Bed of Roses

by Daisy Waugh

  A girlish snigger; an hysterical girlish snigger – and the line goes dead.

  It takes a moment, after that, for Fanny to brace herself. She picks up her keys and a bread knife from the kitchen, closes her fist around it, slides the fist into her bag. And forces herself to open the door.

  Nothing. There’s nothing there. She pushes the door closed behind her – and she spots it at once, hanging limp on the latch: a flimsy piece of red material. She peers at it. Picks it up. Damp. Sticky. A tiny pair of gauze-and-lace silky-look scarlet knickers.

  ‘Oh!’ She holds them out in front of her, too shocked to let go. ‘Fuck! Oh, fuck!’

  Tracey and Macklan, also running late, just then emerge from the cottage next door. They glance across at her. Tracey looks from Fanny to the scarlet fabric held out in her hand, and then looks again, closer. ‘Those are mine,’ she says. ‘What are you waving them round for?’

  ‘What? I’m not. Of course not!’

  Before she has a chance to say more, Macklan, in a dextrous flash of chivalry, has stretched across and snatched them from her. He stuffs them into his pocket.

  ‘Give them back!’ Fanny cries. ‘They were hanging on my—’

  ‘And you should watch your language,’ Tracey says. ‘Head teachers aren’t supposed to talk like that. Come on, Macklan. We’re late for Dane. Let’s go.’

  ‘Wait! Tracey, stop! I just found them. Someone put them on my door. I think they’re—I think someone’s just—Oh, please. Can’t I come with you? Please, Tracey…I need your help.’

  Tracey turns back. Heavy body. Billowing clothes to try to hide it. Pale, puffy face. (She used to be so pretty, Fanny thinks.) ‘You need help?’ she says coldly. ‘And what about Dane?’

  Fanny doesn’t know what to say.

  ‘It’s not his fault he’s a Guppy, Fanny. And contrary to what you and everyone else seems to think, it doesn’t automatically make him a criminal, neither.’

  ‘Oh, come on! All the evidence. And he’s done it before.’

  ‘You disgust me,’ Tracey says, her eyes filling with tears.

  ‘Let’s go,’ mutters Macklan. They walk away.

  ‘So-oo,’ slurs Kitty Mozely, plopping crisps and a round of drinks on to the table, and settling herself back down in her seat, ‘on your tod again this evening, Louis? What’s Miss Flynn up to then?’

  ‘Oh. Some sort of meeting,’ Louis says vaguely, because he’s not entirely sure. He’s stopped listening recently. All she talks about is school, and he has enough problems of his own. Like the fact that he has exactly no work at the moment. Nothing. Like the fact that he has no money in the bank, because he spent so much in Spain, and Mr Guppy’s rent is due any minute. ‘Some meeting to do with the school fire, I think. I dunno. She works too hard, Fan does.’ He smiles. ‘I can’t keep up with it.’

  ‘And does she know how worried you are?’ purrs Kitty. ‘About the work? About the lack of money coming in?’

  ‘I expect so.’ He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Maybe not. It’s not too interesting. I guess I probably haven’t told her so much.’

  ‘Hmm…You should watch out, angel boy. I hear Solomon Creasey’s been dropping in on your Miss Fanny Flynn.’

  Louis smiles. ‘I was there, too, Kitty.’

  ‘And he’s a pariah, that man. So legend has it. Though I must admit he’s never bloody well pariahed me…’ A lazy, untroubled sigh. ‘Ah, well,’ she chuckles, ‘plenty of other pariahs in the sea!’

  Louis takes a slurp of his cider and says nothing. Quite nice, he thinks, to be thought of as a pariah again. Because Fanny – he loves her and all that, of course. He’ll always love her, but he feels she’s already beginning to take him for granted. Or maybe he’s already taking her for granted? One way or the other…

  ‘So,’ Kitty’s voice breaks in, ‘I’ve spoken to Twiglet Prick. As promised.’

  ‘Oh.’ A pause while he tries to remember who she’s talking about. The name certainly rings a bell.

  ‘My agent, poppet.’

  ‘Sure. I know. About the illustrations.’ He waits, but she doesn’t add anything else. ‘Well? So what did he say?’

  She leans forward. ‘Tell me, my friend. Have you mentioned any of this to the little lady yet?’

  He shifts uncomfortably. ‘Don’t call her that, Kitty,’ he says amiably.

