Wicked! (48 page)

Vicky’s lips tightened. Janna felt wiped out with tiredness and wondered if it would be letting the side down to go home, but first she must find Wally.

In her search, she bumped into Jason, congratulated him warmly and asked how he was getting on.

‘Bloody tiring. I like the work, but you’re on call twenty-four hours a day. You can’t bunk off at three-thirty like we did at Larks. Thank God it’s the end of term.’

‘Thank you for working so hard on the play.’

Jason glanced back at Vicky still holding court.

‘Come back, Cara,’ he said acidly, ‘all is forgiven.’

Janna gave a gasp. ‘Then I’m not imagining things?’

‘You are not. Nothing sucks like success. You turned Larks round. You made the kids understand the play. I know how much Emlyn, Piers and I put in, and how lazy little Vicky has claimed credit for everything. She thanks too much; such women are dangerous . . . And she’s after Emlyn.’

‘Oh dear.’ Janna loathed that. ‘He’s much too nice.’

‘But lonely without Oriana. You two should have dinner.’

Outside, Janna met Patience and thanked her for befriending Paris.

‘We love him.’ Patience lowered her donkey bray as Nadine and Mr Blenchley went down the steps: ‘I just wish we could get him out of that horrible children’s home.’

‘Oh, so do I.’

‘He’s such a gentle soul.’

As they spoke, the fist of the gentle soul powered into Little Cosmo’s jaw, sending him flying across an empty dining room. Scrambling to his feet in terror, Cosmo managed to leap out of a nearby window, landing this time on Sally’s beloved white narcissi and budding crown imperials, followed by a yelling Paris, Feral and Graffi, only slightly impeded by his nurse’s costume.

They were all beating the hell out of Cosmo and the crown imperials when Emlyn and the guards of the Russian Minister rolled up, yanking them off by their shirts.

‘Lemme go, you fuckers,’ howled Paris, escaping back into the fray. ‘Lemme get at you, you fucker. How dare you move that plank?’

‘How dare you grope my woman?’ yelled Feral, also wriggling free.

‘Lemme get at him,’ bawled Graffi, fob watch and white cap flying.

‘Let’s all get at him,’ shouted the Chinless Wanderers, leaping out of the window and pitching in.

‘Stop it,’ bellowed Emlyn, hauling Graffi off by the starched white collar of his costume, then, launching into Welsh: ‘Back off. Your da’s drunk, I need your help to carry him on to the coach before he throws up.’

Swearing and spitting, Graffi backed off.

It was a very warm night. No one could explain why Cosmo was discovered in the flower bed next morning with bruising and mild concussion, but otherwise unhurt, which was more than could be said for Sally’s beloved narcissi, trillium grandiflora and crown imperials. Thanks to Emlyn and the Minister’s guards, none of this reached the press, which, as a result, was excellent.

Venturer had filmed the whole production, five minutes of which was aired, including Paris’s gallop up the gangway and the tango of Feral and Bianca, whose father was, after all, a Venturer director.

46

Mrs Kamani was so pleased to be invited and featured in
Romeo and Juliet
, she gave every Larks child an Easter egg. Janna organized a treasure hunt around the grounds, but she continually had to replace eggs, because they kept being tracked down and gobbled up by Partner.

Everyone had a wonderful time, as did Hengist and Sally, who spent Easter with Anatole’s family in Russia.

‘We had a treasure hunt for Fabergé eggs,’ laughed Sally. ‘Hengist and I found one each. Simply heavenly.’

All of which was too much for poor Alex Bruce, still festering over Hengist’s lack of concern over Poppet’s smashed figurine and being excluded from Hengist’s private party after
Romeo and Juliet
, particularly when he discovered that feline smoothie Artie Deverell had been invited.

Then Emlyn Davies, who never showed any respect, announced that as he’d been working all hours on the play, he intended to take two days off to play golf and go racing.

It was high time, decided Alex, to impose some discipline. Staff therefore returned for the summer to find glass panels fitted into their classroom doors so Alex could monitor their lessons.

