Bed of Roses (21 page)

‘Oh. Well, anyway. Sorry, no offence, I hope?’

‘What? NO! Of course not. Don’t be absurd, Geraldine.
Really
. No, no, no.’

Geraldine shrugs. Hard though it may be for Robert to understand, she’s not actually that interested. ‘However, I agree with you, she’s certainly hot-blooded. Of course, you weren’t there when she stripped off half her clothes in front of the entire village.’

‘Mercifully!’ Another nervous swig from the champagne. ‘But perhaps she’ll simmer down a bit now. Now she and Louis have finally got it together.’

‘Have they? Are you sure, Robert? I got the impression they’d fallen out. How do you know?’

Mistake. How does he know? Another bubbly swig.
He can see their feet now, all tangled together. Louis with his trousers round his thighs, all the moaning and groaning, and the front door banging against the ruby red, open and closed, open and closed…
How the hell does he know?

Geraldine laughs merrily. ‘Seriously, unless you’ve been spying on her from your sickbed, Robert, I don’t honestly see—’

Empty glass. ‘Well, I don’t know. No. Of course not. No. I don’t know. But between you and me, and judging by her track record, I think that young lady will open her legs for just about anyone.’

Geraldine pauses. Glances at him uneasily. It’s an odd
thing to say. It’s an unattractive way of saying it. In fact, everything about it feels entirely – to use one of Geraldine’s favourite words –
inappropriate
. Robert smiles at her; soft lips, mouth closed. It’s meant to be reassuring. ‘Not,’ he adds quietly, ‘that Miss Flynn’s sex life has anything to do with me.’

‘No,’ says Geraldine coolly. ‘No, it doesn’t.’

Robert senses his blunders. Acutely. But, dizzied by so much creamy-brown prosperity, by the smell of those freesias and orchids, by all the champagne bubbles knocking around his brain, he doesn’t yet feel inclined to backtrack. He breathes deeply and continues. ‘You may think that was an odd thing to say, Geraldine.’

‘Well.’ A very tight smile. ‘Just a tad, Robert. I didn’t have you down as a misogynist.’

‘Me? Ha! A misogynist? Geraldine, I’m offended! I
worship
ladies. Absolutely worship them.’

‘What, all of them?’ she asks drily.

‘The fact is, I do have a little experience of Fanny’s…well, what can I call it?’

Geraldine raises one of those nicely plucked eyebrows. She waits.

‘The fact is, Geraldine, I’ve had a few problems with Fanny of my own.’

‘Really, Robert?’ She smiles. Robert thinks it’s patronising. ‘Fanny’s a terribly attractive woman,’ she says. ‘I don’t imagine you’d find many men complaining.’

That annoys him. ‘You can laugh, Geraldine. People usually do. But suffering from sexual harassment in the workplace isn’t really a joke. In this day and age. And it isn’t the sole prerogative of women, either. As I’m surprised I should need to remind you.’

‘Oh!’ A few buzz-words to jolt her. Magic words. ‘Apologies, Robert,’ she says hurriedly. ‘I am sorry. I certainly
didn’t mean to be insensitive…Gosh. Well, you should have said. So what exactly…?’

Robert shakes his head. ‘I don’t really think it would be appropriate to go into details. Suffice it to say—’

He’s rescued from saying anything at all, by Clive suddenly shouting across the ‘parlour’ to his wife. ‘Geraldine – sorry to interrupt – what’s the name of that terribly nice man, Ollie’s godfather? Ex-boyfriend of yours…’

‘Where is Ollie, by the way?’ Geraldine asks vaguely. ‘Don’t tell me he’s still in bed?’

‘He does Portakabins,’ continues Clive. ‘Reverend Hodge and I were just thinking – they’re going to need to come up with some temporary classrooms ASA, if the school’s to reopen by the end of half-term. And your friend, What’s-his-name, might be able to help us out. Don’t you think?’ Clive turns back to the vicar. ‘I’m saying he “does” Portakabins. I think he’s actually the largest portable-cabin manufacturer in Europe – isn’t he, Geraldine? And as luck would have it—’ Clive laughs. ‘If only either of us could remember his blessed name.’

‘He’s called Tony Milson,’ says Geraldine succinctly. ‘What a smart idea, Clive. Why didn’t I think of it?’ She looks at her watch. ‘I could call him now, before lunch. Get the ball rolling. But I should know first exactly what we need up there. Wouldn’t want to waste his time.’ She sighs. ‘Robert,’ she says decisively. ‘You haven’t seen it yet, have you?’

‘Not yet,’ he grimaces. ‘I’m worried I’ll find it terribly upsetting.’

Geraldine, still feeling wrong-footed re male gender sexual harassment and her own insensitivity to it, gives his shoulder a comforting pat. ‘It is upsetting,’ she says. ‘I’m afraid you will be very upset. But with Fanny gone AWOL—’

‘She hasn’t gone AWOL,’ Kitty looks up suddenly. She’s
been so bored by the company, and apparently so engrossed in the
Money
^*
section of the
Mail on Sunday
she’s barely contributed a word all morning. ‘She and Louis have buggered off to Spain for half-term. Oops.’ She glances unrepentantly at the reverend. ‘Sorry, vicar.’

