Wicked! (125 page)

In London, the trees had hung on to their leaves; rain-soaked, shining gold, they softened every building.

‘This city now doth like a garment wear the beauty of the afternoon,’ sighed Janna, gazing in vodka-aided ecstasy at the gleaming river beneath glittering bridges and the London Eye, a silver halo tossed aside by some falling angel.

Teachers were decanting from buses and milling round outside the theatre as they arrived.

‘Janna Curtis,’ cried a pretty blonde, ‘you did so well for your Year Elevens. Look, it’s Janna, you know, from Larks High,’ she called out to her friends, who all gathered round to praise Janna.

‘You’re much prettier than your picture.’ ‘Is that your partner?’ ‘Isn’t he lush?’ ‘You put up such a good fight.’

‘They’ve read every word about me,’ squeaked Janna. ‘So up yours, Ashton.’

As Emlyn, who’d been shrugging himself into the dark blue velvet jacket, shepherded her firmly through the crowd into the Green Room, large glasses of champagne were thrust into their hands.

‘Oh look, there’s Ted Wragg, he’s so funny.’ Janna took a huge gulp. ‘And there’s Lord Hawkley, and that redhead with him is Rupert’s ex-wife. Taggie’s much prettier,’ she added defensively.

‘Better have some blotting paper.’ Emlyn beckoned a waitress bearing a basket full of chicken and prawns on long-pointed sticks.

‘God, they look delicious’ – Janna grabbed four – ‘and those sticks are perfect for pricking bubbles as a “critical friend” – and talk of the devil, here come Rod and Alex.’

‘What’s going on in your neck of the woods?’ a BBC minion was asking them solicitously.

‘The Queen’s opening our new Science Emporium on Wednesday week,’ Alex was boasting.

‘Goodness, it’ll be Sir Alex soon,’ said the minion admiringly. ‘The other Sir Alex better look to his laurels.’

The smug smile was then wiped off Alex’s face. ‘What are you doing here, Janna Curtis? You can hardly qualify as a past winner or a nominee this evening.’

‘Nominees up, Mother Brown,’ sang Janna, doing a little dance. ‘I came with Emlyn,’ she announced happily, then, thrusting out her glass to a passing waitress, ‘I’d love another one.’

The BBC minion, who had shiny dark hair streaked with scarlet and caramel, introduced herself as ‘Bea from the Beeb’ and said, ‘Janna Curtis, I so admire your stand in Larkshire. We’re so delighted you could make it.’

‘Have you had a great weekend?’ asked Janna.

‘Amazing! Last night’s dance was fabulous, and teachers are such lovely people, so modest and self-effacing; they hate being singled out from their colleagues for praise.’

‘Alex and Rod are just like that,’ enthused Janna.

Emlyn choked on his drink.

‘Although one headmaster,’ admitted Bea from the Beeb, ‘who didn’t win last year, was so furious he had a nervous breakdown.’

‘There are the warning bells, we’d better go in,’ said Rod frostily.

‘Is that gorgeous guy your partner?’ whispered Bea.

‘I wish,’ sighed Janna.

Not wanting to let her spirits droop a millimetre, she managed to secrete a three-quarters-full bottle of champagne under her pashmina as she and Emlyn flowed with the laughing, excited tide into the auditorium.

It was a lovely little theatre, with cherry-red velvet seats and cherry-red boxes, like the drawers Janna hadn’t pushed in before she left: those spilling over with rejected clothes, these with teachers, or with technicians manning a huge overhead camera like a pterodactyl to capture the Great and the Good in the audience.

‘Oh hell,’ said Janna, ‘Rod Hyde and his admired wife and Alex and Poppet are just across the aisle.’

Poppet, in an extraordinary white broderie anglaise mob cap and a milkmaid’s dress, was flushed with success from delivering her first TROT workshop.

‘TROT stands for Total Recognition of Transpersons,’ she was eagerly telling the Education Secretary. ‘So enriching to exchange views with other caring professionals.’

‘Silly bitch,’ muttered Janna; then, as a female bruiser in the row in front swung round disapprovingly, ‘You could use that one in your back row.’

‘Hush, or we’ll get thrown out,’ warned Emlyn. He caught sight of Janna’s bottle: ‘What have you got there?’

