by Clare Revell
“Good morning, school.”
“Good morning, Mr. Quirke. Good morning, Miss Underwood. Good morning, Mr. Page. Good morning, everyone,” the children chorused like a well-oiled machine.
Fraser gripped the lectern. “If this school were a business, then this would be an extraordinary general meeting. Because I see us as part of a whole body—I’m the head and you are the many parts that make up the whole—every single one of you is needed, valuable and vital. From those of you just starting out in Year Seven, to those of you in Year Eleven who will be leaving us in June.”
He went on to explain the three-strike system, wanting them all to understand why he was making changes. “By now, you’ll all know that Mr. Jenkins retired and left at the start of the week. I have asked Miss Underwood to become acting Deputy Head for the remainder of this term, with a view to that becoming permanent in January. Mr. Page is replacing her as head of Year Eleven.”
He glanced behind him. “Miss Underwood, they are all yours.”
Paiton stood. “Thank you, Mr. Quirke.” She surveyed the students. “OK. I want to talk to you about the school. Headley Cross Secondary is fifty years old this term. That’s a long time. Longer than any of us have been alive…well maybe except Mr. Smithers, the caretaker, and Mr. Ede over there at the piano. Did you know that Mr. Ede taught some of your parents?” She paused while the children laughed. “Some of your parents came here when they were your age. We have a long-standing place in the community and lots of school traditions. The house competitions being one. The way Liddell never wins the house cup and the fact Elliot always wins the house quiz. Every. Single. Year. Not that I’m jealous or anything, but I reckon they cheat.”
The students laughed again.
“Christmas is another tradition we have.” She raised an eyebrow at the groans. “What? It’s only a hundred and ten sleeps to go. Not that I’m counting. And Christmas isn’t important simply because we’re a church school but because it means the school production. Something we can all get involved in.”
She shifted her weight, cradling her arm. “Not just the ten students who have so far signed up for the auditions. OK, so you don’t want to act or you can’t sing. It doesn’t matter. I need makeup artists, stage managers, lighting, and dancers. If you read the cast list of any movie or TV show, there are hundreds of behind the scenes people making the main actors look good. I need musicians for the orchestra, programme designers, costume makers, set designers and builders. Non-speaking actors for the background scenes. Basically, I need you to join me in showing the community that, yes, we’re old, but we still have it and can flaunt it. And if all you can do is move chairs,” she picked one up one handed, “well that works as well. I would also like each form group to do something as a whole—a poem or song or something of their choosing.” She sat down suddenly, the colour leaving her cheeks as she paled.
Fraser touched her shoulder briefly as he stood to take her place. “So bring your makeup brushes, sketch books, recorders, tambourines, and so on to the auditions tomorrow,” Fraser finished. “Sign-up sheets are on the wall outside. Lots of them with all kinds of jobs listed, not just the ones Miss Underwood mentioned. We’ll see you tomorrow at auditions at half past three in the drama block.” The bell rang. “OK, off you go to your next lesson.” He turned to Paiton. “Are you all right?”
She nodded. “Bashed my arm on the lectern. Sorry.”
“No need to apologise. That was a really nice speech.” He helped her down the steps to the hall floor. “Would you like dinner tonight? Nothing fancy. Just my place, a fork, coffee, that kind of thing.”
She smiled, the colour returning to her cheeks in what could be a hot flush. Or was she blushing at his touch? Or the offer of dinner? At least he’d made certain that no one was within earshot when he’d asked.
“I’d like that. Thank you.”
~*~
Paiton grabbed her bag and headed to the door. She’d spent the couple of hours since school ended in her new office trying to organise the chaos. It had been a long day and she was glad it was over. She opened the door to find Fraser standing there, hand raised ready to knock, with that totally disarming smile spread over his face. “Hi.”
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She tilted her head quizzically, her mind totally blank.
“Dinner. Or had you forgotten?”
“Yes, dinner. Sorry, my mind was elsewhere for a moment.” She had forgotten but wasn’t about to admit that to him.
“Is your boyfriend collecting you? Do you need to cancel your ride home?”
Paiton frowned. “What makes you think I have a boyfriend?”
“The bloke who dropped you off this morning seemed overly familiar.”
Ah. Basil had kissed her cheek as he usually did. “That’s my brother-in-law.” She smiled faintly. “But why would I accept an invitation to dinner at your place if I was dating someone?”
“I hoped you wouldn’t have, but you might have assumed I meant it was a working dinner.”
Paiton couldn’t resist winding him up a little. “You mean it isn’t?”
He shot her a withering look.
“I’m kidding,” she laughed. “It’s a friend thing.”
“Yeah. It’s hard to tell with you when you’re being serious.”
“Then you need to get to know me better.” She caught herself. That sounded like a date even to her. “Shall we go?”
He nodded.
And the thought of him getting to know her better wasn’t as scary as it ought to be.
5
Paiton waited in the front room as instructed.
Fraser busied himself in the kitchen.
It was a very manly lounge, with brown leather sofas, brown carpet, beige walls and black tables and sideboard. A huge TV dominated the wall opposite the sofa. Not a single splash of colour anywhere. So unlike her place.