  ‘Because, darling—’ She leans a little closer, taking care not to touch him. He catches her musky smell, feels the warmth of her skin, hears all the libidinous, reckless promise in her voice. He glances over the rim of his cider into her eyes – avaricious, devilish eyes. She’s actually pretty damn fuckable, he thinks. And Kitty reads it – as surely as if he’d shouted it aloud.

  ‘Because, darling,’ she says again, ‘you’re going to have to tell her sooner or later…’ Kitty’s lips curve. She leans closer, and closer still. ‘And, Louis,’ she murmurs into his ear, her chubby finger finding the wrist, sliding itself smoothly up inside his sleeve, ‘I strongly suspect your adorable little girlfriend doesn’t even know we’re friends, let alone business associates…Well, does she?’

  Louis tries to ignore her.

  ‘She doesn’t, does she, Louis? You naughty man!’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that,’ he murmurs. ‘I’ll worry about Fanny.’

  ‘Well, then, you should,’ she says, finger twirling through the hair on his deliciously golden forearm, ‘because I have a funny feeling that you and I and old Twiglet Prick may be on to something big.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Louis replies lazily.

  ‘It is so, Louis. He’s already spoken to my ghastly publisher—’

  ‘He has?’

  She nods. ‘And they’re waiting, with bated breath, for you to send them your portfolio.’

  ‘My portfolio?’ Louis frowns slightly, wondering where it is. He’s definitely seen it recently. ‘That’s exciting,’ he says. Thinks about it. He’d actually enjoy doing her illustrations, if she’s serious about it. Especially now, with no other work coming in. ‘That is pretty damn exciting,’ he says again.

  She nods. ‘My publishers are very keen to please me at the moment. For some reason. I have a feeling they’ll do almost anything for me,’ her hand drops from his arm, to beneath the table, ‘if I ask them nicely…’

  A heady silence. Louis doesn’t move her hand or his thigh. He allows her hand to travel further, slowly, further…

  ‘Mmmm,’ she says. Even better than she’d hoped. ‘Even better than I’d hoped!’

  ‘Well, Kitty?’ he asks, with another of those lazy half-smiles, allowing free rein to the practised hand at work beneath the table, ‘and are you going to ask them nicely?’

  ‘That all depends,’ she says, undoing the zip, sliding inside, ‘how nicely you’re going to ask me…’

  Why not? he thinks. If he thinks anything at all. ‘We could go back to yours,’ he says. ‘But it’s a lovely evening. We could just go for a little walk…’

  ‘Ahhh, wwwwalkies!’ gurgles Kitty. ‘What fun!’

  52

  Geraldine Adams has gone to town with her bits for the governing body. Her parlour, with its First Lady sofas rearranged to lend an element of a courtroom effect, is dappled with soft-but-sombre lighting, and pretty party plates laden with symmetrical arrangements of chicken satay and miniature vol-au-vents.

  She decided champagne would be ‘inappropriate’ under the circumstances, but she’s stocked up on wine and spirits – and beer for Mr Guppy, if he decides to come (no sign of him yet). And some Diet Coke for poor, dear little Dane.

  The room burbles with the chatter of those governing bodies who were able to make it: Grey McShane and the General are there, muttering together about the presence of the billionaire, New Labour candidate for Lamsbury, Maurice Morrison.

  Maurice Morrison, New Labour candidate for Lamsbury, who knows nothing about it and cares even less, is talking passionately to Clive Adams about Britain’s need for further legal-aid reform.
<
br />   Robert White is nodding distractedly at the vicar, who continues to find new ways to make the same point regarding the very late hour of this governors’ meeting.

  And Geraldine is in her element, tripping from group to group, putting people at their ease.

  ‘Rather ironic,’ she chortles to the marvellous Maurice Morrison, after he’s admired the perfect proportions of her sofas and then of her house, asked her how many bedrooms it has, and how much land it came with, ‘that the only one of us yet to turn up – apart from the Guppy party – is our terrific little head teacher, Fanny Flynn! But then she works so hard, Maurice. I worry for her. Have you met Fanny yet?’

  ‘Haven’t had the pleasure, Geraldine. Not yet. And I’ve been longing to meet her. I’ve heard so many wonderful things,’ says Morrison, who’s never heard anything about her, never spared her a second’s thought. ‘May I ask, how much did you pay for this house, Geraldine?’

