Wicked! (53 page)

51

Things did get better.

‘The students have bonded so well that the teachers are redundant,’ Skunk Illingworth announced the following evening, froth gathering on his moustache like snow on a blackthorn hedge as he downed a pint of real ale.

He, Biffo and Rufus had sloped off to the local pub, leaving the pupils happy to write up their field notes because, thanks to Bagley’s head of geography, they had discovered geography could be really interesting. Rufus, red-blond hair flopping, bony freckled face alight, had charged round Herefordshire, a piece of rock in one hand, a hammer in the other, book open in the grass, explaining the mysteries of the natural world to his enraptured listeners.

Earlier in the day, one group, including Paris, Boffin and Kylie, had carried out a tourist survey in a neighbouring forest. Unfortunately, on a dripping Wednesday morning, there was only a handful of tourists, who got fed up being repeatedly asked the same question. Kylie had even disturbed a couple in flagrante in the maturing bracken.

‘When I asked Mr and Mrs Brown from Scunthorpe whether they had travelled here by train, coach or bicycle,’ she was now writing in her round, careful hand, ‘they told me to f— off.’

Everyone had then piled into the coaches and moved on to the next location, the source of the Fleet, which here was an eight-foot-wide brook, but which swelled into a great river as it passed Bagley, curled round Larkminster and Larks, then flowed on into Rutshire, past Cosmo’s mother’s house, through Lando France-Lynch’s father’s land, then skirting Xav’s father’s land in Gloucestershire.

If I could only climb into a boat and row home, thought Xav, who, that morning, had been punched very hard by Lubemir.

‘Each group was allocated a section of the river,’ wrote Primrose Duddon in a red and mauve striped notebook. ‘We had to test our hypothesis on a “meander”, which means the river bending several times, and on a “riffle”, which is a fast-flowing, straight section. We rolled up a piece of tin foil, then checked how fast it floated down river.’

Pearl had kicked off her shoes and watched the ball of foil. It was snagged by tawny rushes, then floated on through the brown peaty water. Then she had collapsed on the warm wet grass, waiting for a teacher to tell her to get up. She was about to turn on her stopwatch and see how fast another ball of foil was floating down the far bank, when she felt a hand, as warm as the sun, on her bare legs.

‘This is a “riffle”,’ murmured Cosmo as he ran his hand slowly up her bare legs, roving over her bottom, gently exploring in and out of her shorts. ‘And this is definitely a “meander”.’

He then lay down beside her on the bank, wickedly squinting sideways at her, stroking her rainbow hair, kissing her forehead, burying his tongue in her ear, murmuring endearments in Italian, his night-dark eyes blotting out the sun. As she turned her head towards him, he kissed her, slowly sucking each lip, then dividing them with his tongue.

A roar of rage interrupted Pearl’s moment of bliss.

‘Cosmo Rannaldini. Stop that at once.’ Then the roar diminished as Joan realized Cosmo was only molesting a Larks student. ‘But stop it all the same. You’re supposed to be testing the velocity of the river, not the speed of your seduction technique.’

Pearl couldn’t wait to tell Kylie.

‘Cosmo snogged me. He is so brilliant, my knees gave way and I was lying down.’

The Chinless Wanderers, who weren’t remotely interested in riffles and who regarded rivers as places in which you caught salmon or retrieved polo balls, were smoking and listening to the test match. Further down the bank Paris read
Le Rouge et Le Noir
, totally engrossed in Julien Sorel’s seduction of the beautiful, much older Madame de Renal leading to passionate mutual love – maybe Janna wasn’t such an impossibility.

He had bonded least of the Larks contingent. He was sick of Bagley chat about gap years in Argentina and their parents’ splitting up. There was also something sickening about the country, he thought, or the evils man imposed on it. Last year, he’d been haunted by the funeral pyres burning innocent sheep and cattle.

This year it was the rabbits lying in the footpath dying from myxomatosis, desperately trying to crawl away as their bulging eyes were pecked out by huge killer gulls. The girls screamed in horror; Paris turned away retching; Jack Waterlane picked up a log and put one rabbit out of its misery, then another, then another, shouting at the gulls before returning to put a comforting arm round a sobbing Kylie.

