Wicked! (31 page)

The boys, wearing massive trainers and tracksuits with the hoods up, were swigging tap water from Evian bottles, unwilling to reveal they couldn’t afford spring water.

‘Have you taken your Ritalin, Rocky?’ asked Janna.

Other boys had discovered that crushed Ritalin snorted gave you a high as good as cocaine and had been offering Rocky ten quid for his daily intake. Rocky liked money to buy chocolate and fizzy drinks, which made him even crazier.

Rocky also had a huge crush on Kylie who led him round like a great curly-polled red bull.

‘I want to go on the bus,’ he was now grumbling.

‘We all do.’ Trying to keep her temper, Janna got out her mobile to learn that Stancombe had an important lunch in London, but would arrive at Bagley around three-thirty, officially to hand over the bus, which would be arriving any second.

‘It’s not coming, it’s all a hype,’ taunted Monster Norman.

Graffi, Feral and Paris retreated behind a holly bush for a cigarette, which became a second and a third as they all waited.

Then, just when they’d given up, Kylie shouted:

‘Here it comes, here it comes, and it’s ginormous!’

The bus, the same crimson as Larks’s sweatshirts, had black leather upholstery, an upright lavatory like an upended coffin, a television and seated at least twenty-four. On the sides, so no one could mistake its benefactor, was printed in gold letters: ‘Larkminster Comprehensive School Bus donated by Randal Stancombe Properties’. On the front the destination said: ‘Bagley Hall’.

‘Wicked!’ yelled the children.

But as they surged forward, struggling to be first up the steps, Satan shouted: ‘Yer mother,’ to Feral. Next moment Feral had jumped on Satan and Monster on Johnnie Fowler, at the same time aiming a kick at Paris. Graffi leapt to Paris’s defence. Everyone was yelling and pitching in, when suddenly the driver climbed down out of the bus. Instantly every child retreated in terror. Then, as he swept off his baseball cap, revealing a dark, shaven head and lighting up the grey day with his diamonds and his white teeth, Janna recognized Feral’s Uncle Harley.

‘Miss Curtis.’ He took her hand. ‘As beautiful as ever.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I do a bit of work for Mr Stancombe. Sorry I’m late, the garage was changing the number plates.’

‘It’s wonderful, thank you so much,’ cried Janna as the selected children climbed on in a most orderly fashion.

Janna was about to leap on too, when Rowan came running across the playground: ‘Toilets are blocked again, and Mrs Norman’s on the warpath.’

A second later, Stormin’ Norman came charging across the playground.

‘Why isn’t my Martin on that bus? Why’s he bein’ discriminated against, you cheeky cow?’ The fist poised to smash into Janna’s face stopped in mid-air. ‘Mornin’, Harley, just discussin’ logistics wiv Janna.’

‘Fuck off,’ ordered Harley, who’d been showing Wally how the bus worked.

Amazingly, Stormin’ Norman did.

‘You wouldn’t like a job here?’ asked Janna.

Harley flashed his teeth and advised her to get going. He’d sort everything this end.

‘He’s dead sexy, your uncle,’ said Gloria as Feral tried to get lost against the black leather.

‘Quick, miss. Baldie Hyde’s just driven up,’ shouted Graffi.

Janna needed no further encouragement. Cheered off by other pupils who ran down the drive, banging its sides, the bus pulled away, quite jerkily at first, as Wally became accustomed to the gears.

‘I’m going to be sick,’ announced Kylie. ‘Can we open a window?’

‘Nah,’ said Pearl. ‘It’d fuck my hair.’

As the bus crossed over the River Fleet into the country, pupils charged up and down, trying out the coffin lavatory, fiddling with the windows, standing on the seats to test the luggage rack.

Mags Gablecross, knitting a shawl for a prospective grandchild, handed round a tub of Heroes. Miss Cambola got everyone singing: first ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’, then ‘It really ain’t surprising That we’re rising, rising, rising.’

‘Up the fucking social scale,’ sang Graffi to howls of laughter.

Outside, the red ploughed fields were covered in flocks of birds having staff meetings.

‘Miss, miss, Johnnie Fowler and Kitten Meadows have been in the toilet for five minutes,’ cried Kylie.

Janna smiled and walked up and down encouraging everyone.

