Will couldn’t help comparing it to his own secondary school, a 1950s concrete monstrosity in east London, with outdoor toilets and draughty, prefabricated classrooms. But despite the depressing surroundings, the teaching had been top-notch and he’d been inspired to aim high from the start. His English teacher, Bob Baker, had spotted his potential and encouraged him all the way. Will could remember the tears in the old man’s eyes the day he’d got into Oxford. ‘I knew you’d do it, lad,’ he’d kept saying. ‘I knew you had it in you, even when you were a shy eleven-year-old who wouldn’t say “boo” to a goose.’ Will suspected Bob wouldn’t be impressed by his decision to switch to a private school, even if he was running the show. In fact he could just imagine Bob’s caustic comment. ‘It’s all well and good, lad,’ Bob would say. ‘But it’s not why you went into teaching, is it?’
Blinking hard, Will forced himself to focus on the challenge that lay ahead at Downthorpe. His brain was playing tricks on him. Bob had been dead for nearly ten years now, and he shouldn’t be standing in the sun, daydreaming. He had work to get on with.
From her vantage point in the staff room on the first floor, Grace Foley watched Will Hughes. She was trying to work on her academic review but it was hard to concentrate. The new head was definitely a bit of a catch, she thought. Grace had checked him out on Google and there was no mention of a wife or girlfriend. It was slightly odd that she couldn’t find him on Facebook but maybe he avoided all that social media nonsense.
Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of the door banging shut and a pair of feet stomping crossly across the wooden floor. Grace swung round to see who was making such a racket. Henry Mead, still wearing her lab coat and habitual trainers, was laden down with a stack of box files. Usually one of the more sunny-natured teachers on the Downthorpe staff, Henry looked livid. She slammed the files down on a desk and took her mobile phone out of her pocket.
‘Are you OK, Henry?’ asked Grace. ‘Bad day?’
Henry was busy checking through her emails. ‘You can say that again,’ she muttered. ‘That bloody man. First he accuses me of trying to blow up the school and now he’s sent an email saying he’ll be sitting in on my first lesson tomorrow. To observe my teaching. My year 10s are my trickiest group and they’re sure to behave appallingly when they see him sitting at the back. And besides, he could have given me more notice.’
Grace rolled her eyes in sympathy. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it, Henry. You’re not the only one. He’s observing all of us. Everyone’s up in arms about it. I mean, I know it’s standard practice but he could have waited a bit. Let the dust settle after Jono’s departure and done the observations later on in the term. The two newly qualified teachers are quaking in their boots.’
‘Poor them,’ said Henry, absent-mindedly scrolling through the rest of her emails.
‘What do you think of him, by the way?’ Grace kept her voice light and casual. She didn’t want to sound like she was interested either way.
‘Who?’
‘The new head. Will Hughes. I can’t work him out at all. So I just wondered what you thought.’
Henry glanced sharply at Grace. She tried to steer clear of Grace as a rule. Grace reminded her of a ruthlessly ambitious politician. Cool and calm in a crisis, she was always quizzing other people about their views but rarely gave anything away herself. The two women had nothing in common. They taught differently, dressed differently and never mixed socially. And while Grace and most of the other teachers, lived on the school site, Henry rented a cottage in Buntingdon. The atmosphere at school got far too intense at times and by the end of the day Henry was always desperate to escape.
‘I haven’t seen much of him to be honest. And after the fuss he made about me carrying out explosions I plan to keep it that way. Apart from him observing my lesson tomorrow. Anyway, what’s your verdict? You’ve seen more of him than me.’
Henry was quietly confident that Grace wouldn’t tell her anything. Sure enough, Grace quickly glanced at her watch and gave a theatrical sigh.
‘Oh God, busy, busy, busy. I’d love to stay chatting, Henry, but I must dash. I’ve got a meeting with the bursar in five minutes. I’m trying to persuade him to buy another couple of interactive whiteboards for the maths department. I’ll catch you later, OK?’
‘Sure you will, Grace,’ Henry muttered to herself.
FOUR
Will slept badly the night before Henry Mead’s lesson. His brain was so overladen with problems that needed to be tackled that he’d lain awake for hours, finally falling into a fitful sleep at around four am.
By the time he arrived in the chemistry lab at half past eight the next morning Henry was already immersed in a pile of marking. She briskly handed him a lesson plan and gestured to him to sit at the back. ‘We’re going to be doing a couple of experiments so it’s best if you’re well out of the way,’ she said. ‘And don’t worry, there won’t be any explosions.’
Will glanced at her sharply, unsure whether she was being sarcastic or having a joke at his expense. But before he could find out, the pupils filed in, talking at the tops of their voices. Their chatter died away when they saw him, although one of the cheekier students quipped ‘are you here to retake your GCSE, Sir?’ Actually, the boy wasn’t far out. Will had never got to grips with chemical reactions, energy transfer and the periodic table at school and had been discouraged from taking chemistry GCSE at all. Not that it mattered now. As long as the class was engaged and learning, it didn’t matter if Will couldn’t make head nor tail of it.
