Bed of Roses (7 page)

His lips are still pressed hard to hers. Somehow he’s got her on to the floor. Her mobile has rung and rung off and now she can feel his hand at her shirt buttons. He lifts his wet mouth, to look down at her and smile.

‘You’re so gorgeous,’ he murmurs. ‘Has anyone ever told you?’

It’s her first real chance to speak. ‘You stupid fucking creep! GET – OFF me!’

Robert kneels up. He is still fully dressed; neat and clean in his thick woolly jersey, the ends of his open-toed sandals bending backwards against the carpet-tile floor. He is smiling at her, full of concern. ‘Am I rushing you a bit?’

‘What? What the fuck—’

And then a tippety-tap on the office door.

Another sunny day. Five minutes previously Geraldine Adams had hung up her telephone in irritation. She’s been trying to speak to Fanny all week, without success, and Geraldine is the sort of woman who, when she decides to do something, likes to do it; likes to set the wheels in motion at once. After drumming her fingers on the Old Rectory
breakfast bar once or twice, she picked up her house keys and marched over to the school in person. Geraldine didn’t stop at Mrs Haywood’s desk. She headed straight on up to Fanny’s office. To tippety-tap on Fanny’s door.

‘He-llo?’ she says pleasantly. ‘Hello, Miss Flynn?’

Miss Flynn’s and her deputy’s eyes lock. An isolated flash of unity; a shared moment of unadulterated panic.

He leaps to his feet, pulls her up. She straightens her skirt.

‘Miss Flynn?’

‘Give me two seconds!’ she calls.

She does up the buttons of her shirt. Quickly, with curious proficiency, he licks his fingers and neatens her hair. He rearranges her desktop, pulls out her chair and thrusts her down on to it, stands back to examine the effect.

He winks at her. Gives her the thumbs up. Fanny looks away.

‘Come in!’ she calls. ‘Come on in! I’m so sorry to keep you waiting…’

Geraldine pokes her head through the doorway, a frown of utmost curiosity on her handsome face. ‘Sorry to barge in,’ she says unapologetically, her eyes darting this way and that. ‘Do you have a minute, Miss Flynn? Only it seems we never manage to catch each other on the phone. So I’ve broken all the rules and just dropped in! Hope you don’t mind.’

Fanny looks blank. What rules? Who is this woman?

Geraldine, who never forgets a face or a name or a pin number, or where she put her bloody keys, assumes quite incorrectly that Fanny remembers her from the school gate. It is, after all, Fanny’s business to recognise the parents of her pupils. Besides which Geraldine owns the secondprettiest house in Fiddleford and she cuts, she thinks, a more sophisticated-than-average figure in the village. It doesn’t occur to her to introduce herself.

‘Do I mind?’ says Fanny. ‘Not at all! Come on in.’

Geraldine twinkles at Robert. ‘He-llo, Robert!’ she says flirtatiously. She has always made it a policy to flirt with Ollie’s male teachers. She’s not sure why, but she’s convinced it helps the Adams Family Interest one way or another. ‘And how are you, sir, on this sunny Thursday morning?’

‘Just about bearing up.’ He beams at her and then at Fanny. ‘Just about bearing up under the new regime!’

‘Yes. It must be quite a change.’

‘Certainly is! Quite a change. But I think I can get used to it!’

Fanny feels sick. Why doesn’t he leave? He’s not showing any signs of it. On the contrary he’s crossed his arms over his bony chest and settled his buttocks back on to the radiator opposite Fanny’s desk.

Fanny looks from one to the other, waiting for Robert to leave, or for the unknown woman to explain her presence in her office. She takes a breath to take charge, to send Robert back to his classroom. But Robert likes Geraldine. She’s an intelligent lady, he thinks. A sexy, intelligent lady. Plus she and Clive sent him a case of champagne for Christmas (which he sold to his sister for £120). So he’s not going to leave if he can help it.

‘Fanny, have you met Geraldine properly?’ he asks chattily. ‘Geraldine Adams is little Ollie Adams’s mum. Ollie was in my class last year, and I must say, unlike most of the sprogs I have to deal with, I was actually very sorry to see him go, wasn’t I, Geraldine? He’s a remarkable lad, is Ollie. Very able.’

Geraldine smirks. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘Ollie certainly likes to be challenged. He has a very active mind and, as you know, stimulating that little mind is something we specialise in at home.’ She turns to include Fanny. ‘We encourage him, Fanny, never to take anything at face value. We like him to be always asking “Why?” ’

‘You can tell,’ nods Robert sagely.

