Head Count

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Deal with them first. But don’t tell them my name! Please. It’s to do with my past.’

  He stared and then nodded slowly. By now we were both dripping.

  ‘Just get them on their way home. Then I’ll feel safe.’

  To my amazement he hugged me, as he’d hug a child. ‘I’ll do my best. Then I’ll look at your place. OK?’

  Nothing more OK in the whole world.

  I’d had more house moves than most in the past year, and was more than relieved when James’s farmer friends got the tarpaulins over the roofs of all the cottages, anchoring them firmly. The roof next door was far, far worse than mine, they assured me – no wonder those London folk had taken off. The other one … they made rocking gestures with their hands.

  ‘In other words,’ James said, sucking his teeth, ‘the whole row of cottages will have to be reroofed before winter sets in.’

  ‘That means my moving out, doesn’t it?’

  ‘’Fraid so, Jane. But maybe your own place will be habitable by then. Oh!’

  The lights had come back on.

  ‘I’ve got a firm called PACT to take a look,’ I said, determined to sound more positive than I felt.

  ‘You can’t do better than them. They never advertise: just word of mouth. But they’ll cost – they don’t do cheap jobs.’

  ‘Is that why no one recommended them to me?’

  He pulled a face, possibly because the lights flickered alarmingly. They stayed on, but were no longer very bright. ‘They’re not really from round here, which is a big minus – you know how parochial a village can be. And, well … some of the older guys don’t like them, because they don’t think women can be builders full-stop.’

  There was no point in arguing: why couldn’t people like Ed have mentioned them? James himself? Some lurking resentment that this was an all-women group, somehow excluding male workers? Who knew? And at this time of night, who cared?

  ‘Are you quite happy to stay here overnight?’ James was asking.

  ‘I’ve not got a London pad to high-tail back to. What about the other visitors?’

  ‘They’ll stick it out till morning, they said. When they heard what you’d been up to they were most impressed. So—’

  ‘How did they hear about that?’ I wasn’t happy.

  ‘Oh, from the Talbots: they were telling everyone who’d listen you were a cross between Joan of Arc and Superwoman.’

  ‘Bugger.’ I could have added a lot more. ‘It’s to do with my ex, James,’ I added, as his eyebrows shot up. ‘Talbot and he were best mates. And you know what another friend of Simon’s did earlier in the year. Simon will have heard about that; I don’t want any more information to reach him. He’s locked up, but after what I went through I doubt if I’ll ever feel safe from him.’ Ever feel safe at all. But I had too much pride, even after my unguarded confession, to admit that.

  Embarrassed by the stupid tears in my eyes, he looked away. And then pounced. He poured me more whisky than I drink in a month. ‘There: get that inside you.’ He patted my shoulder awkwardly, while I could have done with another hug. But I suppose that’s inhibited ex-public schoolboys for you. ‘At least you’ll sleep tonight,’ he added helpfully.

  Curiously, I did. But only after I’d emailed Paula to tell her what had happened to my present place, and had a wonderful reply: I could look at your new place at 8.00 on Friday morning. Can you be there?

  I could. And with a very steady hand I could pour nine-tenths of the whisky back in the bottle …

  CHAPTER NINE

  Despite everything, I was up bright and early the next morning for the Wray Episcopi interviews, which took the best part of the day. I’d rather have seen the candidates in the classroom, pretty well standard practice these days. But given the time frame this wasn’t possible and at least we got a result. Frustrating though it was to have to wait till January for the woman we appointed, the governors and I were confident we’d got the right person, even if our choice was too much of an incomer to be a guaranteed popular choice: she came all the way from Yorkshire, with an accent to boot. But she was a literacy specialist, a huge bonus.

  Meanwhile on Tuesday morning the staff meeting I’d called went well, though not all the news was good. Karenza’s home visits had brought us briefings on ten new pupils, a big intake for a school this size. Apart from a couple with major language issues, who would require specialist input, at a cost to our very small budget, there was one child with behavioural problems who might require a full-time assistant’s attention. There was growth in the intake at Wrayford, too: nineteen new pupils, a huge leap. At a time when nationally small schools were going to the wall this was excellent news. Unless the funding crisis got really serious, when simply merging schools still wouldn’t produce enough pupils, of course …

  My Episcopi colleagues seemed to approve of their clean, smart surroundings – I might have had a tantrum if they hadn’t – but none of them had heard of the missing paintings, let alone seen them. As for the PTA noticeboard, I had another warning of Paine’s likely reaction.

