Dying for Millions Page 17

  Enough snow had fallen by bed-time to suggest I would indeed be cut off from college tomorrow. The silence was disconcerting: Harborne, if not the whole of Birmingham, had closed down. I decided to leave the central-heating on low all night, and prepared to sleep. Except, of course, my brain settled down to have a good worry about Andy, who had been off-hand or abstracted, depending on the amount of charity I could muster, for the rest of the evening. At about one, my stomach decided to join in, so I went downstairs – to clean out the spice rack, this time – and to have an illicit milky drink and biscuits.

  Hell! It was too cold for the spice rack. Just the drink and the biscuits then. Look after the stomach and let the sleep patterns look after themselves.

  It was warmer in the living room than in the kitchen, so I took my drinking chocolate and biscuits through and plonked myself down on the sofa. That spear again: it wanted me to eat sitting upright. OK, the dining table and a straight-backed chair, if that was the way it wanted it. I’d tidied my papers away into the safe I’d had fitted in my upstairs loo, but Andy’s lay scattered where he had left them. Headed paper – his Foundation, no doubt. Reports; accounts; projections – really exciting stuff. I found it hard to reconcile Andy the irresponsible idiot with Andy the concerned Director. Looking at them more closely, I was amazed at how much money his Foundation was raising – but then, the outgoings were enormous. Andy subscribed to the theory that if you paid peanuts you got monkeys, and he wanted to maintain attractive employment on the African subcontinent for men and women who’d been born there. I’d seen a TV programme about Sierra Leone which showed the plight of doctors and nurses who hadn’t been paid in months, whose only chance of survival was emigration. The Foundation was trying to find ways of funding them without allowing governments to abrogate their responsibilities. There were consultation papers from Oxfam, ActionAid and Christian Aid: Andy was clearly a man to be reckoned with.

  At the bottom of the pile was an internal memo from his hospital accountant. Problems with auditors …?

  These were confidential papers. Andy’s. I had no right to be reading them. Hurriedly, I rearranged them to a rough approximation of their previous positions, and returned to the kitchen for more stomach medicine. Bed, that was where I ought to be. Even if the roads were impassable by car, there were always buses – not to mention legs. And that meant getting up earlier.

  But what if the college itself was closed? I said a silent prayer and reset the radio-alarm to Radio WM, so I’d hear the good news from the comfort of my duvet.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The college was open: at least, it wasn’t on Radio WM’s closed list. So I’d better struggle in. I left the car under its personal snow-drift and headed for the bus. The roads were amazingly free of both snow and traffic, and the bus sped through, dropping me at Five Ways ten minutes earlier than usual. This might have been a mixed blessing, had I not seen a woman opening up the shop where I’d left my films. So I could give Richard what he wanted, and be in college on time: not that any of the students had similar impulses.

  I stopped off at the eighth floor to let Richard choose his photographs and also to see how he was. He was just emerging from the lift as I staggered from the stairwell.

  ‘Just think,’ I said, watching him put down his briefcase and unlock his office door, ‘this time next year you’ll be able to lie in bed and not worry about the weather!’

  ‘Hmm,’ he said absently. Then, ‘Sorry – I could have given you a lift, couldn’t I?’

  ‘No problem – I used the trusty bus. But I’d be very grateful for a lift tonight after Parents’ Evening – if we’re still running it, that is.’ I looked out at the snow, in stylised Christmas-card drifts against the window.

  He sighed. ‘Makes sense to cancel, doesn’t it? But how do we contact the parents?’

  ‘I don’t think there were all that many coming anyway,’ I said, hopefully.

  ‘There are always those who come in on spec.’

  ‘Half the colleges in Brum are closed for the day. Most people seem to have assumed that we are, too.’

  ‘The place is like the Marie Celeste, isn’t it? I’ll talk to the principal, see what he thinks.’

  ‘Maybe you should talk to those of us who are actually involved? Malcolm – he’s in charge of the A-level course, he might have an opinion.’

  ‘But Worrall could over-rule him anyway. Would over-rule him, in his present state of mind.’ He looked glum.

