Wicked! (134 page)

How he had missed his trees in prison, and his stars, only a few of which at a time could be seen through his cell window, and most of all, his white dog, whom he kept thinking he saw in the snow shadows.

The tall ash that had taken the huge side branch off the Family Tree when it fell the night Charlie visited Bagley and Oriana came out had been sawn into logs. These had been neatly stacked, as had the logs from the branches off the Family Tree. Two men were making a bonfire out of the brushwood. All our life tidied away, thought Hengist. On other trees, where branches had been sawn off, the circular scars had not closed up at the top, like horseshoes nailed to the trunk.

I could do with some luck, reflected Hengist.

Oriana coming out had been such a tiny thing compared to losing Bagley, Fleetley and Education. Although Education would have been a two-edged sword, now he fully appreciated the ruthlessness of Jupiter, who had scuppered any hope of his return to Bagley. It was some comfort that Rupert had resigned from the New Reform Party.

But none of this mattered a jot compared to losing Sally and the desolation of stretching out in bed and finding her no longer by his side and having no one to share and recapture the tragedies and triumphs and laughter of thirty years.

Above, the snow now lining the limbs of the trees was like the body lotion Sally had rubbed into her arms every day, always making herself soft and beautiful for him. He had thrown away a pearl far richer than his tribe.

The three figures of the Family Tree, although battered, were still locked together. This year’s riveted olive-green buds were already formed; Hengist picked up one of the curling sepia leaves with its cherry-red stem and put it in his pocket.

‘“I have lived long enough,”’ he quoted wearily:

‘And that which should accompany old age,

As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,

I must not hope to have.’

Oh, he’d loved his troops of friends, but they were as nothing, again, compared with losing Sally. He had let her down, taken her for granted, betrayed her. For the first time in years, in prison, he’d had time to think.

He passed a young oak tree, planted ‘In loving memory of that great scholar and schoolmaster, Theo Graham’. Hengist wished him well, free of pain in the Elysian Fields.

That must be Artie’s work. The earth, although frozen, was newly dug. Artie would make a strong, wise and compassionate head.

Hengist had sent ahead a list of the books he particularly wanted and, arriving at the house, found them awaiting him in packing chests in the hall. On the hall table was a huge pile of post, including an emerald-green carrier bag with an envelope attached.

Recognizing the spiky handwriting, Hengist opened it:

Dear Mr Brett-Taylor [Paris had written],

I wanted to thank you for everything. I’ve just retaken history, and it was dead easy. I should get an A star, so a middle finger to Boffin Brooks. I’m staying on now that Mr Deverell’s head and I’m going to work really hard to go to your old college at Cambridge. I won’t have any problem with top-up fees as Theo left me everything.

I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused you and Mrs B-T.

Please don’t take this wrong, but it meant a lot that you cared enough to cheat for me.

Love from Paris

PS Dora sends her love too.

PPS These are for the journey.

Opening the carrier bag, Hengist found a can of Coke and some tomato sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and broke down and wept for the first time since he’d been arrested. Finally, deciding he must pull himself together, he opened a second letter, also recognizing the flashy, green scrawl.

‘Dear Hengist,’ Cosmo had written, ‘I wonder if I could interview you for a programme I’m making for Channel 4 called
Cheating Heads
.’

And Hengist laughed until he cried, and this was how Sally found him as she tiptoed into the hall: once again the radiant, handsome, happy man she’d married. But when he turned, starting violently, she could see the deep lines of grief etching his face and that his thick, dark hair had gone completely grey.

‘I didn’t know you were going to be here,’ he began.

‘I wanted to see that everything was . . .’ stammered Sally, clutching on to the front door handle for support.

Next moment the lights went out and the whole campus was plunged in darkness.

‘Oh sugar, I lent the torch to Dora. She and Paris have taken Elaine for a walk.’

Jumping every time they bumped into each other, aching with longing, they found some candles in the kitchen and lit them from the gas cooker. Taking a lit candle into the drawing room to light more candles, Hengist could dimly see the snow outside tumbling down, blanketing everything in whiteness, making the ugliest shapes beautiful. Thinking sadly that he would never have cause to read it again, Hengist spread the pages of the
TES
on the remains of last night’s fire. To his amazement, after few seconds, the pages leapt into flame. From the ashes, thought Hengist.

Sally brought down thick jerseys for them both. Hengist noticed her hair had been newly washed – probably not for him – and her faint, familiar scent of red roses made his senses reel as it mingled with the smell of white hyacinths in the peacock-blue bowl on the low centre table. Sally had always staggered her planting of bulbs so they brought joy throughout the dark winter.

Hengist poured them both large Armagnacs and they sat on the carpet in front of the fire, separately pondering on the impossibility of dividing up their possessions or their lives.

Take what you want, they had both written to each other. But as the firelight flickered over the room, Sally noticed the bronze greyhound Hengist had given her to celebrate Cheerful Reply’s victory, which had sealed their engagement. Then all the wedding presents, the little Sickert from her father and mother, the green Victorian paperweight from David Hawkley, the Rockingham Dalmatian from Rupert Campbell-Black and his then wife, Helen. How could you cut Sickerts and greyhounds in half? Or that lovely photograph of Oriana on graduation day or of Mungo on his first day at prep school?

On the piano – had Sally been playing it? wondered Hengist – was the music for the entrance of the priests in
The Magic Flute
, which had been played at their wedding. Next to it was a wedding photograph of Sally looking ecstatically happy. After a second glass of Armagnac and with the warmth of the fire bringing colour to her blanched cheeks, she looked just as young and pretty as on their first date.

‘I feel guilty about taking so long, when Artie must want to move in,’ she said helplessly, ‘but I just don’t know how to divide things up.’