She cradled her arm and leaned back, closing her eyes. Why had she agreed to this? She wanted to go home and slide into bed. She craved her own space where she didn’t have to make conversation or be polite. A much better option tonight.
From the kitchen something bubbled and sizzled. China chinked. Whatever he was cooking smelled delicious.
Wait…he was cooking? When he’d suggested a one fork meal, she’d imagined Chinese take-out or fish and chips. She struggled to sit up straighter, not wanting to fall asleep and ruin the evening.
“You’re awake.” Fraser sounded amused on the other side of the room.
Paiton glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Seven o’clock. Had she really gone to sleep? “I’m sorry. I…”
He smiled and held out a steaming cup of something. “It’s fine. It’ll be the pain meds. I broke my ankle skiing a few years ago, and it was a choice of stay awake in so much pain I couldn’t breathe or take the meds and pass out here, there, and everywhere.”
Grateful he understood, but still angry with herself, Paiton inhaled the delicious scent of coffee. The man sure knew how to make her favourite drink. “Yeah, but I’m still sorry. Did you eat already?”
He shook his head as something rang in the kitchen. “Nope. You actually timed it perfectly. Don’t move, and I’ll bring dinner in to you.”
He strode across the room with the self-confidence he displayed at work, which obviously crossed into his home life. Did he ever change out of his suit? Normally the first thing she did on getting home was lose the skirt and blouse and put on something more comfortable.
Groan. She’d actually fallen asleep on his couch. She took a long sip of coffee. She needed to go home, not sit and make small talk over dinner with her new, very attractive, boss. And that was the meds talking. She hoped. She couldn’t afford to think of him as attractive, not if they had to work together.
Fraser came in with a tray and carefully set it on her lap. “There you go. I’ll be right back with mine, then I’ll say grace.”
Paiton glanced down at the plate of shepherd�
��s pie, carrots, and broccoli. At least it was something she could eat one handed—just as he’d promised.
Fraser reappeared and sat on the other end of the sofa—close but not too close. He said grace and picked up his fork. “So, how’s the production script coming?”
Paiton shoved her fork into the mince. “It isn’t. I have a big, fat zero so far. I did decide against a pantomime. I don’t think we need one.”
He shot her a sideways glance. “Oh, yes, we do.”
“No. We don’t.”
He chuckled. “Actually, that should be, ‘oh no we don’t.’”
She shook her head, a faint grin escaping as he used the classic audience pantomime response. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking that. I was thinking more along the lines of something that would…” She broke off and ate a couple of forkfuls, her mind whirling.
“What?”
“I want to involve as many of the children as possible. Something like the twelve days of Christmas maybe. A woman decides to get her man a gift for each of the twelve days and goes shopping. Or we stick to the original song and have them arriving at his house.”
Fraser laughed. “I can just imagine the postman struggling up the path each day with a pear tree.”
“Or…” Paiton ate absently. “Or we have a child searching for the true meaning of Christmas in carol land.”
“Interesting. Elaborate on that idea.”
“I’m making this up as I go along,” she warned. “He’s sitting somewhere wondering if this is it. Is Christmas really about giving and receiving presents or is there more? You can bring in Good King Wenceslas and his quest to help the needy, ding dong merrily, and so on. Lots of singing, you can even have your, ‘oh no it isn’t’ and so on, but with a serious message which ends with the true meaning of Christmas.”
“In a manger in Bethlehem,” Fraser said. “I like it. Maybe the child finds an animal who helps him?”
“Yeah… or even better, a tramp, who is only in a couple of scenes. Just a homeless bloke who points the kid in the right direction.” She smirked. “You could play him.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “You write it, and I’ll play the tramp.”
“That sounds like a dare, but you’re on. We’ll use the script from last year as audition pieces tomorrow and singing can be anything.”
Fraser’s easy smile lit his eyes. “We need to start rehearsing as soon as possible.”
“It’ll be ready.” Paiton angled her head to study him. “I want total control over it.”
His eyebrows rose into his hairline. “Really? That doesn’t sound like you.”
Was he being sarcastic? “Yes, really.”
“So author, director, producer…dictator…”
“Pretty much. Apart from the dictator bit, I’m hoping the students will learn the lines themselves, rather than me dictating them from the wings.” She paused, hoping he’d get the pun.
Fraser groaned. “That’s dreadful.”
She laughed. “I try my best. We can’t all be bossy and overbearing.”
“True.” He finished his meal. “Someone has to be the control freak.”
“Deputy control freak,” she corrected. She ate the last few mouthfuls. “Thank you. That was lovely.”
“I have dessert if you have room. Strawberries and ice cream.” He rose and took her plate.
“Now you’re talking. Sounds wonderful.” She eased back on the seat, resting her cast on the cushion on her lap.
“Be right back.”
By the time Fraser dropped her back home, Paiton’s mind was full of Christmas. Despite the late hour—they’d talked until nine thirty—she fired up the CD player and began working through her collection of Christmas music, carols and songs she hoped would inspire her, and in turn, the whole school.
