Wicked! (103 page)

Janna wiped her eyes. It was wonderful seeing Skunk and Pittsy really cheering, and she was so proud of Emlyn.

Probably the only people not concentrating were Cosmo and Mrs Walton.

‘I’ve always wanted you,’ murmured Cosmo. ‘Will you come back to my cell?’

‘I thought you were injured,’ teased a once more radiant Ruth.

‘I’ve sprained my ankle, not my cock. You must give me lessons. One cannot be too good in bed.’

Five minutes to go. Bagley was playing catch-up. They were six points behind Larks. A try and a conversion would do it. Somehow Larks hung on with heroic tackling and covering work, but gradually their defence was driven back.

Only a minute to go. Janna couldn’t bear to look. Please dear God, for Emlyn’s and the children’s sake.

Paris had the ball and was scorching down the pitch.

‘Come on,’ yelled Theo, Artie and the Cartwrights. He was through, but with Aston Martin acceleration, Feral stormed in from the right, tackling him five yards from the line, his arms clamping round Paris’s hips, bringing him crashing to the ground. The line was a foot away – beyond it, the heavenly city. Wriggling forward, Paris lost control of the ball, which fell forward over the line.

‘Let go of me, you fucker,’ he howled, trying to struggle forwards in the mud to touch it down. But Feral clung on. A second later, Rocky had pounded up and kicked the ball into the crowd as the whistle went.

Feral and Paris lay on the ground, hearts thumping, both winded, checking they weren’t hurt. Then they turned to look at each other, both faces caked in mud, Paris’s as brown as Feral’s. For a second, panting and exhausted, they scowled.

Then, as if in a dream, their hands stretched out and, as they grinned, their hands met in a grounded high five.

‘You was wicked, man,’ gasped Paris.

‘We’ve won, we’ve beaten Bagley.’ All restraint gone, screaming her head off, Janna raced on to the pitch, running from exhausted Larks player to player, kissing their dirty faces before falling into an equally ecstatic Emlyn’s arms:

‘We did it, we did it.’

Tipping her head right back, Janna smiled up into his rugged, ruddy, overjoyed face, feeling his hot sweating body and his heart pounding against hers. They were brought back to earth by the jeering of Johnnie Fowler.

‘Cheer up, you fat commie. At least you came second.’

‘Take zat back, you smug little vanker,’ howled Anatole.

It was only Emlyn’s lightning reaction, dropping Janna, swinging round and catching Anatole’s arm before his fist smashed into Johnnie’s face, that prevented a riot.

‘Break it up, you two,’ he roared, in addition grabbing Johnnie’s shirt collar, ‘or I’ll bang your thick skulls together. It’s only a game.’

‘That’s not what you told us in the dressing room beforehand,’ panted Johnnie, aiming a kick at Anatole. Then seeing Emlyn’s face blacken: ‘Sir!’

‘That’s enough, Anatole,’ said Hengist, taking him from Emlyn. ‘Be more gracious, you were outplayed.’

103

Ashton, Cindy and Randal, having had a good stretch of their legs to take in Badger’s Retreat, were now claiming credit for Larks’s victory to
The Times
.

‘We felt it crucial to give these disadvantaged youngsters a second chance,’ Cindy was saying. ‘Yes, “Payne” with a “Y”.’

‘We’re keeping a close watch, of course,’ purred Ashton. Catching sight of Hengist, he added, ‘Bad luck, you must be very disappointed and surprised.’

‘Not when you consider Emlyn’s been coaching them,’ said Hengist lightly. ‘After those rather worrying reports in your Sunday paper today’ – he smiled at
The Times
’s reporter – ‘about S and C’s catastrophic involvement in the educational field, they must regard Larks High, particularly after today’s triumph, as the jewel in their crown.’ Then, nodding at a scowling Ashton and Cindy: ‘Do grab a drink before the presentation.’

Captain Xavier went up to shake hands with Randal in his muddy suit and to collect the gold-plated rugby ball to deafening applause from his parents and those from the Shakespeare Estate, who were already legless.

Xav was followed by his players who, in the floodlighting, cast giant shadows in two directions. But Randal, on the podium (provided by himself), cast the biggest, blackest shadow of all.