  ‘He’s a terrible bully, Jane,’ Karenza said.

  ‘But he’s never responded to my letter.’

  ‘A man like that doesn’t always respond with written communications,’ she said dryly. ‘Tell you what, I know some of the mothers on the committee: I’ll approach them. They wouldn’t want their kids to see words like that.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Elsa, the science specialist, said. ‘You should hear women in football crowds swear. F and C words all over the place.’

  ‘But you can bet they wouldn’t blame themselves if we told their children off for swearing here – and if they swear at home they blame us too!’

  ‘Not jaundiced at all, are you, Karenza! And we haven’t even started the new term yet!’ I said with a grin. ‘OK, I’ll minute the gist of the discussion, if not the detail.’ Donna, the school secretary, was on holiday, with minuting a meeting a poor second to the delights of walking in the Apennines. ‘Next item: school council representatives. Is that an idea you approve of and if so, can I take it to the governors …?’

  ‘Why don’t we look in the roof space for those pictures?’ Elsa asked, as her contribution to AOB. ‘I’ve never been up there, and surely with two people to hold the ladder and a third poised to call an ambulance we’d pass a risk assessment!’

  ‘If anyone’s going up there it had better be me,’ I declared. ‘I’ve still got my painting overalls in my office: I’ll go and change while at least two of you put the tallest stepladder by the hatch. Carefully. Not pinching your fingers. Not dropping it on your toes. Are we clear? Or Elf and Safety will send me to the Tower of London.’

  ‘I’m good at baking cakes,’ Elsa declared. ‘We’ll get a file in to you somehow.’

  Whatever Health and Safety would have made of it, it was an excellent – and free – bonding exercise, I reflected, shimmying into my overalls. Producing my emergency torch and one kept in the secretary’s office, I joined the other women. ‘Geronimo!’

  Part of the roof space had been floor-boarded; tongue and groove, no less. It would surely take my weight, and that of heavy objects such as storage boxes or indeed huge frames holding the missing masterpieces. But – apart from me – it was bare. The rest was simply insulation, and pitifully thin insulation at that: another obvious call on our budget. There were some birds’ nests in one corner, and the now-redundant chimney urgently needed pointing. There was no sign that any part of it had ever been used for storage and, specifically, no sign of any pictures, wrapped or unwrapped, propped anywhere. The only really good news was that there was no sign of any storm damage, either.

  I was about to descend with exaggerated caution when I heard voices. Female – my colleagues; male – unknown. The latter was demanding to see me. The women assured him loudly that I was unavailable at the moment, but that I would contact him as soon as I was able to.

  ‘Contact me? She already has, stupid b
itch.’

  ‘This is a school,’ Karenza’s voice said clearly. ‘We do not tolerate bad language here.’

  ‘I don’t see any pupils.’

  ‘Pupils or no pupils, we insist on politeness and respect.’

  In my mind’s eye I could see her standing with implacably folded arms, tapping one set of fingers as she obviously awaited an apology.

  There came what sounded like a very muted apology.

  ‘What was it you wanted to see Ms Cowan about? Perhaps we can help. The noticeboard, perhaps?’ Elsa, very cool.

  Rumble, rumble.

  ‘Let’s go and get it, shall we?’

  Their footsteps receded. It was my problem: I should be there. Coming down the ladder rather faster than I went up, I stripped off my overalls in the boys’ lavatories, stooping to the mini-basin to wash the worst of the dust from my hands and face. Looking like an old-fashioned sweep was no way to present myself. By the time I reached my office voices were raised again. If I interrupted it would undermine these very competent women. But I would lurk, to take responsibility if necessary.

  ‘Look here, if you don’t like this, and it’s nothing but the truth, mind, why not rub it out?’

