Bed of Roses (18 page)

At the mention of Kitty’s name the spell is broken. ‘Well, well.’ Fanny smiles sourly. She can’t help it. ‘Heaven forbid you should keep Kitty waiting.’

‘That’s right,’ he says. ‘I’m supposed to be working.’

‘“Work” is it now, Louis?’ Stupid and spiteful. She knows it, and yet still can’t seem to stop. ‘Business must be very bad.’

‘Don’t be a jerk,’ he says coldly and begins to walk away.

‘Oh, come on, Louis,’ she calls after him. ‘Louis, I was joking. I didn’t mean—’ But the moment is gone. He doesn’t turn back. He ignores her.

He wanders off, leaving Fanny standing there alone. Briefly she considers Ollie and Dane, both of them waiting for her upstairs – no doubt beating the life out of each other. She ought to break them up. She ought to do that.

She ought to do a lot of things, and yet she stands there, waiting – hoping that for some reason Louis might turn round and come back. So they can try having the whole, stupid conversation again.

Macklan Creasey spent the first seven years of his life in Durham shuttling between a handful of foster homes and the tiny, dirty flat of his ageing mother. During that time he never once set eyes on his father. He was barely aware that he existed – until one strange afternoon, at the end of a month-long visit to the foster home, it had been not his depressive forty-seven-year-old mother, but a twenty-four-year-old Solomon who turned up to take him away.

By that stage Solomon the art dealer had already spent a short spell in prison, for fraud, and had learnt from his various mistakes, definitely not to make identical ones again (although he would return to prison for tax evasion several years later). He was also already well on his way to making his first million. He spent some of it on Macklan’s mother whom he’d deserted seven years previously. He was guilt ridden; a rare state for Solomon (and not wholly justified since, at the time of Macklan’s birth, Solomon, at seventeen, was twenty-three years younger than Macklan’s mother, his former art teacher). He found her treatment for the depression, paid for it, even pre-booked the thrice-weekly minicabs that were due to take her to her appointments with the
shrink. He bought her a brand new house in a brand new close in a refined corner of Durham. And he took Macklan.

Solomon promised his former art teacher that as soon as she felt well enough Macklan would be returned to her. But the months passed and she never asked for him. A year passed, and Macklan’s mother stopped telephoning. She stopped replying to Macklan’s letters. Finally, Solomon and Macklan travelled north together to find her. And there she was, still living at the lovely new house Solomon had bought for her. She looked well – and neither pleased nor particularly displeased to see them. She had a job at Boots, she said, and a new boyfriend. She probably would have taken Macklan back if Solomon had insisted on it, but then, when it came to the crunch Solomon found, most inconveniently, that he couldn’t quite bring himself to be separated from him. He loved his goofy son, and his goofy son appeared to love him. So he bundled Macklan back into the car and drove them both south again.

Macklan didn’t shine at school. He was academically slow, physically uncoordinated, tone deaf, not even any good at art – and dyslexic. But people loved him. He was good-looking in a fey, haphazard sort of way, and incredibly good-natured. His mixture of vulnerability, selfpossession and humour made him hard to resist, especially for women.

He left school at sixteen without a great deal to show for it and took a year-long course in cabinet-making, since when, because he is a perfectionist and he constantly undercharges, Macklan has always had more work than he can keep up with. He moves around, sometimes staying with friends or a girlfriend, often staying with his father in London. But he’s spent the last couple of months on his own at Hawthorne Place, Solomon’s weekend house in Fiddleford. He’s rented part of the disused stables up at the Manor Retreat, which
he uses as a workshop. It is the first workshop he has ever had.

Solomon worries that Macklan, alone in the country all week, might sink, as his mother did, into depression. Solomon is always trying to persuade Macklan to return with him to London.

But Macklan is far from depressed. He is in love with Tracey Guppy. Macklan and Tracey have been in love with each other since the evening they met, seven weeks ago, on the night that the people of Fiddleford were meant to be learning how to limbo dance.