‘Petrol,’ said Janna.

Emlyn tried and failed to look reproving.

They were in wonderful seats about ten rows from the front. Technicians, checking camera angles and locating possible winners, scuttled around in pairs, one carrying the camera, the other the wires, as though he was holding up the long tail of a mouse.

The beautiful set was hung with panels in Three Wise Men colours: glowing scarlet, amethyst, turquoise, and sapphire blue. A midnight-blue canopy overhead glittered with little stars. On the red and gold podium awaiting the first winner, was one of the awards. Named a Plato, it was a gold curved oblong with one end fashioned into the profile of a Greek god.

‘He’s got Rupert Campbell-Black’s nose,’ observed Janna. ‘What a lovely party,’ she added to Emlyn. ‘There’s David Miliband. He looks as though he’s still in Year Ten.’

Emlyn had temporarily found room for his long legs in the gangway. ‘You will tuck them inside when we begin?’ begged a returning Bea admiringly.

Emlyn was so broad-shouldered, Janna also found it impossible not to brush against him as he leant in to avoid technicians racing past. There is not room in this theatre, nor in all the world, to contain my love for him, she thought helplessly as she took another slug of champagne.

A handsome organizer was now telling the audience they were here to celebrate excellence in education. ‘To ensure maximum media exposure for the profession we all love, we want you to shout and clap as much as possible.’

‘Hurrah,’ yelled Janna, clapping like mad.

‘I’ve been used and abused by the BBC,’ grumbled an old trout in the row behind. ‘I will not clap to order.’

There were so many shining bald heads and spectacles in the stalls reflecting the television lights that no other lighting was needed. Gales of hearty laughter, no doubt to show off their GSOH, greeted every joke from the warm-up man.

‘All round the theatre, you’ll find teachers seated in areas. There’s Northern Ireland to the left in the dress circle and Wales over on the right.’ Emlyn raised a hand to two young women teachers. ‘And right over there are the Larkshire contingent. Look, they’re waving at you.’

Janna waved back. ‘Where’s Yorkshire?’

‘In the gallery.’

‘Oh my God, there’s Stew,’ gasped Janna.

‘Who?’ Emlyn swung round sharply.

‘My old boss.’ He’s put on weight, she thought.

She was brought back to earth by a roll of drums.

‘Pray silence for your head boy of the evening,’ said a voice, and on came Eamonn Holmes, who, despite a sombre dark suit and red spotted tie, looked, with his sweet little face and naughty grin, much more like the terror of Year Seven.

‘Welcome to the Oscars of the teaching profession,’ he said, looking round at the audience. ‘Now you’ll know what it’s like to be in assembly.’

‘He can’t say that,’ gasped a hovering BBC minion, ‘it’ll diminish them.’

‘You’re not allowed to make jokes about gowns and mortarboards, or about Whacko and canes,’ whispered Emlyn.

There was another roll of drums, and actor Bill Nighy ambled somewhat nervously on to the stage to present the award to the Primary Teacher of the Year. As a photograph of him as a dear little boy appeared on the screen above the podium, he talked charmingly and deprecatingly about his school days, then announced the winner, who, from the gasp of joyful surprise, turned out to be a charming brunette sitting in the row opposite Emlyn.

As she ran down the aisle and mounted the steps to the platform, Janna cheered and cheered. The clips of her brilliant rapport with the children were so touching that the tears spilling down Janna’s cheeks became a cascade when she glanced sideways and saw the winner’s incredibly proud husband also crying his eyes out.

From then onwards, Janna worked her way through her box of tissues and her bottle. All the winners – from Best New Teacher, the Teacher Who Used IT Most Imaginatively, to the Teaching Assistant of the Year – were so brilliant, innovative and imaginative, and the children so sweet, and the celebrities so exciting. Janna loved Sanjeev Bhaskar and had always been a fan of Imogen Stubbs, beautiful, clever, posh, but also a true socialist.

129

Rupert arrived at the Palace Theatre alone and in a foul temper. The last time he could remember being in London on a Sunday, except for the Countryside March, was when he’d taken his ex-wife Helen out on a first date – and look what trouble that had got him into.

