by Daisy Waugh
‘Robert,’ she barks. ‘Tell me what you know about Scarlett Mozely.’
‘Mmm,’ he says happily, pretending to think about it but really only trying to make the conversation last, ‘mmmm…No, I must say I don’t know much about Scarlett, I’m afraid, Fanny. She arrived straight into Mrs Thomas’s class.’
‘Yes, I’m aware of that.’
‘Mmm. So your best bet, Fanny, would probably be putting a call in to Mrs Thomas.’
‘Mrs Thomas doesn’t return my calls, as you know. And this is a small school. I presume you’ve had some dealings with her?’
‘By the way, Fanny, I’ve been meaning to ask you, have you ever been on the Eurostar?’
‘What?’
He tells her about a trip to Paris he took ‘with a certain lady-friend. Call me an old devil, but what with recent events I’ve actually misplaced her name!’ He asks Fanny to forgive him for quoting the old maxim, ‘But Paris,’ he says, ‘really is the most romantic city in the world!’
Linda Tardy, eating McVitie’s on the ink-stained sofa, shakes her head. ‘I think you two would make a super couple,’ she says, ‘both being so brainy and international and everything. Wouldn’t it be lovely, Mrs Haywood? Don’t you think?’
‘Linda,’ Fanny says briskly, ‘tell me. What do you know about Scarlett Mozely?’
‘Well…To my experience,’ Linda Tardy replies, after an incredibly long pause, during which she finishes her biscuit – and thinks, presumably, ‘she’s one of these busy ones who likes to buzz away at her own little projects. Doing her own thing. And who am I to say she shouldn’t? Poor little mite.’
‘But is she clever? Is she thick? Seriously, it seems ridiculous, but I’ve no idea if she can even read and write! You must have seen some of her work?’
Linda Tardy’s lips disappear, leaving nothing showing but the outlying pink-smudged vertical creases, sprinkled with biscuit crumbs. ‘Have you seen her work?’ she asks sternly.
‘No, but—’
‘Well, then…And incidentally, Fanny, though I say it as probably shouldn’t, but I personally don’t appreciate descriptives such as “clever” or “thick” when it comes to our little kiddies. Not in this day and age.’
Fanny sighs. She glances out of the staff-room window, to where Scarlett sits alone on a wall, scribbling away in that red book of hers, and decides the time has come for her to contact Scarlett’s mother. She takes her coffee and walks towards the door.
‘Ooh, Fanny,’ says Robert suddenly. ‘I was wondering. Do you have a minute? Could I have a little word?’
A wave of ferocious irritation. She looks back at him. He’s folded the Guardian’s ‘G2’ and placed it neatly back inside the main paper, and he’s already half on his feet.
‘What do you want?’ she asks coldly.
‘I mean, could I have a little word in the office?’
‘NO.’ She notices Linda Tardy looking at her curiously. ‘I mean…’ She corrects herself. ‘Not really, no. Now isn’t convenient. Can it wait?’
‘Only I’ve been doing a little research.’
‘Good good.’ She looks at her watch.
‘Into teachers’ courses.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘There’s a one-day Saturday course in Swindon next month. Wait a mo’. I’ve got the leaflet here…It’s for heads and deputies. I thought it might be fun if we did it together.’
‘Ohhh,’ drools Linda Tardy. ‘Isn’t that nice? Go on, Fanny dear. You deserve a bit of fun.’
He rifles around in the bulging briefcase at his feet, pulls out a glossy sheet and hands it to Fanny. There is a clammy mark where his fingers have been, Fanny notices, and she feels a wave of sympathy for him. She can see how hard he is trying. ‘I thought it might be ever so helpful,’ he says eagerly. ‘A real, positive step forward for Fiddleford.’
She looks at the sheet. ‘Robert, we’ve only got seven children in the football team!’
‘Absolutely. But it says there that the course takes a “holistic” approach, thereby providing skills, not just refereeing skills but – other ones. Which may be useful in many scenarios. It’s tailor-made for primary schools.’
She hands it back. ‘I don’t think so, Robert. No.’ She flashes a smile. ‘But thank you. Thanks for thinking of it.’