On the Sunday that Kitty and Scarlett Mozely’s faces are splattered over a handful of newspapers’ inside pages, Macklan Creasey ambles gracefully into Solomon’s study, hands in pockets. He waves vaguely at his father, who is on the telephone, as ever; feet up on the desk, mid-negotiation with an Austrian packaging tycoon, and speaking in effortless, fluent German.

They have the same long-limbed, athletic physique, Macklan and his father; the angular cheek-bones, set jaws, long, straight, bony noses (although Solomon’s looks as if it might once have been broken), and yet nobody who didn’t already know it would ever guess they were related. It would be hard to find two men with such opposing styles. Macklan’s large green eyes are full of light and humour; Solomon’s are black, hooded and watchful. Macklan, with his pale skin, careless clothes and shaggy russet hair, looks like a Romantic poet. He is beautiful. Solomon is not. He is a long way from beautiful. He is smooth and swarthy, impeccably dressed and deliciously scented. He looks and smells like a Hollywood villain.

‘
Etwas ist passiert
,’ Solomon lifts his long legs from the desk, nods at his son, ‘
ich rufe sie zurück
,’ and hangs up without waiting for a response.

‘Sorry,’ says Macklan. ‘I could have waited. There wasn’t any hurry.’

‘Not at all. He’s always very repetitive. So what can I do for you, Macklan? Want a lift back to London?’ he asks hopefully. ‘Or you can take one of the cars if you want. Drive yourself.’

Macklan frowns. ‘Actually, I came to tell you I’m getting my own place. I’ve decided to move to Fiddleford properly.’

A moment’s frosty silence while Solomon absorbs this, then, ‘
Macklan, you fool, you’ll be fucking miserable!
’

‘Of course I won’t.’

‘You haven’t got any friends down here.’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘But all your family’s in London. We’re all in London!’

‘We can see each other at weekends.’

‘But what the bloody hell are you going to do with yourself down here all alone?’

‘There’s plenty of work around. Charlie Maxwell McDonald’s got loads of work at the Manor.’

But his father isn’t listening. He won’t listen. Though he himself ran away at fourteen and has never once contacted his parents since, he believes Macklan, at twenty, is still too young to leave home. Will always be too young. ‘There’s fuck all to do in the country. You do realise that, don’t you?’

‘And I’m renting one of the Old Alms Cottages off Ian Guppy,’ he says. ‘The last one. I’m lucky. There was only one left.’

‘
Lucky?
Have you gone mad? Macklan, the roof of those cottages hardly reaches your ankles!’

‘Well, then I’ll just have to bend. There’s no point going on, Dad. I’m moving in tomorrow…Cheer up.’ Macklan smiles. ‘You can come and have supper with me next weekend if you like.’

‘But
why?
’

‘You might be feeling hungry.’

‘Don’t,’ Solomon shudders, ‘for Christ’s sake, Macklan – don’t be facetious.’

‘Sorry.’ Macklan smirks.

‘I simply don’t understand what attraction this village could possibly have for a young man like—Oh. Unless you’ve met a bird?’ Solomon chortles suddenly. ‘Is it a bird, Mack?’

‘Mind your own damn business,’ snaps Macklan. ‘I just like it down here.’

‘If it’s a bird there’s not much I can do about it…Does she—Is she—’ Solomon throws his son a sideways glance – and decides against it. Sighs. ‘Never mind.’ Instead he turns to the bookshelf behind his desk, taps in a code on some invisible keyboard. The spines of ten adjoining books ping abruptly open. ‘Will you at least take this?’ he says, pulling out a wad of banknotes. There is, beneath the bluster, a hint of pleading in Solomon’s voice. Mack shakes his head. As usual. ‘But you’ll need something to set the place up. You’ve got to have some cash, Mack. I mean, for example, do you have a kettle?’

‘I can get one.’

A look of triumph from Solomon. ‘And do you have any idea how much a kettle costs these days?’

‘I’ve got a pretty good idea,’ Macklan laughs at him. ‘What about you? How much do you think a kettle costs?’

