Death of a Teacher (16 page)

‘So Jake Spencer will definitely be there?’ he had asked Ro five times. In the end she had stopped trying to persuade him the barbecue might be a bad idea. It looked as though they would have to lower the drawbridge again, this time to go out.

She parked at Briggs’ shop on the coast. Before she had taken off her seat belt, Ben was out of the car. The speed at which he could move sometimes astonished her, and she watched him lurch forward, peering through his thick glasses and groping his way along the edge of the car-park wall.

‘Ben, wait!’ she shouted. He always thought he could do more than he actually could. If he went barrelling along like that he would fall. ‘Ben, not so fast, I’m coming …’

But Ben didn’t listen. He knew the place. They had been to Briggs a few times. He could see the shop ahead, the blur of colour and the open door with the other kids hanging outside. He had no idea if the boys were from his school or not – he could see nothing but the bunch of indeterminate bodies and bikes. But he recognized they were around his age. With the optimism that made Ro terrified for him, she could see that he was making for the group in the belief that at least some of them would be kids he knew.

‘Are they doing chocolate crunch this year?’ he called to them.

She knew at once by the other boys’ reactions that Ben had read it wrong. She was standing ten yards behind him, slowed down by locking the car and 
a natural tendency not to shepherd him like an over-anxious mother. But she could see what he couldn’t. These weren’t kids from Norbridge High who would know and welcome him. Ben was protected by his school community, and he faced everyone with the bright assurance confirmed by their kindness. But there was no kindness here.

Suddenly Ro knew what to answer when anyone, ever again, asked her why she was a PCSO. I want every kid to be safe, she would say. I want everyone to behave decently to the disadvantaged and the needy on our streets, whether it’s in the middle of the city, or here in one of the most beautiful parts of Britain. But she couldn’t intervene this time. It was her own son and she had to watch him fight his own battles and lose. She had to strain every nerve in her body to stop herself rushing forward.

‘Whadya talking to us for, spaz?’ said the biggest boy in the group. Ro knew who he was. It was Jonty McFadden, recognizable from that incident in Norbridge where he’d been part of the gang in the park. Here on his home turf he looked bigger and more threatening. She could see that the rest of the kids were younger than Ben, but Jonty, already big and dominant, with thick, curly black hair and a mocking grin, was in that strange, half-boy half-youth stage, where they could turn from sweetness to sadism at the flash of a knife.

Ben stopped stock still. ‘Is Briggs open?’ he asked, more to make contact than to get an answer.

‘’Course it is, yer effin’ cripple,’ said Jonty in a more threatening voice. His mates were circling around Ben on their bikes, like scavenging gulls.

Ro thought, this is it. I’m moving in here.

But she didn’t have to. A small, dark-haired girl in jeans and a navy
peajacket
came hurtling down from the path behind them.

‘Who’s a cripple, Jonty?’ she called out. ‘You’re morally crippled. This boy was just asking you a civil question. You should answer it.’ She turned to Ben. ‘Yes, Briggs’ famous ice-cream shop is open for the season. Please go in.’

Ben said ‘Thanks,’ and wobbled unsteadily to the shop. Ro could tell by his walk that he was all right, that he was used to this in a way she had never
realized
. She made herself lean back against the car, as if it didn’t matter to her. She wanted the little thug on his bike to realize that Ben’s mother was here, but he wouldn’t see her cowering or outraged, or needing to interfere. She would sneer at his crassness with the same insouciance he had displayed himself.

The wait was unbearable, but she didn’t follow Ben into the shop. It was a while before he came out, and the world was normal again. He walked jerkily but jauntily to the car, then turned and waved at the girl in the jacket with his ice-cream cone.

‘Guess what, Mum? That’s Becky Dixon,’ he said. ‘She’s a friend of Jake 
and Molly Spencer. We had a chat. She’s going to their barbecue tomorrow as well. That’ll be good. Anyway, shall we walk along now like we usually do?’

He laughed. Ro followed him as he walked confidently towards the shore. Her eyes were full of watery relief, but, of course, it was just the sun.

Becky Dixon came out of the shop and she knew what would be waiting for her. Jonty McFadden had skewed his bike across the shop doorway.

