Head Count

by Judith Cutler

  There was no greeting, and definitely no suggestion of shaking hands.

  ‘Over there.’ She pointed with her crop. ‘I’ll show you.’ She had no difficulty at all making herself heard; indeed, it was probably years in the hunting field that had honed her voice, just as it was life in the classroom that had developed my own skills of projection. The terrain was much rougher for a human than for a horse, and it would have been a struggle to keep up had it not been for all those morning runs I’d done with my Wrayford colleagues and the kids. But I wouldn’t risk going full pelt and ending with one foot in a rabbit hole.

  ‘Come on, keep up. For God’s sake!’ However exasperated she was with me, she’d have to slow down or wait for me when she’d reached the field or paddock she had in mind. She waited. I made her wait longer.

  ‘Now what are you doing?’ she called. ‘Well?’

  I was taking photos on my phone. ‘It’s so much better than the playground,’ I said truthfully, ‘but most of the children are very young: I think their little legs might have difficulties with grass this long, but I may be wrong. So I thought I’d canvass my colleagues’ opinions.’ I was fairly sure they’d see the same problem: on a wet day the kids could be soaked up to the waist.

  ‘Consult your staff? It’s your job to make decisions. In any case, I don’t see a problem.’

  She wouldn’t, not from up there.

  ‘I’m a townie, so forgive me if I’m asking a stupid question: is it possible to mow this field?’

  ‘It’s supposed to be wild. To encourage wildlife. So no. Absolutely not. Couldn’t they run in wellies or something? Oh, I suppose you want them to have proper trainers and all that.’ She clearly considered the idea of proper footwear ludicrous, despite her own boots and indeed her hard hat or helmet or whatever it was called. ‘Or do you want them hurtling round my front lawn or something?’

  ‘Hardly, Lady Preston,’ I laughed.

  I wasn’t the only one laughing. Through the still air came the unmistakeable sound of children enjoying themselves not very far away. I was about to smile at her ladyship to share the pleasure. But, as if someone had turned a switch, everything went quiet again. Suddenly and unnaturally quiet. ‘Do you have family staying?’ I asked, smiling anyway. If she did it would give her something to talk about, and ease the strange tension. I always found grandparents even happier to talk than parents themselves.

  ‘No. Why on earth should you ask that? Silly question. OK, long grass, short legs. So no deal.’

  ‘Actually,’ I said, embarrassed at having made such a gaffe, ‘I think this meadow could be a most valuable resource, more for the wildlife than for running. I wonder how many species of flowers grow here?’

  ‘No idea. Never counted them. Don’t want any ragwort in here, that’s all, do we?’

  ‘Indeed not!’ I agreed enthusiastically; I’d have to find out why later. ‘Really, then, the pupils checking the flora and fauna every so often would be mutually beneficial. Do you have an estate manager with whom I could discuss things?’

  ‘Matt Storm. Looks like a kid but he’s got his head screwed on. You’ll find him—’ but she and the horse were already in motion and what she said was lost in the wind. But she turned round, and I caught the words, ‘… pictures and be bloody quick about it.’

  Thank you, your ladyship. As for Matt Storm, I didn’t find him. Couldn’t. Then, as the heat pressed down like a physical force, couldn’t be bothered.

  I strolled back to school and, opening all the windows wide, mounted another search. And still couldn’t find the pictures. Or any response to my emails from my predecessor, Maggie Hale, who, I recalled, was on a Greek island learning Creative Writing.

  I also recalled I was supposed to be doing my homework for Lloyd: I’d better get jotting now.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘The problem is that my brain’s been AWOL ever since the throat virus started,’ I said, passing Lloyd a photocopied section of an OS map: I’d marked the precise location. Clipped to it were Doreen and Harry’s details, and a sheaf of photos I’d downloaded from the Internet of vehicles I thought might fit their garbled descriptions. ‘But you’re right – I should have taken more notice.’