‘
Why
do we respect all religions equally? Why does a car need petrol?
Why
does the totality function in this manner as opposed to the other?
WHY?
It’s the one word you’ll hear bouncing around our house. And Ollie just adores it.’ Fanny nods like a puppet; her eyes glaze over. More to the point, WHY is this awful woman in her office? (The Ollie Adams she teaches is lazy, catatonically incurious and thick as pigshit. But no matter.) And even more to the point, WHY hasn’t the repulsive Robert White gone away yet?

By now Geraldine has edged herself fully into the room. She is pressed against the closed office door – the only space left for her – and to Fanny it feels unbearably crowded. But Geraldine and Robert seem quite oblivious, quite at home. Robert is advising Geraldine on how best to nurture young Ollie’s enquiring mind, and they’re both agreeing that a careful balance of verbal and visual stimuli is always important.

‘And of course, as you know, Ollie simply won’t
eat
anything with artificial additives. Which is marvellous, really…’

Robert asks Geraldine how her husband is doing. He’s doing fine.

Geraldine asks Robert how his girlfriend Julie is doing. She works in the Environmental Health Department at Lamsbury District Council.

‘Julie? Oh, Julie’s doing fine,’ he says. ‘That is,’ he adds, glancing significantly at Fanny, ‘so far as I know.’

‘Ah!’ Geraldine smiles. ‘It’s like that, is it? I am sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry! To be frank with you, Geraldine, it’s a relief. Julie’s a lovely lady, do you know what I mean? But she was one of these ladies who’s after a ring on her finger, 2.5 kiddies in the back yard and all the kit, you know, the TVs, the DVDs, one of these Dyson thingummies. And I
must say, I found myself,’ he laughs, slightly hysterically, ‘a
teeny
bit inhibited by that.’

‘Of course. There has to be give and take,’ says Geraldine vaguely. Robert White doesn’t teach Ollie any more. She would have been satisfied with much less information.

And so would Fanny. ‘Robert,’ says Fanny firmly, at last, ‘don’t you think you ought to be getting back to your class? The children will be waiting for you.’

To both women’s surprise, Robert completely ignores her. He turns again to Geraldine. ‘So!’ he says brightly, his arms still folded, his bottom still in place on the radiator. ‘How can we help you, Mrs Adams?’

‘Well—’ Geraldine hesitates, slightly embarrassed.

‘Robert,’ says Fanny more insistently, but there is – and they all hear it – the faintest hint of a plea in her voice. (It’s been a bad morning.) ‘Robert, I really think—’

‘Relax!’ Robert smiles at Fanny, holds up a soft, white, longfingered hand; Fanny looks at the hand, feels a wave of nausea. ‘I’ve set them a little task which should keep them busy.’ He turns his smile to Geraldine. ‘The mummy of all numeracy problems, as a matter of fact. Ollie would enjoy this one: if you took all the players in the football premier division—’

‘Oh,
super
,’ bursts out Geraldine, clapping her hands with joy. ‘I think it’s so important to make mathematics relevant, don’t you, Fanny? Relate it to things that actually
really
matter.’

Fanny smiles wanly. ‘How can I help you, Geraldine? What do you want?’

‘Ahh!’ says Geraldine. ‘Yes. Thank you. I know you must be so busy…’

Fanny glances distractedly at Robert, who is staring back at her, a small smile on his wet lips, and a light of jubilation behind the pale eyes. She scowls at him and he quickly looks away.

Gorgeous
, he thinks.
Gorgeous little thing.

Geraldine says it’s more a case of what she, Geraldine, can do for Fanny, than what Fanny can do for her. ‘I’ve found time in my schedule,’ she says, ‘and it sounds silly, perhaps, but you know I have so much in life: a husband, a wonderful, happy, healthy son…’

‘Lovely,’ coos Robert. ‘So many people forget to appreciate the simple blessings, don’t they?’

‘They do, Robert. And I feel, now, that the time is right for me to
give a little back
. I want to actively support Our Little Village School, if you will allow me. And by extension, Fanny, if it doesn’t seem too grandiose, the State Education System in general, which incidentally I firmly believe in.’

Geraldine is well aware (she clarifies) that there are several ‘exceptionally fortunate’ children in the school who may not require her help, but that there are others who concern her; one or two, the thought of whose difficult lives can keep her awake at night. ‘It wouldn’t be appropriate to mention any names, but I think we all know who the kids are, and I passionately believe they might benefit from some extra one-on-one care – something which, with all the best will in the world, you two marvellous teachers simply don’t have the time or the resources to provide.’ She grins, very assured. ‘Am I right?’

