Uptown Girl

by Kinsella, Holly

  ‘Yep. I knew it. It’s Josef Bogdanov. What on earth are we going to do with the man? He thinks he can do anything, just because he owns half of Mayfair.’

  Utterly bemused, Will rose from his chair and joined Grace at the window. Staring out into the pitch black, it was easy to spot the helicopter lights. The chopper was high above the school now, heading south east in the direction of Oxford.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he muttered. He’d seen some odd things in his career but this beat the lot.

  Grace slumped into a battered armchair next to the coffee urn. She loathed being on duty at night. The senior management team, all eight of them, shared the task but even so, her turn came round depressingly often. It wasn’t so bad in the winter when the pupils were less keen on venturing out after dark. But at this time of year the daring ones were always trying their luck. So far tonight she’d found a couple of sixth formers having a fag in the bushes beyond the front lawn, a dormitory of fourteen-year-olds tucking into a midnight feast (‘very Enid Blyton,’ she’d told them drily before confiscating the lot) and the head boy in flagrante with his new girlfriend.

  She glanced at Will, wondering how much of this to tell him. Grace prided herself on being a shrewd judge of character but she hadn’t fathomed him out yet. She couldn’t work out whether he was going to be a tough boss or a laid-back one. Whether he’d leave the day-to-day running of the school to her, like the old head, or whether he’d want to micro-manage every last thing.

  Will’s appointment as acting head halfway through the long summer holiday had surprised everyone at Downthorpe. For a start, no one had suspected that the previous headmaster’s life was unravelling at breakneck speed. Jono Rawlinson had been head at Downthorpe for ten years and was the sort of man everyone, staff and pupils alike, looked up to. They’d all thought his marriage was rock-solid too. But it turned out that his wife Rachel had been having an affair with the head of the history department for eighteen months. Rachel had told Jono she was leaving him on the last night of the summer term and she was gone by the next morning.

  When Jono broke the news to the Downthorpe staff he’d insisted that Rachel’s departure wouldn’t affect his work and that it would be business as usual. But just a few days later Grace had bumped into him in the Co-op supermarket in Chipping Badcombe and he was a broken man.

  Worse still, the governors convened an emergency meeting and voted to replace him. They set about finding an acting head fast and, deep down, Grace had hoped the governors would appoint her in Jono’s place. She’d been his deputy for two years after all and knew Downthorpe like the back of her hand. But, after days of deliberation, the governing body had called in a firm of city headhunters who’d recommended bringing in someone completely new. They’d certainly done that all right, thought Grace. Not only was Will Hughes new, but he had a CV that didn’t make any sense. He’d taught at comprehensive schools for years, working his way up from newly qualified teacher to deputy head. But then for some unknown reason he’d chucked it all in for a job in advertising. It was completely bizarre.

  ‘Look, Grace, I think we need to get a few things straight,’ said Will, his voice terse.

  Grace stared at him, an insouciant expression on her face.

  ‘Sure. What sort of things?’

  ‘Well, if we’re going to stand a chance of getting this place back on track after the Jono Rawlinson affair, then you and I have to work as a team. You may think I’m a rough and ready outsider from London and you may not like the way I do things - but that’s tough. You’re going to have to grit your teeth and put up with me. So for starters, I want to know who’s flying that bloody helicopter over my school at this time of night. And why.’

  Blimey, thought Grace. Maybe this was why the governors had appointed him in Jono’s place. He might have a charming exterior, but he was steelier than she’d realised. He was good looking too - tall and dark haired, with broad shoulders and a firm handshake. Will Hughes was going to stir things up around here. That was for sure.

  ‘You must have heard of Josef Bogdanov,’ said Grace. ‘He’s a multi-millionaire. Made his money from property. Anyway, his daughter Tatiana started at Downthorpe last year. She’s a sweet girl but she gets terribly homesick, so every now and again Bogdanov lands his helicopter on the playing fields and she goes rushing out to see him.’

  Will’s face was grim. ‘Not any more,’ he said. ‘Not any more he doesn’t.’