‘What? Well…Christ.’ He thinks about it. ‘I haven’t got a fucking clue. It’s got nothing to do with it. Macklan – please – I’m ordering you, just this once, take the cash.’

‘No.’

Macklan’s a fool. He never takes the cash.

Solomon spends the entire, long journey back to London worrying about Macklan’s decision. He drops off his Silent Beauty at her elegant address somewhere in Chelsea and heads for an early bed. Solomon does all his best thinking in bed.

At three in the morning he telephones the ex-Mrs Creasey, currently living it up in Miami with an Iranian plastic surgeon, to tell her that he and the children will be moving to the country. Mrs Creasey has never been to Fiddleford. He bought it after they split. But even the thought of the English countryside, from her air-conditioned sea-view splendour, makes her shiver with fear and loathing. She wishes him and the children heartfelt luck, which Solomon accepts with a gust of laughter so loud it wakes the children. They come down one by one – Clara, seven, Dora, six, and Flora, five – in search of breakfast.

‘Good news,’ he says, pulling toasted crumpets from out of the grill. ‘Ouch. Bugger. As from next week, we’re all going to live in Fiddleford and you’ll all be going to school in the village. Which of you wants Marmite?’

‘You’ll die o’ boredom, Solomon, you ass,’ says his old friend Grey McShane when Solomon telephones to tell him the news. ‘What the bloody hell are you going to do with yourself down here?’

‘Work, of course. And I thought I might buy a bit of land,’ Solomon adds vaguely. ‘Buy a little tractor…The children would love it…Or perhaps I might become an MP.’

Grey belly laughs. ‘With your record?’

‘No. All right. Fair enough. What else do people do in the country? I don’t want to just flop there like a rich bastard.’

‘Like you do at the moment.’

‘Exactly.’ Solomon rests his large feet on top of the seventeenth-century dining table which serves as his desk at the London gallery, and lights himself a cigarette. ‘Any ideas? Maybe I could sponsor a croquet competition. Or darts. Nothing too strenuous, so we can get the geriatrics in on it too. Since Fiddleford seems to be half-populated by the overnineties. Do you think they’d enjoy a croquet and darts knees-up? Might do. I certainly would. To celebrate our arrival.’

‘Sounds good,’ Grey says distractedly, prodding at a tray of dover sole being held out for his inspection.

‘Macklan could build a podium, for giving out the prizes. And I’ll get trophies made. Anything else? You must do us a banquet. With a pig on a spit. Can the restaurant stretch to that? I’m sure it can.’

‘Of course it can.’

‘Excellent. This is beginning to take shape. Perhaps I should organise hot-air-balloon rides. Flora and Dora are obsessed—’

‘Right then,’ chuckles Grey. ‘Well, I’ve forty covers for lunch today, so I’ll leave you to mull that over, shall I, Solomon?’

They arrange for Solomon to come round, discuss suckling pigs and pay homage to the new baby that Friday, and hang up only for Grey to call back sixty seconds later. He suggests that Solomon might like, as part of his non-flopping policy, to volunteer at the village school as a governor.

A stunned silence. ‘You’re joking, right?’ Solomon says. He sounds like a true Londoner, for once. Always does when he’s surprised.

‘No, I’m not fucking joking,’ snaps Grey. ‘Don’t be a bloody snob. We’ll talk about it when you get down here on Friday.’ And with that Grey slams down the telephone.

Fanny gets the HM Inspectors’ report back a week later, on the Friday they are due to break for half-term, and slightly earlier than expected. Mrs Haywood the glass-eyed secretary hands it to her with a knowing smile, and lingers a moment, fiddling ineptly with the untidy papers on Fanny’s desk while Fanny, with cold, sweaty hands, fumbles to open the envelope.

‘Well?…’ says Mrs Haywood at last. ‘What does it say?…I expect they’re delighted, are they?’

‘I’m not sure,’ says Fanny, too nervous to know where to start. ‘I doubt it.’