‘I’ll cut out my heart and give it to you, it’s yours anyway,’ said Hengist in a low voice. ‘I never wanted to leave, but I’d destroyed our marriage. I’d let you down irrevocably. It was the only option. You were right to tell me to go.’

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Sally.

‘Write, I suppose. There’s Tom and Matt to finish and I might have a crack at the novel on the Fronde. I’m sure it would sell more than Alex’s apparatchik lit. I got a nice letter from Transworld saying they’d be interested in my memoirs.’ Then, with difficulty: ‘How’s Elaine?’

‘She misses you appallingly, she really pined.’ Sally’s voice trembled. ‘In her gentle way, she never complained, but I think she should go with you.’

Then the lights flickered and went on. Both Hengist and Sally scrambled to their feet, gazing at each other, both aged as though blasted by lightning, but frantic to reach out.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ howled Hengist as the doorbell rang.

There was a pause, followed by quick steps, then a dark head came round the door. The skin was so smooth, the big eyes so large, clear and purple-shadowed, Hengist thought at first it was a pupil returned early.

‘Hello, Mum,’ said Oriana, then her face lit up:

‘Dad, I didn’t know you were here.’

‘Just going,’ mumbled Hengist.

A wail from the hall made them all jump.

‘I’ve brought Wilfred, if that’s all right.’

Going out into the hall, Oriana returned with the most adorable baby, strong, deep-blue-eyed, chubby-faced, with already a down of dark hair. Sally took him in ecstasy.

‘What a splendid little chap.’ She gazed at him in amazement that something so wholesome and beautifully formed should emerge from such a strange, unpropitious union.

‘Look at his sweet hands and his lovely skin, and I love that track suit, it must be American, they make such fun clothes. Oh Oriana, he’s heavenly.’

After a minute she handed him on to Hengist.

‘I hope you don’t mind us giving him Hengist as a second name, Dad,’ stammered Oriana.

‘Not at all. Very gratifying; he’s beautiful,’ said Hengist in a choked voice as he gazed in wonder at his grandson.

‘We chose a fantastic guy as a donor,’ said Oriana, ‘a baseball champion, a summa cum laude at Harvard, so Wilfie’ll probably end up playing rugger for England after all.’

Profoundly relieved that her parents were taking it so well, Oriana then asked them if they’d like to come to New York for the christening next month.

‘Charlie’s parents are utterly spooked by the whole me and Charlie scenario,’ she went on. ‘You two would add a wonderful normality to the whole thing and be brilliant for my street cred.’

‘Not me, surely,’ said Hengist quickly.

‘Hush,’ said Oriana, reaching up to kiss his rigid cheek.

‘Where is Charlie?’ asked Sally.

‘In the car.’

‘She must be frozen, go and get her.’

‘Only if you’ll agree to come to the christening and stay on for a week or two. You both need a holiday.’

Sally didn’t answer. The grandfather clock continued its jerky tick.

Outside Hengist could just make out Elaine hurtling home through the snow, kicking up a white spray like a downhill racer. But still, for him, the chasm loomed. Still Sally didn’t speak; then her hand slipped into his.

‘Yes, we will,’ she cried joyfully, ‘that would be grand, Daddy and I would simply love to be there.’

THE END

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

During the four years I have been writing
Wicked!
, so many people from both the maintained and independent sectors helped me, that a list of them all would be longer than the book. Most of them were insanely overworked, which made their generosity with their time and ideas all the kinder.

I should add that all were in some way experts in their field, but because
Wicked!
is a work of fiction I only took their advice in so far as it suited my plot. The end product is no reflection on their expertise.

I must start by thanking two inspired heads from the maintained sector: Virginia Frayer and Katherine Eckersley, to whom
Wicked!
is dedicated, because of their devotion to their pupils and the heroic attempts both made to save two wonderful schools, the Angel, Islington, and Village High School, Derby, from closing down.

Both Virginia and Katherine are happily now in other jobs, but at the time they talked to me for hours with great courage and allowed me access to their schools. I was also lucky to receive similar help from another inspiring head, Gill Pyatt of Barnwood Park, Gloucester. This school met a happier fate in 2005, when the Tories snatched control of Gloucestershire and with an hour to spare dramatically reversed an inexplicable decision by the County Council to close it down. To prove the point, Barnwood Park was later in the year declared the fourth most improved school in the country.

I was also made hugely welcome by two other brilliant local heads, Jo Grills of Stroud High and Vivienne Warren of Archway, who let me rove round their schools talking to pupils and witnessing inspirational teaching. Other great heads included Nigel Griffiths of John Kyrle School, Ross-on-Wye, Paul Eckersley of Selby High, Aydin Onac of Tewkesbury School, Jan Thompson of Cranham C. of E. Primary, Chris Steer of Sir Thomas Keble. I am also grateful for the shared wisdom of an awesome trio of former heads, Anthony Edkins, Jill Clough and Marie Stubbs.

The independent sector was equally helpful and I owe a massive debt of gratitude to two most humane and charming headmasters: Martin Stephen of St Paul’s and Tim Hastie-Smith of Dean Close. They were always there when I needed help and gave me wise and witty advice on everything from royal visits to the endless speeches that bedevil a head at the beginning of term. In Tim’s case, because Dean Close is indeed geographically close, I was allowed frequent access to his lovely school and enchanting staff and pupils.

I was also uniquely privileged to be able to pick the very considerable brains of two charismatic former heads, Dennis Silk of Radley and Ian Beer of Harrow, and to enjoy the beguiling company of Tom Weare of Bryanston, Peter Johnson of Millfield, Angus McPhail of Radley and Jennie Stephen of South Hampstead High School.