Head Start Page 5

  He pulled over and got down from his cab, clutching an old-fashioned clipboard, and then, less confidently, pulled out a mobile phone and scrolled down with an uncertain thumb. ‘Yes. You were on the list. But the Old School House woman said she needed a top up and she knew you’d be all right because you’d had a delivery only last week.’

  ‘I might have done. But someone stole the lot, as I told your switchboard colleague. I was supposed to be an emergency – she even charged me for the privilege of a special delivery. I’ve had no heat for three days.’ I’m fairly sure my voice quavered, as if I was one of my own pupils.

  ‘Haven’t you, my wench? Look, I’ve only got a few litres, and that’ll barely see you through the weekend. But I’ll put you top of my list for Monday, and bugger your paying extra. I’ll see you up there, eh?’

  I scurried, still with scant regard for dignity, in his wake.

  While Terry pumped the last of his load into my tank, and sank a mug of coffee we fast became friends: it turned out that though he now lived down South, he’d been born within earshot of Molineux, the Wolverhampton Wanderers’ ground: he had a ticket for every home game. But his passion was cricket, and his son was going to have a trial for Worcestershire.

  ‘Worcester’s one of my favourite grounds,’ I said. ‘Lovely family atmosphere.’

  ‘You’re right there. Perfect setting. ’cept when it floods, of course. I reckon you’ll like the St Lawrence ground and all, over in Canterbury. Nice friendly little ground, too. Now, my wench, you saw how easy it was for me to open your tank. You need a proper lock, and I hear these days you have to get them online – B&Q and such used to do them, but not any longer. So you take yourself in and switch on your computer right now,’ he said, as fresh snow zipped across the playground. ‘I’ll bring the docket and the mug back in half a mo.’

  It was the work of very few minutes to order what looked like serious security, not just for my house but for the school’s tank too. Then it struck me that there was no sign of the docket or the mug. Or Terry. The tanker was still there, however, the hose still snaking across the tarmac. Terry wasn’t in his cab: I actually scaled the heights to look for him. Eventually I caught sight of a shard – half a mug handle. The man himself was sprawled on the icy ground, a slight trickle of blood in the snow.

  I knew about putting people in recovery position and keeping them warm, so I knelt beside him, ready to roll him over. But he was already opening his eyes and cussing freely under his breath. ‘Must have slipped,’ he said, with an extra adverb or two. ‘Though I was ever so careful. Not so much as a skid all day. But you know what they say: “Did you fall or were you pushed?”’

  I supported him as he struggled to his feet.

  He dusted himself off slowly. ‘It was almost as if – no, I must have dreamt it. Anyway, no harm done.’

  ‘I reckon I should call the paramedics. Or take you to A&E. At least,’ I persisted, ‘you’d better come in and have a sit down.’

  He shook his head. ‘Thanks, my wench, but I wasn’t so much knocked out as winded. Bloody hell, it’s cold out here. You get yourself in. I’ll be on my way before the snow really gets going.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I call the police?’

  ‘And say what? Some old geezer fell over? How interested d’you reckon they’d be, my wench?’

  I stuck to my guns. ‘Look, you thought you’d been pushed. Didn’t you?’

  ‘Even if I was, it’d only be one of your little devils acting up. No harm done. Come on, don’t look like that. Least said, soonest mended.’

  ‘OK. But let me get you to A&E. To make sure you’re safe to drive. Heavens, you’re in charge of a big truck, there.’

  ‘You’re right. I am. And how would it look parked there all night? Look, it was my hands took the worst, and they were inside my gloves. And my knees, just a bit, but I’ve had worse on the football pitch. So I’m off – right?’

  Still anxious, I walked with him to the cab.

  ‘And I’ll be here about 6.30 on Monday.’

  ‘I’ll have a bacon sarnie waiting for you.’

  ‘You’re on – it’s a deal.’

  Dithering, I waved him off. Should I call the police? If I did I might get him into trouble. And he’d deny anything anyway. Bugger big tough Black Country men!