Paris, ecstatic to be in her company for a whole day, thought she’d never looked more beautiful. The red fur softened her little freckled face. Her perfume made him sneeze and his senses reel, particularly when she sat down and took his hand.

‘You’ll flip when you see the library. Have you written any more poems?’

‘Not a lot.’ Actually he was wrestling with one about Janna herself called ‘Perihelion’. Such a beautiful word, it meant the point in its orbit when a planet was nearest the sun. He was the planet that craved its moment of perihelion close to his sun: Janna, her flaming hair spread out like the sun’s rays.

Love had sabotaged his cool, but he tried to be more inscrutable than ever, gazing out at old man’s beard glittering like cast-aside angels’ wings in the hedgerows.

‘Here’s Bagley, playground of the rich,’ said Graffi, catching sight of the big gold house through the thinning trees.

Getting out her powder compact Janna took the shine off her freckled nose and, in the driving mirror, met Wally’s wise, kindly eyes, which missed nothing. ‘Be careful,’ they said.

The bus swung left, through pillars topped with stone lions, up a drive past red and white cows, muddy horses, black-faced sheep, ancient trees in khaki fields; past heroic sculptures; past a signpost pointing the way to the bursar’s office, the science laboratory, the music hall, the sick bay, the headmaster’s rooms – Janna gave a shiver. Would there be room for her?

All around, Bagley pupils were walking to classes, girls in sea-blue jerseys, soft beige pleated skirts and slip-on shoes, the boys in tweed jackets and grey flannels. Passing eternal playing fields on the right and the big square Mansion on the left, Wally turned left, then left again up a little drive through a big oak front door into a quadrangle in the centre of which a bronze lion tenderly sheltered a fawn between its paws.

‘Bleedin’ ’ell,’ said Feral, ‘it’s a fuckin’ castle.’

‘Bigger than Mr Darcy’s house,’ conceded Pearl.

‘It’s Goffic,’ breathed Johnnie Fowler, gazing up at the pointed turrets and narrow windows.

‘Ah, isn’t that lion sweet,’ cried Kylie.

As the bus doors buckled, aware of hundreds of eyes looking down at them from offices and classrooms, the Larks children swarmed out into the sunshine, steeling themselves for mockery.

Then, as though one of the heroic sculptures, perhaps Thor, God of Thunder, had come to life, curly-haired, square-jawed, massive-shouldered and battling to curb his fury, Emlyn Davies strode out to meet them.

On Saturday, the five Bagley rugby teams had away matches against Fleetley, the school from which Hengist had departed under a cloud and the one he most wanted to bury.

Emlyn had intended spending the afternoon fine-tuning each team, trying out different moves and combinations of players, before making a final selection. Hengist would be the first to raise hell if Bagley didn’t wipe the floor with Fleetley, but had now dragged Emlyn away to oversee his latest self-indulgent distribution of largesse, leaving that pompous woofter Denzil Harper, head of PE, in charge. Sometimes Emlyn loathed Hengist. Everyone had to pick up the fucking pieces.

He had just broken the news that Hengist was irrevocably tied up all afternoon to a stricken Janna and her bitterly disappointed children, when Hengist made him look a complete prat by erupting into the quad, dark hair on end, ink all over his hands.

‘
Mea culpa, mea culpa
. I’m so sorry, children. I failed to hand in an essay yesterday and have to stay in all afternoon to write it.’ Then, seizing Janna’s quivering hands, he kissed her on both flaming cheeks. ‘Darling, I’m mortified, how delicious you look. Diorissimo, isn’t it?’

Then he turned his spotlight charm on the other teachers – kissing Mags and telling her on what good form her husband Tim had been the other night; praising a piece on Boccherini Miss Cambola had written for last week’s
Classical Music
: ‘I’d no idea he was such a fascinating character!’; urging Gloria to try out the newest equipment in the gym: ‘I’d so value your opinion. What pretty women teach at Larks! And young Jason, hello. I can’t remember whether you’re in Year Nine or Year Ten,’ followed by a shout of laughter, which cracked up the children.

Jason, who’d quickly put his striped shirt collar inside the crew neck of his dark blue jersey because Hengist had, tried to be a good sport.