‘Saint Becky Dixon,’ he said contemptuously. Toby Armistead, who had a much smarter bike and iPod earphones, laughed sycophantically.

‘You’re the devil, then,’ Becky spat.

‘Ooh, spoilin’ for a fight, are you?’ Jonty spat back.

‘Where’s Lily Smith?’ Becky asked. But as soon as she said it, she knew that would be just an excuse for more hilarity from the boys gathering around Jonty.

‘She’s not here,’ one of them said, and whooped with laughter. ‘She wouldn’t want to be arsed with you.’

Of course. There had been no message from Lily. It must have been Jonty who had texted her. He had put in that line about Lily having a new phone in case she knew Lily’s mobile number. But I should have known, Becky told herself. Even if Lily had had a new phone she would have had the same SIM card. Stupid, stupid me.

But nothing could happen to her outside Briggs in the warm sunlight. At some point her grandad would come looking for her anyway. And even if he didn’t, she would stay and fight back. Everyone said bullies had to be stood up to. The way Jonty had behaved was disgusting. In fact everything about Jonty was horrible. She stared back at his turnip head with the thick dark hair and little piggy eyes like his mother’s.

‘You’re ugly,’ she said coldly. He didn’t scare her. Becky had seen Jonty in action. He tormented the little boy with diabetes in Year Four. He kept Toby in his gang by a mixture of physical and emotional bullying. He mocked everyone else in the class.

Becky was aware that, as if by arrangement, Toby was nudging her ankles with his bike, strategically placed alongside her. But like an invitation to run, Jonty moved his bike aside. Involuntarily, Becky moved forward. Toby moved in to prod her again. Then she realized what was happening. They were herding her. Behind her, Toby’s wheel kept nudging her on. Jonty was at her side, still on his bike, his feet tapping at either side to keep him upright, but pushing her with his thick, brawny arms. The big fists on the end looked like a man’s. Fearful of making a scene, Becky kept walking towards the path to St Trallen’s Hill. It was the way home. What could they do to her there?

The path started to wind uphill. Toby was behind her on his bike. Jonty 
was beside her, slightly to the front, pushing her with his thick arms. There were two other boys whom she hardly noticed alongside. They were in Year Six too, but they were nobodies – just Jonty’s gang members. As she trudged in the middle of the little ring of bikes, she thought for a moment of Molly’s mural. Was this what it felt like to be a prisoner in the square in Florence? Or a medieval virgin being taken for execution? Was this what St Trallen must have felt like when they took her into a forced marriage with the pagan prince and she plucked out her own eyes?

The boys had obviously agreed previously where to stop. Jonty rode his bike in a ‘wheelie’ on the back wheel over the brow of the hill as if it were a living horse pawing the air. Where the path forked, the little procession turned into the dip. Phil had cleared a track to the left for legitimate walkers. The route to the chapel was cordoned off with wire, and a sign Phil had printed out.

Jonty picked up the wire and held it while his retinue dodged underneath and spread out in front of the chapel. The old police tape trailed over the gorse. In the dip by the chapel door, Toby’s bike bumped Becky’s calves forward. Jonty pulled his bike up. To Becky, he seemed like one of the haughty mounted soldiers on Molly’s mural. Knights did what they liked with maidens, didn’t they? Feeble maidens anyway. Not ones like St Trallen. Becky looked at him levelly.

Jonty dismounted and parked his bike against the chapel wall.

‘Saint Becky,’ he said again in his mocking voice. She knew exactly what Jonty wanted. She knew he was worried. She thought about the evening she and Molly had gone out on the bikes and seen him down by the Marshes. The evening poor Miss Hodgson had been murdered. Jonty wouldn’t want anyone to know he was there and the police were asking every day for witnesses to come forward. He leant towards her, and Becky saw the glint of his knife.

‘You know what happened to St Trallen, don’t you?’ said Jonty. Every primary school child in Pelliter knew the myth. ‘You’ve got to do what I tell you Becky Dixon. You must never talk.’ He was leering right in her face now, so the others couldn’t hear him. ‘Do you understand? Never ever say anything about me being down the Marshes that night, or I’ll kill you and do something worse to your big-bummed friend Molly Spencer.’