‘Look at the summary, dear,’ orders Mrs Haywood. ‘And don’t look so worried! You’ve worked ever so hard for us. You’ve done ever so well. If they can’t see it then they’re blind as bats, and I’m sure we’ll all have a few things to say about that…’

Slowly, Fanny’s face breaks into a grin.

‘There. You see?’ says Mrs Haywood, surreptitiously dropping a random bunch of papers from Fanny’s desk into the bin, as she always does when she’s in here, if she thinks Fanny’s not looking. As she’s been doing for years, in fact,
for every boss she’s ever worked for. (It never seems to matter.) ‘I told you, dear!’ She leans across the desk, gives Fanny a hurried pat on the shoulder. ‘Well. That’s all I needed to know. I’ll leave you to read it on your own. Many congratulations, Fanny. You deserve it.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Haywood,’ Fanny says in amazement. ‘Thank you. I had no idea you—I had no idea you thought I was any good. You never said.’

‘Didn’t I, dear? Well, of course I do.’

‘Thank you very much.’ Fanny beams.

Mrs Haywood closes the door behind her.

Fanny has to read the report’s conclusion once, twice and again before she begins to take it in. In spite of the shortage of governors, she reads in numb amazement, and the shortage of paperwork, and the protracted absence of one member of staff,
rarely, if ever,
it says
, have Her Majesty’s Inspectors noted such improvement in a school over such a short period of time. Miss Fanny Flynn is to be highly commended.

…Highly commended…

Fanny shouldn’t have been so surprised. Most of the children’s parents, like Mrs Haywood, would have told her the same. With or without the forbidden dissected pheasants, nature tables etc., Fanny’s hard work and imagination have indeed worked miracles over the school. It’s evident not just in the brightly coloured walls, the murals, the clay models, the weaving looms, the poetry and science displays, the small vegetable garden outside the cloakrooms (just now sprouting carrots). Above all of that, all the variety and imagination on show, Fanny’s success is evident in her students’ faces. Nobody, unless by some fluke Robert White happens to be working, nobody at Fiddleford Primary School ever looks bored any more.

A copy of the report is sent to the vicar (chair of the board of governors) and to its seven other members.

Fanny sits at her desk, grinning to herself…
Rarely, if ever
(she reads it again)
have Her Majesty’s Inspectors noted such improvement in such a short period of time…Rarely, if ever…Rarely if ever…such improvement…in such a short period of time…Miss Flynn’s achievements must be highly commended…

There is a tap on her office door: the light, efficient tap she has come to know so well, accompanied as it always is by the infuriatingly upbeat ‘Only me!’

Only Geraldine. Wanting to talk about Ollie. Again.

The feud between Ollie and Dane has spiralled, over the last week, to the point where they now have to be sat at opposite corners of the classroom. Earlier this morning Dane had taken the unprecedented step of contributing a nonaggressive comment to a class discussion. The fact that it was garbled and irrelevant didn’t matter; the will had been there.

‘Eh?’ interrupted Ollie, scratching his golden curls and looking facetiously around the classroom. ‘Is Penis Guppy talking German again?’

Once again Fanny sent Ollie out of the room.

‘Do you mind, Fanny? I know you’re busy…’ says Geraldine, pushing open the door and firmly closing it behind her. Fanny has rearranged the furniture in her small office. She’s thrown out the broken filing cabinets and replaced them with a chair. Geraldine doesn’t wait to be asked. She is already sitting in it.

But Fanny’s had a glowing report from the inspectors. She’s off to Spain tomorrow morning to spend half-term with her mother. She pats the wad of paper in front of her, grinning. ‘Got the inspectors’ report back, Geraldine.’

‘Oh! What does it say? Is it nice?’ Geraldine leans across the desk towards it. ‘
May I see?
’

‘I’m amazed it’s come back so quickly,’ Fanny says. ‘They said it would take at least a week.’

‘
Is it nice? May I see?
’

‘It’s incredibly nice, actually,’ Fanny says.

