Wicked! (25 page)

Although number 12 was in darkness, she could hear a ghetto blaster. Perhaps Feral was hiding upstairs. Ducking in terror as a rocket hissed past her head, she ran back down the garden path slap into a very large black man. He had a shaved head and was wearing black leather, a large diamond necklace, ear studs and lots of aftershave, which mercifully blotted out the stench of dustbins.

‘What yer doing?’ a bass voice with a soft Jamaican accent rumbled menacingly up from his chest.

‘Looking for Feral Jackson.’

The big guy gave Janna, as made over by Pearl, the once-over and made an understandable mistake. ‘Bit long in the tooth for him.’

‘I actually have an appointment with his mother.’

‘Pull the other leg – and get off my territory if you don’t want your pretty face rearranged.’

Janna winced as he yanked her head upwards and flicked on his lighter. ‘On second thoughts I’ll forget it if you show me a good time.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I won’t cut you up’ – he threatened her eyelashes with his lighter – ‘if you give me a fuck.’

Whereupon Janna rose in outrage to her five feet one inch plus four-inch heels. ‘How
dare
you. I am Feral’s head teacher.’

The big guy looked initially flabbergasted then became very, very cosy and introduced himself as Feral’s Uncle Harley.

‘And you don’t look like an ’ead teacher, little darling.’

‘Feral hasn’t been in school for three weeks.’ Janna tried to steady her trembling legs. ‘I’d like to see Mrs Jackson.’

‘She’s not in; family’s gone to the pitchers to see
Shrek
.’

‘I just want someone to get him up in the morning and see he does his homework.’

‘Look no further,’ murmured Uncle Harley.

As he walked her back to her car, approaching gangs of youths retreated like smoke. A prostitute stopped screaming at Janna and slid away like a snake.

‘Feral’s such a wonderful athlete,’ urged Janna. ‘A group of Larks children have been invited over to Bagley Hall so he’ll get an opportunity to play football on decent pitches and try out their running tracks.’

‘He’s a lucky young man.’ Uncle Harley grew even cosier. ‘You got time for a drink?’

‘I should be at the Winter Gardens already.’

‘Sorry I mistook you.’ Uncle Harley took her keys to open the car door, then, adding with massive irony, ‘Not safe round here for a nice young lady,’ he kissed her hand.

‘I hope to see you at one of our parents’ evenings.’

‘Try and keep me away.’

23

Still shaking with hysterical laughter, Janna reached the Winter Gardens. The dinner was held in a side hall, whose high ceiling was covered with nudging, pinching cherubs reminiscent of the playground at Larks. In one half of the room, tables were laid for dinner and speeches. In the other, because a Lib Dem/Lab hung council had no intention of squandering ratepayers’ money, indifferent red or white was being offered to a crowd of bigwigs.

Hengist had not yet arrived, but Pearl’s make-over was soon having a dramatic effect. The Mayor, wearing a chain Uncle Harley would have killed for, blamed the Winter Gardens’ poor acoustics for the fact he had to bend right over Janna’s boobs to hear what she said.

Next minute, parsnip-faced Mr Tyler rushed up with two friends and was just apologizing for his rudeness the week before last when Stancombe appeared by her side, looking sleek and glamorous in a dinner jacket and far more relaxed than he’d been at Sally and Hengist’s. ‘I can’t handle teachers, Jan; so patronizing, do my head in. Don’t count you as one; not tonight, particularly. You look very tasty.’

He got out his mobile, took a picture of her and texted it to one of his friends, showing her the message: ‘How lucky am I to be invited to functions with ladies like this?’ Then, to show off further to Tyler and the Mayor: ‘The minibus will be with you by a.m. Wednesday, what colour d’you fancy?’

‘The coolest colour, please.’ Janna accepted a top-up of white. ‘You are kind, it will give our children such street cred.’

‘I’m donating a minibus to Larks,’ boasted Stancombe to the others, ‘so Jan can transport her kids to matches and things.’

‘I’ll send in the boys to sort out your computers,’ countered Tyler.

‘I’ll pick up the bill for any sports kit,’ said one of his friends.