  ‘That’s something we agree on, at least,’ Lloyd said grimly, his tone at complete variance with the evening, which we were spending on his terrace waiting for the barbecue to be hot enough for the food the kids were currently preparing. ‘Now, as far as I know there are none of Simon’s nasty little friends down here, but there may be nasty friends of nasty friends after the goings-on in the spring. Let’s start with the obvious question: have you had any threats?’

  ‘Apart from those I got umpiring a needle village cricket match? Oh, they were jokes. Blokes letting off stream. Cricketers are nice people. They don’t just have rules; they’re Laws.’

  He didn’t respond to my laugh. ‘Cricketers? Or one cricketer? Ah, you’re not very good at lying, are you? Name?’

  ‘I wish I could remember. Everything about the day’s gone really foggy. I could ask some of others what they recall … I was so ill at the party afterwards I actually passed out. The virus, not an excess of booze. All I could manage was water.’

  ‘Which could have been spiked?’

  ‘I poured it myself from a jug meant for diluting the kids’ juice, and carried it with me everywhere like a good-luck charm. After I passed out they shoved me in the team minivan and ferried me home. According to the pharmacist I saw, my symptoms were absolutely typical of the virus: the passing out, the amnesia … Which is why I only remembered about it a moment ago. But please don’t go chasing round the countryside asking who responded to being given out lbw by killing the umpire.’

  ‘Of course I won’t.’

  ‘Apart from that I might have made a bit of an enemy of Lady Preston, mightn’t I? I still haven’t found her pictures.’

  ‘That’d be the governors’ problem, not yours, surely? Unless she drives one of these babies,’ he said ironically, spreading the photos, and jabbing a bright-blue Ford monster. ‘Are you sure you didn’t see anything, anything at all, of the vehicle? They’re hardly unobtrusive, Jane.’

  ‘If someone creeps up on you in the street and whacks you, you don’t necessarily see them,’ I countered. ‘I know you’re a good cop, but you’re far more interested in what turned out to be quite a trivial incident than I’d expect. Has someone else had the same experience? Ah! Gotcha!’

  He straightened the pages into a neat heap. ‘There has been another incident, yes, in the same sort of remote location – no witnesses at all, this time, and no CCTV or anything, of course. Another female cyclist, who sustained slightly more serious injuries – though not life-threatening, fortunately. Of course the incidents may not be connected.’

  ‘I love it when you talk policese,’ I said dryly. ‘Am I allowed to know who? Sorry, silly question.’

  Geraint was offering me a glass of Pimm’s. The conversation was at an end.

  Ed van Boolen pulled a face when a couple of days later I asked him, in the Jolly Cricketers’ bar, about Matt Storm.

  ‘Does he live up to his name? It’s a bit Mills & Boon, come to think of it,’ I added as we clinked glasses.

  He didn’t pick up on my comment. ‘He’s not from round here.’

  Any more than I was – or him, of course – which made it pretty peculiar that he’d adopted the most judgemental phrase he could. I waited without comment.

  He took a long sup. ‘He’s got qualifications – went to the Royal Ag college in Gloucestershire – only now it’s a uni, of course. Got some sort of degree, I suppose. But I can’t say I know anything more about him,’ he added emphatically.

  ‘Not even where I’d find him? Or, more to the point, the estate office? I’ve tried googling it, but the more I look the less I can see it.’

  ‘It’s built into the twelve-foot-high wall at the end of the big yew hedge. OK?’

  ‘Great. Thanks. Ed – I was
really ill when I umpired that Bay match. So ill I’m only now beginning to recall the odd detail. Did I make a complete hash of it? I seem to remember I upset one guy with what he thought was a really bad decision. One of our side? Lbw?’

  ‘Only me – and I admit I was plumb. There was a guy on their side who moaned; I’d need to look at the score sheet to see who. But people always moan, and you can’t undo decisions even on the field, let alone at this stage.’

  ‘Even so … If it was a shocker I could apologise next time I see him.’

  ‘Absolutely not recommended. Hey, Dwayne! Over here, mate!’

  Dwayne, a short, square man who aspired to bat above number ten, headed over. Ed explained.