Scarlett’s mother, Kitty Mozely, manages to sound impressively concerned about her daughter’s refusal to participate in school life – for a good four minutes. She says that she, too, has noticed how Scarlett always carries a red notebook around with her, and how she only rarely speaks. ‘But you know how it is,’ Kitty says blithely, pausing to light one cigarette from the end of the other, and exhaling heavily into the receiver. ‘Her father wasn’t much of a talker either. Always sodding off without a word. Used to drive me bananas…So, but, yes. It is strange, isn’t it? D’you suppose there’s something wrong with her? I mean, aside from the obvious…’ Kitty sighs, a fraction of her usual impatience just beginning to peep through. ‘She worries me terribly, you know, Miss Flynn. She does. We’ve such a struggle as it is, with just the two of us. Because of course writers such as myself rarely earn a sausage. Others might, but me, no. You probably hear these Harry-Potter-type figures being bandied about—’
Fanny clears her throat. They seem to be veering off the point.
‘But in this particular children’s author’s house, money’s short, Miss Flynn.’ (And so it is, in a way. It is for Kitty. She owns her pretty cottage and she lives off a small private income, about the size of Tracey Guppy’s combined salary from the pub, where she works four nights a week, and the school, where she works as a cleaner/caretaker/dinner lady. But Kitty Mozely came from a very rich family once, plus she was spoilt for years by being so clever and pretty; her luck turned, she often says, from the moment she discovered she was pregnant with Scarlett.) ‘Money’s always a problem. We do struggle. And with all Scarlett’s special requirements…Plus she eats like a—Really,’ she adds bitterly, having just come back from Safeways, ‘you’d be surprised how much that girl eats.’
‘I’m just wondering if you have any idea,’ persists Fanny, ‘what she might be scribbling or drawing or whatever in that notebook of hers? I’m intrigued. And I think, maybe, I mean, if I’m going to help her I really do need to know—’ Fanny is humiliated to have to admit it. ‘To be frank with you, Mrs Mozely—’
‘Ms. Ms Mozely, actually, Ms Flynn. But it doesn’t matter.’ She gives a wheezy, smoker’s chuckle. ‘Call me Kitty.’
‘To be frank with you, Kitty, it sounds ridiculous, but I don’t even know for sure if she can read or write!’
Kitty bursts out laughing. ‘Read and write! My daughter? I have a degree from Oxford University, Miss Flynn. Of course she can bloody well read and write! Are you mad? What the bloody hell—’
‘Good!’ Fanny says quickly. ‘Well, that’s something at least.’
‘She’s been at your school for over a year!’
‘I know,’ Fanny says. ‘I know. Only Mrs Thomas isn’t – making herself available. She’s not returning any calls. And I must admit we can’t currently, erm, locate Scarlett’s notes.’
Kitty isn’t listening. ‘I mean, of course she can bloody well read,’ she says, but she sounds suddenly less certain. She tries to envisage her daughter either reading a book or writing a letter, and – absurdly – she finds she can’t manage it. Her daughter is helpful in the kitchen. She’s actually a very good cook. But other than that, what does her daughter do all the time? Besides squabble with Ollie Adams? Kitty laughs. She honestly can’t think! The problem is, of course, Scarlett spends so much time in her bedroom.
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ promises Kitty hurriedly, keen now to get off the telephone before the true extent of her ignorance is revealed, ‘I’ll do a little detective work, shall I? See what the little monster’s been getting up to! And I’ll let you know what I find out.’
‘Well, if you could…’
&
nbsp; ‘Absolutely. I’ll get on to it right away. I promise.’
A rash promise, made in haste, which, predictably, Kitty fails to keep.
Fanny waits. She tries again to get hold of Mrs Thomas, who has apparently taken her stress-related pay-off very seriously, and completely evaporated from the planet.
At the end of lessons a few days later Fanny’s watching Scarlett, as usual, fastening her intriguing red notebook inside her battered satchel, and slowly limp towards the door. Scarlett is always the last out.
‘Scarlett,’ says Fanny, and she can see from the way Scarlett tenses that she’s heard her, but she still walks on. ‘Scarlett, don’t ignore me. We need to talk. This is becoming ridiculous.’
Scarlett turns slowly, flushing with surprise. She limps towards Fanny’s desk and stands there defiantly, waiting. Fanny pulls up a chair.
‘Sit down.’
‘I don’t want to keep my mother waiting.’