Jack wasn’t quite such a prat as he seemed, decided Paris.

The gulls were a symbol of the way Cosmo pecked away at Xavier and himself, if given a chance.

Before supper that evening, Paris wandered off from the hostel into the wood to read in peace. Hearing raised voices, he was about to sidle to the right, when he clocked Lubemir’s very distinctive accent: ‘Fetch eet, black sheet.’

Edging forward through the green curtain of a willow, Paris found a clearing in which Cosmo and Lubemir were playing football. To the left, like an enemy ambush, lurked a huge bed of nettles, giving off a rank, bitter smell as the still hot evening sun burnt off the rain. Beside them stood Xav, fat, hunched, terrified, as Cosmo powered the ball into the nettles.

‘Pick it up, black shit.’

Desperate to avoid a beating, wincing from the stings, Xav plunged in and picked up the ball, only for Lubemir to boot it back again. ‘Fetch eet, you fat creep.’

For a moment defiance flared: ‘Why should I?’

‘Because your black skin’s too rhinoceros-like to feel stings. Pick it up,’ demanded Cosmo.

Paris strolled into the clearing. ‘Get it your fucking self.’

‘Don’t speak to me like that, yob,’ said Lubemir insolently.

Paris dropped
Le Rouge et Le Noir
. A second later, his right hook had sent Lubemir flying into the nettles.

Bellowing at the pain, Lubemir yelled, ‘Get heem,’ to Cosmo.

Cosmo, however, who believed guards should guard themselves, was examining his nails.

Turning on Cosmo, Paris grabbed him by his bright blue Ralph Lauren shirt.

‘Want to make the same journey?’ he hissed, yanking Cosmo towards the nettles. ‘I thought not. Well, fucking lay off Xav.’

Picking up
Le Rouge et Le Noir
, he stalked back to the hostel, with Xav panting to keep up.

‘Thanks very, very much.’

‘’S OK. Cosmo’s a wimp if you face up to him.’

Xav didn’t believe him, but he felt a little better.

‘Dear Mum,’ wrote Kylie, another twenty-four hours later:

We’re having a brilliant time. We’ve been clay-pigeon shooting, rock climbing and we cycled to a museum. We’ve also been to an art gallery, which Graffi would have loved. Everyone friendly – Bagley really nice, Jack gorgeous. We write up our notes in the evening when the teachers go to the pub, so we can get out the booze and the weed. Today some kids went riding. Cosmo raced his horse up behind Paris’s and made it bolt. Paris fell off.

Paris hadn’t any parents to write to. He’d started a card of a red dragon’s tongue, symbol of the Welsh language, to Patience and Ian, then, not knowing how to address them on the envelope and deciding it was counting chickens, had torn it up. His head ached after his fall; if only he was with Janna in the pub.

Janna enjoyed these pub sessions, discussing the children, comparing state and private school practice.

‘We work much harder in the independent sector,’ moaned one of Rufus’s young geography teachers. ‘At least you lot can work at home. We’re on call twenty-four hours a day and most weekends.’

‘You have loads longer holidays and we’ve got so many teachers off with stress,’ said Gloria, returning with another bottle. ‘The ones who aren’t work ten times as hard.’

‘Hengist doesn’t believe in stress or “generalized anxiety” as it’s now known.’ Rufus shook his head. ‘He expects people to come in every day.’

‘Except for himself,’ grumbled Biffo.

‘You won’t be able to run to your union when you join us next term,’ Joan teased an increasingly alarmed Vicky.

‘Hengist is a despot,’ complained Biffo. ‘When Emlyn had to pull out, he virtually ordered me to take his place.’

‘Poor Emlyn, his father’s being buried tomorrow.’ Janna found that he was seldom far from her thoughts. She kept wanting to call and comfort him, but felt it would be intrusive. She had arranged a wreath and a card of sympathy signed by everyone on the trip.

‘Hengist is driving down to Wales for the funeral – to show support,’ said Joan dismissively.

‘And distribute largesse. The great international in a Welsh rugger town,’ said Biffo even more dismissively.

