The Cornish Village School – Breaking the Rules
Page 15
She hadn’t got far when a breathless Marion caught up with her. It was the first time she had looked anything other than immaculate. Well, still immaculate but rather flustered.
‘Rosy, Rosy, do wait a moment. You’re not going to believe this but Penmenna School is going to be on television!’
Rosy spun on her heel. Was this what Marion had come to see her about – press for the disco tonight? What about the phone call? That was what she wanted to know about! Don’t push, Marion would tell her when she needed to. The worst thing Rosy could do was seem over-keen on what Matt had to say.
‘Well done, Marion, quite astounding. Although I’m not sure why the local news would want to cover the Valentine’s disco, goodness knows how you pulled that off, but well done.’
‘No, no, you misunderstand, it’s even better than that!’
‘What do you mean? Walk with me, or I’ll be late for class.’
‘It’s not the local news. National television want us!’
Oh dear, had the pressure been too much? Was Marion finally cracking? National news were sending cameras to the dance tonight? That was crazy!
‘The restoration project at Penmenna Hall, the garden restoration… Matt, lovely Matt that I met at yours last night, he wants the school to be involved. He wants us to help and be included in the programme, a segment a week with the children. If you agree, and why wouldn’t you, the school will be on national television, prime-time, every week. Mr Grant’s going to have his work cut out now! Can you believe our luck!’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Matt was confused. Not an unusual state of being, but in this case he was not comfortable with it. Women had been a mystery all through school and certainly in his late teens. Yet as he had become an adult they had become less so; he got on well with women, they were attracted to him and he seemed to have a knack for knowing who was genuinely interested, who was playing games and who just wanted to be a friend. He had been told that he was a rarity in the fact that all of his exes and he were on good terms; two had even named him godfather to their children. He didn’t think it was big-headed (although he knew he could easily be wrong) but he accepted this was rare, and that he was lucky.
But yesterday, yesterday had confused him. He knew he was attracted to Rosy, he could argue that he didn’t know why but then would find himself listing her qualities at great speed and with true belief. He knew this wasn’t the mere lust that clouded judgement, that kind of attraction that all of us experience at one time or another, managing to convince ourselves that it is indeed true love, souls meant to be, before using it as justification for ripping each other’s clothes off regardless of whether it’s a good idea, or really quite a bad one. He knew this wasn’t that. Although he was very keen on the ripping clothes off bit.
He knew that Rosy was attracted to him, really attracted to him. This was not ego; he was frequently laced with self-doubt about all number of things, but this he just knew. It was in the way she would look at him; her eyes would smile as she did so. When they had first met those glances had been assessing, amused. Now they veered from confused to more knowing, secure and then whoosh, back to confused again. The way they spoke to each other – they teased and they laughed, she even kicked him periodically, but they spoke to each other with respect. A respect he knew he felt and again believed she did too. The two of them just made sense together, it was that simple. Parents, those wiser than us, and social media all say that when you know you know, it’s indefinable but it exists. He knew.
And then last night, completely unplanned, he had been in a bit of a flap about Angelina, the only thing that caused him to unravel, and Rosy had somehow materialized, stepped in, made everything right and cooked dinner. All quite naturally. And then the two of them had… well, he wasn’t sure how they had got there. Things just seemed to follow a natural progression and before he knew it, they were kissing. There was no way in the world anything could convince him she wasn’t as keen as he was. His mind had kept flashbacks in his head throughout last night and this very lazy morning. One minute he was brushing his teeth, the next his mind would burst into colour with images of Rosy grabbing his head and pulling him back down to her. Knocking on Angelina’s door to see if she was awake and in need of coffee, and boom, a close-up of Rosy’s face, pupils dilated, lips swollen, took over his mind. Maybe he shouldn’t drive the car today.
However, drive he must. He needed to get to the nursery – with February in full swing, he needed to step up. Not just to go over his plans again, but also get on with the basics. Seeds needed sowing and he had a feeling that a day with his hands deep in the soil would bring him the calm he needed. The solitude of the gardens and the nature of the jobs planned for today might help shed some clarity on what on earth was going on with Rosy. He had thought things would be quite simple; they had accepted they were both attracted to each other, gone beyond mere acceptance on that table, and would have gone further had they not been interrupted. So why had she behaved so oddly, yet again, once the other two had turned up? He had wanted to stand proud next to her, hand in hand, and declare to Angelina and that strange woman that whilst it was lovely to see them (not quite true), they needed to sod off next door for a bit and let him and Rosy carry on doing what they had been doing. Cementing the nature of their relationship. In the most pleasurable way.
But she had been weird. There was no other way to describe it. She’d stomped off into the kitchen, and then become really arsey when he had followed her. It was similar behaviour to Sunday when he’d had to visit Angelina and she had just fled. This high-maintenance madness did not fit. It didn’t fit her personality or what he knew of it; it just wasn’t right. And he was fed up with it. There were only two reasons he could think of to explain it. The first was that his radar was massively off, and he was making a big mistake or that, as he had thought when he first moved in, she was seeing someone else. This latter could make sense; he may never have seen him, it could even be a her, but that didn’t mean he/she didn’t exist. It would explain her reticence perfectly. It tied in with her character – yes, she was attracted to him, Matt, but if she were seeing someone else then the Rosy he thought he knew would be eaten up with guilt. Would push him away until she had all loose ends tied up. Assuming she chose him, that was; she might not.