Feral was Man of the Match.

‘Well played,’ said Pete Wainwright, handing him his card. ‘For once your supporters didn’t exaggerate. Football isn’t that different to rugby. Give me a bell and I’ll fix a date for a trial.’

‘That’s wicked, man,’ muttered Feral.

Maybe, maybe Bianca soon wouldn’t be so out of reach after all. ‘Give me time, baby.’

Inside, Hengist was seething, but he’d learnt to be magnanimous in defeat.

‘Fantastic victory, Emlyn, terrific entertainment for the spectators.’

Emlyn grinned. ‘I think Dora should have won Man of the Match rather than Feral.’

‘That bitch of a mother,’ exploded Janna.

‘Hush, darling,’ Hengist took Janna’s arm. ‘Come and have a drink. You’ll want to be with your boys, Emlyn.’ It was an order. ‘Join Janna and me later. You must be so proud,’ he told her as they set off towards the pavilion.

The first pale stars were coming out, as if the deepening blue sky wanted to boast it had primroses too.

‘So pleased about Feral’s trial,’ said Hengist. ‘If he needs any advice about converting to soccer . . . ?’

How generous and sweet you are, thought Janna.

‘Paris played really well in the end,’ she said. Then, as they were out of earshot: ‘Do you think he’s still hung up about us?’

‘Not at all, he’s working incredibly hard. Well played!’ Hengist ruffled a passing Xav’s black hair. ‘Really good to see you back. Your parents must be ecstatic.’

As they moved on through a copse of young wild cherry trees, he murmured, ‘Are
you
still hung up about us, darling?’

Janna started. Hengist turned her to face him, gazing down at her, laughing eyes for once serious. ‘I truly didn’t mean to hurt you.’

‘But you love Sally,’ finished Janna. ‘I know – and it doesn’t hurt any more,’ she added, realizing in amazement it was true. ‘It’s just lovely we can be friends. I do love you.’

‘And I, you,’ and he dropped a long kiss on her forehead.

Emlyn, still euphoric, accepting congratulations from Artie and Theo, about to round up his team for the plunge bath, reflected that he hadn’t thought about Oriana since he arrived. Irked by being dismissed by Hengist, he glanced idly towards the pavilion, then saw Hengist and Janna had not even reached it but were lurking in the wild cherry copse, talking intimately, smiling at each other; now Hengist was stealing a kiss. Emlyn felt his great blaze of euphoria turn to ashes.

Then soft dark hair brushed against his cheek, and a childish little voice said:

‘Well done, Emlyn, I couldn’t help cheering like mad for my old school.’

It was Vicky, pretty as ever in a turquoise blazer, with a schoolboy’s turquoise and olive-green scarf round her neck, looking as young as any of her pupils.

‘I’m having a party at my flat here tonight. Why don’t you come? Lots of Bagley people will be there. You can always stop over in the spare room, if you don’t want to drive.’

‘I’ve got to take the team home,’ said Emlyn, noticing Hengist and Janna were still gazing into each other’s eyes. ‘But thanks, I might well look in later.’

Paris wandered towards Badger’s Retreat in total confusion. He cringed at the memory of the missed penalties. He’d played atrociously, only redeemed by those tries in the second half, when Dora’s streak had shaken him out of his despondency. As if he were coming round after an operation, not knowing how much it would hurt, he hadn’t worked out how he felt about Feral and Bianca. Like Philip Larkin in their poetry set book, he’d probably been ‘too selfish, withdrawn And easily bored’ to love Bianca.

Now he was haunted by the thought of Anthea cutting up Dora’s round, sweet face. Randal had ruined his suit; Lady Belvedon had ruined her image as a ‘lady’ – the vicious bitch. Neither would forgive Dora.

After half an hour, when Emlyn hadn’t joined the uproarious party spilling out of the pavilion, happily remembering how lovely his arms had felt round her earlier, Janna went in search of him. She found him among the crowd waving off the still stunned Larks fifteen.

‘Are you coming back to the Dog and Duck to celebrate?’ Janna tucked her arm through his. ‘Lily and Christian and Cambola are just leaving.’