Keen to hit the ground running, Henry launched into her lesson at break-neck speed. As the session got underway Will was amazed to find that for the first time in his life he was quite enjoying science. Henry Mead was a good teacher, he thought. She’d got the boys and girls interested in double quick time by demonstrating how to grow crystals and then getting them to do it themselves. The forty-minute class whizzed by so fast that when the bell rang at the end, Will realised he’d been so absorbed he’d hardly made any notes at all.
‘That was an inspiring lesson, Henry,’ he said once the pupils had left. ‘If you don’t mind me calling you Henry, that is.’
Busy preparing her notes for her next lesson, Henry looked up.
‘It’s my name,’ she said drily.
A wave of annoyance swept over Will. He didn’t want staff to be sycophantic, far from it, but Henry was being plain rude. Maybe he’d been wrong about her. His first impression had been of a straightforward, highly committed teacher who, once he got to know her better, he could rely on. Yet today, despite her impressive lesson, she seemed boorish and unfriendly.
‘Fine,’ he said briskly, vowing to keep his distance from now on. ‘I’ll email my lesson evaluation to you by the end of the day.’
Next on Will’s packed schedule was a pep talk to the upper sixth about getting cracking with their university applications. This was followed by two more teaching observations, lunch with one of the governors and a speech to prospective parents. Once he’d got through all that, he planned to escape for the first time since he’d arrived at Downthorpe. With no meetings organised by his PA he was going to get right away and take a nostalgic trip into Oxford. He couldn’t risk popping into the King’s Arms at Buntingdon for a spot of supper. Loads of the teachers and support staff drank there and he desperately needed some time by himself.
It was such a glorious evening when Will climbed into his battered old Saab that he decided to have the roof down. As he drove out of the school gates and past hedgerows filled with fluffy white cow parsley he began to relax for the first time in weeks. He put all his worries about exam grades, the year 11s who’d been caught with a crate of vodka and the parents who hadn’t paid the autumn fees yet to the back of his mind. He plugged his iPod into the car’s ancient stereo system, switched the Rolling Stones on full blast and put his foot down.
Forty-five minutes later he parked in St Giles, right in the heart of Oxford, then strolled
down Cornmarket and into the High. Everywhere he looked brought back memories of his university days. As he passed Brasenose, his old college, he peered past the porter’s lodge and smiled at the sight of students scurrying past, laden with books. It seemed no time at all since he’d been one of them, an English scholar with dreams of being the next Martin Amis.
Just past Brasenose he spotted a chic-looking bar. There were two huge earthenware pots filled with flowers on either side of the doorway and a blackboard emblazoned with the words ‘Happy Hour. Beer and steak for £10.’ It sounded good to Will so he pushed open the door and went in. After ordering a half pint of Old Hooky, he took out the novel he’d begun weeks ago and settled back to read. He’d only managed a couple of pages, however, when he realised someone was standing at his table. When he looked up, he was stunned to see Grace Foley smiling at him. She looked even more glamorous than usual, in a tight sleeveless dress and eye-wateringly high heels.
‘Grace,’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘What on earth are you doing here? It’s bit of a way from Downthorpe.’
Grace beamed at him. ‘I could say the same to you. Actually, Tuesday is my afternoon off so I often head to Oxford. I was at Christ Church and lots of my friends are still here. It’s good to get out of Downthorpe now and again, don’t you think?’
Will looked at Grace with new respect. Christ Church was one of the oldest and most intellectually renowned colleges. He hadn’t realised Grace had studied there.
‘What did you read?’ he asked.
‘History. Not that I teach it now. I took a psychology degree later on and that’s my subject at Downthorpe. It’s only five periods a week though. Once Jono appointed me as his deputy the teaching had to take a back seat.’
Will was puzzled by this. As acting head he managed to fit in five periods of English classes every week so he would have expected Grace to do more. Apart from leading the academic review her deputy head duties weren’t exactly onerous.
It suddenly crossed Will’s mind that he should ask Grace to join him. She agreed with alacrity so Will reluctantly closed his book and stuffed it back in his pocket. He was so knackered when he went to bed at night that he wasn’t sure when he’d get the chance to go back to it.
‘Is this one of your regular haunts?’ he asked. ‘I’m pretty sure it wasn’t here the last time I came to Oxford. But that was at least ten years ago. And I didn’t drink in swanky places like this then.’
‘Can I get you a drink, Madam?’ asked a pretty waitress who, with her clear skin and hair tied up in a messy knot, looked exactly like a Downthorpe sixth former.
Grace ordered a large glass of Pinot Grigio and some olives. She looked far more suited to surroundings like this than to teaching psychology A level to a bunch of tricky sixteen-year-olds.
Will took a gulp of his beer and tried to relax. He felt strangely uncomfortable sitting in an Oxford bar with his deputy.
‘How long have you been at Downthorpe?’ he said, racking his brains to make conversation.
‘Nine years,’ replied Grace. ‘I started as a newly qualified teacher and worked my way up. Jono Rawlinson asked me to be his number two a couple of years ago.’