  ‘That’d be the Menace. Dennis, of course. Dennis Paine. He’s actually quite a decent guy, but he always argues, even when he’s sober. When he’s had a couple, he’s keen on his fists. And he was way out of order, arguing the toss when your finger went up. Full and straight. Middle stump. Only he put his leg in the way. Even more out of order mentioning at the party. He’s had a written warning. You can’t have players sounding off like that, can you? Trouble is, they really need him – he’s one of the best they’ve got.’ His phone sang. ‘That’s Trish: supper’s ready.’ And he was off.

  ‘There: I told you not to apologise, didn’t I? Now, how about I challenge you to a game of snooker?’

  As I disliked losing almost as much as he did, we didn’t talk much while we were playing, and afterwards I turned talk to the Test series that England had just won. When we’d chewed that over, he changed the subject abruptly.

  ‘Are you still seeing that policeman?’

  ‘Have you stopped beating your wife yet? If you mean seeing as have we been in touch recently, the answer is yes, occasionally, but if you mean seeing as in dating, that’s never been the situation. He was my police liaison officer before my ex got sent down. Now he’s in the nick, I don’t need that sort of protection.’

  ‘Thing is, I’ve got a pair of tickets for a One-Day International. The Oval. September. I know you’ll be back at school, but I wondered if you’d fancy coming.’ His habitually ruddy cheeks burnt as I hesitated for the blink of an eye. ‘As a mate, if you like.’

  ‘As a mate’d be great.’

  ‘So you have got … someone?’

  I had a sudden vision of him and Brian fighting it out over my non-existent affections. ‘Oh, yes. About two hundred someones. You’ve no idea how teaching swamps your life, Ed – I’m not saying I’m signing on as a lifetime spinster, but until I’ve got the new school sorted out and until I’m keeping my head above water at the present one, I’m going to be on eighteen-hour days. Eight-day weeks!’

  ‘Yeah. It was like that when I was building up my business. Still is at busy times of the year when you’ve got people wanting instant gardens. Like old Dawes did, the only time I worked for him. A right tartar, he is. How do you cope with him? Running in and out of your office all day – “Do this. Do that. And do it all yesterday”.’

  ‘He’s very conscientious and very proud of the school,’ I said, his knowing grin showing we both knew I was being diplomatic. I half-expected him to insist on walking me back to the cottage, but one of his mates turned up and pressed a pint into his hand. The newcomer was quick to turn his back on me, and there was clearly no question of Ed introducing me – in fact, he was quite definitely excluding me from any conversation.

  I could take a hint. But I was intrigued. I recognised by sight most of the men who used the pub these days, but had certainly never come across this one before. And it didn’t seem to be just me he was keen to avoid. The two hunched their way first to the corner by the darts board and then, not happy that someone wanted to use it, outside – presumably to the smokers’ den. At least there was no sign of them at any of the tables in the popular patio area, where some of my pupils still played while their parents drank. It was not, I had to remind myself firmly, a school night, so I passed them all with a smile and a wave.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The first home visits for new pupils at Wray Episcopi School went well enough. In a larger school, Karenza would have taught the reception class but in this one she had to combine the new intake with the children who’d already completed a year. She was a tall young woman – she could look me in the eye – in her early thirties and striking rather than pretty. She treated me more as a colleague than as a boss, and with the new parents was charming and friendly but astute. If all that sounds stilted and official, blame the pile of references for the new deputy I was currently wading through, all couched in the sort of prefabricated phrases that would have driven George Orwell to drink.

  Nor was Karenza afraid to tackle problems like the one in this, the third house we visited – a beautiful barn conversion, with a kitchen so modern that it made even the state-of-the-art one in Brian’s rental cottage look inadequate. The whole house looked like something from the advertisement pages of Kentish Life, even to the blonde wooden floors and pale furnishings. How on earth did a normal mischievous little boy fit in here? Was there a nice untidy nursery somewhere? Certainly when his Hello!-styled mother told him sharply to take himself off he headed up the stairs.

  ‘I see Robbie’s still in nappies,’ Karenza said, as if that were the most acceptable thing in the world. ‘But he’s a big boy now and all his new friends can use the loo themselves.’