Then for the benefit of the other boys he shouted, ‘You’ve got to stop painting your stupid mural, and you’ve got to back out of the Dodsworth scholarship. Otherwise …’

Jonty twisted the thin knife so its blade caught the pink glow from the sun in the west. Becky glanced over his shoulder at Toby Armistead, who looked momentarily shamefaced. So that was the deal. Toby had agreed to do this to her, as long as Jonty frightened her out of taking the exam. But Toby didn’t know that Dodsworth wasn’t really what it was about. I don’t even want to go 
there anyway, Becky thought. And whatever you say I’ll protect Molly. I’m strong enough to do that. The realization made her smile. It infuriated Jonty, who began to prance in front of her.

‘Do as we tell you! Fuck up the mural,’ he said. ‘Fuck up the Dodsworth exam. And fuck up Miss MacDonald, your hero!’

‘What have you got against Miss MacDonald, Jonty?’ she said. ‘Who’s pulling your strings? Your horrible mother?’

It had been a shot in the dark but Becky saw that she was on target. ‘Who got you that knife, Jonty? Tell me. Was it your mam?’

‘No! It’s not me mam. Keep me mam out of this, you witch.’ As if on cue, the others began to chant: ‘Witch, witch, witch, witch.’

Becky saw the knife in his hand but she wondered if Jonty would have the nerve actually to do anything. She felt comforted by the calm little chapel, and she knew any minute now Grandad would come over the ridge, his check shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing his arms which were three times bigger even than Jonty’s. She could almost see him in her mind’s eye. What could Jonty do in the next few minutes?

He could cut her, or worse, he could assault her in some way. Jonty was in silhouette now with the sun in the west behind him. He was eleven years old, almost a man. She had heard stories about girls being raped by big overgrown boys at school. Is that what he was threatening to do to Molly? How long did rape take? She had no idea. It had nearly happened to St Trallen. She had been a girl at the time. How old had the pagan prince been? What was so different these days?

Behind her, Becky felt the warm comfort of the chapel door in the sun. She touched the wood with the flat of her hands. She thought, they can try and hurt me but they won’t succeed. St Trallen plucked out her own eyes rather than have them used against her. She hadn’t been anyone’s victim.

Jonty advanced on her with the knife. He waved it in front of her face. She looked back at him. She noticed for the first time that he had dark curly hair like she did, and though he was tall he had a muscular body. He was big and she was small, but they weren’t so different, except that he had murder in his eyes. The knife swished through the air. It really did make a swishing noise, just like it said in books, and it was coming nearer….

Becky screamed, ‘Save me, St Trallen!’ And then she shut her eyes and waited for the agony.

She was aware suddenly that the brightness had gone, but it was only the sun behind the clouds. She opened her eyes. Jonty was standing there, looking down at the sandy track. His knife was on the ground and still spinning in the dust. It was no longer shiny and bright in the sunlight. It was a mucky,
grey-looking
thing. Jonty was holding his wrist and yelping in pain. 

Becky took a deep breath and walked between him and Toby, away from the cluster of boys on their bikes. The knife had whipped out of Jonty’s hand. She didn’t know how or why it happened, but she didn’t look back. As she walked towards St Trallen’s Place, her body was shaking, but her mind was clear. She had beaten Jonty McFadden this time, but he would be after her again. If it was just Jonty she would have laughed in his face and stood up to him for ever. Even Callie was just a fat old cow.

But when she had asked him who was pulling his strings he had denied it was his mother. So if it wasn’t Callie McFadden, who was it?

S
heila Findley had been thinking about Callie McFadden too. But for the first time in ages, she was able to put Callie’s mocking face out of her mind at will. Sheila spent most of Sunday in the garden.

Towards the end of the afternoon, Ray went upstairs into what had been his office in the spare bedroom. The window looked over the back garden. From the corner of his eye he was aware of Sheila’s tall figure bending to tend the plants, but as time went on he stopped looking and checking. It was the first time for months he had been at home without being aware of what she was doing every minute.