  ‘I think you’ll find that we have tried. But the words are cut too deeply into the cork.’

  ‘There’s enough paint around here, by the smell of it. Someone could have spared a bit to dab on it, if they cared that much.’

  I edged close enough to see Elsa shake her head. ‘They did: see? I often find if you paint something, the marks show through. And painting actually seems to have made the words more obvious, doesn’t it?’

  It was time for me to bring the discussion back to the point. ‘Good morning, Mr Paine. I’m Jane Cowan, the head teacher: how do you do?’ I offered my hand.

  He ignored it. ‘You’re the one causing all the trouble, then.’

  ‘No, Mr Paine. Whoever wrote the graffiti did that. All I’ve done is remove the board and keep it in a safe place until you or one of the other PTA committee members could collect it. I could have binned it but it’s not my property, or the school’s – it’s the PTA’s. Oh, and you’ll find the screws and Rawlplugs taped to the back here.’ In victory I could afford to try magnanimity. I smiled. ‘It’s good to meet a representative of a very generous group that’s done so much good for the school. I hope we’ll be able to rely on you all in the future.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘You can rely on me for something, that’s for sure.’ Clutching the board, which looked like a jotter in his enormous hand, he turned on his heel and left.

  Elsa’s eyes widened. ‘That was a threat, Jane. We’re witnesses. You ought to report him.’

  ‘It might be a bit nebulous for the police,’ I said cautiously. Then I nodded. ‘You’re right. I’ll have an unofficial word with a friend who’s an officer. Just in case. Very well, team: lunchtime. I’ve booked a table for us at the Jolly Cricketers at Wrayford to celebrate our new collaboration. My treat.’

  On impulse, waving the women off, I went to visit my own house, the one no one except PACT would work on. Could I possibly live in it as it was? The roof was in better shape than the one I was living in now, but I knew that indoors it would be just as dispiriting as when I’d last been in it. The garage, however, had now collapsed completely – it was just a pile of wooden panels. Should I burn it in situ? Or would it be greener to have it taken away in one of the skips the builders – any builders – would need? As for the garden, it had been overgrown before, as you’d expect when it had been owned by a housebound old couple, but now it was like a young copse. A combination of the thunderstorms and lovely warm weather today would make it burgeon even more into a positive rainforest. There was no way I could tackle it on my own, and in any case if Ed van Boolen was going to deal with the whole garden it was going to be his problem, not mine.

  Like a child, however, I wanted to stamp my foot and demand it was done now. In fact, I expressed it in exactly those terms when I ran into Ed on my way home.

  ‘I’ve an idea I’m going to have to move into it well before it’s ready,’ I said by way of explanation. ‘But I can’t face the jungle at the bottom of the garden. Would you be able to simply grub out all you can and flatten everything you can’t? The storm’s done some of the work for you. And could you dispose of the poor old timber garage too? Don’t worry about any reconstructive work yet.’

  I couldn’t read his expression. ‘It’s not quite as easy as that, Jane, is it?’

  ‘I absolutely don’t mind what state you have to leave it in. There’s a funny smell about the place and I’m wondering if I’ve got foxes or something. One of those Dartmoor big cats could have emigrated and taken up residence in it without anyone noticing.’

  The joke didn’t work. Frowning, he scrolled down his phone. ‘You’ll have to give me a little … I suppose we could say ten days’ time?’ He must have seen my face because he added, ‘Sooner if I can sort out some other stuff, though that might not be easy. Within the next two weeks, anyway.’ He frowned – looked quite uncomfortable, I thought.

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said, though it was a huge struggle not to let disappointment drip from my voice. After all, he must have a really full diary. And I knew in my heart I couldn’t move for ages, not unless Paula worked some sort of a miracle.

  That evening I invited Jo, Lloyd and their kids to join me for a meal at the Mondiale, a hotel that had offered me refuge in the past. Jo and Carys were shopping for goodies in the spa shop; Lloyd, Geraint and I waited, menus on the table before us, in the bar. Lloyd took a long, hard pull on his non-alcoholic lager. It seemed he was trying to persuade Geraint that you could look cool in front of your mates and still not break the law. From his occasional winces, he was also trying to persuade himself that it might be possible to get to the bottom of his glass.