  TWO

  Like most British boarding schools, Downthorpe held lessons on Saturday mornings. The teachers reckoned it was the best way to keep six hundred lively teenagers focused on their studies and out of trouble. Every so often the school council reps had a go at getting rid of Saturday school, but they never succeeded in getting it past the governors.

  Despite his late night, Will felt energised by his Saturday morning run. At thirty-four, he was a good sixteen years older than the rugby team but just as fit. The squad had done eight miles before breakfast, down the drive, across the fields to the village of Buntingdon and back again, and he felt fresh as a daisy. Living in the country and cutting out boozy nights in Shoreditch was doing him the power of good. His new job was far more stressful, but he was drinking less and doing loads more exercise.

  When he got back to Downthorpe he raced up the main staircase and across the vast landing to his spartan first-floor apartment. As acting head, he was entitled to live at Rosedown House, a pretty four-bedroom cottage in the grounds. But the ex-headmaster was in such a state after his marriage breakdown that he’d refused to leave. No one had the heart to evict him forcibly, so Will had been assigned a small flat in the main building instead. Basic and sparsely furnished, the apartment was usually inhabited by Australian students working at Downthorpe during their gap years. They were renowned for their partying and, when Will moved in, he’d had to take two bin bags of empty beer bottles to the recycling centre at Chipping Badcombe.

  After a quick shower and a cursory glance at his emails, Will hurried down to the school dining room. He’d decided from the outset that the best way to get to know the pupils quickly was to join them at mealtimes. And even though lukewarm coffee and lumpy porridge were just about the last things he felt like right now, he was determined to stick to his guns.

  The dining room at Downthorpe looked like something out of Hogwarts. Long, narrow tables stretched the length of the vast, dimly lit hall and the walls were lined with wooden plaques bearing the names of past pupils. There was also a poignant tribute to old Downthorpians who’d perished in the first and second world wars and a list of headteachers going back two centuries. Will made a mental note to get Jono Rawlinson’s name engraved at the earliest opportunity, otherwise the pupils’ tongues would wag even more. As he nodded to a couple of early-bird teachers, he noticed a large damp patch on the far wall of the dining room. He’d have to have a quiet word with the bursar. The last thing he needed was the school buildings falling into disrepair on his watch.

  He grabbed a tray, queued up at the serving hatch to collect his porridge and toast and then joined a group of fresh-faced thirteen-year-olds at their table. The instant he sat down, the merry group stopped chattering and chomped in silence. Will could see they were intimidated by having him there and would far rather have been left on their own. But they perked up slightly when he asked what they liked best about Downthorpe.

  ‘Chemistry lessons,’ chirped an intense looking boy with owl-like glasses and a mass of ginger curls. Like all the other new pupils, he had a sticker on his jumper with his name on. His said ‘Josh Cook. Form 9H.’

  ‘Really?’ said Will, spreading his toast with a liberal helping of strawberry jam.

  He’d been expecting answers along the lines of ‘making new friends,’ ‘buying sweets in Buntingdon’ and ‘being allowed to watch a movie on Saturday nights.’

  ‘Yes, really,’ grinned the boy.

  ‘Why’s that then? Chemistry’s hard, isn’t it? It was my worst subj
ect at school.’

  The boy’s eyes lit up with an enthusiasm that was touching to see.

  ‘Because Dr Mead makes it so exciting. We’ve only had two lessons but we’ve been doing explosions. Using methane gas and plastic bottles and stuff.’

  Will’s heart sank. As if he didn’t have enough on his plate with truculent teachers, a mysterious helicopter and damp patches. Now it appeared that a member of staff was in danger of blowing up the school – and in lesson-time too. He didn’t say anything but made a mental note to find out precisely what Dr Mead was getting up to in his chemistry classes. With around fifty teachers on the staff he wasn’t sure whether he’d met Dr Mead or not. There had been a truculent science teacher with startlingly blue eyes at a staff development meeting a couple of nights ago, so maybe that was him. But the last thing Will needed right now was a lab being blown to smithereens.

