Wicked! (36 page)

‘I don’t like maffs because I don’t like our maffs teacher,’ said Rocky in his hoarse voice.

‘You wouldn’t like ours any better,’ said Amber. ‘He shifts his cock from one leg of his trousers to another, and buries great silent sulphuric farts in his thick tweed trousers. He’s called Biffo; ought to be “Whiffo”.’

Rocky broke into his hoarse laugh and, unable to stop, lumbered to his feet.

‘I’d like to fank everyone at Bagley for having us. Free cheers to Bagley. Hip, hip, hooray; hip, hip, hooray; hip, hip, hooray.’

‘You must play Bottom next time we do a production of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
,’ suggested Cosmo.

‘Where’s Feral?’ said Pearl fretfully.

‘You will come out wiv me, won’t you?’ Graffi murmured to Milly. After his winnings today he could take her to La Perdrix d’Or.

‘Course I will. You’ve got the same lovely accent as Mr Davies. Everyone’s got crushes on him, but you’ve got me over mine.’

33

Hengist felt drained but Christ-like. He had faxed his piece and the
Telegraph
loved it. One shouldn’t be so dependent on approval. In the drinks cupboard he found a box of Maltesers given him by some pupil and, realizing he hadn’t had any lunch, broke the cellophane and started eating them. His thoughts turned to Janna arriving with her children.

‘Round about her “there is a rabble Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor”,’ he quoted idly. ‘“They shall inherit the earth.”’

Poor child, he’d neglected her shamelessly. He decided to text her: ‘Settle your children, then escape and have a drink.’

Shiny-faced, shadowed beneath the eyes, lipstick bitten off, Janna longed to repair her face, but, scared Hengist would have pushed off somewhere else, loathing herself for such abject acquiescence, she was knocking on his big oak door five minutes later.

‘How’s it gone? I’m so sorry, darling.’ Hengist thrust a large glass of gin and orange into her hand.

He’d remembered, but then he’d remembered Kylie had a baby called Cameron. It was so unprofessional to sulk, she must just be cool.

‘Your kids have been so nice,’ she began. ‘The balloons were brilliant, and they’ve had a really good time since then trying things out. I’m so proud of them,’ she added defiantly.

‘So you should be.’

His was such a beautiful room: rich dark panelling soaring into the ornate ceiling, William Morris animal tiles round the leaping log fire, red lamps casting a warm glow, lovely photographs on the desk of Sally, Oriana and Elaine, a stuffed bear in a mortar board, overcrowded bookshelves. Noting dilapidated, leather-bound copies of Horace, Aristotle, Saint-Simon and Gibbon, all containing bookmarks, Janna wondered if he’d really read and referred to them all.

Apart from the Keith Vaughan of a thundery twilight, yet to be dispatched to the Common Room, all other available wall space was covered by sepia photographs of past teams, past scholars, past heads, past glories. Such a stultifying emphasis on tradition.

‘We’ve got an old boys’ reunion tonight,’ said Hengist. ‘It’s to encourage them to send their sons and daughters here.’

‘“This is the Chapel: here, my son, Your father thought the thoughts of youth,”’ quoted Janna scornfully.

She ran her hands over a bronze replica of the lion in the quad, dropping his head to lick the little fawn:

‘More likely to gobble it up.’

‘Debatable,’ agreed Hengist.

He looked tired, with great bags under his eyes, but he seemed very happy as he abstractedly went on eating Maltesers.

On a side table Janna suddenly caught sight of a perfectly dreadful figurine of a headless naked woman, with a noose around her long neck and forests of armpit and pubic hair.

‘Goodness.’

‘Goodness, as Mae West said, has nothing to do with it. Alex Bruce’s wife made it for my birthday to remind me not to oppress women.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘Gha-a-a-astly.’ Hengist shuddered. ‘She carries political correctness ad absurdum and has the relentless cheeriness and verbal diarrhoea of a weather girl. One longs to throw a green baize cloth over her.’

There was a pause. The room was so cosy after the chill winter evening, the flames dancing merrily.

‘Dreadful forgetting the
Telegraph
piece, I’m so sorry.’ Hengist upended the box of Maltesers.