He’d only agreed to give away an award because Jupiter had insisted it would be good for his image and that of the New Reform Party to get in with the lefties. Except for Janna and Hengist, who’d both lost their schools, he loathed the teaching profession. They’d been so bloody patronizing about his GCSE and got so uptight if you mentioned their long holidays.

Now, still in his dark blue overcoat so he could make a quick get-away, Rupert stood in the Green Room drinking whisky, watching the whole thing on a monitor and thinking he’d never seen so many ghastly beards in his life, nor so many old boots built like semis in Croydon and with Tim Henman hair. Rupert loathed very short hair on women, even more than beards, particularly when it showed off hulking great necks. Talk about the planet of the napes. Rupert was so fed up, he couldn’t be bothered to laugh at his own joke.

He’d been listening to the big match on the car wireless. Feral would shoot himself if Man U broke Arsenal’s run of 49 wins. It was a measure of Rupert’s increasing fondness for Bianca’s boyfriend (whom he’d watched scoring two goals for the Rovers yesterday) that he’d started taking an interest in soccer as well as English literature – any minute he’d be taking up Morris dancing.

There in the audience was that stuffed shirt David Hawkley, married to Helen, stepfather to Tabitha and Marcus. How small the world was. Muttering about gravitas, Jupiter was determined to give Education to David in place of Hengist, who’d been so much more amusing. Rory Bremner had done over Jupiter last night – bloody funny.

‘Isn’t it a fun evening?’ Bea from the Beeb broke into his thoughts with a plate of smoked salmon sandwiches. ‘You should have seen all those major civil servants, not known for their frivolity, bopping on the dance floor last night.’

‘Letting their lack of hair down,’ said Rupert sourly.

He loathed civil servants even more than teachers.

On the other hand, the blonde now accepting a Plato for school and community involvement was very pretty. He could happily have got involved with her. Lovely legs too; perhaps teachers weren’t such boots.

Again and again the camera crews ran backwards down the gangway, as though they were filming royalty, and the little stars in the indigo firmament brightened as each winner, the real stars of the evening, mounted the stage.

‘When’s Artie going to get his award?’ asked Janna.

‘I’m afraid it’s gone to that head of science, two categories back,’ whispered Emlyn.

‘Artie should have won,’ protested Janna noisily, and was shushed. As her big gold programme kept sliding off her knees, rather than bury her head in Emlyn’s lap when she retrieved it, she leant down to the left, which gave her the chance to take another slug from her bottle.

Emlyn was half laughing, but she wished he’d loosen up and get into party mode. He still seemed tense and watchful as the lights turned his face glowing ruby, then sapphire, then aquamarine, then Lenten purple, each time more gorgeous. I love him, thought Janna helplessly. I just adore him.

‘I know it’s going to be Rod Hyde,’ she cried in despair, then cheered and cheered, because the winner of the Lifetime Achievement Award wasn’t Rod, but a darling old duck from a London primary who let the children run all over her office in the lunch hour.

‘Please be quiet,’ hissed the horrified Number Eight in the row in front.

Janna would have raised two fingers, if Emlyn hadn’t held grimly on to her hands.

‘You’ve got to behave yourself.’

‘That’s it for the evening,’ said Janna, then nearly fell off her chair with excitement as a blow-up of a beautiful sulky little boy appeared on the screen, and a grinning Eamonn Holmes announced one last award to be presented by someone often described as ‘the handsomest man in England’, an owner/trainer, ex-showjumper and Minister for Sport, who’d called himself ‘the most immature mature student’ when he recently gained a ‘B’ in GCSE English literature.

And on stalked Rupert to a frenzy of wolf whistles and catcalls. He still had his overcoat on, but smiled slightly when Eamonn asked him the Arsenal/Man U result.

‘Rooney scored in extra time,’ replied Rupert. ‘It’s his birthday. He’s a Scorpio like me.

‘I was so useless at school,’ he went on, in his clipped, flat drawl, ‘that I normally don’t like schoolmasters or -mistresses one bit, but I have to confess, watching the television in the Green Room, I have seen some fantastic examples of teaching that might have galvanized even myself.

‘I’m here to hand out a special new award: the People’s Prize, to the teacher whom the most pupils, parents, teachers and members of the public all round the country felt had done the best and most heroic job, and in the winner’s case, pulled in five times as many votes as the rest put together.