It is the longest sentence Fanny has heard from her, but of course it’s also not entirely true. By standing on her seat, which Fanny then does, she can see the school gate, and Kitty Mozely, as usual, is nowhere to be seen.
Fanny knows more about Scarlett’s daily habits than Scarlett, accustomed to being ignored, could have possibly imagined. She knows that Scarlett often goes home with Ollie Adams. She’s watched her, limping miserably behind as Ollie and the au pair march on in front, squabbling with each other. She knows that if Scarlett’s not going home with Ollie, she usually has to hobble the mile home to Laurel Cottage alone.
‘Your mother’s not out there, Scarlett.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because,’ says Fanny, dropping back down into her seat again, ‘I know what she looks like. I’ve seen her.’
‘When? In the pub?’
‘Since you mention it, yes. She’s been pointed out to me. I’ve seen her a couple of times.’
‘So you’re in there yourself, are you, most nights? Just like Kitty. You must be lonely, then.’
Fanny gives a thin smile. ‘I was beginning to wonder if you were a bit retarded, Scarlett.’
Scarlett sniggers.
‘But you obviously aren’t. So tell me. What’s going on?’
Scarlett keeps sniggering.
‘What’s funny? Scarlett, I asked you to sit down.’
She sits. Finally Fanny says, ‘Is your mother at home?’
‘How should I know?’
‘I’m going to call her and let her know you’ll be staying late. So you can show me some work – OK?’ She smiles; Scarlett doesn’t. ‘And afterwards I’ll drop you off home in my car. All right, Scarlett? Do you understand?’
Scarlett doesn’t answer.
‘OK, Scarlett?’ says Fanny again.
‘Do I have a choice?’
Fanny hesitates. ‘Er – you don’t actually, no. So. Will you tell me your mother’s telephone number, or are you going to make me go all the way upstairs to the office to look it up?’
Scarlett looks at Fanny as if she’s an idiot. ‘I’m going to make you go—’
‘Of course. Stupid question.’ Fanny opens a maths book to the page the rest of the class has been working from, and asks Scarlett to set to work. ‘Do what you can,’ Fanny says. ‘And don’t worry if you get stuck. It doesn’t matter. It’s what I’m here for. I’ll be back in a minute, all right?’
Fanny pokes her head out into the hall. The staff-room door has been left open. There is no one inside. She glances from left to right; no sign of Robert, then. She’s spotted him a couple of times recently, skulking around after school, obviously waiting for her. Today it looks as though he’s gone straight home. But she still runs across the hall, just in case, and takes care to close her office door, and even to lock it, before dialling the Mozely number.
She leaves a brief message on Kitty’s answer machine and returns to the classroom, where she finds Scarlett leaning back in her chair, hands behind her head, pencil in the same place Fanny left it.
‘Oh, come on, get on with it!’ Fanny snaps. ‘We’ll be here all night. You’re not going anywhere, Scarlett, until you’ve at least shown me—’
A tiny smile plays on Scarlett’s lopsided lips. Her paper is filled with scrawls; it’s an ugly, angry mess. But in those three minutes Scarlett has finished the same exercise her class has been struggling over all week. The arithmetic is there, scribbled randomly around the page. She obviously hasn’t used a calculator. And every answer is correct.
‘So,’ Fanny says finally. ‘So, Scarlett Mozely. That’s what it’s all about, is it?’ Fanny laughs. ‘So! Clever clogs. Well. Of course it is! I should have guessed as much. I mean, this is…this is…so…I mean, this is…phenomenal. Scarlett? I mean, seriously. What else can you do?’
And from the depths of Scarlett’s chest there comes a disarming gurgle, long and deep; a laugh of triumph at having kept her secret for so long. Behind the moon glasses her eyes smart. She looks absurdly happy.
And so does Fanny. ‘Honestly,’ she giggles suddenly, ‘I’ve never taught a Secret Genius before!’ And without pausing for thought, Fanny has leant across the table, pulled Scarlett into a tight, untidy hug and given her a smacker on both cheeks.
‘Oh, shit,’ she says at once, releasing her hurriedly. ‘Sorry. I’m so sorry.’ She tries to rub the kisses off. ‘Sorry. Not meant to do that. Very naughty. Child Abuse.’ She giggles again. ‘They could put me in jail for that.’
