time he had banned all schools in the county from attending the traditional Christmas pantomime in Truro because he deemed it to have no educational merit. He had also had all the water coolers removed for budgetary reasons, claiming it was not the county’s responsibility to keep children hydrated.
Rosy had even had nightmares in which he featured, usually chasing her and her class around the playground, shouting appalling threats about what he intended to do to the school hamster. It was hard, with this combination of facts, to ever see him in a positive light. Today was not helping.
He finally finished up, not asking if she had any questions or concerns, because he quite simply didn’t care. He was here to deliver a fait accompli and anyone else’s opinion was irrelevant. No wonder Mrs Trewithen and Mrs Pascoe had been calling her; they had obviously had the same visit and were also panicking like mad. Three in one morning. He must be feeling on top of the world.
‘Mr Grant, before you go, I wondered if I could ask you some questions about this process.’
He looked at her as if she had just sprouted three heads. ‘Miss Winter. My time is rather valuable.’
‘Of course, and I do appreciate you coming to see me in person rather than delivering this news over the phone. But can I ask how many schools are looking at potential closure? You said there was to be a four-form entry so I imagine that there will be at least five, possibly six of the smaller schools you’re planning to amalgamate. I’m just trying to collect as much information as I can, so I can let the staff know. They’re going to be asking these questions later and I wouldn’t want to have to disturb you again.’
‘Yes, I have a list of six schools that have be deemed the most appropriate to merge.’
Rosy had a lightbulb moment. ‘And can I ask if St Ewer is on the list?’
‘I really don’t see the need to answer that, Miss Winter.’
‘So, St Ewer is not on the list then, Mr Grant?’
‘As I said, Miss Winter, I really don’t have the time to waste on foolish questions. You only need to know that this will be going ahead. There will in all probability be some redundancies and we will keep you updated with what you need to know, when you need to know. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ And with that he smiled an oily there’s-nothing-you-can-do smile and oozed out of the door.
Rosy sat back in her chair, no twirling this time, just nervous fingers rubbing at her brow. As the adrenalin that had fuelled her through the meeting began to leave her body she felt exhausted; exhausted and defeated. Then, as she closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing to try and ground herself again, she could feel her true self kicking back in. Defeated? Not a chance. She was going to prepare for battle. Penmenna School would not be closed without a
fight. Picking up her pen, she turned to make inroads on the paperwork on her desk. She needed to get this done so she could focus on drawing up a plan of action. She had a staff meeting later today and she was going to need to get as much done as possible before hysteria hit.
* * *
‘Cake? You should put that down right now! I don’t understand what bit about not bringing in such… such poison is so hard for everyone to understand. Let me take that, and try this, I made it last night – organic, vegan and sugar-free, you’ll find your body much prefers it!’
‘Sod off, Harmony!’
‘I really must insist, here let me—’
‘Touch my cake again and I’m going to blur your chakras into kingdom come.’
‘But, look, let me— arrgghhh!’
Rosy smiled as she entered the staffroom. If the children saw what went on in here, they’d put every teacher on the raincloud that the school used for behaviour management.
‘Lynne, let go of Harmony!’ She used her strictest teacher voice, and a memory of Matt encouraging her for more flooded into her head. This was not the time for that sort of nonsense.
‘How dare you! I’m going to phone my union rep as soon as this meeting is finished. This is abuse in the workplace and I will not tolerate it. Rosy, what are you going to do about this?’ Harmony rolled up her rainbow jumper to massage her wrist and gave Rosy a look that managed to be both combative and plaintive. Quite a skill.
‘Lynne, say sorry to Harmony, you know that’s unacceptable! And Harmony, I know you think sugar is the modern-day equivalent to crystal meth, but you cannot, cannot start taking people’s food away from them. Lynne can eat what she wants. You can inform, which you frequently do, but you cannot enforce. I heard that last week you nearly knocked Alice to the floor because she had a Werther’s Original. This is not some kind of dictatorship!’
