Head Wound Page 4

  ‘Will I? Oh. Of course, Tom’s taking year five to that wildlife centre. And actually, it’s Tom who should be seeing her, not me. Would he be clear when he comes in?’ Today he’d be late as it was his turn to take his own kids to school.

  ‘I suggested that. She said something about organ-grinders and monkeys I don’t care to repeat.’ Rolling her eyes, she turned to the door, pausing, however, before she left. ‘I’ll go and fend her off. And a Mrs Penkridge called – her friend is going to contact the police about the vans. Mr P should be with her by mid-afternoon, so if she’s not there when you get home, please don’t worry about her – they’ll be checking into a hotel and hunting for a temporary home.’

  Phew.

  I settled down to open my emails and check the weather forecast as I always did in winter. The wind, which had dropped to a manageable twenty miles an hour, was going to veer from the north back to the west, bringing more storm force winds. Lovely. Or not.

  Seeing Zunaid always brightened my time at Wray Episcopi, even when he was full of cold and all I was doing was finding a packet of tissues for him. His best friend, Georgy Popescu, had gone back to his home in Romania for the down season: his parents were seasonal workers at a nearby farm. The children exchanged carefully written letters, a joy to behold: Zunaid showed me his before he sent them off, in case he’d made any mistakes, and carefully pinned Georgy’s replies to the school noticeboard. Neither child imparted very much of their daily doings but, in Georgy’s case especially, showed a detailed knowledge of English Premier League teams. Zunaid was inclined to give news about the school, to which we all hoped Georgy would return in the summer.

  This morning he had something to tell me: he was so full of excitement that he almost ran to me as I went through the front door. ‘Georgy’s come back, Ms Cowan! Already!’

  ‘Why do you think that, Zunaid?’ I asked carefully, not wanting to dash his hopes too quickly – but no one would expect fruit pickers at this time of year.

  ‘I heard his mother’s voice, Ms Cowan. When we walked through the village. Talking in Romanian. Just like Georgy’s mum.’

  ‘Slow down, Zunaid. Who was walking through which village?’

  ‘Pam and me. Pam and I. Last night, they let me go home to hers for tea, then we walked for the bus.’ That would be in Wray Episcopi, then. ‘I heard Georgy’s mum shouting then.’ He frowned. ‘But she sounded very cross. I hope she wasn’t cross with Georgy.’

  ‘I hope not too. Lesson bell, Zunaid!’ Normally I’d have exchanged a few more words, but I suspected he’d made a mistake. I’d check with Pam next time I saw her. I prayed that he was right: it would be good if life came up with bonuses, not bombs, for him.

  Meanwhile there was a small but loud gaggle of girls dawdling in the loo, talking in mock-Yorkshire accents – mimicking Jess Rhodes, the new deputy head, no doubt. Jess was a breezy woman, with an amazing gift for conjuring art from kids who could barely draw a straight line, so used were they to creating pictures on their computers. Using the radar ear every head develops, I gathered Jess was kind to slow readers but stern if she thought kids were slacking. She’d been scathing of kids who pretended not to understand her flat vowels – though I noticed she’d moderated them slightly since she’d arrived.

  Hearing these girls, I thought I’d offer Jess a bit of subliminal support, and peered into the loo, touching my watch and jerking my head slightly in the direction of the classrooms. They linked arms, giggling, as they headed towards me, for all the world as if they were Disney princesses. But they had another thing coming if they expected me to give way to them. It didn’t take them long to unlink their arms, as I eye-contacted each in turn. Lulabelle Petrie who might have successfully sued her parents, I think, for blighting her life with such a name, needed a longer, harder stare, worthy of Paddington Bear, come to think of it, before she too dropped her eyes and mumbled something that might have been an apology. I cupped my ear. Perhaps she was too busy tossing her pretty curls to notice. Was that eye make-up she was wearing? It had better not be.

  ‘Now sound as if you mean it,’ I said. ‘We’ve talked about good manners often enough in assembly – about giving up your seat on a bus or train when an adult is standing; about holding doors open for other people; about giving way on pavements if you’re in someone’s way. And about sounding clear and sincere when you say sorry. I don’t want to have to remind you again.’

