Head Count

by Judith Cutler

  The route he chose took us very close to Harry and Doreen’s bungalow. On impulse I told him – perhaps because somewhere deep down I really didn’t want to acknowledge I was enjoying his company and wouldn’t mind prolonging the journey back to my piece of sticky tape.

  ‘The weird couple who helped you and then beat it? OK. Shall we go and have a look?’

  It might not have been such a good idea after all. Parts of the lane were already flooded. At one corner I had to nip out and clear a couple of branches. But he pressed on.

  ‘There!’ I pointed. The moon briefly broke through the cloud, allowing us a glimpse, no more.

  He stopped to look. ‘Shame! No bats! No swooping owls!’ he lamented in a ghoulish voice. ‘A Gothic night like this, that bungalow ought to be a turreted house – castle, even,’ he declared.

  ‘What are you doing?’ It was obvious, actually: he was pulling on to their drive.

  ‘Just thought I’d take a look.’

  I never thought I’d get to say it. ‘What if you’re messing up a crime scene?’

  He threw his head back and roared with laughter, but reversed to a nearby field gateway.

  He’d unclipped his seat belt and was checking his door mirror, obviously about to do his inspection on foot, when he suddenly lunged my way and enveloped me in an embrace. ‘Someone’s coming,’ he muttered. ‘Act passionate.’

  Only act? Hmm. What the hell were my hormones doing?

  ‘And keep your eyes open.’

  I did. ‘He’s cut his lights and driven straight on,’ I whispered.

  He pushed himself upright, and then turned, cupping my chin and dotting a kiss full on my lips. ‘Back to work I’m afraid,’ he said, almost before I could respond, pulling out his phone. As he dabbed at the keypad, he pulled his seat belt back on. His conversation was short and to the point. We were after a suspicious vehicle and backup was required.

  ‘Rough drive ahead, I’m afraid. And can you be i/c communications?’

  A rough drive it was, especially since he didn’t want to use his headlights and he was driving rather faster than conditions ought to have permitted. It might have been exciting, but I had other things on my mind. A lot.

  No time for quiet reflection. Time to answer Will’s phone. And to put it on conference.

  I didn’t understand all the lingo but I did get one thing all too clearly as we bucketed along, Doreen and Harry’s lane having been built more for trundling bikes than for speeding cars: we had lost the target vehicle. Will sprayed some foul language around, surpassed by a woman colleague of his who was homing in on the area.

  At last he put his headlights on and proceeded in a northerly direction with considerably more decorum.

  ‘Gone, gone – and never called me mother,’ he said mournfully.

  ‘It’s “Dead, dead”, isn’t it?’

  ‘Pedant.’

  As we drove past my house, looking terribly dejected behind its fencing and its fluttering police tape, he pulled over. ‘Caffy Tyler – the PACT woman – says she can’t ever imagine my living here,’ I said casually.

  ‘Can you?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘I don’t want yet another holiday rental because someone’s feeling sorry for me – and moreover thinks that offering me a chic roof will earn him goodwill in the village.’

  ‘Ah, our friend Brian Dawes. Get on with him all right, do you?’

  I trotted out my usual spiel. ‘He’s an excellent, conscientious hands-on governor. I couldn’t have managed without him during the worst of last year.’

  ‘You can take that tongue out of your cheek. Pompous prick, I’ve heard him called.’

  ‘You can’t possibly expect me to agree. Seriously, he was a total pain at the start of my tenure, but he did show a better side. Funnily enough, one of the texts I got was from him, asking me out to dinner.’

  ‘Will you go?’

  ‘Only if he wants to talk shop. I’m wary of making friends with governors, as I’m sure you are of making friends with senior officers. But I wouldn’t want to make an enemy of one: they can fire as well as hire, you know.’

  He set us in motion again. It was only a couple of hundred yards to the holiday cottage. It seemed he was going to see me in, or at least check the adhesive tape. ‘And security at the rear?’ he asked curtly.

  ‘Anyone wanting to get into the garden would have to scale the wall. And the patio doors have a triple-lock system.’

