I coveted those wheels, all right. But it was true I needed a hatchback – and to prove it incontrovertibly to myself I started to load the sacks of detritus from the planters. Slowly. I was more preoccupied with the – classified – information that Maggie had given. How could I use it without giving her away?
Then a text arrived. The regular Wrayford umpires were both unavailable again. The good news was the match wasn’t against St Luke’s Bay, but against Churcham, a seaside village close to Rye. No Paines there, I hoped – with or without a capital letter. Ed added that Churcham were a well-behaved side, and that in any case any hint of dissent would be dealt with by their umpire, an ex-soldier. Oh, no, it wouldn’t. It would be dealt with by yours truly. If necessary.
Perhaps my jaw was a bit more set than usual when Lady Preston hove into view, her horse appearing to share her contempt as they both looked down on me. ‘Well?’ she asked.
‘Good morning, Lady Preston. Fine day, isn’t it?’ Actually, that sounded a bit yokelish. Any moment I might be tugging my forelock or dropping into a curtsy.
‘My pictures or my solicitor, Miss Cowan. Which is it to be?’
It was time to ask the obvious question. It was only my wretched experiences with Simon that had made me so stupidly deferential and prevented me from asking it before. I took a breath my therapist would have applauded. ‘When did you last actually see your pictures hanging on the school walls, Lady Preston?’
‘I’m not interested in that: I want to know where they are now.’
‘You’d have to ask someone who was here when they disappeared, then, wouldn’t you? Mrs Hale? Mrs Derricott? If you fear that a theft has occurred, you could even report the matter to the police. Though I suspect in these days of extreme cuts, they’d want precise details.’
‘Are you telling me how to do my job?’
‘Of course not. I’m merely trying to do my own.’ And wishing I didn’t literally have to look up to her all the time. I heaved another sack into the car, spending time to arrange and settle it in place. And then I returned to the playground to get another.
The gate swung shut. Before I could put down the latest sack and open it, she’d got off her horse. Looping its reins over one arm she marched towards me. She didn’t bother opening the gate. Quite deliberately – and amazingly, given her age – she swung first one leg then the other across. Soon we were chin to chin, the horse adding a worrying chorus to her actions.
‘A little respect from you, young woman. Open that door.’ She pointed with her whip.
I had a bizarre vision of her horse following her round as she searched each classroom. Or did she expect me to stand there holding the animal’s bridle?
‘On grounds of health and safety I can’t admit any visitors,’ I said, almost truthfully. ‘There are still paint tins and dustsheets all over the place. If you wish to visit the place, you’re very welcome to make an appointment.’
‘How dare you damn well deny me entry to my family’s property?’ By now the whip was pressed against my breastbone. When Paine had treated me like this other people had come to my rescue. There was no one now. ‘Swanning round as if you owned the place!’ she added, with a small but distinct jab.
‘It’s neither yours nor mine, Lady Preston, but the property of Kent Education Authority.’ Until proved otherwise, of course. But that wasn’t my problem, was it? ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to carry on with my work. I’ll bid you good day.’
‘I’ve not finished yet, believe me. With the school or with you.’ One last jab and she was tearing open the gate and returning to the horse. No mounting block. I certainly wasn’t going to – what was the term? – throw her into the saddle. Let her walk ignominiously home.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I didn’t like having made so open an enemy, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that it was better than having a covert one. Possibly. Actually, three enemies, of course: not just Lady P but also at least one of the Paine brothers. And that was before we’d started the new school year.
The interviews for the new deputy head for the Wray Episcopi site would take place next week. Fortunately I was well into my preparation for that, and this time I was comfortable with the governors with whom I would share the interviewing. Meanwhile, I had emailed my new colleagues inviting them, a euphemism if ever there was one, to a short staff meeting to discuss any problems that might arise as we prepared for the new intake; at Wrayford School, Tom Mason, the deputy, was organising a parallel meeting. A tall, broad-shouldered man in his thirties, he’d completely shaved what was obviously a balding head and could actually look quite threatening; however, he’d turned out to be a very loyal colleague, all the more laudable in a man who’d actually had his heart set on my job. He’d never want to play second fiddle for long, however, and we both knew that his upgrading was no more than a stepping stone to his first headship at another school. Especially as he’d just parked his car in my spot.