  Although I dared now take the worst of the chill off the house, it was still too cold to concentrate. Tough. I needed to be at the top of my game for the governors’ meeting, especially as there was still no sign of an agenda. So I set off for Melanie’s office. The first thing I did was to record Terry’s fall in the accident book, although it was technically in my mini-garden.

  Now, where should I start? They already knew from my interview how I proposed to turn the school around. If any had cared to look, they’d have seen me out and about mixing with staff and children, and would have deduced from the light burning in my office that I was scarcely slacking, either early in the morning or late into the evening. What teacher does take life easy? Overwork is part of your DNA.

  If I’d not omitted to do something, had I actually done something wrong? I could see that shoving the soggy flyer through someone’s car window might not have been tactful, but if I hadn’t I’d have reported her for dropping litter. Parents are supposed to be protective of their children, but in general teachers feel the same, unless they are one of the small evil and corrupt minority or have had their lives made intolerable by one of their pupils. I would swim through piranhas to rescue one of my charges, without having to be reminded that I was in loco parentis and honour-bound to put them first.

  Trying to dispose of the football gear had been sensible but not tactful. However, decorating my house with it had scarcely been an appropriate response, so I must have touched a nerve somewhere. I could only brace myself for the moment when whoever had done it discovered where I had put the shirts subsequently. They’d not had their eyes on me that time, evidently. Though they could watch me now, couldn’t they? Spotlit. Melanie hadn’t closed the blinds fully, and neither, of course, had I.

  Suddenly I didn’t want to be here any longer. But I wouldn’t leave via the obvious route, the main door. I’d sneak out through one of the others, as if I was somehow guilty. With luck the house would be warm.

  Possibly it was. But I wasn’t about to find out.

  As I walked – slid – the short distance, someone gave chase, shouting and screaming. I wasn’t about to turn and introduce myself, but I was outrun and thrown to the ground. Within seconds my arms were pinioned behind my back, and I felt the snap of handcuffs.

  Handcuffs?

  By now I was screaming too, despite the weight of knees on my back. Then, I was being hauled to my feet and shaken as a rabbit might be by a fox. ‘Just move. And for God’s sake stop that noise. You don’t want to disturb the whole village.’

  That’s exactly what I wanted to do. To get everyone out here. To rescue me.

  Then I registered the blue flashing light.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘You have to admit that it’s a natural assumption,’ the older officer, PC Lloyd Davies, according to his ID, declared, as he sat, arms folded, in my office chair, making me sit uneasily on the upright chair opposite, a visitor in my own office. At least they’d removed the handcuffs. ‘Why should anyone be working in a school at this time of night?’

  It sounded as though his woman colleague, PC Penny Taylor, had completed her inspection of the place and was making her way back here.

  ‘Because that’s what head teachers do,’ I said. ‘Teachers work long hours. Heads often have to work even longer ones. Especially if the school’s not done terribly well under the head who retired at the end of the summer. In fact, I’ve worked late every evening. Why choose now to arrest me?’

  ‘Correction: you’ve not been arrested, Miss. Miss …?’

  ‘Ms Cowan. No, of course not. I’m merely helping you with your enquiries, aren’t I?’ I turned to the young woman, who look
ed thoroughly embarrassed. ‘Everything where it’s supposed to be? Or do you need to check my house to see if I’ve hidden fifty pairs of children’s trainers under the bed?’

  Davies shifted in my chair.

  ‘While you’re here,’ I said, suddenly realising that a calm conversation might be useful, ‘may I ask for your help? The truth is that after what happened to me the other night when someone knew I was out, I’m not sure what to expect now.’ I produced my phone and showed them the photos of the football shirts decking my house.

  Davies sounded outraged. ‘Why the devil should anyone do that?’

  ‘Search me. But it felt like something of a threat since I’d been trying to shove them into the fabric collection box by the village hall,’ I explained. ‘When I found them spread over my house, I actually called 101, but as the woman taking the call pointed out it was a foul evening, and I couldn’t really expect an immediate response. The shirts are now in a black sack over in the cycle shed,’ I added.