‘Believe you me,’ chortles the dreary reverend, ‘I’ve heard it all before.’

‘Honestly, Kitty. You might have
said
,’ snaps Clive. ‘Saved us all a lot of bother.’

‘Thought you knew,’ Kitty shrugs. ‘Didn’t you see Macklan Creasey in the village?’

‘And that, effectively,’ interrupts Geraldine, very businesslike now, ‘leaves you, Robert,’ she gives him a dazzling smile, ‘in charge! You are now the acting head teacher. Am I not right, Reverend Hodge?’

‘Indeed, you most certainly are.’

‘Robert! Mr Deputy-Headmaster, sir!’ she twinkles at him, swaddling him in warm approval. ‘Congratulations – and thank goodness that one member of our little school’s staff can see his way to being available at such a crisis!’

‘Well, of course,’ says Robert uncertainly, ‘somebody has to—’

‘Exactly. Everyone, a little toast for the acting head,’ orders Geraldine. ‘To our marvellous acting head. And then, Robert,’ she takes a hurried gulp, ‘you and I are going to pop up to the school so you can have a quick look at the damage.’ She’s already slipping into her creamy-brown linen cardigan. ‘And Clive, I think you should go and see what Ollie’s up to. Get him out of bed.’

‘He’s in the bath. Or he was twenty minutes ago.’

She turns her attention back to Robert. ‘It’ll be upsetting for you, I know, but we’ll need your expert opinion, Robert, on the portable-cabin issue. How many. For which functions. And so on. And of course you’re going to need to speak to
the police, who’ll no doubt still be there.’ Robert is still clutching his glass, his lean bottom in front of the fire. He looks torn: proud and flattered by her attention, and yet struggling with an inclination to disobey. He is, after all, off sick at the moment. And it is a Sunday. And this is, strictly speaking, Fanny’s job, not his. ‘Did you come with a jacket, Robert? Clive, dearest,’ she turns to her husband. ‘I think Robert left his coat in the hall. Could you be sweet…’ She turns to the vicar. ‘Reverend, I hope you won’t think I’m rude.’

‘No, no, absolutely not.’

‘Kitty, I’m sure, will get you another drink. If you prod her hard enough! And I shall be back in a tick. I’m just going to run Robert up to the school. In fact, I shall probably leave him there because, Robert, there’ll be various bods wanting to talk to you: Health and Safety and so on. I’m only wondering whether we should get on to the Maxwell McDonalds. Kitty, what do you think? You seem to get on with them frightfully well.’

‘Do I?’ says Kitty. ‘Which ones?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. All of them,’ says Geraldine, as if she didn’t care. ‘They’ll have to loan us the area beyond the playing field, I imagine. Tony’s people are going to have objections to putting their cabins too close to a burnt building. For obvious reasons.’ She smiles at Robert once again, who hasn’t yet moved. Her voice has a little ice in it now. ‘Are you ready, Robert?’

Robert jumps. Places his empty glass on the mantelpiece, stretches an obedient arm into the jacket Clive is holding out to him. ‘You’re a
star
,’ says Geraldine. ‘I honestly don’t know what we’d all do without you!’ She leads the way out of the room. ‘Honestly, Fanny had better watch out or she’ll find herself holidayed out of a job, don’t you think, Robert?’

Robert laughs. ‘I don’t think the union would take too kindly to that!’

‘Well! Or she’ll find we’ve all staged a little coup and the governing body’s voted the deputy head to take over. What do you think about that?’

His excitable laughter can still be heard as they close the front door behind them.

Fanny and Louis spend a lazy, blissful week dodging the Andalusian sun, mostly in bed or on shady wisteria-clad terraces. They drink Rioja, eat paella (the only two things they understand on the menu), talk, squabble, laugh – and make love. And return to Fiddleford on a rainy Saturday evening, as happy as either can ever remember being.

Tracey Guppy tells them the news. She bangs on Fanny’s door just as the two of them are settling down in front of Fanny’s hearth for a good-natured argument about who should do what, and when, about their collective lack of groceries.

‘All right, you two?’ Tracey says, smiling on the doorstep.

She looks a bit chubby, it occurs to Fanny. Poor girl. Obviously inherited her mother’s genes. Fanny smiles at her kindly. ‘You look very well,’ she says stupidly. She needn’t have said anything. ‘How’s it all going? Come on in.’

Tracey shakes her head. ‘Macklan’s cooking sausages. D’you want to come over?’

‘Oh. Well, yes. Please. Fantastic. We would, wouldn’t we, Louis? You’ve just saved us a trip to Lamsbury.’

Tracey searches Fanny’s carefree face, feels a flash of sympathy. ‘You still don’t know, then?’

‘How did it start?’ asks Fanny, as the four of them tramp through the rain towards the school. ‘It was an accident, wasn’t it?’

