Boys in Season (Boys In... Book 2) (2 page)

“We’re not moving.”

I didn’t mean it to sound so aggressive. Really, I didn’t. Poppy and Benedict from 2C, plus Poppy’s little brother Tommy were working on the school hall floor at my feet, sitting cross-legged in a tangle of white crepe paper that was meant to be the basis of a snowy, Pyrenean mountain range but, at the moment, looked more like bandage supplies at the battle of the Somme. The rest of my team were working on the other side of our display table, bickering or giggling in turns. I’d only been allocated half a dozen of the younger pupils to help me out: the challenge had been in keeping them gainfully employed in creating separate scenes for Foods of the World.

Mrs Warren cleared her throat. “Mr Jackson, I welcome the full participation of all teachers, especially the newer members of staff, but as Head, I’m in charge of the Christmas Fair. It’s our major fundraiser every year, and as such, it’s important that tomorrow runs smoothly.”

“Of course it is.” I wished I didn’t blush every time she peered at me like that, like I was still one of her pupils.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Tommy’s big, round blue eyes flickering between us. I knew how it must look: two teachers, face to face over the top of his head. Our voices were raised and one of my fists had clenched with the tension. And Tommy hadn’t even started school yet.

“Mr Jackson, we need this area for the Lucky Dip barrel.”

“I’ve been setting up the display here all morning,” I said. “With 2C’s help. It’s their turn to be on duty for this display. They told me it’s always in this corner of the hall. Every year.”

Out of the corner of the other eye, I saw Amy nod her head quite firmly, as if she were part of the adults’ discussion. Poppy frowned, and the Sophies A and W both sniggered nervously. I suppose my tone may have sounded a little hysterical. It had been a very long Friday and it wasn’t even lunch time yet. Tommy stared at the girls around him, but then turned swiftly back to his task of peeling his fingers off the safety scissors. It looked like they’d been dipped in the pot of glue. I had no idea if that had been an accident or otherwise. I didn’t even remember agreeing to babysit Tommy for Poppy’s mother while she worked on Arts and Crafts, though between her and the Head, it seemed to be a done deal.

Elvira Warren’s gaze drifted to the crown of my head. She reached up and took a long strip of shredded paper out of my hair.

“Weeping willow, Chinese culture. Recreation of,” I said. I wasn’t making much sense, but 2C and I had been working on the papier-mâché backdrop of the world in miniature since early morning.

“They eat chicken’s feet in China, you know.” Amy brandished a garishly-pink plastic chicken and groped for the scissors. In the confusion of transferring them from Tommy’s sticky hands to Amy’s, Sophie A somehow stabbed her thumb and started up a wail.

Mrs Warren glanced down and grimaced. “I think the children need direction.”

“I think,” I said, not thinking first, “they need reassurance.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Thank you for your input, Andy. I’m not sure you should always take what 2C says as entirely accurate.”

“But sometimes, I should.” I winced.
God
. How to impress the boss in two clumsy lessons. “Sorry. I mean, if I sounded…”

But Mrs Warren smiled. “It’s all right, I take your point. 2C may keep this corner for the Fair. But you’ll have to share it with the Lucky Dip.”

I was sure I heard a whispered “yay” from Tommy, though hard to say over the level of background noise in the school hall. “I’m sure we can manage it as well…”

“Which will be run by Mr Canbury, like last year.”

I swallowed hard. “He’s not exactly a parent.”

“He’s
in loco parentis
, Mr Jackson. An uncle, and a volunteer. And we’re very grateful for
them
, aren’t we?”

“Of course. But I’d rather not…” I took an awkward step backwards, knocking against the box of plastic fruit and vegetables on our display table. Helplessly, I watched as it toppled off the edge and tipped over on to Poppy’s head. A bunch of neon green grapes landed on her shoulder and a baguette the colour of a pumpkin thumped into her lap. She and Sophie W, inseparable at the best of times, started up a joint wail this time, hopefully more from shock than injury. Tommy started giggling.