The room contained his PC, his books and his files. It smelt slightly musty. He looked at the paper residue of the last project he’d been working on. The Ofsted inspection had taken place just before Sheila’s collapse, thank
goodness
, but it had left him thinking about how much effort it took to present St Mungo’s in such a positive light.

He had been worried even then about Brenda Hodgson. She was a dull teacher, whose air of mild unhappiness tainted the rest of the school. He knew she was desperate to retire and that she was just waiting for her pension. Liz Rudder seemed a more forceful character, but she, too, had lost interest in actually teaching. But whereas Brenda was just fading, Liz maintained her negative drive through territorial plots. Installing her as deputy head had been a mistake, but he hadn’t had much choice once Sheila was ill.

He could still see Sheila pottering happily when his mobile rang. When he saw the digits on the screen he felt a sudden pressure harden behind his eyes. It was a number he hadn’t seen for a long time, but he knew at once who it was. He watched Sheila trundle the wheelbarrow towards the shed. He thought – maybe I can answer the phone now and get rid of the call, while Sheila’s still out there?

‘Hello, Callie.’ 

‘Oh, so you’ve picked up, have you? Good. I thought you wouldn’t want me to leave a message.’

‘It’s Sunday, Callie.’

‘So? Some of us with kids have got to work seven days a week. I’ve been thinking. I’ve told Jonty I want him to go in for the Dodsworth exam and I want you to see to it that he’s one of the lucky ones.’

‘But Callie, that’s ridiculous.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t swing it for favoured children. And anyway, there’s no way Jonty would get into Dodsworth. He’s not interested in schoolwork.’

‘Whose fault it that? You know he’s bright enough.’

‘Well, he’s certainly not stupid—’

‘Stupid? Jonty? How could he be? You know I’ve been trying to speak to you for a few days now. I’ve got something to say to you, Ray. And it’s pretty serious. You’d better take a deep breath …’

On the morning of the May Bank Holiday, Robert woke early after a restless night, with Suzy tossing and turning beside him. What should have been a pleasant evening by themselves – with Jake out playing saxophone in his band – had turned out to be fraught with barbecue preparations. Suzy had slid into restless sleep before he had even undressed. In the dawn light he crept
downstairs
. He tried to find the metal colander but it was nowhere he could see, so he washed the salad leaf by leaf and left it to dry on a tea towel. Then he washed and pricked the potatoes for baking and put them in the oven. He went into the garden to set up the barbecue, lining the basin with silver foil, and collecting the charcoal in the bottom.

And then he sat on the bench looking across the lawn to the wall where his dead wife had managed to grow one of the few wisterias in this part of Cumbria.

He thought of her fleetingly. It all seemed so long ago; so much had happened. He was a different person now, with a family. Of course I love them, he thought; I’ve lived with their ups and downs for nearly five years. But as Suzy said, he wasn’t their dad. And for the first time, he turned the question on its head: in what way did they love him? In the end, how would they feel when he married their mother? He had tried hard not to get between the children and Suzy. He had always played it as just ‘Robert, a nice guy to have around’. But how would it be when he was their mum’s husband, the one she chose to love and cherish. Would the kids be jealous? Resentful even?

There was a noise behind him.

‘Morning, Robert.’

‘Morning, Jake.’ 

‘This is going to be a bit of a crazy day, isn’t it?’ Jake said. He perched his neat bottom on the arm of the bench.

‘There are a lot of people coming,’ Robert said. ‘I don’t know if your mum is very happy that I’ve invited the Dixons, but Molly will be delighted to see Becky.’

‘Robert,’ said Jake thoughtfully, ‘can I ask you something?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Robert said, warily.

‘It’s actually about Becky.’ Jake screwed up his eyes as the first real sunlight came over the treetops to the east. ‘But I can’t really explain, not quickly. Can we talk later, when everyone’s gone?

‘Sure,’ Robert answered. He felt a rush of pleasure. Jake genuinely wanted his advice. Things must be all right, mustn’t they? But then again, what was it he wanted to say about Becky?