  Henry Mead breathed a sigh of relief when the bell rang for morning break. Teaching year 10s about the structure of atoms had been like wading through cement. The whole teaching staff agreed that this year’s fourteen-year-olds were the trickiest group in the school and they’d clearly been unimpressed at being forced to sit through double chemistry first thing on a Saturday morning. But Henry refused to take the easy option and stick on a DVD. That’s what Charles Brown, the head of history, always did when he wanted to talk to Jono Rawlinson’s wife on Facebook and couldn’t be bothered to teach. No wonder the school’s history results were going downhill at alarming speed.

  In dire need of a coffee before the next class, Henry wrenched open the lab door and immediately collided with a tall man in a well-cut charcoal suit. His papers flew out of his hand and he swore under his breath. Henry’s face turned scarlet. It was the new head.

  ‘I’m looking for Dr Mead,’ snapped Will. ‘Are you one of the lab assistants?’

  ‘Er, no, actually I’m not,’ said Henry, bending down and picking up bits of paper covered in spiky black writing.

  Will stared at the slender figure in front of him. Her long dark hair was pulled back from her face in a tight ponytail and she wore a dazzling white lab coat, jeans and bright red Converse trainers.

  ‘Look, I haven’t got all day. I need to talk to Dr Mead. It’s urgent.’

  ‘That’s fine by me.’

  Will struggled to keep his temper.

  ‘Very funny,’ he muttered, ‘but can you tell me where I can find him?’

  A glimmer of a smile crossed the woman’s face, and then she burst out laughing. ‘It looks like you already have,’ she said, offering him her hand. ‘I’m Dr Mead. Henry Mead. How can I help?’

  Will stared at her in astonishment. Why the hell hadn’t he done his research before charging down to the labs like a madman? He’d quickly glanced down the staff list, clocked that Dr Mead’s first name was Henry and stupidly assumed she was a man. When actually, now he came to think about it, she was the prettiest woman he’d set eyes on in a long time.

  They stood in silence for a few seconds while Will gathered his thoughts. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said finally. ‘I thought I’d met everyone at the staff drinks party at the beginning of term. Do you remember? The evening when I made a speech and talked about my vision for the school. A bit pretentious, I know, but the governors expected it.’

  Henry Mead’s eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘I’m sure you weren’t pretentious at all,’ she said. ‘Although I couldn’t swear by it… I was away at a conference that day. So I missed the drinks.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t my finest hour,’ said Will. ‘Nor is this, come to think of it.’

  Henry handed him back his papers. He looked so awkward that she felt a bit sorry for him.

  ‘Look, don’t worry about it. People always assume I’m a bloke. It’s all my parents’ fault.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Will. ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘For calling me Henrietta. I don’t know what came over them. It’s not me at all. And no one’s ever called me Henrietta. I’m always Henry.’

  ‘With a y?’

  ‘With a y,’ repeated Henry. ‘What was it you wanted to see me about, anyway? I take it that you’ve received the chemistry department’s schemes of work for the year?’

  Will didn’t have a clue whether he’d got them or not. Grace was in charge of academic matters while he ran everything else. Everything from convincing prospective parents to send their darling children to Downthorpe rather than its rivals to keeping the pupils on the straight and narrow.

  ‘I’m sure we have,’ he said hurriedly. ‘No, the reason I was looking for you was that a year 9 boy told me something rather disturbing. At breakfast this morning.’

  Henry’s face went pale. ‘What did he say?’ she said, her words coming out in a nervous rush.

  ‘He told me you’ve been setting off explosions in your lessons. It all sounds very unsafe – not the sort of thing that parents would condone. You shouldn’t be putting your students at risk like that.’

  Henry heaved a sigh of relief.

  ‘I take it you’re not a science teacher, Mr Hughes.’

  ‘No, my subject’s English. Not that I’m teaching it much at the moment. I’ve got five periods a week timetabled but even that’s tough to manage. Why are you asking?’

  ‘Because if you knew anything about science… Oh, I’m sorry, that sounds rude and I didn’t mean it to.’

  Will put his papers down on a lab bench and ran his hand distractedly through his hair.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve only been here for a week but the one thing I’ve learned is that there’s no point in being offended by things that don’t matter. But I’m intrigued to know why I can’t possibly be a science teacher.’