‘Next thing you’ll be trying my chair for size,’ I laughed, flinging open the office window as he started photocopying. Today he was in male macho mufti, flip-flops and shorts, which revealed the slightly bandy legs of a man who’d once played a great deal of tennis. His career had been cut tragically short by a long-term wrist injury; now he was a brilliant coach for our aspiring Andy Murrays and Jo Kontas.
‘I’m sorry. I was in a rush.’ He patted the pile to be copied. ‘And now the bloody stapling function seems to have died.’ He pointed to a pulsating red light.
‘You group the paperwork together, I’ll use the old-fashioned stapler.’
We worked together in silence for a while, achieving a good rhythm. I was quite pleased, however, that none of the children could see us: him being cleverly technological and me doing the comparatively menial work. It was generally assumed that we’d simply move an extra desk for him into my office, but suddenly my reservations sharpened. I’d seen all too many women sidelined by visitors of both genders who automatically assumed that their male colleague, who might indeed be considerably their junior, was the one in charge. But he had an ego too, so I couldn’t possibly leave him in the cramped staffroom.
The answer came a few minutes later, as we discussed plans for a school council – a grand name for the small group of staff and elected form representatives, which could recommend changes but had no executive powers – over a cup of coffee. Full marks to him for having brought in fresh milk.
‘I thought,’ he was saying, ‘we should have a dedicated school council noticeboard in the hall, where everyone could see it, with the names and photos of the kids’ reps. Give them a bit of kudos.’
‘We could add staff ones too. We’d have to laminate them all – we’ll need to replace the laminator, won’t we? – so that they won’t curl. Come to think of it, why not have staff photos on all the classroom doors, so any new kids can see where they’re supposed to be heading and know who to speak to if they have to take a message? And our mugshots on our office door? Remind me, I need to get a new plate made for you: Tom Mason, Deputy Head Teacher. Or would it give you a bit of a kick to sort that for yourself?’ These days I knew him well enough to give him an impish sideways glance.
‘It would! Absolutely!’ He gave a mock swagger. ‘We’re having a barbecue on Sunday, Jane. Very informal. Fancy coming over?’
‘Love to. So long as I’m still in one piece after the cricket match I’m due to umpire tomorrow …’
I was. And I was at another post-match party, with a glass of fizz in my hand. I could learn to live a sybaritic life like this. The host was a trim man in his forties: Justin Forbes, the Churcham umpire who, as Ed had forecast, had taken no nonsense from anybody. Over mid-match tea and sandwiches he seemed to have taken a bit of a shine to me. Now in what should have been the cool of the evening, but was actually oppressively hot, he was insisting on showing me the glories of his garden. Like Marcus Baker’s it overlooked a bay. For some reason this was a less fashionable one,
with very few pleasure craft moored within the breakwater, Justin said. On a clear night we should be able to see the lights of France, if not with the naked eye then with his outdoor telescope. But tonight, with the cloud cover almost brown it was so thick, he conceded it was unlikely. He escorted me solicitously to what he called, managing to make the whole idea quite filthy, his promontory – but then, we’d both drunk enough for it to sound funny. We didn’t spend long à deux, possibly to his regret and definitely to my relief, because we were joined by his brother, who needed an urgent word. In private. I stayed where I was. For a few moments. Until the first flash of lightning. It lit up the bay like a heavenly spotlight. There were the few boats he’d mentioned. The thunder came almost immediately. After all the heat a storm would almost be welcome. But not for another half-hour – it would cut the evening short, and we’d all been enjoying ourselves. Another flash; one boat was moving purposefully in, unlit. It was towing in another. The thunderclap was almost painful. It was time to move; if I’d been an umpire I’d have cleared the field without a second thought.