‘So right,’ says Robert, stroking his soft hands together.

Fanny looks at her desk, manages to mutter something to the same effect.

‘And I would love, Miss Flynn, if you will have me, to put two mornings of my week
entirely
at your disposal! How does that sound to you?’

Fanny says, ‘Well, thank you. Sounds like a good idea. It’s always welcome when parents lend a helping hand. Shall
we say Monday and Friday mornings then, for extra reading? Does that suit you?’

‘Erm – I – yes.’ She is disappointed. After all, to give up two mornings every week for the State Education System in general is quite a thing; it’s quite a sacrifice. Fanny, she thinks, might have shown a bit more appreciation of that fact. ‘Yes, I imagine Mondays and Fridays—But, no. Let me think. I’ll need to confirm that. Fridays can be difficult. The office tends to heat up before the weekends.’

‘OK, just let me know,’ says Fanny, pushing her chair back and standing up, unable to bear being in such a confined space with two such odious people for a single moment longer. ‘Any days would suit me. I can work around you. Give me a call when you’re certain and we’ll get the police check in motion. But you know, it takes so long. Between you and me, you can start next week.’ Fanny smiles as warmly as she can, and holds out her hand.

Geraldine stiffens with annoyance. After all, she isn’t any old
bored mum
, looking for something to do with her bloody time. Doesn’t Fanny realise that? Doesn’t she realise that Geraldine Adams used to earn a great deal more money than Fanny Flynn ever has or ever will? Doesn’t she realise—

‘That,’ says Robert, ‘is a truly fabulous offer. And thank you, Geraldine. From the bottom of our hearts. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I know how busy you are, and I know what a tremendous sacrifice this must be for you.’

‘Oh, no, really, not at all.’

‘And when people like you can manage to take time out of their busy schedules to support their kiddies’ schools—’

‘No, honestly.’ She glances significantly at Fanny.

‘Thank you,’ Robert says again.

‘Stop! I’m just doing what I can. After all, we’re all on the same side, right?’

‘Oh, yes,’ agrees Robert. ‘Absolutely.’

She puts two thumbs in the air, cocks her head: ‘WE’RE JUST DOIN’ IT FOR THE KIDS!’

‘That’s right,’ Robert nods. ‘Kiddies first! Every time!’

Geraldine keeps the head cocked, offers the two of them a raised eyebrow, a winsome smile.

‘Super,’ says Robert. ‘Well, Geraldine, if that’s all, I know Fanny and I should be getting back to our young students.’ He lifts himself up from the radiator and, with one soft hand on her shoulder, shepherds Geraldine towards the stairs. ‘Thanks ever so much for dropping by. Lovely to see you! And send my regards to Clive, won’t you?’ Geraldine assures him that she will, though she won’t. Of course. Clive wouldn’t have had the faintest idea who she was talking about.

Robert White stands at the top of the stairs, smiling and waving until she is out of view. Afterwards he doesn’t quite dare to return to Fanny’s office. Some sense of personal preservation sends him instead to the toilet to wash his hands, where he finds that he can’t stop grinning. Maybe he rushed her a little there, he thinks, but there’s a chink, and he feels it; a chink of light in the tunnel of love; a teeny-tiny seedling from which something special and beautiful might yet grow.

Robert disposes neatly of his paper towel, checks his fingernails, and heads out to his classroom, where he orders the children to mark their own maths books and then switches a video on.

The video is called
Are We Being Served? An Overview of Service Industries in the West Midlands
and they have seen it many times before.

Robert White’s previous hostility, his fluey colds, are all forgotten now. He turns up to work every day. He follows Fanny around the school like a puppy. She spoke to him only once, on the afternoon following the incident. She made it clear (she thought) that she never wanted anything similar to happen again. But he’d wandered off with the same serene smile stuck on his lips and it’s been stuck there, now, for a week. No matter what she does. No matter how much she snaps and snarls and ignores him. She can’t shift it.

The little interlude in Fanny’s office has been re-shot in his mind, in softest focus and from all conceivable angles; it’s been given a soundtrack, and a whole lot of dialogue that was never there. He’s taken home the photograph from the
Gazette
, cut it out and stuck it on to sugar paper stolen from the school stationery cupboard. And this morning he brought pink roses into the staff room.

He made a tremendous drama of arranging them in a broken coffee mug.