  ‘Goodness, what a question!’ titters Geraldine. She’s eyeing the thick, salt-and-pepper hairdo, the broad, worked-out shoulders beneath the light brown summer jacket, the tiny hint of a golden tan at the throat of his crisp, white open-necked shirt. She’s thinking how incredibly important he is, and rich; how thrilling it is to have him in her house. She feels a little shiver of lust, which surprises her. It doesn’t happen often.

  Fanny arrives flushed, out of breath and edgy, closely followed by Tracey, Macklan and Dane. Tracey and Macklan are asked to join the two other witnesses in the television room. Dane Guppy, who looks on in dazed confusion at the swirl of activity all around him, is directed to a kitchen chair at the back of the parlour, facing into the semicircle of sofas.

  ‘Right-o, everyone!’ calls Geraldine, smiling broadly, clapping her hands. ‘I think we’re all here now. Perhaps we should get started.’

  Geraldine has organised a seating plan, with the Reverend in the middle, and herself with her thigh rubbing up against Maurice Morrison’s linen trousers. Not only hostess for the night, but Governing Body Secretary, she has arranged a pretty escritoire in front of her own place, so she can take the meeting’s minutes.

  First a fireman, then a policeman, and finally Fanny, with her set of photographs, come forward to present their damning evidence. After forty-five minutes, Maurice Morrison glances at his watch, pulls a small, apologetic face, leans across and mutters to Geraldine that sadly he’s soon going to have to dash. His helicopter is waiting.

  ‘Do you enjoy school, Dane?’ asks the Reverend.

  Dane, who’s been sitting mutely through all this, keeps his eyes to the floor. Sniffs, but doesn’t reply. Clive Adams, his supposed advocate, has chosen to sit on a small chair in a far corner of the room, at least seven foot away from him, so Dane’s all alone up there. Does he enjoy school? He has no idea. Silence.

  ‘Dane,’ comes a dry, clever voice from the Clive corner, ‘suffers some difficulty in learning and has, in fact, exhibited some dyslexic behaviours, although these have yet to be formally identified—’

  ‘Excuse me, Clive,’ Fanny interrupts, ‘I think I already discussed this with Geraldine, but actually Dane is not dyslexic.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Geraldine smiles at her, lips closed. ‘I’m sorry, Fanny. But I believe he is.’

  ‘And I’m sorry, but which of us is the trained teacher around here?’

  ‘And I’m sorry,’ Geraldine snaps back, ‘but which of us is the mother of an eleven-year-old boy? I think he’s dyslexic.’

  ‘He’s not dyslexic.’

  ‘Could we possibly move on?’ interrupts Grey, in a filthy mood because Geraldine, in her ignorance, has sat him next to Maurice Morrison, whom he loathes and it’s taking all his self-control not to wheel around and lamp him. ‘I don’t see what fuckin’ difference it makes one way or the fuckin’ other. A boy can set fire to a place without having to read the instructions on the fuckin’ matchbox.’

  ‘Please, Mr McShane,’ says the vicar weakly. ‘We have a young person present.’

  ‘Of course it makes no difference,’ agrees the dry voice in the corner. ‘I mentioned it simply because, for one reason or another, Dane does not find his school life easy. Do you, Dane?’

  Dane doesn’t find any life particularly easy but his school life is – was – better than most. Nevertheless, obligingly, because he understands Clive is helping him, Dane shakes his head.

  ‘Which isn’t to say,’ continues Clive, ‘that he dislikes it sufficiently to set the place alight. A boy can dislike his school – even a boy with a predisposition to arson.’ He laughs, a bloodless clever-clogs titter. ‘I don’t think we can say, ipso facto he is bound to destroy it!’

  Chortles of support from the expected quarters: Robert White, nervous, not paying much attention but getting the gist; Maurice Morrison, not really listening either; and a belly laugh from Geraldine.

  ‘Incidentally, I would be grateful,’ says Clive, pushing his advantage as the laughter dies, ‘if you would allow me to lead Tracey Guppy and Macklan Creasey through their evidence. Only because they’re both so very young, and I worry they might feel intimidated…’

  He calls them separately. Questions them separately, gently, and to each one of their contradictory answers, gives the appearance of believing every word. They claim Dane was eating breakfast with them right up until the moment he called the fire brigade, but they can’t even agree on what it was they were all eating.