  Taylor looked at me with narrowed eyes. ‘You’ve obviously made some enemies in the village. Any idea how?’

  ‘I’d been here just five days when the shirts appeared.’ I spread my hands helplessly. ‘Apart from some stupid motorists who parked on the yellow lines outside, the only person who may have a grudge against me is someone I chased off the premises on Monday after school. Whoever it was had got into the stockrooms at the far end. I couldn’t see if it was a man or a woman. Whoever it was would be hard put to find anything worth nicking in the stockrooms.’ I found I could manage a dry chuckle. ‘Do you want to see?’

  They took the peace offering in the spirit it was meant, pulling faces when they saw the mega-mess.

  ‘I’ve already changed these locks,’ I said, ‘and a locksmith’s coming on Monday to replace the outer ones – there are far too many key-holders for my peace of mind.’

  ‘No burglar alarms?’

  ‘No, nor security cameras either. All those computers are lying around saying, “I’m here – come and steal me!”’

  In response to a call to Taylor’s mobile, they prepared to leave. But Taylor stopped. ‘You mentioned a favour?’

  ‘I did indeed. But if that shout’s urgent— I’ve a friend in West Midlands Police,’ I explained as her eyebrows shot up at the lingo.

  ‘Not so urgent we don’t want to know what the favour is,’ she insisted.

  ‘I’m just worried what I might find back at the house this time,’ I confessed. ‘I just feel paranoid after the shirts and after having all my oil nicked.’ Now wasn’t the time to go into my entire recent history.

  ‘We’ll go and check it over.’ Turning from me she mouthed something at Davies, who raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue.

  While they gave the house the search of its life, even venturing to peer into the loft, on their instructions I checked the rooms they’d declared clear for anything unusual. I thought I’d left the phone handset in its dock, but perhaps I was mistaken. And what was that yellow fluff on the stairs?

  ‘No sign of anyone,’ Davies reported, ‘or that anyone’s been in and left. Just one word, though – your insulation’s very poor, and there’s no lagging at all on the pipes. There’s some hard frost in the offing – you may want to do something about that.’

  Frowning, I showed him the fluff. ‘What do you make of this?’

  Taylor looked over his shoulder. ‘Looks like some sort of stuffing.’

  Another call interrupted whatever else she’d been going to say. With an apologetic shrug, she said, ‘This one’s urgent.’

  Davies dawdled. ‘That loft: if you don’t get any joy from your landlord, I’ll talk to my nephew. He’s just starting off. He won’t overcharge you and if he tries to he’ll answer to me.’ Davies grinned, but his face was serious as he handed me his business card. ‘Anything else goes wrong, don’t bother with 101. Call me direct – OK? Now, lock yourself in.’

  I didn’t argue. On impulse, I popped the bit of yellow fluff into a food bag, and stowed it in my briefcase. I’d lock it in my office tomorrow morning.

  My call to Pat went straight to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. What could I have said? I want to give up? I don’t have anyone to talk to? I don’t have anyone to turn to? He’d heard enough of that sort of comment over the years. This time I might have added another moan: I shouldn’t have taken on this job. It’s too much for me and I don’t have enough support. Ninety-nine per cent of head teachers probably felt the same at this time on a Friday night, and none of them would be making panicky phone calls. I should be ashamed of myself.

  So I was lonely and in a strange place? Of course I was lonely in a strange place. Except I would, come to think of it, have expected a bit of affability in the pub – even if it was just a ploy to get me to spend more money. I might have expected a neighbour to call round – except, of course, that this house didn’t have any immediate neighbours, with the playing field at the back, the playground at the front and the school itself across the playground. As for the occupiers of the Old School House, they might know enough about me to know that I’d had a delivery of oil, but not enough to pop round with the offer of a drink.

  Other lonely people had a cat or a dog, but after Simon’s way of dealing with anything I loved I didn’t dare repeat the experience. It was ironic that it had been the RSPCA that had been the first organisation to take him to court. But I mustn’t think about Mutt or Daz – short of course for Dastardly.