By the time I’d scooped up the box, Mrs Warren was on her way across the hall to the Fancy Dress stall. She called back over her shoulder. “You and Mr Canbury have worked events together many times, haven’t you? I remember last summer’s Jamboree, then Firework Night, although you unfortunately had to leave early when you singed your hair. And that Quiz Night when you…” She paused.

I groaned inwardly. “I just gave the tea urn a little knock. The tap seemed to be stuck. And no one was burned that badly.”

Mrs Warren was distracted by another member of staff, beckoning her over. “You and Greg Canbury work well together. You make a good couple. I’m sure I can leave it all in your capable hands.”  She paused again and glanced back at me. A small frown line appeared between her brows. “Well, Mr Canbury will be over soon, I hope.”

“Mr Jackson?” Amy tugged at my jacket. “Benedict’s got his finger stuck in one of the onions. Are you in trouble with Mrs Warren?”

“No, Amy, there’s no trouble.”

Her little nose wrinkled. She looked older than her almost-seven years and decidedly unconvinced. “Tommy says he has to pee.”

“That’s fine, Poppy can take him—”

“Now,” she interrupted. “He says he has to pee
now
. He’s going to do it in the top of your model of the Eyefully Tower.”

“What? Tell him to stop that right n—”

“Too late,” said a low, male, and very adult voice at my ear, a flicker of amusement in its tone. “But I’m on my way to save France’s national treasure.”

I turned my head to see Greg Canbury smiling at me, his expensive designer, I’m-a-city-trader shirt tight across his chest, his skin smelling faintly of expensive aftershave, and—rather incongruously—a large dishcloth and bucket in his left hand. He stuck the right hand out in front of me, demanding I shake it.

“Good to see you again, Andy.” He gripped my palm and leaned in closer. “And sharing such close quarters.”

God knows why it made me shiver: the hall was far from cold. “Look, Greg…”

“On our Christmas stalls, I meant.” His laugh sounded nervous. He didn’t let go of my hand.

“Sir,” Amy cried in the background. “Tommy says he’ll do the Targy Marl next.”

Greg looked puzzled.

“The Taj Mahal,” I explained. “Took me three evenings’ work and a month’s worth of empty cereal boxes to create.”

“Sir, Mr Jackson, sir!” Amy shrieked.

Both Greg and I leapt into action, me grabbing Tommy who was just pushing down his school shorts, and Greg waving the cloth, ready to clean up any spillages. For the next few minutes we were kept busy either scolding or scouring, no time for any other conversation. After all, my only concern was in guaranteeing tomorrow’s smooth-running school event, wasn’t it?

I sneaked more than a few sideways looks at Greg Canbury as we brought things back under control. Trouble was, I suspected if I had to share a stall with him, even for a couple of hours, this corner of the hall would need more than crepe paper bandages to deal with the wounded.

***

I never found time to break for lunch, though one of the school office staff was kind enough to bring me a sandwich. Class 6A had made them, apparently; pity none of them was studying Food Technology.

“What country is that from?” Amy peered into the triangles of bread on my paper plate. She seemed to have voted herself in as class leader for this project.

“The one called Supermarket,” I said, finishing them quickly before she launched into more inquisition. “Amy, the stall’s just for fun, you know.”

She sniffed. “If you don’t give it your whole effort, it’s never going to work.” It sounded suspiciously like a parent’s quotation, but I didn’t challenge her. She was right, after all.

“Thanks for the reminder,” I said, and popped my empty plate in the rubbish bin. “So what’s next? Who’s working on the Southern hemisphere?”

“Poppy and Eddy. But Eddy is building a garage with the lumps of soochy.”

“Sushi,” I corrected absentmindedly. “Never mind, we still have Mexico and Australia to finish off.” I’d had some trouble with the dried kidney beans swelling when they fell into my coffee—and Mrs Warren’s as well, unfortunately—but I was quietly confident the plastic beef joint borrowed from the local butcher’s display would make an impressive stand-in for kangaroo steak.