‘That would be fantastic,’ beamed Janna.

Thank you, Pearl, she thought, sidling away as the Mayor pinched her bottom. She’d never had such an effect on men. Tyler and his mates were clearly irked by the way Stancombe muscled in, but they all deferred to him.

Then Hengist swanned in, instantly stealing Stancombe’s thunder: ‘Darling, sorry I’m late. Christ, you look amazing.’ He kissed her on both shimmering cheeks. ‘What have you done?’

‘Pearl gave me a make-over.’

‘We’ll make her head of make-up when we do our joint Larks–Bagley play.’ He took a gulp of red and nearly spat it out.

‘Christ, that’s disgusting.’ He waved to a waiter who scuttled over. ‘Can you get me a bottle of Sancerre and a large whisky and soda, no ice, and take this arsenic away.’ He handed the boy his and Janna’s glasses.

‘It can’t be that bad, Hengist,’ grumbled the Mayor.

‘It’s much worse,’ said Hengist, putting an arm round Janna’s shoulders. ‘Jesus,’ he added as the flamingo-pink shawl fell away.

‘I’m having a Mrs Walton moment,’ giggled Janna.

Hengist couldn’t stop laughing.

‘I can’t work out if you look ten years older or younger than the little teenager you normally resemble. Come and meet everyone important. Oh dear, here come Super Bugger and Sancho Pansy from S and C,’ as Ashton and Crispin paused to have their picture taken by the
Gazette
.

Crispin had put on more weight and with his petulant baby face he looked like the bullying older brother of the cherubs rampaging over the ceiling. Ashton’s bland pink and white face had been given more definition by a dinner jacket and a black tie but his thinly lashed eyes were as cold green as a frozen fjord. Waiting until Hengist had been distracted by some Tory councillor, he and Crispin cornered Janna.

‘You look very Chwistmassy.’ Ashton examined her hair. ‘Does it wash out?’

‘Yes, but I don’t.’

‘The
Gazette
says you’re joining Bagley,’ snuffled Crispin.

‘When did that rag ever tell the truth? Gillian Grimston was at the same dinner party. Sally invited me to meet some locals, which is more than Mike Pitts, Rod or either of you have ever done.’

‘And how’s the Bagley bonding going?’ asked Ashton.

‘Starts next week.’

‘Doesn’t it threaten your left-wing pwinciples to accept largesse from an independent?’

‘Beggars can’t be choosers. My children have been let down too often.’ Janna’s voice rose: ‘And it’s not as if you’re giving us any money.’

Ashton put his head on one side. ‘You should weally take a course in anger management.’

‘Doesn’t she look gorgeous?’ It was Hengist back, waving a bottle of Sancerre, topping up Janna’s glass. ‘Pearl Smith did her hair and make-up. I think we’ve got another Barbara Daly on our hands. You should let her have a go at you, Ashton, next time you’ve got an important date,’ he added insolently.

‘I’m from the
Western Daily Press
, Miss Curtis,’ announced a hovering photographer. ‘Can I get a picture of your new look? I’ll take care of your shawl,’ he added whisking it away and arranging her next to a marble vestal virgin with downcast eyes.

‘Sacred and profane love,’ murmured Hengist. ‘I know which I prefer.’

‘Can we have you in the photograph too, Mr B-T?’ said a second photographer. ‘I’m from
Cotswold Life
.’

Ashton and Crispin were hopping. So was Rod Hyde. How dare Janna look so desirable! She deserved a good spanking. Rod had rolled up with Alex Bruce and, like Alex, had rejected the right-wing regalia of a dinner jacket. Gillian Grimston immediately sat down beside them.

‘As the leading professional at the Brett-Taylors’ dinner party,’ she said indignantly, ‘why didn’t the
Gazette
mention I was there?’

Why wasn’t I asked in the first place? thought Alex and Rod darkly and simultaneously.

‘Who’s that toad-like man with bulging eyes who’s just waddled in?’ Janna whispered to Hengist.

‘Colin “Col” Peters. Editor of the
Gazette
, failed Fleet Street, now enjoying being a big toad in a small pool.’