  I pointed to the calendar. ‘How many more days?’

  But even that didn’t cheer him up.

  The whole day had been a waste of time, with a full complement of staff but the barest smattering of students. We’d all taught as best we could, but there was a dilemma: did you teach new material to the two or three in front of you who were entitled to it, or save it for a full house another day?

  I spent the latter part of the afternoon helping Malcolm stick name and subject signs on classroom doors so parents would know where to find us, had a Kit-kat and a cup of tea, and installed myself in the room set aside for English teachers. Malcolm’s chart showed me I could expect Mr and Mrs Aftab at five, Mrs Phipps at six-thirty and Mr Bansal at eight. Not very promising, so I took along my marking, not as much as usual since I’d only got this week’s. The backlog had been dealt with by other hands than mine; I tried not to remember the wreath, and the mess inside my car, of course. Five-thirty, and a breathless Florence brought me a phone message from the Aftabs: she’d fallen on the ice as she set out and broken her wrist. OK. I’d prepare a couple more stories from Dubliners. By seven it was apparent that Mrs Phipps too would not be coming.

  The other English teachers were deep in their own marking and preparation, with only about six sets of parents between them so far. I tried the usual displacement activities. I examined the notices and posters on the wall: there was some nice project work on the Third World which Andy would have approved, and more on the environment. Out of the curtainless windows it was cold and dark, though not snowing; buses ran with their usual frequency. Some youths were snowballing hapless motorists. And my stomach was beginning to demand something more substantial than antacids.

  Trying to ignore it, I found some scrap paper in my bag, and tried to focus on the subject of the airport thefts. It was the Wednesday business that fascinated me. Why just that night?

  I didn’t have long to think about it, however. A tap at the door announced Mr and Mrs Bansal. He was smoothly affluent in a double-breasted suit and vicuna coat slung across his shoulders; she – much more delicate-featured than Gurjit – wore a well-cut camel coat over a sari and endearing sheepskin boots.

  ‘I do hope we’re not disturbing you. Only I thought – with the poor weather – and if you had no one else with you—’

  ‘Nonsense! You can see she’s on her own, my love. A really bad show, this, Miss Rivers. No one making the effort. I thought we could have a really good chinwag about our little girl.’

  I smiled at them equally and gestured them to chairs.

  ‘I’m worried about this airport business,’ he said, tweaking his trousers and shooting his cuffs as he settled down; I noticed his watch was a Rolex. ‘The amount of time it takes from her studies! And yet she tells me you recommended it.’

  ‘She’s only in her first year—’

  ‘No, my love, I want to hear what Miss Rivers has to say.’

  ‘I agree with your wife,’ I said, remembering too late the importance of tact in these matters. ‘It is only her first year, and it’s valuable practical experience for her. It will look excellent on her UCAS form when she applies to university, and it’ll be useful for her Record of Achievement, too.’

  ‘But her work – however good her application, it’s the results that butter parsnips.’

  ‘As far as I know, she’s keeping up with her work. Remember, I don’t actually teach her. What do her lecturers and her tutor say?’

  ‘They seem very pleased—’
Mrs Bansal began.

  ‘Of course they are! She’s a good girl. But is she good enough? I’m not talking about just any university, I want her to go to a good one. International Law at Exeter. I rather fancied that.’

  ‘It’s a very good course at a very good university,’ I agreed. ‘Is that what she wants to do?’

  ‘I rather thought she—’

  ‘You know what these girls are – come now, you’re only a girl yourself, Miss Rivers! – they can’t make up their minds. All of a sudden she doesn’t know if she wants to leave Birmingham. I tell her, many families we know won’t let their daughters leave Birmingham. You need to stretch your wings and fly, I tell her.’

  I had a terrible feeling that that was exactly what she might want to do. Perhaps I should try an oblique approach. ‘She’s very lucky having such enlightened parents. So many of our students are being whisked away into arranged marriages.’

  ‘Ah! Muslims! What else would you expect?’

  ‘Ours was an arranged marriage,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, but that was years ago. Move with the times, that’s what I always say. Plenty of time when she’s qualified, anyway.’ He rubbed his hands in delight.