I didn’t have that authority here, I wasn’t even the host for goodness’ sake – and where was he? What I was doing was the far side of rude, come to think of it – but nonetheless I ran towards the others, making herding gestures. ‘Ed? There you are! I think we ought to get everyone on the minibuses, don’t you?’ To prove my point there was another flash of lightning, forked this time. The simultaneous thunder threatened to drown out what I was saying. ‘Too dangerous in the open air!’
Everyone had the same idea, encouraged by the huge, heavy raindrops fizzing on and extinguishing the barbecue. In the chaos, someone pressed something into my hand. A piece of card. I slipped it in my pocket. It was only when I got home I realised it was an ordinary business card. Justin Forbes’. A message was written in an elegant script on the back. Would I care to accept an invitation to dinner? If so, would I telephone him?
Maybe. Well no, probably not. A bit of a tipsy flirtation was one thing; calling in cold blood to arrange a date with an ex-soldier with whom I had nothing in common but cricket was quite another. If anyone were to find their way into my affections, it could be someone more like Ed – solid, kind and in his own way quite sexy. But I didn’t throw the card away. Safe in my cottage I dropped it on the pile of papers I called my pending file.
Although the electrical storm became as intense as any I’d ever seen in France, and according to my computer there were flash-floods in villages in the very south of the county, in Wrayford there was hardly any rain. Just enough to clear the air. And certainly not enough to spoil the next day’s party at Tom’s.
The Masons’ house was a modern detached in a village of largely older houses. The one next to it, a cottage complete with Kentish peg tiles, was obviously undergoing restoration, with scaffolding bristling from every wall. Despite the throbbing heat, despite it being a Sunday and presumably double-time, a team of workers was swarming over it. No doubt the plastic sheeting covering most of the framework would have made it intolerably hot to work under, and great rolls had been looped back. Now they were being rolled down again, and firmly clipped into place. Occasionally the person in charge would dart up to a particular area and check, sometimes summoning the original workman to do a better job. Not workman, however. The team was all-female. PACT, according to the standard issue workwear they all sported. Excusing myself from the party I nipped round to speak to the leader, a woman who might have been anything between thirty-five and fifty.
‘Paula,’ she declared, shaking my hand firmly. She listened carefully while I outlined my problems, occasionally asking a pertinent question. ‘Very well, it sounds like the sort of thing we could tackle. We should be finished here by the end of September at the very latest. There’s always a waiting list for our services, but it sounds as if you have more priority than some would-be second-homer who wants me to tear down a decent vernacular dwelling and make it into Homes and Gardens-lite. Give me your number and I’ll text you to arrange a site visit. And here’s my card, so you can check our website.’
This one didn’t drift on to the vague pending file. It sat on my laptop until I’d noted every detail – twice. A new emotion started to fizz in my heart: optimism. Even if the PACT team’s actions did suggest some bad weather in the offing.
Sure enough, as I settled down for the evening the skies darkened again, and the wind got up. I’d always loved storms, even those that cut the electricity supply as this one did. The whole village was in darkness, though the occasional householder must have run some candles to earth: wavering lights appeared in their windows. My eyes used to the darkness, I was content to sit, tumbler of whisky in hand, and watch the pyrotechnic display, though Nosey shuffled up beside me, as did the mauve bear who still didn’t have a name. On the other hand, I’d not been able to give it away when I sent the others off to the refugee children, so presumably he was here to stay.
Now was not the time to give naming a bear my full attention, however. The rain came, sluicing noisily down. Closing and locking the windows, I prowled round the house, checking by scented candlelight that there were no obvious leaks. And that everything was tightly locked. For the first time in weeks, I felt uneasy. But I told myself it was just the atmospheric pressure that was making me wonky, and settled down with my laptop to check out PACT. The website looked as impressive as Paula and her team had. There were professional details of all the women: most had completed formal apprenticeships; some had taken specialised courses. Excellent.