For Ro, the arrival at anyone else’s unfamiliar house was always a nightmare. There were the practical problems like steps and furniture and loose rugs. And there were the emotional problems. How would people behave? How would Ben react?

She parked outside The Briars, in the lane.

‘Hey, I can smell cooking,’ Ben said excitedly. ‘Smoke! The barbie’s on.’ He started his hurried, swaying walk.

‘Be careful, Ben,’ Ro called out. The unmetalled track to the house had ridges and potholes, but with a sixth sense Ben seemed to avoid them. He opened the gate and lurched up the path.

Suzy had heard the car and stood to welcome them at the front door.

She saw Ro anxiously following her son, far enough behind to be
unnoticed
by Ben in his hurry, near enough to be there if he fell. Her stance, standing behind the swaying boy, leaning slightly forward with her arms out, reminded Suzy of when the children had been toddlers learning to walk. Ro was still on patrol, Suzy thought, and she had been on guard for twelve years. It must be tough.

‘Hi! Go through to the back garden,’ Suzy said. ‘Jake will look out for you, Ben.’

But for how long? Ro thought anxiously. Other kids were often kind to Ben until they got bored or irritated. Her eyes flashed to the kitchen window. But Ben was already outside, hooting with laughter, and Jake was holding sausages up with a long pair of barbecue tongs. A pleasant-looking man Ro assumed was Robert Clark was putting out garden chairs.

‘I’m sorry we’re early,’ she said to Suzy. ‘Sometimes it takes us ages to get out. Sometimes it all goes smoothly. It’s difficult to get it right.’

‘You’re not early,’ Suzy said. ‘The others are late.’ She was surprised at how tense Ro seemed to be. ‘Have a drink?’ 

Ro accepted an orange juice, and then turned to see two new visitors. Phil and Becky Dixon: grandfather and granddaughter, hovering at the door.

Phil followed Becky in and smiled at Ro, but she felt too uncertain to smile back. Did he remember her as the PCSO from the school-window incident? Would that make things awkward? And what about yesterday? Had Becky told him about having to defend Ben from bullies?

‘Nice to meet you again,’ Phil said to Ro. ‘You look better without the broken glass.’ But she doesn’t, he thought. She looks as if she’s swallowed it. He followed her eyes to the window and to the boy with the thick spectacles and the uneven walk.

‘My son,’ Ro said.

So that was it, Phil thought. No wonder Ro looked constantly worried. Phil said, ‘Judith’s sorry she couldn’t come. She’d already planned to go over to the Metro Centre with some friends from the WI. Where’s Molly?’

Suzy explained that Molly’s dad would be dropping her off shortly, and Phil ambled outside, leaving Suzy and Ro alone. Maybe I’m not the only one on edge, Ro thought.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked Suzy.

‘I was going to ask you the same, Ro.’

‘Well, it’s easy to see what’s wrong with me. Disabled child, new place, new people. We don’t do this sort of thing very often. But that’s me. What about you?’

‘Nigel is about to turn up any minute. You remember Nigel from uni, don’t you? He’s balding now.’ Suzy smiled. ‘But this isn’t going to be easy. Robert has hardly spoken to him in five years, and I can’t imagine us all standing around sipping red wine and making conversation. It’s going to be awkward. I don’t know how I’m going to get through this, Ro.’

‘Try the red wine. You’re not driving.’

‘Good thinking,’ Suzy took a gulp from her glass, and Ro started to feel better. This wasn’t a competition and Suzy was as nervous as she was. Tentatively Ro put her hand on Suzy’s arm. It felt warm and smooth. Ro
realized
how infrequently she actually touched anyone else besides Ben. For a moment she wondered if she had done something out of order, but Suzy rolled her eyes at her over the rim of her glass and for a nanosecond Ro thought they were both going to giggle.

But there was no time. There was the sound of another car coming down the lane. ‘Better pour me another,’ Suzy grimaced. ‘That’s bound to be Nigel.’

It would be different if it were good red wine, Faye Armistead thought. A strong gin and tonic at noon had given her a slight headache, and now her husband was opening another bottle of white wine. 

‘If Toby has taken off for the day we might as well enjoy it,’ her husband Roger said.