Then, turning to the children, Hengist explained that with Miss Painswick away and his excitement about their visit, he’d completely forgotten to write his piece for the
Telegraph
about ‘the importance of competitive games’. ‘You lot, being obsessed with football, know all about that,’ he went on, shaking hands with each of them.

‘I know Miss Curtis has only chosen special people: Johnnie Fowler, the great cricketer, you must try out the indoor school later. And Aysha, the budding Stephen Hawking, what part of Pakistan d’you come from? I know it well,’ followed by a couple of sentences in Urdu.

‘And Feral, the ace footballer, whom I am determined to convert to rugger, you’re the right build. Lily Hamilton, an old friend, and a fan of yours, Feral, tells me you support Arsenal. And here’s Graffi, another old friend, how’s the mural of Larkminster going? Janna says it’s fantastic. I’ve just bought a Keith Vaughan for the common room. I’ll show it to you later.

‘And here’s Pearl, who transformed Janna last Saturday, an amazing effort, although you had a lovely subject’ – quick smile at Janna – ‘will you help us with make-up for our play next term? We’re planning to join forces. You must look at our theatre.’

‘Yes, please, sir.’ Pearl, the cross robin, had suddenly turned into a lovebird.

Yesterday Janna had emailed Hengist photographs of every child with little biogs, but never expected him to memorize them. She felt overwhelmed with gratitude.

Noting how she was blushing, Paris thought: the smarmy bastard, he’s miles too old for her. Then Hengist swung round, his smile so warm and sympathetic.

‘And you must be Paris. I love your poems. Janna showed me “The Spire and the Lime Tree”. I gather you can also mimic anyone, so you must have a big part in our joint play. You’ll find a terrific drama section in the library. Have a look at Wilde, Coward and Tennessee Williams, great writers, great dialogue, great parts for you.’

The boy’s looks set him apart, thought Hengist. He has the same sad eyes, pallor, long nose and greyhound grace of Elaine, and I bet he can run away from life just as fast.

And Paris was bowled over like the rest.

Hengist was so good at putting people at their ease: he fired questions and used names to punctuate a sentence, to illustrate how clever he was to remember you out of the thousands of people he met. He had reached Kylie and rocked everyone by asking after little Cameron.

Kylie blossomed like the mauve pansies on her pretty dress. ‘He’s very well, fank you, sir.’

‘Must be hard looking after him and getting your homework done, Kylie, but I gather you’re coping brilliantly.’

Janna couldn’t fault him. He had screwed up, but as she watched the antagonism and fear melt out of her children, she could only forgive him.

‘I’m going to leave you in the large, capable hands of Mr Davies who, until he wrecked his knee, used to play rugger for Wales, which won’t impress you, Feral, but will our Welsh Graffi, look you. Everyone wants to be taught history by Mr Davies. His classes are hopelessly over-subscribed. He’s easily our most popular master, and has taken the afternoon off to organize your fun and games.’

Emlyn, who’d just been told that Rufus, who’d set up the entire team-building activity, had ratted, refused to be mollified. He was also brick red with hangover and not nearly as attractive in daylight, thought Janna.

Emlyn, in fact, had got wasted last night because he was worried sick about Oriana. God knows what the Taliban might do to one so fearless and beautiful. Then Sally had had the gall to email him first thing. Oriana was safe and sent love. Why the fuck couldn’t Oriana call him herself instead of ducking out, like her father, leaving someone else to break the news to the kids.

‘Mr Davies will take you over to Middle Field to meet our Bagley lot,’ Hengist was now saying. ‘He’s got some rather vigorous game to help you get acquainted. Randal Stancombe is jetting in during the afternoon, so you’ll get a chance to thank him for that splendid bus. Then you’re free to explore the school; someone will show you round. Don’t forget the library, Paris. I’ll see you all later. I better get back to my prep.’

‘Isn’t he awesome?’ sighed Kylie Rose.

29

‘I’m afraid I won’t remember any of your names,’ said Emlyn sarcastically as he led them out of the quad, past the lake and the River Fleet in the distance, down to a little white cricket pavilion. Behind this lay Middle Field, which divided Pitch One from the first holes of the golf course and consisted of four acres of rough grass dotted with little copses. Middle Field was also used by the CCF for training exercises. Bagley pupils enjoying peaceful smokes or snoggings were often disturbed by flying balls or invading armies.