‘They’re lovely,’ gushed Linda Tardy; gushed Mrs Haywood. They called in Tracey Guppy from washing the floor next door to have a look.

‘Bet you wish you had a young man giving you roses like that!’ said Linda Tardy. ‘I know I do!’

‘They’re revolting,’ Tracey said.

Fanny, face buried in a newspaper, gave a muffled snort.

‘Do you like them, Fanny?’ said Robert, jiggling them ineptly about. The stems were too long for the mug, and they wouldn’t balance.

‘Hey, Tracey,’ said Fanny (ignoring Robert), ‘I spotted your naughty brother Dane in the post office yesterday. He didn’t look very ill to me. Any chance he might come back to school one of these—’ She looked round from behind her newspaper, but Tracey had left the room. ‘Tracey?’

‘Ouch!’ Robert’s mug of pink roses tumbled to the floor. He looked across at Fanny, pale eyes damp with yearning, a spot of red blood sprouting from his finger. ‘I think I’m going to need a plaster.’

‘Oh, belt up,’ Fanny snapped.

‘Have pity on him!’ giggled glass-eyed Mrs Haywood, as Fanny slapped down her paper and stood up to leave the room. ‘The man’s soft on you, he can’t help it. He can’t concentrate on a thing!’

Through all this nonsense Fanny continues to work hard at her new job, and already the school is beginning to blossom. At least, there is a clear sense of energy to it now. The walls are covered in the children’s artwork and poetry, and there are nature displays on the tables. She has made a small garden at the side of the school, where the junior class has planted flower and vegetable seeds. Last week her car hit one of the Maxwell McDonald pheasants, so she brought the bird in and dissected it for everyone, which was illegal on Health and Safety grounds, but popular with the children. Next week she wants to take them all out collecting
wool. Together (the plan is) they will learn how to wash it, spin it, dye it, and weave it into scarves.

Fanny thinks of her school all day and most of the night. In the three weeks since term started she’s had dinner a couple of times with Grey and Messy McShane. She’s met Charlie, Jo, the twins and the General in the Fiddleford Arms for a weekend lunch. (They’d been unable to invite her to the Manor; one of their more troubled celebrity guests being so afraid of spies he’d demanded that even the post be left at the bottom of the drive.) Fanny’s spent a couple of evenings on her own in the pub, chatting with Tracey and anyone else around (although she tries to avoid drinking with Kitty). And she gossips with Mrs Hooper for at least twenty minutes every morning, when she buys her milk and newspaper. But that, excepting the weekend Louis came, makes up the sum total of Fanny’s Fiddleford social life to date. For someone so naturally gregarious, it’s not much. And yet Fanny hasn’t felt lonely for more than the odd few minutes in all that time. She’s been so wrapped up in her work, and so exhausted by the end of each working day, often she can barely find the energy to talk to Brute, let alone to a human being.

Her evenings tend mostly to be dominated by the government forms: the progress reports, policy papers, target statements, assessment charts and time-allocation forecasts all growing steadily damper under her kitchen sink. It seems the more forms she fills in, the more they pile up, so that her desk at work and the kitchen cupboard are now stuffed and overflowing. And at night, even in her dreams, Fanny finds herself ticking boxes, evaluating performances, identifying ethnic origins, searching – endlessly – for that magical square which says ‘other’.

Only two things worry her more than the paperwork: that Dane Guppy hasn’t appeared at school since Fanny and his enormous mother had their disagreement at the limbo over
a fortnight ago; and that Scarlett Mozely, Kitty’s daughter, hasn’t produced a piece of work or said a single word to Fanny, or to anyone else, since term began.

Scarlett sits at the back of the class with her crutches lying neatly beside her, as she sits everywhere in life, plain and silent and mostly ignored. She’s been sitting at that same desk, with that same sullen face, ever since Kitty moved to Fiddleford, and until now no one has ever made more than a token effort to disturb her.

Mrs Haywood the glass-eyed secretary tells Fanny she has been unable to ‘locate’ any notes on Scarlett Mozely in either her office or Fanny’s, which is no surprise since the notes on at least a third of all of Fiddleford’s thirty-eight pupils have been missing for years. Robert White is equally unforthcoming when Fanny finally summons the strength to ask him for help.

They are in the staff room at the time, and not alone. (Fanny takes care that they are never alone.) He’s chuckling self-consciously over something in the
Guardian
, and Fanny is in the far corner, as far away from him as possible, with her back to him, making coffee.

‘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…’

‘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.’