  For all his bonhomie, I thought now was not the time to ask how he felt about mixed-race marriages.

  ‘I tell her, if she gets three As, I’ll buy her a Merc. A lady’s car – that convertible. Then we’ll think about a nice boy. A barrister, a consultant – that sort of thing.’

  Not a training officer at a middle-sized airport. Of Caucasian origin.

  ‘Tell you what,’ I said, ‘I’ll talk to the airport people and make sure they don’t ask her to work too many hours. She’s so willing it would be terribly easy for them to take advantage of her.’

  ‘She’d have been there tonight but we were worried about the snow,’ she said. And then she flashed a most knowing and amused smile. ‘I think she enjoys the company.’

  ‘Oh, yes, a very fine company. I used to know their man in Nairobi. Very fine. Played an excellent round of golf. Do you know him, Miss Rivers – a Mr Cartwright? Ex-RAF.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’ve only met the training officer.’ And added mentally, ex-Fire.

  Richard insisted on running me home. It wasn’t far out of his way, but he looked so tired and drawn I felt very guilty.

  ‘Last one of those, thank goodness,’ he said, parking behind my Renault. ‘I wonder if they do any good? You always get the parents you don’t need to see – never those with problem kids. And there’s the whole problem of parental involvement anyway, when students are over eighteen. Not to mention the fact that most of our parents aren’t English speakers.’

  ‘Get interpreters. Or better still, ask the students along too. Make it a review evening.’

  ‘Talk to Malcolm about it. None of my business. Not any more.’

  ‘But you’ll be coming back here to do a little part-time teaching? Everyone knows you’re a brilliant teacher. Everyone assumed you’d do some A-level work next September—’

  ‘No. I won’t be coming back.’ His voice mixed anger and pain.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not allowed to.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Not allowed to. There was a note in my in-tray this morning. Funding arrangements. When you retire you can go and teach somewhere else, but not the place you’ve left.’ He sounded ineffably bitter.

  ‘So after thirty-odd years—’

  ‘I’m on the scrap-heap. I suppose it makes sense – either you’re fit to do your job or you’re not. But teaching four or five hours a week isn’t the same as doing what I’m doing now. Twelve hours a day, and every weekend, running just to stand still. I’d have enjoyed teaching again. Not that the place is what it used to be. All these people leaving.’

  I nodded. People moved on – my old friend Philomena had escaped back into nursing – but he was right. When new people came, there wasn’t the time to spend getting to know them; very few of us seemed to find the time or energy to socialise after work.

  We sighed in unison, and I glanced at his profile.

  ‘Fancy a drink?’ I asked on impulse. Goodness knew how he and Andy would get on.

  ‘Love one.’ As he locked up, he added, ‘Home’s not very welcoming—’ He dropped his voice, and I didn’t hear the rest.

  At first I pretended not to have heard at all. Halfway up the drive, however, I stopped. ‘Are there – problems?’

  ‘Sheila’s left me.’ Just like that. In the cold night, on my drive. His voice was almost inaudible again. ‘For another woman. I’ve been too embarrassed—’

  ‘Oh, Richard.’ You couldn’t cuddle your boss. So I touched his arm, and almost scooped him into the house.

  While we talked, Andy made sandwiches and plied our unexpected guest with Laphroaig. I ate; Richard drank.

  In the end I drove his car home, while Andy followed in mine. Richard wasn’t that drunk, just tired; tired of being married to William Murdock, tired of having a perfect wife so bored by William Murdock widowhood she’d taken up painting. At art college she’d discovered her artistic potential – and her sexuality, with a woman lecturer. And Richard had so been looking forward to retirement.

  Between us we got him up to bed, took off his shoes and suit and shoved him under the duvet.

  ‘Poor bastard,’ Andy said.

  And there was very little I could add to that.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Was it was really only ten-thirty when we got home? We staggered into the living room, where Andy polished off the sandwiches I’d had my eye on, and then, chastened, made some more, thus reducing my bread reserves to nil. Friday breakfast would have to be white sliced from the newsagent, provided one of us was noble enough to go and get it. Then I remembered some rolled oats at the back of a cupboard, and put them to soak for old-fashioned and warming porridge.