Theo Graham, head of classics, led the mutiny, promptly hanging his old tweed coat over the panel.

Alex then emailed all staff saying he would be monitoring random classes. Again, Theo led the resistance.

‘I’ve been teaching for nearly forty years; no one’s sitting in on my lessons.’

‘Well, at least submit a plan for each lesson,’ persisted Alex. ‘This is required practice in the maintained sector.’

‘I don’t care, my lesson plans are in here.’ Theo tapped his bald head. ‘I don’t need to write them down.’

Alex was furious and later in April, when Hengist went to America (ostensibly to attend a conference of heads; actually to join Jupiter in talking up their New Reform Party, as it was now officially known, to American senators), Alex decided to introduce daily staff meetings before chapel to discuss targets. This caused uproar.

On the first day only Alex’s supporters – Joan Johnson and Biffo Rudge, head of maths – arrived on time: Biffo, because he wanted to seize the most comfortable big brown velvet armchair; Joan, big, meaty, dominating, because she believed in targets. Both she and Biffo rolled up armed with clipboards.

Miss Sweet, sex educator and undermatron of Boudicca, also arrived on time because she was terrified of Joan, as did little Miss Wormley, who was feeling sick at the mid-morning prospect of initiating Amber, Cosmo
et alii
into the erotic subtleties of ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’.

The view from the staffroom was already causing controversy. It looked north-west over the shoulder of General Bagley and his charger down the long lime walk, which was just opening into palest acid-green leaf, to the golf course and woods beyond. It was a view which had restored the sanity of many a staff member since the mid nineteenth century, but which was now under threat because Alex Bruce was applying for planning permission to build on this site a new Science Emporium, financed by Randal Stancombe.

Hengist, who would have gone berserk if Alex had threatened a twig on his beloved Badger’s Retreat, was comparatively indifferent to the positioning of the new Science Emporium – it had to go somewhere, preferably as far as possible from his office, which faced east, or from Head House, which was tucked away on the other bosky side of the campus, facing south.

And if push came to shove, General Bagley could always be relocated to the lawn below Hengist’s office, where more people could admire him. He’d enjoy watching rugger and cricket far more than rats being dissected, and he’d be facing the East and India, where his great career had been carved out.

Alex and Poppet thought General Bagley, who’d won glory at the Battle of Plassey and wreaking vengeance after the Black Hole of Calcutta, was a dreadful old Empire-builder and wanted to get rid of his sculpture altogether.

From eight thirty-five, on the morning of Alex’s first meeting, other staff drifted in, grumbling about having no time to walk their dogs, ostentatiously carrying on marking work and preparing lessons. Theo Graham, having scowled at Biffo for pinching the only chair which eased his bad back, perched on the window seat, reading a handful of Paris’s poems sent him by Janna. They were very good, particularly one about a dandelion clock, glittering silver then puffed away to decide men’s fates. Will she accept my proposal, will I get this job, will I get into Cambridge, is this cancer malignant, it is, it isn’t, it is, it isn’t. Thank God. My life will go on, but not the dandelion stalk, all its silken feathers flown, given no life in water after such a momentous forecast, chucked down to die on the dusty road.

‘Have a look at this.’ Theo handed the poem to Artie Deverell who’d just wandered in in a dark blue silk dressing gown, carrying a cup of black coffee, and who, putting the poem in his pocket, stretched out on the staffroom sofa and went back to sleep.

The room was almost full up, so Alex proceeded to involve the staff in a brainstorming session.

‘Where d’you think you’ll be in five years’ time, Theo?’

‘In a coffin, with any luck,’ growled Theo.

‘Don’t be fatuous,’ snapped Alex.

A disturbance was then created by Emlyn strolling in, still in pyjamas, eating a bowl of cornflakes and reading the
Sun
.

‘We’re trying to discuss targets and aims, Emlyn,’ Alex told him icily. ‘Tell us, if you please, the most important ingredient in your teaching plan.’

‘A bullet-proof vest,’ said Emlyn. ‘Crucial for anyone who teaches Cosmo and Anatole.’