‘I think it’s lovely of Hengist to go,’ protested Janna. ‘Emlyn adores him. He is Emlyn’s future father-in-law and it’ll mean a huge amount to the family.’

‘Hengist’s probably rather relieved Sally won’t have to walk down the aisle on the arm of Emlyn’s dad,’ observed Joan. ‘He’s a crashing snob.’

‘He is not,’ said Janna furiously. ‘Hengist gets on with people from all backgrounds.’

‘Hark at you defending him,’ simpered Vicky. ‘I thought the two of you had fallen out.’

Paris had spent Ian’s sixty pounds on a pair of shorts, a Prussian-blue shirt and a Liverpool baseball cap, which someone had nicked. As a result, on the third day he got too much sun canoeing. On the way back to the hostel, he started feeling horribly sick and sweaty; his head, after yesterday’s fall, ached abominably. Stepping down from the bus, his legs buckled and he fainted.

He came round to find himself on the grass under a spreading chestnut tree, with a rolled towel under his head and Janna fussing over him, and thought he’d gone to heaven. As the bus had drawn up nearer Calorie Towers than the boys’ hostel, he was moved to Janna’s bed and a doctor summoned, who diagnosed sunstroke.

‘With a fair skin like yours, you should never go out without a hat. Realistically you should go home.’

But with Janna holding his hand, mopping his forehead with her own pale blue flannel and looking down with such concern, Paris definitely wanted to stay.

‘Perhaps it’s better if you’re not moved.’ The doctor turned to Janna. ‘As long as you can keep him cool and quiet?’

‘He can sleep in my bed,’ said Janna. ‘I’m so sorry, love.’ She squeezed Paris’s hand. ‘I should have noticed you weren’t wearing a hat.’

She had been swimming and was still in a sopping-wet primrose-yellow bikini, through which goose pimples were protruding like bubble wrap.

‘Get something warm on,’ advised the doctor, looking admiringly at her speckled body, ‘you’ve had a shock. Don’t want you getting a chill.’

Peel off that bikini in here, thought Paris longingly and said:

‘I can’t take your room.’

‘You certainly can and I’m not leaving you either.’

Paris, for the first time in his life, knew the bliss of being cosseted. The Bagley Babes nipped down to the greengrocer’s and brought him strawberries and raspberries. Vicky rolled up with lemon sorbet, Gloria with a melon. Paris was embarrassed, yet touched they were so worried. Even Lubemir and Anatole sent apologies and the Chinless Wanderers promised to get him a better horse next time. Finally, Xav shuffled in and offered Paris his mobile.

‘You might want to ring someone. No one except my mother rings me.’

‘I’ll ring you.’

Xav grinned. ‘You can’t if I haven’t got a mobile.’ Then, staring at the floor and kicking a table: ‘Thanks for sticking up for me. I’m really glad you’re coming to Bagley next term.’

Shyly, they exchanged a high five.

Having shooed everyone out, Janna gazed out of the window across the river. She could see thirty or so red and white cows standing together, whisking flies off each other’s faces. That’s what a good school should be, she thought wistfully, everyone protecting each other.

Despite another deluge, it was still terribly hot. Paris was getting drowsy. As she leant over to straighten his pillow, he could feel the smooth firmness, like almost ripe plums, of her breasts. Soaking the blue flannel in iced water, she trickled it over his forehead, shoulders and chest, like a caress.

‘Please don’t go away, read to me.’

Janna picked up Matthew Arnold, which had fallen out of his shorts pocket. ‘To Paris with love from Patience and Ian’, she read on the flyleaf and felt happier that they were kind, educated people who would look after him. She read:

‘But the majestic river floated on,

Out of the mist and hum of that low land,

Into the frosty starlight, and there moved,

Rejoicing, through the hushed Chorasmian waste,

Under the solitary moon; he flowed

Right for the polar star . . .’

‘I wonder if he was a riffle or a meander,’ mumbled Paris.

He could smell Janna’s scent on her sheets. On the table were bottles: magic potions to make her even more beautiful. Gradually Janna’s soft, young voice merged with the rain-swollen stream pouring into the river outside. He was asleep.