A flicker of surprise on Geraldine’s face. ‘I knew it! See? You shouldn’t have worried so much! I’m so happy for you.
May I see it?
’

‘I was thinking of zooming out to Safeways, actually. Thought I’d get us some champagne to celebrate.’

‘
May I see it?
’

‘ ’Course you can.’ Fanny slides it across the desk. ‘Not supposed to, mind. Supposed to be confidential. For governors’ eyes only…’

The bloody vicar had cancelled last Sunday’s drink at the Old Rectory, and though he has promised to come this Sunday instead, Geraldine is beginning to suspect that he’s a flake. There is only one thing in life Geraldine fears more than a flake, and that is to be left outside of a loop. Any loop. Even a loop of people officially allowed to read the HM Inspectors’ Report of Fiddleford Church of England Primary School. She wants to be on that governing body. Now.

She clears her throat. ‘It’s not what I came to see you about, but it’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you for some time. As you probably know,
lovely
Reverend Hodge is doing his level-lovely-best to get Kitty and I rushelected on to the body. Via his little church council.’

‘Oh.’ Fanny didn’t know. Geraldine has taken care not to mention it to her. Obviously. But the fact that the lovely Rev. hasn’t mentioned it either only confirms Geraldine’s suspicions that he’s a flake.

‘
Dear
Reverend. He’s a sweetheart and I adore him,’ Geraldine continues. ‘But of course, you know how it is with these
old soldiers
. Their idea of a “rush” isn’t quite…’ Geraldine rolls her eyes, smiling, ‘the same as one’s. Meanwhile, Robert White tells me that you’re desperately short of governors—’

‘When did you speak to Robert?’

‘A couple of weeks ago now. Poor little chap. I gather he’s terribly sick?’

‘Depends how you define “sick”,’ mutters Fanny.

‘Hmm?’ Geraldine’s beady eyes try to look confused, but she’s heard. She’s taken it in. ‘So, no. We – Robert and I – were talking about it a few weeks ago, and he happened to remark that we were heinously short. Of governors…I must admit I had rather hoped, Fanny, you would have invited me to join the board.’

‘Oh!’ is all Fanny can think of. Again. Her mind races for an excuse. ‘Oh!…How silly…why didn’t I think of it?’

‘And as I say,’ continues Geraldine, ‘Kitty, too. She’s keen to join, too. And with her all over the papers she might be quite a useful person to have on board, don’t you agree? We’ll need to organise a little election. But I can do that.’

‘Oh, absolutely. Let me, erm—Only I’m not quite sure…how many we need. Or if we need…But it’s such a lovely thought. Can I think about it?’

Geraldine smiles brightly. ‘What’s to think about, Fanny? Since I’m here…’

‘Yes,’ Fanny laughs. ‘But Geraldine, you’re
always
here.’

Geraldine looks faintly bewildered. Faintly hurt. ‘OK,’ she says in a smaller voice. ‘OK. Well. Have a think about it.’

‘Thank you, though,’ Fanny says limply, ‘I don’t mean to…Was there anything else?’

‘Hmm?…Oh. Yes,’ Geraldine rallies at once. ‘I’m afraid there is. Fanny, I found Ollie
in tears
outside your office this morning.’

‘He was in tears, was he?’ Fanny sounds sceptical. ‘Are you sure?’

Geraldine won’t confirm or deny. She tilts her head. ‘Fanny, Ollie has never been in trouble at school before. Not
in London. Not here. Never…And I don’t know what to tell him, Fanny. He’s convinced you’re picking on him.’

‘Ollie—’

‘And I personally believe,’ Geraldine closes her eyes for emphasis, to block any interruption, ‘that when a child is engaging in challenging behaviour with only
one
authority figure, and with no one else, then that authority figure
must
examine her own behaviour to see if it’s actually her behaviour,
and not the child’s
, which is at the root of the problem. Because Ollie,’ Geraldine’s eyes pop open again, ‘is perfectly well behaved with Clive and me. And he was always good with Robert.’