‘Did they like it?’

‘John Clare said he did. It probably thumped the right tubs. I ought to write more.’

‘I ought to read more,’ Janna said fretfully. ‘I haven’t read a single novel since I came to Larks. I truly hate being a head.’

The guilt she felt about being away from school all afternoon was kicking in. She could no longer bury it beneath her longing to see Hengist again. He’s not remotely interested in me, she thought bleakly.

‘I don’t deserve to be one,’ she went on. ‘I can’t make peace with my staff. They’ll never forgive me for having a lovely time today.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Hengist gently. ‘I like your children very much and I look forward to knowing them and their headmistress a great deal better.’

‘You do?’ Janna glanced up, and Hengist was mortified to see her trembling bottom lip and the despair in her big brown eyes.

They were interrupted by an almighty crash, scattering glass everywhere, followed by a second and a further shower of fragments.

Janna screamed; Hengist leapt forward, pulling her against him and out of the way. For a few blissful seconds, his arms closed around her and she felt the softness of dark green cashmere and his heart pounding, and breathed in a faint smell of lemon aftershave and Maltesers.

Then he looked down and she looked up. Both for a second were distracted from the disaster as his beautiful mouth hovered above hers, then reality kicked in.

‘Was that some kind of terrorist attack?’ she gasped.

Something had smashed the vast bay window overlooking the pitches and to the splintered glass all over the floor were added the shattered remnants of Poppet Bruce’s figurine.

‘I’ve found a bit of bush.’ Hengist brandished a fragment. ‘At least Mrs Bruce’s masterpiece is no more. It’s an ill window, I suppose.’ He grinned in such delight, Janna burst out laughing.

‘This is the culprit,’ Hengist fished a golf ball out of the fireplace. Striding to the now gaping window, he peered into the dusk, roaring: ‘What the hell are you playing at? Christ!’ he added as he slowly took in how far the ball must have travelled. Picking up his binoculars, usually used for birdwatching, he caught sight of a distant crimson sweatshirt and a huge, wide grin.

‘Your Feral Jackson is the culprit behind the culprit.’

‘Oh God.’ Janna was appalled. ‘We’ll pay for it.’

‘Feral can pay for it himself when he wins the Masters, if we haven’t converted him to rugger by then. God, that was a long way.’

‘I’m so sorry, I must take my children home.’

‘Feral won’t have had supper yet.’

‘You’ve got your old boys’ reunion.’

Hengist shrugged. ‘We’ve always got something. Have another drink, it’s only five o’clock.’ He ran a hand over her hair. ‘Sorry you were frightened, but it was a lovely hug.’

34

Over in the General Bagley Room, Graffi and Feral were chatting so much they hadn’t noticed Paris’s self-absorption.

Feral had come to Bagley determined to trash everything in sight, but he’d had fun; he’d outshot and outdriven everyone else; and he had a new friend called Amber who’d given him her mobile number. Would he have the guts to ring her?

Suddenly the jangling jolly theme tune of showjumping on the BBC rang out.

‘That’s my mobile,’ cried Amber in delight. ‘Where is it?’

‘Here,’ said Cosmo, picking up Feral’s black tracksuit top and, before Feral could stop him, whipping a mobile out of the inside pocket. The room went quiet. Cosmo switched it on.

‘Hi, is that Peregrine? Hang on a minute. What’s your mobile doing in Feral’s fleece?’ he asked Amber.

‘I never touched it.’ Feral jumped to his feet, amiability turning to menace, fists clenched, Graffi and Paris beside him.

‘I gave it to Feral to look after when we were racing round the wood,’ said Amber quickly. ‘It was safer with him.’

For a second she and Cosmo glared at each other.

‘You said you’d lost it.’

‘And now I’ve found it. Hi, Perry, how are you?’

Graffi pulled a protesting Feral back into his chair.

‘I didn’t take no mobile.’

‘Cool it, man, she gave it to you to look after, she said so.’

‘She didn’t,’ said Feral stonily. ‘That was a plant to frame me.’

‘What did you go inside for last summer, Feral?’ asked Cosmo chattily. ‘For nicking a mobile wasn’t it?’