  ‘All the same.’

  I was to let him in. And then what?

  Going ahead of me he ran lightly upstairs. He returned more slowly. ‘No one under the beds. Or in them.’

  ‘Two teddy bears apart,’ I corrected him. Foolish. I was trying to avoid comments like that. Trying to avoid eye contact.

  ‘Work day for both of us tomorrow,’ he said, stating the obvious but including, I suspected, a subtext. ‘I shall be glad when this case is over, Jane. You know as well as I do, I should imagine, about officers and victims of crime.’

  ‘Or even officers and criminals.’ I added brightly. ‘You haven’t tested that DNA yet.’

  We laughed but the tension was palpable.

  He had his hand on the front door. ‘See you around – right?’

  ‘See you around.’

  What if he turned back and kissed me?

  What if I’d called him back and kissed him?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Because I’d got to be pretty good with make-up, covering bruises and disguising puffiness, it was possible that my colleagues wouldn’t notice that I was pale, with dark circles under my eyes. If anyone did, and asked, then I could tell them that it was the sight of all those poor children – there must have been fifteen – summoned from the woods as if by the Pied Piper. Pam had obviously had a bad night too, her eyes reddened by even the thought of not being able to foster Zunaid, she admitted, stifling a sob. Wherever he’d spent the night, he was back with her this morning, helping clear the tables after Breakfast Club. And the education department and social services were coming today: their email was quite definite, though they couldn’t commit to a time yet. I emailed back: they must avoid lunchtime because then I’d be in Wrayford, maintaining a presence at my other school, and I considered it essential that I was in Wray Episcopi when they came.

  One thing a school is judged by, rightly or wrongly, is its attendance rates, so it’s a matter of great concern when two children from the same family go missing without any notification from their family. At this stage of the term, too. Donna popped her head round my office door to tell me she’d adopted the standard procedure: she’d texted, left a phone message for and emailed the parents, with no response.

  ‘The thing is,’ she added, ‘it’s not just any pupils. It’s Joe and Nicky Paine – Gerry Paine’s children. PTA noticeboard Gerry.’

  ‘And English First march Gerry. Hmm. I don’t like this, Donna. I don’t know why. Just something twitching in my thumbs.’ For her sake, I lowered my shoulders and straightened my back. ‘But you’ve done all you should – couldn’t have done more. Thank you.’

  ‘Actually, there is one thing. Mrs Hale always said that if there was any doubt at all about the children’s safety, we should notify the police.’

  ‘And is there? Any doubt?’

  ‘He’s a big man, Mr Paine. Very strict.’ What was she implying? But that was a big conversation for another day. ‘So it is odd they’re not here.’

  ‘Who usually brings them?’

  ‘They walk. It’s only three hundred yards, four maybe. They don’t have to cross any roads.’

  ‘OK. Good parenting on that at least, I’d say. Tell you what, Donna, go through the whole absentee procedure again – a couple of times, say – and I’ll have a word with their class teachers. Then we can make up our minds.’

  But our minds were about to be made up for us.

  I heard the noise before, looking out of Donna’s window, I saw the cause. It didn’t quite constitute a
n uproar, but was horrible enough: nine or ten large, loud beer-gutted men with home-made placards with deeply offensive messages were occupying the pavement right by the playground and yelling racist slogans at the top of their voices. The children in front-facing classrooms couldn’t help but hear.

  She picked up the phone and was already dialling. ‘You can’t reason with that type, Jane: I’m calling the police. To report a hate crime.’

  Was it officially a hate crime? Whether it was or not, I wouldn’t quibble. ‘Excellent. Tell them to polish up their best smiles – because they’re going to be on TV. Look, there’s the first media van arriving! Paine must have notified them himself. And call Hazel Roberts and Colin Ames: ask them to tell the rest of the governors.’

  Before I did anything else I must warn the class teachers to keep the children in at break: they’d have a wet-day play in the hall. Between them they must make up some exciting game involving darkness, because I was going to draw the blackout curtains. I didn’t want any telephoto shots of the children.