  ‘How long does that James guy reckon before that holiday cottage is safe again?’ he asked.

  ‘A few days only. My roof is only missing a few tiles, but next door lost a huge section – and it means anyone with cheek and a few climbing skills can get into mine with very little effort. A few bricks here, a bit of mortar there – then I shall be safe—’

  ‘As houses.’ Geraint finished my sentence for me. ‘Oh, yuck.’ He shoved his fingers down his throat as if to make himself vomit. ‘That’s really gross, Ma.’

  Jo came towards us flourishing a bikini she’d just bought in the spa shop. It seemed Carys had bought one too but she was too canny or too embarrassed to show her brother – or perhaps her father, who might have views on how much flesh a girl of fourteen should expose.

  A waiter sauntered over: somehow the implication was that he didn’t care a toss what we ate, so long as we ordered and headed off to the restaurant out of his way.

  ‘I’d like to order in some drinks for these two first,’ I said. ‘Put them on my bill, please. Thank you. Now, avert your gaze, guys – I want to see what Carys has bought.’ It was a bikini, of course, but in just her colour. I grinned at her approvingly.

  ‘If she keeps stuffing her face with burgers she won’t be able to get into it for very long anyway!’

  ‘I always wanted a brother,’ I chipped in dreamily. ‘Now I’m not so sure. OK, Lloyd: before we eat, a bit of an update, but the moment we get to the table it’s just family natter, right? It seems I’ve managed to annoy not just one man called Paine, but two. One, Dennis, is a talented but very aggressive cricketer who plays for St Luke’s Bay; my umpiring got his goat so much he’s had a written warning – though I gather it’s becoming a habit, with solid male umpires being threatened too. And now I find his brother Gerry is the chair of the PTA at Wray Episcopi. The only really interesting thing with Gerry is that he’s a member – maybe the only member – of a right-wing group called English First.’

  ‘Sounds like Dad telling me to get on with my homework,’ Geraint put in. ‘Actually, I’ve come across them myself. Not necessarily them – one of them was
a totally Essex girl woman, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Gross,’ Carys agreed.

  ‘They were leafleting outside the school.’

  ‘And I can tell you that their name doesn’t match their prose,’ Carys said coolly. ‘Neanderthal. Tell you what, Hani writes better English – and she only came here from Somalia eight months ago. Legitimately, before anyone asks. The whole family were officially granted asylum. Mind you, some stupid toads still call her an illegal.’

  Geraint nodded seriously: it seemed as if for once he and his sister were in agreement. ‘The head said he’d call you people in, Dad, if they didn’t go away. I think he may have called them anyway – inciting race hatred, stuff like that. Pretty homophobic, and not very nice about women, which made it odd that a woman was involved.’

  Lloyd produced a wry grin as he jotted the information on a drinks mat he then pocketed. ‘See, Jo, they can talk and think when they can take their eyes off a screen for thirty seconds. Well done, kids.’

  Jo, seated between them, put an arm round both and squeezed their shoulders.

  ‘If ever you want them adopted, I’ll take them, no questions asked,’ I said.

  ‘And have you annoyed anyone else?’ Lloyd asked. ‘We have two very good detectives here to help if you have.’

  It was my turn for a dry grin. ‘Actually, I’ve pleased someone I’d rather not have met. During the storm. I did my good neighbour act. Fine. Only it turned out one of the people I was helping was one of Simon’s drinking friends. Josh Talbot. I only recognised him as he slapped his wife.’ I took a gulp of my G&T. ‘Actually, he was probably, in the circumstances, doing the right thing: she was so hysterical I’d told her I ought to but I couldn’t. Then he comes in, and doesn’t hesitate. So the jury’s out.’

  Jo took my hand. ‘You knew him: more to the point, did he recognise you?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’ve worked on my voice and accent, of course, and my hair’s changed colour, and I took care to stand in the shadows – we’d only got a couple of candles to light a whole room, so I may have got away with it.’