  The mother stared. ‘But that’s what schools are for. To teach children. They never bothered with nappies at nursery,’ she added in the face of Karenza’s forbearing silence.

  ‘I think he’d be happier if he’d managed to learn before he started. All the other children are toilet-trained and I’d hate him to feel different – especially if he was teased. Which we would not allow, not if we heard it …’

  ‘You’re paid good money. It’s your job.’

  ‘I think in child development terms most children are clean and dry by the age of three, Ms Carnaby,’ I said. ‘Don’t imagine that any school I’m head of will countenance bullying, not for a second, once we get wind of it – but children, even Robbie’s age, can be very cruel.’

  She shrugged her shoulders extravagantly. ‘It’ll cost the fucking earth but I’d better get a nanny in to sort it, if you insist.’

  ‘I’m sure Robbie will be very grateful,’ Karenza said, entirely without apparent irony.

  The next calls passed without incident. Just. We found that one child had asthma, but there were no problems with peanuts, and another could read so well that we would have to make sure she was never bored. A final interview went swimmingly: we could enjoy the sun for the rest of the day with clear consciences.

  The next day was baking hot. Karenza drove through a shimmering, dusty landscape, with those enormous Kentish fields spreading treeless and hedgeless as far as the eye could see. They made you all the more grateful for Lady Preston and her surprising patch of nature.

  Our target was a caravan, not on an official site, but one of about fifty in various states of dilapidation in an ordinary field: they were there to house the migrant workers picking fruit. We made our way through them, heading for the furthest corner on the advice of a gap-toothed old countryman who seemed to be some sort of watchman. Despite the occasional gusts of hot breeze the whole area smelt foetid, with occasional gusts of raw sewage.

  Karenza pulled a face. ‘It’s like a prison I had to visit once – full of unwashed men and unwashed clothes. The only thing that’s missing is the yellow-painted walls.’ She shuddered. Clearly she didn’t want me to ask what had taken her there. She rushed on, ‘The caravan we’re looking for is supposed to be in the corner near an oak tree. This one, perhaps?’

  The caravan she pointed at was larger than most of the others, with its own Portaloo fastened by a large padlock and a line of washing between the Portaloo and a tree. It shouldn’t, on a day like this, take long to dry. The upper half of the door was open: we could smell cooking and hear not very tuneful singing.
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  Karenza tapped on the lower half, calling out, ‘Mrs Popescu? It’s Karenza Yeo from the school. I’ve come to meet Georgy.’

  I suspected the child might be a Gheorghe, but wouldn’t have dreamt of correcting her. If Mrs Popescu was tempted, she certainly didn’t show it. She emerged from the caravan interior smiling a welcome and opening the lower half of the door. A child of about five, serious-faced but sturdy and almost unnaturally clean, held her hand. Another, a toddler minus any garments below the waist, started to come towards us but was sharply rebuked, returning to his potty. Mrs Popescu could clearly teach Mrs Carnaby a thing or two. Georgy ducked away and returned dragging a cardboard box, which he parked by his mother’s feet. Parked is the right verb, incidentally: someone had drawn wheels on it. Suddenly I was back at my grandmother’s, whose oft-repeated view was that the best toy in the world was a box, preferably one big enough to sit in or sit under.

  Karenza was down beside him like a shot.

  ‘No tea. Try please?’ Mrs Popescu was handing us mugs of what smelt seriously alcoholic. Fortunately there was only about half an inch of liquid in each. ‘Palinka,’ she said with a smile.

  We raised the mugs and sipped, spluttering in unison as the fire hit our throats.

  ‘I make!’ our hostess said with a smile. ‘And make chec.’

  This turned out to be a wonderful rich chocolate cake, not, as I later found out, simply a mispronunciation.

  Our conversation was sadly limited, but I got the clear sense she wanted the best for both her sons. ‘Not pick fruit like this!’ she said, looking around her. ‘Doctor. Teacher. Real job.’

  ‘We’ll do our best,’ I said earnestly. And I was sure Karenza would too.

  But we wouldn’t be doing anything educational for a while: when we got back to her car we found some helpful person had let down all the tyres – so much for the watchman.