  But I did want some of my own – of the men. I snapped away through the window.

  Only then did I go out and confront them.

  ‘We’re not on your land: you can’t make us do anything,’ Gerry Paine declared before I even opened my mouth.

  ‘As the head teacher, Mr Paine, I’m asking you to tell your friends to put down all your banners, and I’m inviting you to come into my office to explain your grievance.’

  He repeated my words so that all his mob could hear. ‘My grievance? My grievance, woman, is your letting filthy children from God knows where into the same school as decent white children, spreading disease and stuff.’ He jabbed at my chest, his spittle reaching my face.

  His mates clustered round him, emphasising his words – there were more in his splenetic utterance than I’ve recorded – with jabs of their banners. It would have been easy to be scared: I’m tall, but the shortest of them was a good three inches taller than me. On the other hand, if a camera was busily recording all their actions, they might draw the line at actually hitting me.

  ‘I repeat, Mr Paine, that this is not the way to deal with any difficulty. Tell your friends to put down those banners and go away. And we will discuss in private anything you have to say.’ Teachers can make themselves heard from one end of a playing field without raising their voices. I made sure that all my words would be recorded.

  In fact, I turned to the reporter alongside the camera. ‘These people are disrupting the education of all the children in the school. I am asking them to leave immediately.’

  Mistake.

  ‘Is it true that you’ve got illegal immigrants in the school?’ the reporter asked.

  I should have seen this one coming. ‘The authorities are aware of all the children here,’ I declared.

  ‘Have you seen their passports? Their parents’ passports? Is it true that you’ve got completely unidentified children running wild here?’

  ‘I don’t see anyone running wild, do you? All the children are in classes supervised by excellent highly qualified teachers. All the children except for two unauthorised absentees.’ No, I mustn’t name them. It wasn’t their fault. It might be illegal, too. But I looked meaningfully at Paine.

  Someone came and stood beside me. Hazel Roberts. Leaning heavily on a stick, she looked frail but redoubtable. As if we were at some social event, I introduced her formally. All TVInvicta’s viewers would know her next time they ran into her in the supermarket. Waitrose, if I knew Hazel.

  ‘Ms Cowan is an excellent head,’ she declared. ‘She has the unreserved backing of myself and the rest of the governors. We have every faith that she will transform a good school into an outstanding one.’

  Too much information. Now they’d know I was a new appointment. Fortunately there wasn’t time for the reporter to make any capital of it. The police were here – one guy on a motorbike.

  I suppose we were lucky we didn’t have to wait for him to ride all the way from Essex.

  The poor man. One versus ten. And two women hoping – if not quite expecting – that he’d be able to do something. Actually he did. Something very useful. He spoke to the TVInvicta crew. ‘I don’t think your presence here is very helpful. At the very least you’re aiming to give airtime to what I believe is an illegal organisation. It’d be a good idea to show it to your legal department before you broadcast it. OK?’

  As they packed up, he turned to me. I introduced Hazel, just as I had for TVInvicta, then myself. ‘The gentlemen object to the presence of two non-white children in the school attended by Mr Paine’s son and daughter.’

  ‘Do they indeed?’ He turned aside to speak into his radio. As he did so, one or two of the men decided they had previous engagements. Then another couple. Soon the only ones on the pavement were him, Hazel and me.

  As one we adjourned into school. Donna, already at the coffee machine, greeted us with mimed applause.

  ‘All the same,’ he said, ‘I do need to know about those children he was talking about.’

  ‘One, Georgy Popescu, is entirely legitimate – his parents work for the fruit farm down the road. Their paperwork is in order. Georgy has been officially enrolled. But there is a possible problem with Zunaid. He arrives and departs on his own, eats like a horse, works incredibly hard at his English. But no paperwork, no nothing. And he keeps coming back. We know he appreciates personal hygiene, because he tried to help another little boy who turned up out of the blue, but this kid didn’t like being washed and so he just pushed off. He’s not been back since. And I didn’t see Zunaid or his little protégé amongst that batch your colleagues and the social workers flushed out of Glebe Wood last night.’