  ‘It’s simple,’ said Henry. ‘Any science teacher worth their salt does explosions in class. A plastic bottle, some methane gas – that’s all you need. It’s a really easy way to get kids interested in chemistry. And once you’ve done that, you’re away.’

  ‘It sounds exciting – I’ll give you that,’ said Will. ‘But when you’re running a school you have to consider other stuff. Like keeping your pupils safe. Look, I’m not joking about this. Can you assure me that your lessons are safe? All of them? They sound anything but.’

  Henry was deeply offended. She was standing so close to Will that he could see her hazel eyes were flecked with green.

  ‘Of course they are,’ she said crossly. ‘If you think I’d do anything to put my pupils in danger, well… you couldn’t be more wrong. I’ve got a PhD in organic chemistry and I’m very serious about what I do.’

  Will gaped at her, aghast. Henry Mead’s friendly tone of a few minutes earlier had vanished. His heart sank. If he was going to lift the school’s academic results, he needed to get the teaching staff on his side – not alienate them the moment he met them.

  THREE

  After being deluged with rain during the first week of term, the school woke up to an Indian summer at the start of the second. Temperatures soared into the high 70s, the pupils were given permission to discard their thick woollen blazers and Tom Oliver, the head groundsman, agreed to open the outdoor swimming pool again.

  After a meeting to discuss an alarming outbreak of nits with the school nurse and matrons on Tuesday afternoon, Will decided to stretch his legs and take a walk around the grounds. As he wandered through the French windows and on to the sunny terrace, he felt more optimistic than he had for days. Under his lead, Grace Foley had begun a review of the school’s academic performance, with a brief to work out where the weak areas were and the steps that must be taken to improve them. He’d learned the names of most of the sixth form and quite a few of the younger pupils, four out of five rugby teams had won their weekend matches and he’d launched a questionnaire on the school’s hideous bottle green uniform.

  Looking for ways to modernise the place, Will had been inundated with complaints about the uniform. It turned out that a group of fifteen and sixteen-year-olds had even gone on strike at the end
of the summer term, refusing to attend lessons for a whole day if it wasn’t changed. If he was honest, Will had a lot of sympathy with them. Even Cheryl Cole wouldn’t look good in the current one. The girls wore unflattering green kilts, matching v-necked jumpers and ankle socks, while the boys were kitted out in black trousers and garish green shirts. The rules also insisted that all the pupils, from thirteen up to eighteen, had to wear ghastly green and red striped ties. The older pupils knotted them at half-mast and the younger ones wore them absurdly short. Will thought it was totally ridiculous. He didn’t even bother with a tie himself most of the time.

  Actually, the news that plans were afoot to change the uniform had done wonders for Will’s street cred. In the days since he’d announced it at assembly, he’d been deluged with supportive emails. Pupils rushed up to him in the corridor to express their enthusiasm and one boy revealed that his friends had been planning another protest unless something was done. A talented sixth form art student had even left a portfolio of fashion drawings outside his office. He’d sent her a note praising her for showing initiative but adding that he wouldn’t get her designs - shirts and drainpipe jeans for the boys and cropped jackets and tiny shorts for the girls - past the governors in a million years.

  Now Will stopped for a moment to admire the view across the Oxfordshire countryside. The school stood on a hill overlooking a peaceful Cotswold valley and all he could see were gentle rolling hills, woods and fields full of sheep. The only blot on the landscape was the first fifteen rugby pitch below the terrace. This was something else he was determined to sort out. The rugby players and their parents were bound to be horrified but it was complete sacrilege to let thirty hearty rugby players turn the area into a muddy wasteland every week. And besides, the rugby posts spoiled the outlook. He was determined to dig his heels in and move it elsewhere.

  Once he got past the rugby pitch, Will turned and looked back at the school. Built from traditional honey-coloured stone, it boasted long narrow windows on four floors and a row of tiny gables in the roof. There had been lots of additions to the school over the years but the planners had insisted that nothing should detract from the magnificent façade. It really had the wow factor, though Will doubted the pupils appreciated it. To them Downthorpe was just a school. They didn’t give a stuff that it was a Grade 1 listed building. Or that it had been painted by a host of celebrated artists over the centuries.