‘I’ll give it a miss tonight,’ said Emlyn brusquely. ‘Some of the Bagley teachers are having a party; I said I’d join them.’ Not meeting Janna’s eyes, he didn’t see the hurt and disappointment. ‘Can you get a lift with the Brig?’

‘Of course,’ said Janna in a small voice. ‘Thank you for all you did for Larks today.’

But Emlyn had stalked off towards the car park.

As Graffi’s father and Stormin’ Norman were decanted on to the last bus and went home singing ‘’Ark, ’Ark! the Lark’, Hengist reflected that being a host without Sally was very hard work.

How sweet Janna had looked; he’d have loved to whisk her upstairs to bed. All the same, he felt unusually tired – must be the end of term.

Back in his study in the Mansion, he poured himself a large whisky, put on a CD of Fischer-Dieskau singing
Winterreise
and, picking up his note-laden copy of Matthew Arnold’s poems, settled down on the sofa with a weary Elaine’s head on his lap. Headmasters’ dogs get tired too, trailing after them, her gusty sigh seemed to say.

These holidays, vowed Hengist, he was going to write his book rather than politicking. Jupiter was too bloody demanding.

There was a knock on the door. Elaine, a good judge of character, didn’t wag. It was Alex.

‘A word, headmaster.’

The bloody man would only accept Perrier and sat bolt upright, as though it would be an act of decadence to collapse into the bear hug of one of Hengist’s armchairs.

‘That was a catastrophe.’

‘Losing to Larks, I agree.’

‘No, Dora Belvedon’s disgusting display. How should we address the problem?’

‘Having that bitch of a mother, not to mention the odious Stancombe as a possible stepfather, should be punishment enough.’

Alex looked pained and cracked his knuckles, his Adam’s apple wobbling as he swallowed. ‘Anthea and Randal are supportive friends.’

‘Not to poor Dora, they aren’t.’

‘She must be excluded for the rest of the term if not permanently.’

‘Don’t be fatuous, there are only a few days left. It was just high spirits.’ Hengist drained his drink. ‘At least she shook Paris out of his doldrums and brightened a dire afternoon.’

‘Tomorrow’s press will be disastrous.’

Hengist’s anger boiled over.

‘If you hadn’t engineered the departure of the best bloody rugger coach Bagley has ever had, we’d have walked it today.’

‘Too much emphasis is placed on competitive sports.’

‘Bollocks,’ roared Hengist. ‘It’s crucial for strengthening character, fostering qualities of leadership and channelling aggression. Look how Xavier Campbell-Black blossomed. He looks great and played a terrific match. But you had to kick him out without any kind of investigation. We failed him – and we’ve made an enemy of Rupert. How d’you think it feels having Campbell-Blacks yelling for Larks? Well, you’re not getting rid of Dora. Now get out and wreck someone else’s evening.’

Janna gave herself a talking-to as she made herself a cup of tea the following morning.

‘You prayed and prayed that Larks wouldn’t be humiliated by Bagley, so for heaven’s sake be grateful for very large mercies, and don’t go slipping in any prayers about Emlyn. I’m lucky to have you,’ she told Partner, who wagged his tail in agreement. Emlyn was amiable enough, but had big feet for treading on paws.

Janna left early to buy a big celebratory cake from the baker’s and to drape banners across the gate and reception. She felt the fifteen should tour Larkminster in an open-top bus like the World Cup players.

It was an exquisite morning, with only her and the sun in the quiet street, and celandines opening like more little suns on the banks.

She slowed down as the postman approached.

‘Saw you on TV last night, Janna. Great result. That Feral played a blinder.
Scorpion
’s got a cartoon of a Red Dragon carrying lots of larks on his back.’

Janna was enchanted. She must get it framed for Emlyn. Why shouldn’t he whoop it up with his Bagley mates. His car wasn’t outside his digs. He probably never came home.

As she drove down Wilmington High Street, however, she was flagged down by a scarlet windmill – it was Vicky in a red rugger shirt nearly reaching to her knees, about to get into her pale blue Golf. She wore no make-up; her hair was drawn back and falling in a Jane Austen cascade, pretty as always.

‘Jannie, how are you? So sorry to miss you yesterday.’

‘What are you doing here?’ Janna made no attempt to look friendly.