  If Cecily and Kayleigh had thought of sniggering they soon changed their minds, and gave good clear apologies. They were satisfactorily subdued as they walked away.

  Job done.

  ‘Hormones,’ Donna, this school’s secretary sighed when I joined her in the office. Like Melanie in Wrayford, she was the eyes and ears of the school, with probably a little mind-reading thrown in. ‘They start their periods earlier each intake, don’t they? I’ve already had to top up my collection of sanitary pads. I reckon we need those blue disposal bins for the girls’ loo, to be honest – like in the staff loos. Or we’ll be having all the older girls demanding to use our loos next.’

  I nodded. ‘Good idea. Would you have time to contact the service?’

  ‘On to it now.’ The phone was already in her hand.

  Donna and Melanie were chalk and cheese, but they were both so efficient, working way beyond their brief, that I would have loved to find a way to upgrade them on their pay scales. Something to discuss with Brian, perhaps, this evening. Before that, however, I made sure I chanced to run into Lulabelle, absolutely casually, when she was behaving perfectly well, pinning, with mathematical precision, information about the nominees for class reps on the school council.

  ‘I hope you’re standing for election,’ I said, truthfully. It would be good to channel some of her energy into constructive action.

  I didn’t really expect her to blush but was astonished when she went pale.

  ‘No?’

  ‘Oh, no, Ms Cowan. No, I’d never get in.’

  ‘You certainly won’t if you don’t try,’ I said softly.

  Biting her lip, she shook her head. ‘I – I can’t explain.’

  Now I really was worried. Somehow I needed to get at Lulabelle’s backstory, didn’t I? But not now, not as the bell rang for change of lesson. I didn’t want to talk in front of others and I certainly didn’t want to give the impression I was hauling her into my office for a talking to.

  ‘Just think about it, Lulabelle. You’d make a very good rep. And if you want to talk about it – or anything else – you know where I am.’

  I soon had something else to discuss. I picked up an anguished text from Joy soon after lunch, begging me to call her when I had a moment. I didn’t have a moment, not even for that. Not till I’d stood in for Karenza Yeo, the reception teacher, who’d got pulsating toothache and who had a chance of a last-minute cancellation.

  ‘Go on,’ I urged her. ‘You never know when you’ll get an appointment otherwise. And – you know what? – I shall enjoy a spell in the classroom. Kids are more fun than meetings any day.’

  Joy’s news, when I had a chance to call her, was that Ken had been delayed. While he was stuck in Wales he’d stayed with a fellow Mason who’d invited him to some event this evening. He didn’t think Joy would mind staying with me another night. ‘It’s not me I’m worried about, it’s you,’ Joy declared bitterly. ‘He spoke as if it was just a matter of booking a night in a hotel – which I will do, I promise, if you’d rather. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I shall be glad of the company,’ I assured her, thinking perhaps more of her cooking skills than her conversation and then realising what a marvellous excuse it would be to restrict my visit to Brian to a manageable length. ‘I’ve got to go and see Brian Dawes, but I should be home by seven-thirty.’

  ‘Oh, he’s back from hospital, then?’

  ‘I didn’t know that he was still in hospital.’

  ‘A heart attack. Major. That’s what they’re saying in the village, anyway,’ she said d
oubtfully, in the tone of a woman used to conceding she was probably in the wrong. I knew it all too well.

  ‘Well, I shall get it straight from the horse’s mouth,’ I said, dropping my voice as if I was entering a benign conspiracy with her. I couldn’t, of course: if I was seeing Brian as chair of the governors, it would be grossly unprofessional to reveal anything of our encounter, and if I was there as a sort of friend, it would simply be a betrayal of trust. I just wished the thoughts didn’t form themselves in my head in such headmistressy terms. I might have been preparing the homily for the next assembly.

  Lighten up, Ms Jane.

  For someone the villagers had at death’s door, Brian was looking reassuringly fit and relaxed when he opened the front door to me. Dapper, too – a light-blue cashmere sweater and smart jeans. He took my jacket with aplomb, laughing as I tried to flatten my windswept hair and pointing to the cloakroom, which had a mirror.