Paris stood up and, strolling down the row, pulled Cosmo to his feet. ‘Don’t even go down that road, you sick bastard,’ he said softly. In a trice, Emlyn was beside him.

‘It’s Janna’s day. Don’t spoil it for her.’

Paris glowered round, slowly his fist uncurled and dropped to his side. ‘You sick bastard,’ he repeated.

Boffin, who’d missed this scrap, was still pontificating. ‘We do a lot for charity,’ he was telling Aysha in his nasal whine. ‘We raised twenty thousand pounds for netball courts in Soweto with sponsored runs and cycle rides. Senior students act as mentors to the local primary school. Primrose is very active in this field. We run errands for senior citizens and tend their gardens. We raise a lot for the NSPCC, for cancer patients and other disadvantaged groups.’

Pausing for breath, he smiled smugly round at the Larks contingent. ‘And of course today, we’ve set aside an entire afternoon to entertain you folks.’

‘An entire afternoon to entertain you folks,’ whined Paris in perfect imitation.

Milly’s giggle immediately died. There was a terrible silence.

‘Boffin,’ said a horrified Amber.

Pearl rose to her feet, hoop earrings flying.

‘You lot ’ad us over today,’ she yelled. ‘If you just did it for bleedin’ charity, you can stick it up your ass’ole. In fact you’re just a lot of fuckin’ ass’oles. Upper class’oles in fact.’

‘Upper class-holes,’ sighed Cosmo in ecstasy. ‘Isn’t that perfect. Oh, Pearl of great price.’

Paris, however, had jumped on to the table, padded his way catlike through the debris of supper and leapt off at Boffin’s side, lifting him up by his lapels.

‘Take that back,’ he hissed.

‘Paris,’ thundered Emlyn.

‘How dare you patronize us.’

Next moment there was a crunch as Paris’s knuckles connected with Boffin’s buck teeth and hoisted him across the room.

‘Stop it.’ Emlyn grabbed Paris, clamping his arms behind his back; then, turning on Boffin, who was moaning on the floor, mouth filling up with blood: ‘Get up, you deserve everything you got.’

Emlyn proceeded to whistle up Lando and Jack. ‘Get him out of here quickly, take him to the sick bay.’

‘Wait ’til my father hears about this,’ mumbled Boffin, spitting out teeth.

‘Save him the cash for a brace,’ shouted Lando. ‘You should send him a bill, Paris.’

Boffin’s remarks had been so cringe-making that everyone cheered as Lando, aided by Jack, Mags and Jason, smuggled him out of a side door.

‘Be quiet, everyone,’ rapped out Emlyn as Hengist walked in with Janna, who looked as though a smoothing iron had been run over her glowing face.

‘I just love being a head,’ she was saying. ‘It’s like being a gardener with slightly too many plants to look after.’

Paris had felt no pain from Boffin’s teeth, but he’d rather have roasted in hell than witness the adoring way Janna was smiling up at Hengist.

Out they swarmed into the twilight, rain like the spray from some giant waterfall cooling their hot faces.

Wally, who’d had a wonderful time trying out the bells, hobnobbing with Mrs Axford and talking to RSM Bilson about his son in Iraq, was revving up the bus.

The two schools were bidding each other fond farewells and the Larks pupils were surging on to the minibus when a BMW came hurtling up the drive, screamed to a halt and one of the prettiest women Paris had ever seen leapt out. She was very tall and slim with big anxious eyes and a mass of dark wavy hair. Jeans might have been invented for her.

‘“Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like twilight’s, too, her dusky hair”,’ he muttered in wonder.

‘Christ, look at her,’ gasped Feral.

‘It’s Rupert Campbell-Black’s wife, Taggie,’ cried an excited Kylie, a great reader of
Hello!

For a moment, Taggie looked around in anguish, then Bianca came dancing down the steps into her mother’s arms.

‘I’m sorry, darling,’ gasped Taggie. ‘The traffic was terrible and I forgot my mobile. I’m so sorry, how are you, how did the dance class go?’

Chucking her stuff in the back, running round to the other side, Bianca waved goodbye to Dora. ‘See you tomorrow, I’ll text you the moment I get home.’