Janna downed her third glass of wine. ‘I’m going to kill him.’

‘Not tonight you’re not,’ said Hengist firmly.

‘And the smiley-faced woman in the red trouser suit talking to him looks familiar.’

‘That’s Cindy Payne, the Labour county councillor in charge of education, hand in glove with Ashton Douglas. Looks like a cosy agony aunt, but she’s a snake in sheep’s clothing.’

‘Snakes eat toads. Col Peters better watch out.’

At dinner Janna found herself sitting next to a CID Chief Inspector with a square, reddish face softened by beautiful long-lashed green eyes, and was enchanted when he turned out to be the husband of her languages teacher, Mags Gablecross.

‘Such a lovely woman. If only she worked full time.’

‘She says you’re working wonders and the kids adore you.’

‘I wish the teachers felt the same. They’re so terrified of Cara Sharpe.’

‘Get her out,’ advised Chief Inspector Gablecross. ‘She’s bad news.’

After a good bitch about Cara, Janna told the Chief Inspector about her encounter with Uncle Harley, which really shocked him.

‘Don’t ever go near the Shakespeare Estate alone again. Harley’s really dangerous and hell-bent on taking the drug trade to new markets all over the West Country.’

Janna drew in her breath. ‘Oh dear.’

Across the room she saw Stancombe getting up, making apologies to his table and waving to Janna on the way out.

‘See you Wednesday morning, Jan. Give the garage a spring clean.’

‘Stancombe’s got his eyes on the Shakespeare Estate,’ observed the Chief Inspector. ‘Always the same procedure. He vows he’s going to build cheap houses for first-time buyers – teachers and nurses – then he razes the place to the ground and, like mushrooms, desirable residences spring up.’

He looked down in disgust at his first course of roast vegetables. ‘You used to be able to turn down these things with your main course. Now they’re everywhere.’ He patted his gut.

Janna, who hadn’t eaten all day, was tucking in.

‘I was worried Stancombe might be after Larks – all those acres of lovely land,’ she admitted, ‘but I misjudged him, he’s just given us a minibus.’

‘
Timeo Danaos
,’ warned the Chief Inspector.

‘Will you come and talk to my kids?’ asked Janna.

On Janna’s left was a trendy estate agent called Desmond Reynolds, nicknamed ‘Des Res’, because he found so many middle-class parents desirable residences in the catchment areas of St Jimmy’s and Searston Abbey.

He had little chin, talked through clenched teeth and, having discovered she came from West Yorkshire and didn’t know the Lane-Foxes or the Horton-Fawkeses, lost interest.

‘Five per cent of the properties I sell each year are driven by parents’ desire for a better school. Stands to reason,’ he went on languidly. ‘Pay three hundred thousand for a house in the catchment area of St Jimmy’s. In seven years you’ve not only saved at least a hundred and forty K per child you would have spent on Bagley school fees, but also your house will have trebled in value because you’re in the catchment area of such a cracking good school.’

‘Why’s St Jimmy’s so good?’ Sulkily, Janna speared a roast potato.

‘Because Rod Hyde’s a cracking good head.’

‘Do your children go there?’

‘No, Eton.’

‘I suppose people never want to buy houses in the catchment area of Larks?’ asked Janna wistfully.

‘Never,’ said Des Res with a shudder. ‘Beats me why Hengist’s pairing up with them.’

Glancing round, Hengist caught the desolation on Janna’s face and immediately swapped places with Des Res.

Janna took a huge gulp of wine and then a deep breath.

‘Stancombe’s promised the minibus for Wednesday morning.’

‘Come over on Wednesday afternoon then.’

‘How do I know your little toffs won’t take the piss out of my kids?’

‘Send the best-looking. The Wolf Pack are such celebs they’ll get badgered for autographs.’

Hengist’s flippancy enraged Janna but when she told him about her visit to the Shakespeare Estate he went white.

‘Promise, promise never to go there again. Planes may not disappear from the Romeo Triangle but people do.’

‘Uncle Harley promised to get Feral back into school.’