‘And what is your goal when teaching the Lower Fifths?’

‘To get out alive,’ grunted Emlyn, not looking up from page three.

‘Try to be serious.’ Alex was fast losing patience. ‘What is the most satisfying part of your lesson?’

‘A large gin and tonic afterwards,’ snapped back Emlyn.

‘And the worst thing about Bagley Hall?’ asked Alex through gritted teeth.

‘Answering bloody stupid questions like this.’

‘And the best?’

‘Playing golf and getting wasted with Artie.’ Emlyn blew a kiss to the sleeping Mr Deverell.

Alex was beside himself, particularly as Mrs Axford, the school cook, chose that moment to march in:

‘Here’s your sausage sandwich, Emlyn.’

Emlyn smiled sweetly up at her. ‘Thanks so much, lovely.’

‘Now we all know why you are so fat, Emlyn,’ exploded Alex.

‘No we don’t,’ said Emlyn amiably. ‘It’s because every time your wife takes me to bed she gives me a biscuit.’

The meeting broke up in disarray and howls of laughter.

The next day, Hengist flew back from America and enraged Alex Bruce by cancelling the meetings, adding they were the stupidest idea he’d ever heard and that good housemasters should be looking after their houses at that hour.

Hengist then embarked on the poaching of Paris Alvaston and the possibility of offering him a free place at Bagley in the Michaelmas term. In this he was much encouraged by the governors, who’d been entranced by
Romeo and Juliet
, and by the number of masters pixillated by Paris’s white beauty, in particular Theo Graham and Artie Deverell, who were also impressed by Paris’s poems.

Hengist, whose motives were invariably mixed, also wanted to take on a boy who would outshine Alex’s favourite, Boffin Brooks, and scupper No-Joke Joan’s smug prediction that her girls would soon be outstripping his boys. David Hawkley had also been the subject of a flattering
Sunday Times
profile, and since the death of Mungo from meningitis and with Oriana constantly abroad, Hengist’s longing for a son had increased.

Towards the end of the month, therefore, a secret afternoon meeting was held in the tranquillity of Head House to discuss the logistics of Paris’s transfer.

Sitting round the highly polished dining-room table, admiring the bottle-green jungle wallpaper and Emma Sergeant’s painting of Hengist’s legendary drop goal, were Ian Cartwright, the bursar, Crispin Thomas, representing S and C, Nadine, Paris’s social worker, Mr Blenchley, who managed Oaktree Court, Janna, who was spitting with Hengist for trying to poach her star pupil, and Hengist himself, who’d been playing tennis and was wearing a dark blue fleece, white shorts and trainers and showing off irritatingly good, already brown, legs.

It was a warm, muggy afternoon; a robin sang in a bronze poplar tree; the cuckoo called from a nearby ash grove; young cow parsley leaves and the emerald-green plumage of the wild garlic spilt in jubilation over shaven green lawns. Beyond, in the park, acid-green domes of young trees rose against a navy-blue cloud, from which fell fringes of rain.

Sally had provided a sumptuous tea of cucumber and tomato sandwiches, a chocolate cake, warm from the oven and thickly spread with butter icing, and Earl Grey in a glittering Georgian silver teapot.

‘Who’s going to be mother?’ snuffled Crispin.

‘Who better than you?’ mocked Hengist.

Nadine hastily grabbed the teapot. ‘I will.’

The next question was who was going to be mother and father to Paris. Having poured out and piled up her plate, Nadine, who was wearing a black trouser suit which couldn’t disguise thighs fatter than duffel bags and who, with her short curly fringe, glassy, expressionless eyes and long face, looked like a badly stuffed sheep, proceeded to consult her notes.

She reported that since
Romeo and Juliet
, Paris had had a rough time at Oaktree Court.

‘He’s too strong to be beaten up, but the inmates have ganged up and trashed his room, torn up his homework, shoved his books, many of them from Bagley library, down the toilet, stolen his school bag and thrown his denim jacket, which you gave him for his birthday, Janna’ – Janna blushed as Crispin raised an eyebrow – ‘into the boiler.