‘Are you not getting dressed?’ Angelina wandered into the kitchen where he was standing, staring out at the garden, clutching his coffee.
Oh God! He could see Rosy sat on the countertop, coldly informing him she was busy tonight. Valentine’s Day! Then his brain switched to watch her shuffle across the floor on her bottom in her living room, surrounded by cardboard hearts.
‘Oi! Earth to Matt!’ He felt something whip his arm and turned to see Angelina standing there grinning with a tea towel all twirled up, and whoosh, in she came again, crack, right against his leg.
He grinned. She wasn’t getting away with this. He grabbed another tea towel and battle commenced, a ritual that harked back to their earliest days and in which neither gave any quarter.
Thwack! ‘So, oh brother of mine’ – flick – ‘why’ – bam – ‘are you not’ – snap – ‘dressed?’
‘Ouch!’ Thwack. ‘Ha, that was a beauty, and maybe it’s pyjamas-to-work day, you rude cow!’ Snap.
Flick. ‘Oh shit, that was nearly the coffee, we should stop.’
‘Sensible, Angelina. What has happened? Who are you, and what have you done with my sister?’
‘Sensible enough to know you’re still a twat.’
‘Nice. Do you win celebrity awards with that mouth?’
‘Did you want your coffee to survive this morning? Anyway, why aren’t you offering me breakfast? You’re normally desperate to get me to stuff my face with fatty breakfast food.’
‘Good to know I’m appreciated. You normally very rudely reject. Did you want breakfast?’
‘No. What I want to know is what was going on with you and Miss goody-two-shoes last night?’
‘Before or after you were sick all over her garden path?’
‘Nice try. Don’t change the subject.’
‘OK, I’m not sure. I think I need to go see her later tonight and figure it out. But before you open your mean mouth – don’t make that face, you can be very mean – I’m going to tell you to back off this one. I mean to fight for her. I think she’s… well, she’s special to me.’
Angelina leant over and made a very graphic gagging noise, before whacking him with the towel one more time.
* * *
Walking through Penmenna Hall towards the nursery always lifted his spirit. As he wound his way down the ancient curvy paths he could feel the pull of history, of all those gardeners who had worked here before, hands deep in the soil and backs sore from shovels. It called to him; he loved that feeling of being part of a great tradition, and maintaining that tradition with the seeds he would sow and the methods of soil preparation that were key to a garden like this. And now, thanks to Rosy, he had a chance to continue all of that with the next generation. Children adept with tablets and gaming could enjoy a chance to escape technology and feel the primeval joy of sowing, growing and harvesting.
The nursery was his favourite place and he just wanted to run through all the soil improvers he had lined up before the filming started next week. They wouldn’t need much, they just wanted to be able to film a short segment on how the ground had to be prepped and the traditional methods of doing so. He ambled down the long Georgian driveway, noting how everything was out a little bit earlier down here. It may only be February but the drive was a colourful riot – daffodils and miniature irises lining the ground, and the pinks and whites of full bloom camellias brightening up the deep green of the shrubbery. He could grow to love Cornwall. Everything here was so laid-back – with the exception of spring, which bounded in like an excited spaniel.
So laid-back that as he reached the nursery he appeared to be the only person in today. He guessed that the other gardeners on staff were all taking advantage of the season to spend or make plans with their loved ones.
He had never really embraced the romantic gesture for Valentine’s Day before, subscribing to the view, seemingly common, that it was merely a tacky ploy to generate sales through playing on people’s emotions and expectations. This Valentine’s Day he saw it somewhat differently. Now he saw it as an opportunity to reinforce his own personal message – and if Rosy was too busy today then tomorrow would do. He had already made a start, the same day he had fashioned his Tudor cap, knowing that he didn’t want to take the garage-forecourt-flowers-and-chocolates route.
Before he began work in the gardens he rang the school and spoke to Marion as Rosy had suggested. He had been disappointed not to be able to outline his plans to her in person yesterday but at least progress was made, and Marion had sounded so excited that at one point he was worried she may explode.
He then mixed up potting composts, organized, planted and labelled seeds, and as he headed to the small section he had cornered off to develop his orchids in, he couldn’t help but smile as Rosy popped back into his head again. She may be confused but he wasn’t; he knew exactly what he wanted and was in no mad hurry to get it. He would simply wait for her to work out what she wanted. He wouldn’t push the issue but he would make it clear how he felt. And he would make it clear with these orchids.
An orchid was the perfect Valentine’s expression. They were elegant and beautiful. He wasn’t sure if Rosy, frequently covered in playdough and glitter, would describe herself that way but he certainly would. Her elegance of spirit, amplified by her patience, was one of the things that attracted him most. They needed tender deliberate care to flourish and that he was happy to provide. Their beauty contributed to a feeling of calm, of awe in the world. With any luck they wouldn’t die (he hoped) in a matter of days, but would stay in her house as a symbol of him. This particular one was a hybrid he had developed himself, and struck him as being the exact match to Rosy’s colouring – pale but flushed with a little pink. Could he get any more romantic? He thought not.