  I reached for the wine. And put it back. It was time for one last push at the preparations for tomorrow’s meeting and then a prolonged session with the relaxation exercises.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  We might have been reprising my interview, with the solemn faces topping sober clothes. The governors sat in a rough semicircle facing me across several classroom tables pushed together to make one formidable barricade. Richard Morris flicked a friendly wink in my direction but within a nanosecond his expression was as hostile as most of the others’. Only the vicar, a grey man in his late fifties or early sixties called Mark Stephens, seemed disinterested – and, as the meeting progressed, actually uninterested.

  As chair, Brian Dawes began the interrogation. He leant heavily forward, supporting his massive neck and shoulders on thick arms. A bull, ready to charge. But his question was neutral enough. ‘How have you found your first week, Miss Cowan?’ Yes, a slight emphasis on ‘Miss’, as opposed to ‘Ms’.

  It was one of the questions I had expected, and tried to prepare for. But the more I’d thought about it, between the hours of one and five this morning, the less I could work out the right answer.

  ‘My priority,’ I parried, ‘was to address the areas the Ofsted inspectors found particularly in need of urgent improvement. For that reason I’ve been grateful for the week’s grace before I begin teaching.’ I smiled at a smartly turned out woman in her fifties, Mrs Walker, who I gathered had pretty well bulldozed her colleagues into accepting her suggestion. I touched my fingers one by one: ‘Security. It seems that quite a number of people have unauthorised access to the premises for a variety of excellent reasons, but for the sake of the children’s safety I am sure we agree that this cannot continue. One route, the kitchen, is a food preparation area – the last place where people should wander round without regard to hygiene. Another is the hall. I’d hate to offend or inconvenience the many kind people to whom we owe so much, but Ofsted was adamant that there should be a proper system for signing in and out, with ID labels to be worn at all times. There is a set for teachers, another for peripatetic teachers, one for visitors, such as the Open the Book team, one for governors,’ I said with a nod and a smile, ‘and so on. There’s also one for parents. Melanie will begin operating the system at 8.30 on Monday morning. I’ve drafted an explanatory leaflet to be handed out to everyone involved.’

  ‘All this sounds very expensive.’

  ‘It may do, Mr Dawes, but how much less expensive than facing legal action if property we
re stolen or, far worse, a child were attacked or abducted.’

  Dawes’s shoulders shook with feigned laughter. ‘Perhaps you do not realise, Miss Cowan, that you are running a country school, not an establishment in the middle of a lawless city.’

  I would have liked to retaliate, laugh for laugh, but I kept my eyes innocent and my tone neutral. ‘I chased an intruder from the building on my very first evening; the oil from my tank was stolen earlier this week. The village is idyllic but not the Garden of Eden.’

  ‘Your oil was stolen!’ Obscurely it was somehow my fault? ‘You must take measures to enhance your tank’s security.’

  It was better to be assertive than angry: my tank was, after all, the letting agent’s responsibility. ‘And the school tank’s security – it’s as elementary as that on mine. With many more individuals affected if the boilers can’t work. Security lights will benefit both the tank and the rest of the school – as Ofsted recommended. They’ll be fitted on Monday. And new locks.’

  ‘Who will have keys?’ Dawes demanded.

  Not many people, that was for sure. ‘One for you, as chair. One for me, another for the secretary and a fourth for the cleaner. I shall have to ask you to sign for it when you collect it – that’s the security company’s policy, not mine. And I have to keep any spares in a locked safe in my office.’

  ‘So when will you go the whole hog and have a burglar alarm fitted?’ someone drawled, his public school accent grating. This was one of the parent governors – was his name Toby? Toby Wells? Physically he was slight and unimpressive, but perhaps his delicate appearance belied his personality.

  I treated the question as if it had been serious, not sarcastic. ‘As soon as I can work out if the budget will run to it. Ofsted were appalled that there was no protection for the hundreds of pounds’ worth of computers and sound equipment. This is one time when I agree absolutely with them. I’ve never worked in another school, urban or rural, that didn’t have alarms. In fact, I’d go further, and add CCTV.’