  ‘Want to look at the photos of our trip?’ I asked casually, dredging them out of my bag before they got forgotten and squashed, the usual fate of the sediment therein. I put them on the dining table: Andy’s papers were there, and when I leant over them to pick up Richard’s whisky glass, I could feel his eyes on me. Still holding the glass, I turned to him.

  ‘This discrepancy the auditor mustn’t find,’ I said, ‘wouldn’t have anything illegal behind it, would it?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake—’

  ‘Because something stinks, Andy. Something stinks about your behaviour, since the day I came upon you at Five Ways right up to now.’ I found myself getting more and more in the mood for confrontation. ‘You’re up to something. And if you’re up to what I think you’re doing, that stinks too.’

  He turned away from me.

  ‘What is it? Drugs?’ There was a tiny jerk of his shoulders. ‘The squeaky-clean Andy screwing up his life again?’

  ‘You know me better than that!’ He wheeled round to face me.

  ‘That’s just where you’re wrong. I don’t know you, not like you are now. What are you up to?’

  ‘Nothing.’ His face was unreadable: anger, frustration and something else. Fear?

  ‘OK, so what are your associates up to? I don’t buy that story of you coming to Brum to check out the Music Centre – you’ve never been that conscientious. And I saw you the other day, when you were supposed to be safely tucked up in the north – what were you doing?’

  ‘What’s it to do with you?’

  ‘If you need to ask that – get real, Andy. Crime isn’t fun, it’s detectable.’

  ‘Who said anything about crime?’

  ‘Is there another explanation?’

  ‘I don’t owe you explanations!’

  ‘You owe me the truth!’ I slammed the glass on the table. He owed me everything, didn’t he? Reading, swimming, wobbling along on his first bike – I’d taught him all those. And I’d smuggled food and books to his room when he was supposed to be in disgrace, got together the money for his first girlfriend’s abortion. What
hadn’t I done? And didn’t he know it? And where had being kind and supportive and non-judgmental got me?

  He clenched his fists and took a step towards me; he grabbed the glass and dashed it at the wall. ‘Just bloody shut up!’

  Shutting up was the one thing I couldn’t do. ‘They’re losing drugs from the airport. Medicinal drugs. Your hospital is gaining drugs which worry the accountant. You turn up in Birmingham. You are evasive, deceitful. You codpiece for Africa! You’d die for Africa! You’d steal. That’s it, isn’t it? You’d steal for Africa. Jesus Christ, you’re right to steal for Africa, I’d do it myself. I’d have helped you, if you’d asked. But the way you did it, you’re going to be found out. It has been found out. Gurjit’ll shop you. Where will your precious Foundation be then? And your job for the United Nations?’

  ‘It’s only private hospitals. Never NHS ones. Anyhow, they’ll never prove anything.’

  ‘Of course they bloody will! They’ve got the records of the German and Swiss companies. They’ve got computerised records saying that planes carrying X-amount of goods have landed. They’ve got invoices from the airport to the distributors, even if they haven’t all been sent out yet because Gurjit is as slow as she’s meticulous. Any moment now, someone is going to ask why goods they’ve been invoiced for haven’t arrived. And I’ll tell you why they haven’t arrived. They’ve been nicked. You have an accomplice who unloads planes on Wednesday nights and transfers them. I’d bet this year’s holiday there’s a plane taking off on Wednesday nights to – where? Nairobi? Lagos? Somewhere you can bribe the airport authorities to let a couple of extra boxes through. Somewhere with transport to Mwandara. No. Don’t tell me.’

  ‘Of course I shan’t fucking tell you! You sleep with a policeman, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘I wouldn’t tell Chris—’

  ‘Don’t you talk in your sleep any more?’

  ‘Andy, listen to me. I reckon I can sort the computer and the invoices. There’s always a chance you’ll get away with this – but there’s always the chance that Gurjit will tell. Christ, I’ve been begging her to go to the police!’