Will gazed into the distance, reluctant to catch Grace’s eye. The stylish bare brick wall on the far side of the bar was filled with four massive oil paintings. The most striking showed a row of surly-looking youngsters sitting at a bus stop, while another portrayed an elderly man on a skateboard.
‘I’m aiming to be a head one day,’ added Grace. But I’m not in any hurry… Downthorpe suits me fine right now. It’s good to be so close to Oxford too.’
Will wasn’t convinced. From what he’d seen of Grace, she was fiercely ambitious. In fact, he’d be surprised if she hadn’t applied for the Downthorpe job herself. But then again, he could hardly criticise her for wanting his job. In her position he would have felt the same.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asked, keen to change the subject all of a sudden. The whole point of driving to Oxford in the first place had been to clear his head, not listen to his deputy discussing her long term career plans.
‘A bit,’ smiled Grace.
‘Well, why don’t you join me for supper?’
Grace beamed at him. ‘Fantastic idea. I got blown out by my… by the person I’d arranged to see. So I’m footloose and fancy free.’
He didn’t like the idea of Grace being ‘footloose and fancy free,’ but he forced himself to ignore it.
‘And how about another drink?’ said Grace. ‘Shall we order a bottle of wine?’
Will was surprised. He’d assumed that like him, Grace would be driving. Downthorpe was in the middle of nowhere so she could hardly have caught the bus here.
‘Not for me,’ he replied. ‘I’ve got my car. How about you?’
Grace hesitated for a moment, then looked slightly uncomfortable.
‘It’s slightly embarrassing,’ she said.
Now it was Will’s turn to feel awkward. If she was going to tell him something that compromised her role as deputy head then he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it.
‘Go on,’ he said finally.
‘It’s a bit extravagant but I tend to make an evening of it when I come to Oxford. So I get a cab. It costs a bloody fortune but it means I can have a drink and not worry about it.’
Will was so relieved that she hadn’t confessed to a drug habit or a drink-drive conviction that he ordered another glass of wine for her.
‘We’re obviously paying you far too much,’ he joked. ‘But seriously, how you spend your money is your business. Shall we get the menu? And don’t worry about getting back to Downthorpe. I’ll give you a lift.’
Grace proved to be surprisingly good company. As the evening wore on Will discovered a whole load of things about Downthorpe that he hadn’t known before. They included gems like Molly Piper, one of the lower sixth girls, modelling for the Jack Wills fashion brand during the school holidays and Eddie Garstang, the chair of the governors, having the knives out for the previous head. Grace told Will that the bursar was a whizz at numbers but was also a recovering alcoholic and that at least two of the young maths teachers were madly in love with Henry Mead.
‘And is she interested in either of them?’ asked Will.
Grace shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’ve no idea. We aren’t that friendly. We get on fine but she’s never confided in me about her love life. How’s yours by the way?’
‘How’s my what?’ Will was miles away, wondering who Henry Mead’s admirers were.
‘Your love life. It’s the talk of the staff room.’
‘Really?’ said Will. ‘I find that hard to believe. I’m sure everyone’s far too busy with their own lives to worry about mine.’
Grace took another glug of wine. ‘Oh come on, Will. You’ve been in teaching for long enough to know that staff rooms are a mine of gossip. We’re all under such pressure. We’ve got to have something to take our minds off the day job.’
Will gazed at Grace thoughtfully. It was hard not to like her. She was gregarious and fun, and from what he’d seen so far, a pretty impressive deputy head. And there clearly wasn’t much that went on at Downthorpe that escaped her eagle eye.
The youngest boys were having the time of their lives. Word had got round that Josh Cook’s mum had sent him a hamper from Selfridges and around twenty boys had congregated in his dormitory for a midnight feast. Ben Stirkley, the prefect in charge of them, had got wind of it and came marching in to tell them off. But once he spotted the cocktail sausages, crisps and chocolate cake he relented – but only on the condition they gave him some too.
‘And for fuck’s sake, keep the noise down,’ he whispered. ‘The other prefects aren’t as laid back as me. They’ll report you to old Jacko if they clock what you’re up to.’
Josh’s mum had clearly thought of everything, reflected Ben as he gazed appreciatively at the feast laid out across the dormitory floor. Right down to the plastic cups, plates, knives and
forks. He greedily helped himself to a bit of everything, then tiptoed back to his room at the far end of the corridor. He was pleased to see that Joe Trent, his room mate, was out for the count. Ben plonked the plate on his desk and pulled the window up to get some air. Glancing out across the rooftops though, he nearly stopped in his tracks. The window faced directly on to the deputy head’s cottage and Ben could see two people standing on her front doorstep. Ben screwed up his eyes to try and see exactly who they were. It was hard to make anything out in the darkness but suddenly the lights were activated and the couple were bathed in light. Ben whistled softly under his breath as he saw exactly who the man was. Ace, he grinned. This was the best bit of gossip he’d stumbled across in a very long time.
Uptown Girl Page 8