He realized that it was slowly getting dark, and as his ruminations had taken place over the course of the day he already knew what flowerpot to choose for Rosy: a plain terracotta one that provided the perfect foil to the intricacies of the flower he had chosen. He went and fetched it and then headed off to source the most perfect ribbon he could find.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was early evening and Rosy had managed to survive Valentine’s Day and the disco, and was preparing to head home. Not that she wanted to. This made her quite cross; she loved her little cottage and returning to it and all its little sloping-wall quirks at the end of the work day was usually one of her joys. But after last night, it no longer felt like her little safe space, and she knew she was going to struggle to look at her dining table without seeing herself on it, Matt above her. Matt, who, like Josh, had moved into her neighbourhood and then stretched his tentacles out into her work. As if him meeting Marion last night wasn’t bad enough, now he had somehow involved the school in the Penmenna restoration. Her rational self believed he was genuinely trying to help, but her damaged self – and she knew she existed and was getting louder by the minute – was in screaming panic. How was she supposed to reinforce firm don’t-touch-or-interact-with-me boundaries when she was going to have to turn up in his workplace with all the children? On top of which, she was then going to have to control that bit of her that just wanted to run her hands all over him and stick her tongue in his mouth. It was a nightmare waiting to happen. She had no idea what he was going do next and going home was no longer a cocoon of man-free safety. Oh, bloody hell!
She toyed briefly with heading over to Lynne’s, but knew that she couldn’t do that, not tonight. It was only today and birthdays that Lynne actually got to wrestle Dave away from the sixteenth century. Alice had gone away for half term straight after school and everyone else had plans.
She decided to give the school one last look over and then just suck it up and head home. As she headed back out of her office, her head a little bit full of pity-me, she stubbed her toe on the door.
‘Oww!’
‘Who’s that?’ came back a shout. What the hell was Marion still doing here? ‘Is that you, Rosy?’
Marion appeared in front of her, wearing a rather plunging red sequinned dress, and Rosy almost catapulted into the door again. What on earth? As if yesterday wasn’t eye-opening enough now she was exposed to Marion in evening wear! What had happened to the florals and the sensible navy striped boating tops?
‘You’re here rather late.’
Rosy tried not to let her resentment show on her face. Was the woman suggesting she had more right to be here than the headmistress?
‘Yes, I was just heading home.’
‘No plans for Valentine’s?’
That’s it. Stick the knife in. Rosy made her face smile neutrally. ‘No, nothing special.’
‘Well, that won’t do.’ Marion drew herself up to her full height and gave a little shake of her head. Rosy half closed her eyes; she had seen that look before and knew it signified a grand plan. Oh God! ‘I know, why don’t you come with me to a party! That’s a fab idea, you’ll meet all sorts of useful people and we could have a lovely time.’
‘Oh, thank you. I did think you were looking very glam…’
‘Yes, but I left my phone here so I rushed back to get it. It’s going to be a great event, I’ve helped organize it, do come. There’s champagne fountains and the most, simply the most, delicious canapés. The host is also terribly dishy and single, you’d be very welcome.’
‘I’m afraid that whilst it’s very kind of you…’
‘Rosy, it’s Valentine’s Day and you’re going back to an empty house – come!’
Rosy’s empty house, table and all, reared its head in her mind and she started to waver.
‘Really, come!’ Marion’s eyes had taken on that sparkle that few dared def
eat.
‘But I don’t have anything to wear…’
‘Nonsense. I know for a fact you have that blue dress hanging in the staff loos. That would be perfect. I can’t stress how much fun this will be. It’ll do you good after all you’ve been through recently.’
Did anything escape this woman? Mind you, more notable than her knowledge of Rosy’s wardrobe was the fact that she appeared to have just demonstrated empathy. That had never happened in living memory. And champagne fountains did sound exactly what Rosy needed right now.
Before she knew it, she was sitting in a car with Marion Marksharp, wearing a dress that was too tight, questioning her sanity and clutching to the side of her seat, both hands almost white-knuckled as Marion appeared to have become a rally driver the minute she got behind the wheel.
Rosy had lived in Cornwall for several years now, but had never been down any of these lanes that Marion was now hurtling along, occasionally reversing at speed and singing Celine Dion louder than a whole school assembly. With the hedgerows high and joining like fairy woods (but with a bit more menace – the dark February evening did not lend itself to dreams of midsummer), Rosy began to long for the reassurance of satnav, although she knew that using it around this part of Cornwall was a daft idea – you always ended up in the arse end of nowhere, surrounded by cows or out to sea wondering why you hadn’t stopped at the obvious. Locals used old-fashioned directions and tried to get holidaymakers to do the same, but it was usually a losing battle. Right now, though, satnav would have reassured her that she wasn’t being kidnapped and held to ransom until she too promised to dress only in Cath Kidston. Her empty house was beginning to look like the better of the two options.