Scarlett says nothing. She is paralysed with confusion. When, after all, was she last kissed by anyone? Except for Clive and Geraldine’s chillingly dutiful single pecks, always delivered to the pretty side, Scarlett can’t even remember.
‘Sorry, Scarlett,’ says Fanny again, embarrassed to have so obviously embarrassed her. ‘I am sorry.’
But Scarlett is too blown away to answer.
16
It’s dusk by the time Fanny drops Scarlett back home. She and her mother live in a pretty-enough little cottage, with a moss-covered thatched roof and a buckling rose bush at the gate, but the path to the door is overtaken with brambles, and obstructed by an old fridge lying on its back. Inside, all the lights are off. The house looks empty and unwelcoming.
Fanny says, with her car engine still running, ‘Will you be all right, Scarlett? You’d be very welcome to come and have tea with me, if you prefer. It looks as though your mother may have gone out.’
‘I should think she has! I should think she ought to be allowed a life of her own while I’m at school and things. It’s not easy, you know, having a child.’
‘Well, no. But I think…’
Scarlett looks at her curiously. ‘Don’t you believe in a woman’s right to have a life of her own?’
‘What? Don’t be idiotic, Scarlett. I didn’t say that. Anyway, this isn’t about women’s rights. It’s about you being not very old. You shouldn’t be—’
‘I can look after myself, thank you, Miss Flynn. I’ve been doing it for years.’
A drawn-out silence, while Scarlett struggles from the little car, and Fanny dares not offer to help for fear of offending her yet again. ‘I shall see you on Monday then,’ Fanny says at last.
It sounds unnaturally upbeat. They both notice it. Scarlett smiles awkwardly. ‘Thanks for the lift,’ she mumbles.
‘It was a pleasure, Scarlett. And on Monday, bring me something to read, will you? I want to see how you write. Write me a story about…’ She pauses to think of a subject.
‘Actually, I’m writing a story at the moment,’ Scarlett says, unconsciously tapping it, inside her satchel.
‘Ah-ha!’ Fanny laughs. ‘The mysterious Red Book?’
She smiles. ‘It’s about Oliver Adams.’
‘A story about Ollie? I was thinking of something more along the lines—’
‘It’s fiction,’ interrupts Scarlett, her face glittering suddenly, full of mischief. She looks like her mother. She looks almost pretty. ‘Don’t worry, Miss Flynn. I’m writi
ng it like a novel. At the moment it’s called The Most Boring, Feeble-Minded, Over-Indulged Little Pillock in the Universe.’
‘Pillock?’ repeats Fanny, but she can’t help laughing again. ‘I mean, you can write what you want, of course. I’d love to see it. Only I don’t think—I mean—Try not to make him too identifiable.’
Scarlett shrugs. ‘If you like. But he’s never going to read it.’
Fanny watches Scarlett as she hobbles through the dusk and over the brambles, fumbling with the keys before letting herself in. And pauses, engine still running, briefly at a loss. She feels less courageous than Scarlett about the prospect of returning to an empty house, with only the long, quiet weekend ahead. She turns the car around and heads back to the school where, as always, she has mountains of work to catch up on.
She had locked the place up when she left with Scarlett and it, too, as she draws up in front, looks far from welcoming. The encroaching darkness does something Gothic to its 150-year-old face; the enormous windows loom at her, the high stone walls, normally a warm and lichenspeckled russet, look cold and flat and grey. As she crosses the playground towards the shadowy front porch she’s suddenly very conscious of the generations of childish figures that have passed through this place before; of the hopeful voices, the carefree laughter, the lives that have started here, and been, and gone; and she feels, for once, the full weight of her own responsibility. She may only be an outsider but she’s also a link now, in a bigger chain, and it is up to her to keep this small place alive.
She shivers.
In the empty staff room she makes herself coffee, carries it up with her to her office and sets to work. She works for a couple of hours without noticing the time pass, wading doggedly through the interminable paperwork, marking books, filling in forms. She’s about to take her mug downstairs to make a second cup of coffee when the creak of a distant pipe makes her jump. She pauses, noticing suddenly how dark it is outside, and how very quiet. There is a light shining in the bungalow opposite, where Tracey and her Uncle Russell with emphysema live. But Tracey’s working in the pub tonight, and her uncle sits in his wheelchair with the television volume turned up high, so he can hear it over his own wheezing.