Now the bears and I could settle down for an evening with Classic FM.
Classic FM and a number of saucepans, now placed judiciously around the upper floor. Exquisite though the cottage might look both inside and outside, it wasn’t as weatherproof as this storm demanded. Nor was my neighbour’s. At nine, soaked after even the short dash from her front door to mine, a bedraggled woman was imploring me to do something. Anything.
The obvious thing was to drag her inside while I speed-dialled the letting agency’s emergency number. Engaged. Well, obviously. So I texted, listening to her tale of woe, which included a ceiling threatening to collapse and a stream coming under the patio doors. Couldn’t I do something? Anything!
Even as I grabbed a torch and locked up behind me, she was screaming at me to hurry. ‘Go ahead and grab a kitchen knife,’ I yelled above the thrumming of water cascading over the gutters.
She must have heard because as I slipped through her open doorway she practically stabbed me.
‘Which ceiling?’
She just pointed upwards – not helpful.
Grabbing the knife I took the stairs two at a time. My torch showed the problem: there was a great bulge over the bed in the master bedroom.
‘Help me strip this. Come on! I’m going to have to punch a drain hole in that.’ I even managed to persuade her to help me pull the mattress off: we propped it on its side out of the way. ‘Washing-up bowl. All your saucepans. Quickly.’
We didn’t catch all the cascade I caused when I knifed the ceiling, but most, at least. The phone signal was poor up here. I ran downstairs and waved the mobile around in the kitchen. This time I dialled James’s home number and got through. Thank goodness he was friends with farmers ready to lend tarpaulins and, more to the point, bring them round now. As for the stream through the ground floor, could I roll up carpets and block it at source?
With help I could. But my poor neighbour was getting hysterical.
‘Please, please pull yourself together. You know you’re supposed to slap people when they get like this and I truly can’t.’
Reason just made her worse.
At which point, as I was on my knees with my back to the front door, doing my best to roll the sodden carpet into a sausage I could use as a barricade, I heard a resounding flesh-on-flesh wallop.
Silence.
But not in a good way. As I looked round, I rocked back in horror.
The eyes I found myself looki
ng into were those of one of Simon’s best mates.
Josh Talbot didn’t recognise me. Not surprising, I suppose, considering the scene was lit by just a couple of dinner table candles, fluttering in the gusts from the door he’d left open. At least the stream now had somewhere to go. He was quick to join me on his knees, rolling with a will. As if a spring had been released, the woman started to help too. I still didn’t know her name, of course: we’d both been in too much of a rush for introductions. More to the point, she didn’t know mine. And I quite wanted to keep it that way.
As one, we stood up, easing our knees.
‘What now?’ she asked me, as if I’d become the leader.
I stepped back into the darkest shadows. ‘In your place I’d cut my losses and go home. Your things’ll be wet, but not ruined, with luck. I know the agent: I’ll stay and sort things out. My place isn’t uninhabitable. This is.’
Josh spread his hands. ‘But leaving you—’
‘Is fine. I know your break is ruined – or you could find a hotel if you move quickly. Before other refugees from the storm head for them!’
‘She’s right, Josh. And if she doesn’t have to worry about this place she can take care of her own better.’
‘Come on, Morag, she’s helped us – we should help her. OK, you pack up and I’ll help …?’ He looked at me quizzically. Fortunately I was still in my nice dark corner.
‘Honestly I’ve got things under control. I’ve got a friend coming round any moment now: they can make themselves useful.’ I always tried to avoid they and them as singular pronouns, but to hell with pedantry circumstances like these. And, come to think of it, to hell with veracity as well.
Morag was already halfway up the stairs. Josh shrugged and followed.
As I dashed back home I ran straight into James, who gripped me by the arms and steadied me. ‘Jane, are you OK?’
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