  When I emerged, I followed the sound of Classic FM music into the sitting room, where we’d had one or two governors’ subcommittee meetings. Like my temporary home, it made no claim to be anything other than a place where people happened to live – the decor was as neutral and unobtrusive as a big hotel’s. The paintings, in heavy gilt frames, were impenetrably dark: you couldn’t tell what they depicted. Did they need a clean? Or did they just need to be properly lit? Having seen Joy’s improvements, I realised that overall the lighting was a bit stark, glittering back off the oil but picking out the dust in the gilt frames.

  Perhaps I’d been staring at them too long, because from behind me came an impatient cough. Brian was offering me sherry – ‘Or would you prefer a G & T?’ he asked, picking up on my hesitation.

  ‘If it’s no trouble, I would, please. My temporary house guest has reintroduced me to them. But very much more T than G, please – I’m driving.’

  ‘Of course.’ But he was frowning. ‘This house guest – how long is she planning to stay?’

  Mentioning her presence to him had been on my agenda for the visit, of course – a matter of courteously letting my landlord know. But this was a sharp question. A year’s experience had taught me that Brian never asked questions idly – they usually had a hidden agenda. But why on earth could he be worrying about Joy’s presence? Was there a subclause hidden deep in my tenancy contract that banned long-stay guests? My gut tightened in a knot of suspicion. Perhaps an airy smile would loosen it, as I waved a hand to stay the flow of gin. ‘Only until her husband gets back from a Masonic jolly. She’ll be off as soon as he arrives. Meanwhile, she’s coddling me as if I was her daughter.’

  He laughed. ‘And there was I worrying she was imposing on you, when you’ve got more than enough to worry about. Cheers.’

  ‘Your very good health,’ I responded – it was a conventional enough toast, and pretty apposite, in the circumstances.

  ‘And yours.’ There was a long pause. We sat, me in an armchair, him on the sofa. At last he said, ‘I was very grateful for the way you dealt with my … issue the other night. And no doubt kept it entirely confidential.’ He spoke airily enough but clearly wanted reassurance.

  ‘No one heard anything about it from me, I promise. But you should know that the word is in the village that you’ve been hospitalised with a major cardiac problem.’ I hoped he’d find it amusing.

  Perhaps he did. His frown was rueful. ‘I do have a heart problem, but it’s not that serious yet. But without intervention I could have had a stroke or any other problem associated with hypertension. Thanks to your – I can only call it bullying, Jane! – it’s been diagnosed before too much damage has been done. I’ve had a lot of tests, though, and I’ve got to go back to discuss the next move. So thank you very much for your amazing response to what I thought was a simple question.’

  I narrowed my eyes. ‘Simple my foot. Come on,’ I laughed, when he didn’t. ‘You knew you had a problem, Brian, and just wanted me to reassure you that you weren’t making a fuss about nothing. So I did. That’s what friends are for,’ I added, prompted by the gin.

  ‘And friends are for something else too,’ he responded, with an ambiguous smile. ‘No one knows better than you and I the state of the school’s finances, and how they simply won’t be able to match the demands put upon them. Thank goodness you got the capital expenditure on the buildings out of the way, while we had the chance. You and the cricket club, of course.’

  ‘Symbiosis,’ I said. ‘They needed the showers and adult loos, and though the school could have managed without, life’s much better with them.’ I sighed. ‘But the improvements here have left Wray Episcopi very much the Cinderella school.’

  His short silence said as clearly as if he’d shouted it aloud that that was Wray Episcopi’s problem. ‘Well, we all need to tighten our belts – or get financial support above and beyond what we can imagine raising ourselves. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed. That’s why we’re having the meeting next week, isn’t it, to come up with fundraising ideas? But you’ve already come up with a big idea, haven’t you?’ I smiled, but narrowed my eyes a little.