Nobody answers. They walk in silence for another minute, until the building comes into view. They stop. Louis gives a low whistle. The front playground is a wreck of abandoned building materials. The school – what’s left of it – is black with soot; Robert’s classroom and the cloakroom beside it are draped in a giant green tarpaulin. Thanks to Geraldine’s turbo efficiency, repairs have already begun. But the place looks terrible.

Fanny feels a lump in her throat. ‘
Oh, my school!
’ she whimpers.

‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ Tracey says softly. ‘You can still use your classroom, and the assembly room. And the boys’ cloakroom. And your and Mrs Haywood’s offices. They’re all OK…It’s only this end, see? Robert’s classroom, mostly. Girls’ toilets. And the stationery cupboard. It’s one reason it burnt so well, apparently. Because of all the stationery…’

Fanny looks at her. She can tell from the nervous way Tracey’s talking but she still has to ask, ‘How did it happen, Tracey?’

Tracey looks away. Macklan puts a protective arm around her. He says, ‘Nobody knows. But there are some unfair rumours. A lot of people are jumping to conclusions.’

‘About Dane?’ demands Fanny. ‘For God’s sake, you two. Spit it out! I’m going to find out anyway.’

‘He didn’t do it,’ Tracey says stubbornly.

‘Has he been charged?’

‘No, he hasn’t been charged. No one’s been charged,
Fanny,’ snaps Tracey. ‘And no one’s going to be. It was an accident.’

Fanny wanders ahead to look more closely at the damage. She walks slowly across the front, weaving through the scaffolding, between the sacks of cement mix, the planks, bricks and wheelbarrows…

Rarely, if ever, have Her Majesty’s Inspectors noted such improvement in such a short period of time. Rarely if ever…
She continues around the side of the building towards the playing field. There is a mountain of sand and a cement mixer where last week the children’s vegetable garden had been. And onwards, beyond the playing field, churned to mud by the wheels of the tipper truck, there is a Portakabin, vast and oddly luxurious, with pink curtains hanging at the windows and a pair of elaborate brass lanterns on either side of the door.

Tracey comes up behind her, breaks the sombre silence. ‘We’ve Geraldine Adams to thank for that,’ she says quietly. ‘Geraldine’s been amazing. She’s organised everything.’

‘I bet she has,’ mutters Fanny.

‘She organised a Village Scrub-a-Thon, she called it, didn’t she, Macklan? And Mrs Maxwell McDonald brought down all her newspaper people.’ Tracey laughs. ‘They were all elbowing each other out the way, posing for the cameras with their scrubbing brushes…Maurice Morrison the politician chappie. He was there. And Kitty Mozely, and Clive and Geraldine and Ollie. And Scarlett, and the General and everyone from the Manor…and Grey and Messy…and Mrs Hooper was here. Even your dad was here, wasn’t he, Macklan? With the three girls.’

‘And Robert White,’ adds Macklan, ‘giving little interviews and so on.’ He smiles slyly. ‘Should have been there, Fanny.’

‘I should, shouldn’t I?’ she mutters. She feels sick. Standing
there, looking at the wreckage of her lovely school, hearing everything that’s been done to save it in her absence, she feels sick, and very threatened. She glances across at Louis, smiles at him guiltily, as if he could read her thoughts.

He smiles back at her ruefully. ‘I guess you’re kind of wishing you’d never gone away.’

‘Oh, no. Not exactly,’ she says.

They return to Macklan’s cottage, where Macklan lights a fire and the four of them sit around it, eating sausages, cold and burnt, and washing them down with a bottle of Louis’s whisky.

‘So,’ says Macklan finally, pushing his plate away, stretching his legs out in front of him. ‘One minute you’re storming out of pubs not speaking to each other. Next minute you’ve buggered off to Spain on the back of his motorbike! Is there anything else you might want to tell us?’

Fanny laughs. ‘No,’ she says, looking back at them both. ‘And what about you two?’

Tracey stands up. Abruptly. ‘I’m going to head home, Macklan.’

‘What? Just like that? Don’t go, Trace! Stay here with me. It’s much nicer.’

She shakes her head. ‘They’ll be wondering where I’ve got to. Dane will. And Uncle Russell.’

‘I guess we should waddle off home ourselves,’ mutters Louis, hauling himself up. ‘But thanks, Macklan. For some of the most outrageously delicious sausages I’ve ever eaten. Thank you.’ Macklan barely hears him. He smiles distractedly as Louis claps him on the back. ‘Wait!’ he shouts at Tracey, already heading for the door. ‘Wait, Tracey. I’ll go with you. Wait for me.’

As Fanny draws closed her upstairs curtains she glimpses them walking tightly arm in arm up the rain-drenched street, Tracey’s hideous white, belted macintosh shining in the
moonlight, her permed head resting on Macklan’s shoulder. They look so young, Fanny thinks, and yet welded together; a natural couple. As if they were born never to be apart.

She wonders if she and Louis appear like that, or if…She’s distracted by his hands on her waist, his lips on the back of her neck. She turns around to face him – and stops worrying, at least for a while.