  Mid-questioning Tracey, his second witness, who claims it was fried eggs, mushroom and bacon, Clive turns with a small, wry smile to the eight governors present, raises both hands in mock surrender. ‘Eggs, bacon, beluga caviar – what does it really matter? I imagine you will all have spotted one or two anomalies in Tracey and Macklan’s evidence…’

  Tracey, standing silently before them, smiles with him. She doesn’t recognise the word ‘anomaly’, but Clive has assured her he is on her side. ‘Nevertheless, no one could deny that what these young people lack in accurate memory, they certainly make up for in love. Because Tracey Guppy loves her brother, doesn’t she? And Macklan Creasey loves Tracey. And so I simply pose the question, when you were twenty years old – or nineteen, in Tracey’s case – how much detail could you remember about your activities of over a fortnight previously? We must allow them both a little leeway, I think. We must allow them the benefit of the doubt.’

  A silence. Clive turns to Tracey, dismisses her with a nod. She hesitates, as if she wants to say more. ‘It’s all right,’ says Clive. ‘You can go now.’ She leaves the room, ruffling her brother’s greasy head as she goes. ‘You too, Dane,’ Clive adds curtly.

  ‘Well,’ says the General to his neighbour Fanny Flynn, in a loud whisper, ‘I didn’t think that was much of a defence, did you? Thought that Adams chap was supposed to be top notch. I certainly shan’t be employing him.’

  Clive Adams turns his cold, watery-blue eyes to the General; he is wearing the faintest hint of a smirk. ‘Maybe so,’ Clive murmurs. ‘But it’s a difficult case to defend.’

  ‘I say, Fanny, you’re being awfully quiet,’ says the General, ignoring him. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Mmm?’ Fanny starts. ‘Sorry. What’s that?’

  A little smile from Robert. ‘Yes, we are a bit distracted this evening, aren’t we, Miss Flynn?’

  She pretends not to hear – is surprised, actually, by the surge of revulsion she feels now, just at the sound of his voice. She turns to the General. ‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘Are we ready to vote?’

  ‘I believe we are,’ says the vicar uncertainly. ‘Anyone have anything to add?’

  Maurice takes another little look at his watch. Clears his throat.

  ‘I was thinking I could teach him at home,’ Fanny says, as if the result were a foregone conclusion. ‘An hour a day or something. Plus homework. A few hours at the weekends. Geraldine, perhaps you could help?’

  Geraldine coughs. ‘We shouldn’t jump the gun, now, Fanny,’ she says, not quite daring to look at her. ‘The verdic
t isn’t yet clear. I, for one, will be voting against exclusion.’

  Fanny’s jaw drops.

  ‘Me, too,’ says Robert, smirking.

  ‘You what?’ cries Fanny. ‘Don’t be pathetic, Robert. You’re only doing it to annoy me.’

  The General snorts with laughter.

  ‘I’m sorry you should think it’s pathetic,’ Robert replies primly, ‘to want to protect a kiddie’s future. Of course I believe he started the fire. I imagine we all do, Fanny.’ He glances quickly around the room, and seems to find enough reassurance there to go on. ‘Of course the little lad may have accidentally started the blaze. But kiddies make mistakes. We all do. And even kiddies who make mistakes have a right to a future.’

  ‘I’m not taking away his future,’ Fanny snaps. ‘I’m getting him out of a school he wants to set fire to, and I’m going to give him one-on-one bloody tutorage until the end of term. Or until he starts at secondary school, if he lets me. I’m not taking his future, Robert. I’m giving it back to him.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, everyone, but I’m going to have to cast my vote and dash.’ Maurice Morrison’s handsome brow is slanted into an apologetic frown. He clears his throat, waits until he has everyone’s attention. ‘Well, now. As you may be aware,’ he says, lowering his eyelashes, ‘as you may be aware, I am en principe very much averse to school exclusions. I believe passionately, as I have said on numerous occasions, both publicly and privately, in the school-as-melting-pot,’ (this, incidentally, in spite of having sent his own children, now adult, to a marvellous little melting pot in Switzerland, which cost £25,000 a term), ‘as a place where youngsters learn to mix with one another, regardless of their difficulties and differences…’

  ‘Just tell us how you’re voting and fuck off,’ snaps Grey McShane. ‘You’re not on the fuckin’ telly.’

  Morrison pays not the slightest attention. ‘I’ve listened to the details of this unfortunate – tragic – case, and the principle remains the same. Whatever that young lad may have done,’ Morrison stands up, slides himself into his lightweight linen jacket, ‘it’s important for him to feel incorporated. I believe it’s our job as school governors to care for Dane, to nurture him. Not to throw him out with the rubbish—’