I glanced over at the rather chaotic mess on our too-small table and wondered if it’d be ready in time, let alone compare to my ambitious plans on paper.

Over at the Lucky Dip, Greg seemed to be struggling as well. He had a small group of helpers who were meant to be sorting and wrapping the gifts, then filling the barrel with wood shavings. They were a couple of years older than my team, but their attention was already waning: being let off lessons was all very well, but only if they could spend the time on their Gameboys. Greg held a large sheet of paper which looked like a checklist, but as his team’s chatter grew louder and more restless, his expression looked more frustrated than festive.

“Mr Canbury needs help,” Amy said, rather unnecessarily, I thought.

“He can manage just fine.” Had I sounded too sharp? Amy peered up at me, nose wrinkling in that way she had. “Okay.” I sighed. “I’ll go and see if I can help. If you’re sure I can leave the stall for a moment…”

“Poppy poked Eddy in the knee with a chopstick. He’s paying attention now.”

I rolled my eyes and made my way to the Lucky Dip barrel.

“Andy,” Greg said, breaking into a smile.

My heartbeat really shouldn’t have quickened at that, but it’d been a while since anyone except my mother had smiled at the mere sight of me. “Do you need me for anything?”

He hesitated, for the slightest fraction of time. His gaze flickered down my body then back up. He blushed, and I think I may have, too.

“Yes,” Charlie from 4B announced loudly, standing at Greg’s heel. “We’ve lost our balls.”

I blinked, and for a moment I thought I heard Tommy’s giggle behind me. No, it couldn't be. I'd left him behind at the stall, untangling the twine we were using as spaghetti, in the hope of keeping him—and his lack of bladder control—out of mischief.

Greg cleared his throat but there was no mistaking the smirk on his lips. Or the way he quickly licked them, the moisture glistening under the hall lights.

I cleared my throat, too. “Problem with deliveries? There are a few parcels in the Parents’ Association room that haven’t been claimed yet.”

Greg nodded and smiled. “We’re missing the Glitter Jet Balls. Also…” He glanced down at the paper in his hand. “The Santa Whoopee Cushions.”

This time, I was
sure
I heard Tommy’s gasp of excitement in the background. I nodded to Greg and said, “I’ll go and see what we have in there.”

“Wait, I can help you.” Greg took a step so he was toe to toe with me. I could feel the heat from his body. We were all pretty sweaty from working all morning, but he smelled very good. Must have been the expensive aftershave. He took my arm and drew me away from the barrel. “Maybe we could find a quiet moment to talk. Andy, please…”

“I’ll help Mr Canbury,” Charlie announced.

“Me, too!” came the chorus from a group of boys behind him. They all appeared to have a similar disrespect for any job that entailed nothing more interesting than wrapping odd-shaped novelties in snowflake paper for hours on end.

“No thanks. None of you children is allowed in that room, remember?” I tried not to snap, but I didn’t seem to be able to think calmly with Greg’s hand on my arm. “Besides, Mr Canbury needs help here.”

Another, smaller figure pushed its way behind the Lucky Dip barrel, too quickly for me to see who it was, but a shiver of premonition ran down my spine. I pushed closer to Greg to try and see better. Our hips brushed, and he caught his breath. His fingers tightened on my wrist.

“Andy…?”

“Tommy!” I shouted.

I was never going to be in time: I just couldn’t move as fast as a toddler bent on release. All the other boys spun around, following my horrified gaze. Greg gave me a single, startled look then turned in one fluid move that showed how quickly he’d grasped the situation. What he
actually
grasped was a bucket, at the same time as reaching for a small, irrepressibly giggling boy who’d launched himself off a chair, on to the relatively soft landing in the top of the barrel, and had started to pull down his shorts.

None
of us was ever going to be in time.

***

After arrangements had been made for Tommy to be taken home by a friend of his mum's, Greg and I pulled the barrel into the Parents’ Association room, just off the hall, and set to work cleaning it out. It was always going to be an unpleasant job, even though Greg had caught Tommy quickly, but I’d never thought it was going to take so long.