  His shrug might have aimed at self-deprecating, but with shoulders that size and a neck that thick it would have been hard to achieve anything near. ‘I may have done, as it happens. But I wanted to share it with you before I so much as float it in a full meeting. It wouldn’t do to have a public falling-out, not at a time we should all be pulling together.’

  ‘Of course not. But you’re presupposing we shall fall out? Brian, you’re not suggesting we turn the school into a nightclub? Actually,’ I said, ‘after our wonderful relationship with the cricket club, we could look at other groups wishing to use our facilities – the hall, for instance – couldn’t we? Zumba? Pilates? That sort of thing? It’d benefit the villagers too. Sorry. I interrupted.’

  ‘But with good ideas.’ He jotted on a pad he reached from a handy side table. ‘Not at all controversial. As I implied, however, mine may be. Sponsorship, Jane – sponsorship. From a big name.’

  I waited.

  So, drat him, did he. He wanted me to question him, didn’t he? To sound defensive?

  The silence lengthened. The grandfather clock, a touch out of place in the undistinguished surroundings, chimed the half-hour.

  Caving in, I said, pointing at the timepiece to show it was a joke, ‘The clock’s more than ticking, Brian: it’s getting agitated.’

  He tried not to look gratified at his silly victory. ‘I was approached by a contact in a business meeting the other day – we had further talks yesterday, when I was supposed to be hors de combat. Which is why I wasn’t upset by the rumours that I was ill. All very hush-hush. Even I don’t know the name of the sponsors, Jane. But they want to come in with a lot of cash. And not just this school – Wray Episcopi too.’

  Both? Why both? I feared the Greeks even when – especially when! – they came bearing gifts. ‘Enough to enable them to change our policies? Our identities? To turn us, in effect, into academies?’

  ‘Good God, I hope not. No, I’ve not been a governor all these years to want to hand the school over to other people. The idea is that they fund certain specific areas – the library, for instance, or maths and science. Or non-core subjects, like art and music.’

  ‘And this would be out of the goodness of their hearts or would they want lots of favourable publicity?’

  ‘You wouldn’t expect something for nothing.’ He sounded genuinely affronted.

  ‘You do, Brian. You give hours of time to the school, but you get nothing back but a nice glow of satisfaction at having served your community,’ I countered. ‘You’re a genuine philanthropist, like governors and volunteers everywhere. And I know – which no one else does, of course – how much more you give, mysteriously finding a little cache of money here and there when it’s needed most.’ Heavens, I could use another gin and tonic like this. By willpower alone I kept my hand over the glass when he raised his own in enquiry. ‘What’s your sense of this potential benefactor? Come on
, Brian – you’re a fine judge of character. I’ve seen you in action with both kids and staff.’

  ‘I chose you to be head,’ he observed, ambiguously.

  I raised what I hoped was an equally ambiguous eyebrow.

  ‘I might need your support to block it,’ he said in a rush. ‘This offer. I propose to go along with it till I find out more about who we’re dealing with, but – to be honest, Jane, you’ve only been voicing my own questions. Will you trust me?’ He reached for my hand.

  Cue shimmering violins in the background. Or not. We exchanged a firm handshake, neither more nor less. Because, actually, I didn’t trust him. Not an inch.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘Georgy’s mum? No, I’ve heard nothing in the village about the pickers being back. But they wouldn’t, not this early, would they?’ Pam croaked, first thing next morning at Wray Episcopi. Her eyes were runny and her voice gravelly with a cold.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. Not unless they plant as well as pick. But Zunaid was adamant he heard a woman speaking – shouting – in Romanian.’

  ‘And he’s so bright you wouldn’t doubt him. My ears – I wouldn’t rely on them. They’re not good at the best of times, but being all bunged up like this … But once I can, I’ll keep them open, if you see what I mean. Georgy didn’t mention coming over in any of those letters of his, did he? Not once.’

  ‘He was more concerned about Tottenham’s new midfield player, someone with a name like an eye chart. And he was worried about an Arsenal player’s injury. A child with just a handful of someone else’s dust as his birthright and he’s worried about a man who earns a million or more a month. The question is, though, if he didn’t hear Mrs Popescu shouting, who did he hear?’