~*~
A week later, she had the beginnings of a script. And another meeting with the boss. She looked forward to their daily meetings. He’d changed her timetable so she had one free period a day to deal with her new role as deputy head. At times, she felt the job was way over her head, but she loved her new role. It was a chance to interact with the students on a whole new level. She didn’t have to refer problems to someone else and hope they dealt with it. Being deputy meant she was approachable and could see things through from start to finish. And for the first time, she realised why Fraser insisted on teaching as well as being headmaster.
Her mind stayed fixed on the image of him. It helped that Fraser was easy on the eyes. He was still bossy and could be over the top. In fact, since he’d taken over a week ago, he’d changed, not only her timetable, but those of the entire school.
Instead of four lessons each lasting one hour ten minutes, the day was now split into eight lessons each of thirty-five minutes. Either single lessons or a double one, lasting the whole one hour ten. Despite only being four days into the new system, it seemed to be working without a hitch. And contrary to staff room worries, it didn’t mean more lesson plans. The children concentrated better. The whole school seemed more relaxed and tests were easier to schedule.
Paiton glanced at the production papers in front of her. The kids who didn’t get the main parts would be in the crowd scenes or the choir. Even the backstage crew could join in the singing if they wished. The whole school would learn all the songs in music lessons after half term.
Fraser tapped on her door. “Is this a bad time? It looks as if a bomb went off in here.”
She glanced around the mess that was her office. OK, it was a tad destroyed. “Just a small one. You should have seen my bedroom when I was a teenager. There was a path from the door to the bed and that was it. Mum would leave the hoover outside my door once a week.”
“That I can believe.” He dropped into the chair on the other side of her desk. “You have something to show me?”
“Yes.” She passed him a sheaf of papers. “That is a list of the carols and songs I’d like to use. The premise is two children are arguing over what Christmas means and whether there is more to the season than just who gets the biggest present. That evening, one of them meets a tramp who tells him that Christmas is more than Santa, who gives them gifts. He then sends him on a journey to the truth of Christmas ending up at the manger.”
Fraser glanced down the list of music. “We might need permission for at least one of these.”
“I tried to pick ones in the public domain. If we can’t get the one that isn’t, then I’m sure I or Liam could write something suitable.”
His head shot up. “Seriously? You write music, too?”
She nodded.
“OK.” He put the file down.
“That’s an ominous look. Should I be worried?”
“Ofsted rang.” He sighed. “They like my changes, but they think it’s too little too late. They want to put someone in the school to watch all aspects of school life. A spy in our midst, if you like. He’ll be a teaching assistant with access to all classes as well as the staff room, all staff meetings, and so on.”
Her stomach turned into a rock and hit the floor with a thud. “Oh.”
“I argued against it, but…” Fraser shrugged. “Anyway, he starts this morning at ten. I was wondering if you’d give him the tour as I have 7WI for art then.”
“Sure. You should at least let the heads of years know. They can keep an eye on him as well.”
“Thank you. I’ll do that now.” He angled his head and studied her. “Could I interest you in a working dinner tonight? I can drive you from here again.”
“Sounds good. I’ll let my brother-in-law know I don’t need a lift tonight.” She paused. “It’s actually my turn to have you over. I’m afraid all I can manage right now is microwaved ready meals.” And honestly, she was pretty sick of those, but even being left handed, she was struggling to do everything at home.
“How about we just get take out on the way back to your place? I could sketch your set ideas, maybe help with other stuff as well.” He grinned. “I know how a ho
over works.”
“You’re a saint,” she said. “If you really want to hoover I’d love you forever.” She paused, cheeks burning. “I mean…it’s a date…working date.” The bell rang. “Saved by the proverbial bell before I dig myself in any deeper.”
Fraser laughed. “That’s my cue. Double art with the Year Sevens after registration.”
“Fun. I have my class period one, then a free. See you later.”
“Don’t forget this bloke at ten.” Fraser headed out.
Paiton shoved all her stuff into the large bag she’d taken to carting everywhere. She hefted the bag onto her shoulder and locked the door so no one else would see the mess that was once a desk. It suddenly occurred to her that she had no idea who this ‘teaching assistant’ actually was, what he looked like, or what his name would be. Well, she’d find him and keep him with her for the rest of the day. That would give Fraser time to warn the other staff and work out which classes to put the spy in for the rest of the term.
6
Fraser set the take-out bags on the work top in Paiton’s kitchen. “Where are your plates?” he called.
“Hang on one sec and I’ll show you,” came the responding call from the lounge.
“Don’t you dare get up. I’ll find them.” He randomly opened cupboards, finding them in the final one. He dished up the fish and chips, searched for and found forks, carried the plates in, and held one out to Paiton. “Here you go.”
“Thank you.” She sat in the chair by the fireplace, her feet up on the stool, looking cosy.
Her house had splashes of colour everywhere. Warm yellows in here, reds in the kitchen, and pinks in the hall. Curiosity piqued. He would have to check out the bathroom before he left to see what she’d done there. “Your home is lovely. Did you decorate it?”