Faye raised her eyebrow. Roger had always said that letting Toby hang around with the local kids was a bad strategy, but this weekend he seemed to have changed his tune. Faye had prepared a salad for lunch, using what was left after the au pair had raided the fridge. Somehow, rocket drenched in dressing left over from Saturday supper, supermarket garlic bread and some very tired cheese didn’t look appetizing.

‘Are you happy about Toby going off-piste like this?’ she asked, her voice sharper than the usual combination of drawl and staccato which she adopted in company. ‘Do you know who he’s with?’

‘As a matter of fact I do,’ Roger said. He was actually quite flushed. His nose was a deeper shade than the rest of his rosy face. Faye couldn’t help the corners of her mouth turning down in disgust. He poured himself a very large glass of warm white plonk. ‘The au pair told me. He’s gone off to the shore with that McFadden boy again.’

Faye pretended to be shocked. ‘But the McFaddens live on the Pelliter Valley estate. I know the mother. She’s a teaching assistant at the school.’

‘Yes. Rather a hippy type. Big bust, lots of hair. But actually, the boy seems rather a strong character. I think it might do Toby good to team up with someone like that.’

‘But if Toby is going to Dodsworth, surely there isn’t any point in letting him hang around with the local riff-raff?’ she asked.

‘Ah well,’ Roger smiled knowingly. ‘There you’re wrong. Toby told me last night that the McFadden boy might be going to Dodsworth too. His mother wants him to sit the scholarship and apparently some shadowy benevolent figure could be willing to stump up the rest of the money.’

‘Good heavens! Jonty McFadden at Dodsworth? Callie never breathed a word of this!’

‘Talk to her a lot, do you?’

Roger smiled rather viciously. Faye said nothing, but she didn’t like the feeling of being excluded by Callie and wrong-footed by her husband. Still, she had her own secret satisfaction. She looked at Roger. His hair was
thinning
a bit and he had a little pot belly on the end of spindly legs, crossed one over the other so that his trousers rode up and revealed unattractive flaky shins above cream-coloured socks. He was still handsome but in a rather worn way. She had seen the way the au pair looked at him, fancying her chances. He was still an asset. For a start, he was her husband, and he was an Armistead of Pelliter Farm.

But the gentry needed to strengthen the stock now and then with an
injection
of more resilient genes. Was that what Roger was thinking of when he 
admired the au pair’s robust curves? I may have beaten you to it, Faye thought. She recalled Toby’s stocky little body and dark curly hair, and a rather superior smile returned to her lips. He didn’t look a bit like Roger, did he?

For Alison MacDonald, the weekend had been a failure. She had enjoyed working on the mural with Becky for a couple of hours on Saturday morning, but they had both missed Molly’s sharp direction. The girls were bright kids, Alison thought. She felt some satisfaction that her plan was working.

Nothing more had been said about the window incident, though Jonty swaggered more confidently around the school these days. Sometimes, all the different things which had happened in Pelliter lately made a stew in Ali’s head: the man in the playground, the body at the chapel, the broken window, the Dodsworth exam, even meeting Ro and the aggressive young constable who had been so unpleasant. And the Marsh Murder, of course. Mark had continued to be fascinated by what had happened to Miss Hodgson. It was the only thing he had ever asked about. They’d talked about it on the phone and on MSN all week, and Mark had said several times how much he was looking forward to seeing her for more insider gen.

But it hadn’t worked out quite like that. On Saturday afternoon, the motorway traffic had been bumper to bumper and Alison hadn’t arrived at the flat until three o’clock. They’d had a rocky start, with Alison unprepared to jump into bed immediately, and Mark wanting to have a disco nap for a few hours followed by a really late steamy session.

‘It’s the weekend, what’s left of it,’ he had moaned. ‘The time for having a few drinks, lots of nookie, and getting out on the town. If we go to bed now we can keep rockin’ all night long.’

‘And tomorrow?’

‘We’ve got all day, babe. Let’s get up at noon and take the motor into the Peak district. And on Bank Holiday Monday we’ll go to Altrincham and look in estate agents’ windows and have brunch. Bingo – great weekend.’