  Perhaps he hadn’t known about it. But in a big organisation, why should he? ‘An illegal, you reckon?’

  ‘A refugee, let’s call him. Yes, Donna?’

  ‘Looks like the education people are here, Jane. Just two of them, though.’

  Turning to the still-anonymous officer, I shrugged. ‘You want to stay and join the party? At least you wouldn’t have to hear it all second-hand.’

  It seemed he’d prefer the edited version later. If at all.

  There were two notable absences from the party, however. An interpreter and Zunaid. There was no sign of him. Nor, significantly, of Pam. I edged Donna to one side. ‘Phone her and tell her to get them both back here now. At once. If she wants to foster him, she’s got to be like Caesar’s wife, above suspicion. Just tell her – breaking the law’s the last thing she should even imagine doing. And she’ll need a really convincing excuse for not being here on time. Go on, I’ll make the coffee.’

  She nodded and, mobile in hand, headed into the playground. ‘Shall I tell the teachers it’s all clear, by the way? The kids can go outside?’

  ‘As soon as you’ve located Pam. Oh, and tip Karenza off too. We shall need her.’

  ‘Shall I sit with the class? I’ve done it in the past.’

  ‘You’re an angel.’

  Even without the policeman, my office looked as overcrowded as I’d hoped: the shorter the meeting the better. Actually I was wrong: I might need to prolong it, mightn’t I? Until Donna had located Pam.

  I suggested we adjourn to the library, an ambitiously named windowless room. But there were books aplenty there, and enough seats – if on the small side – for everyone.

  ‘What happened to the interpreter I understood would be present?’

  The incoming professionals exchanged a glance. In it I detected an instant sticking together, an agreement to sing the same song whatever happened. ‘Unavoidably detained,’ said the social worker, Marina Foster, a woman whose clipped diction belied her homely appearance. ‘But I’m sure we can manage without her.’

  I caught Karenza’s eye: I was far from sure.

  ‘Let us start by laying out some facts,’ Education Man, Robert Plumley, said, sounding sweetly reasonable but probably deliberately obtuse.

  ‘Excellent,�
�� I declared, hijacking the meeting. ‘Karenza – can you begin?’

  Karenza outlined the situation so far; I briefed them about the English First incident – and finally, finally, but in fact as if on cue, Pam and Zunaid appeared, both tearful. Pam said Zunaid had enough English to know that bad people wanted to be rid of him. I wasn’t at all sure about that, but let her continue with her narrative, which involved Zunaid running to her for help as soon as he saw them and her taking him for a little walk to calm him down. Zunaid simply clung to her leg until she sat down, when he scrambled on to her knee, burying his face in her shoulder.

  ‘You know,’ I said truthfully, ‘in the continued absence of an interpreter, it seems unnecessary for Zunaid to stay. I think he might be a lot happier playing football or helping Pam lay the tables for lunch. Don’t you, Pam?’

  At first she went to carry him, but he slipped down, took her hand and walked out with her.

  ‘She reminds him of his grannie,’ Karenza said. ‘He drew this picture of her this morning.’ She held it up: actually, there was a surprising likeness. She took a deep breath. ‘As his class teacher, I strongly request that any arrangements you propose involve Pam. Formally or informally. He likes me and he likes Jane, but he loves Pam.’ She flushed bright red and stared at her lap. It seemed that Karenza, who could control a class of hyperactive monkeys with the quietest of words, was like many teaching colleagues I’d known: shy in front of other adults.

  Marina Foster trotted out predictable verbiage, stressing that she had a range of experienced foster parents at her disposal, all trained in the particular expertise needed in dealing with children from such exceptionally difficult backgrounds; Plumley outlined his own ideas for Zunaid’s future, including schools with staff who were qualified to teach English to young non-English speakers. They both sounded humane and sensitive, but I could see that Karenza shared my reservations.

  ‘He doesn’t need specialist linguistic help,’ she declared. ‘He has a gift for languages. Couldn’t he be fostered by someone living locally? So he could keep coming here? And still see Pam every day?’