Wicked! (62 page)

‘Hengist really must install a runway, it takes such ages by chopper,’ said a familiar bitchy voice.

It was Jade Stancombe, flaunting a butterscotch tan and a ravishing new short tortoiseshell-streaked haircut. Nicky Clarke had repaired the ravages of the sawn-off plait with something far more becoming to Jade’s thin, predatory face. Mobile glued to her ear, chatting to some new admirer, she swung round, clocked Cosmo, exchanged a long eye-meet and, walking over, bent down and French kissed him for thirty seconds, sending a shiver through the room. Jade and Cosmo were an item again.

‘Love your hair, Jade,’ chorused everyone sycophantically.

‘Brings out the latent homosexual in all of us,’ murmured Cosmo. ‘You obviously haven’t been abused by the school barber, like our friend Paris.’

Everyone turned round and looked at Paris, who, not giving them time to hail or reject him, chucked down his napkin and, food untouched, stalked out.

‘Don’t go,’ called Amber.

Resisting a temptation to bolt back to the Old Coach House, Paris returned to Theo’s house where he found some post on his bed.

Seeing Janna’s writing on a dove-grey envelope, Paris dropped it in the bin. Beneath was a parcel from Cosmo, containing a copy of
Tom Brown’s Schooldays
. Inside Cosmo had written ‘À bientôt, Flashman’.

Finally there was a letter from Sally Brett-Taylor. ‘Good luck. Come and have tea with us very soon. Hope your years at Bagley are happy and rewarding.’

Like fuck, thought Paris.

‘“The years like great black oxen tread the world,”’ he declaimed. ‘“And I am broken by their passing feet.”’

‘At this moment, you can’t envisage a day let alone a week at Bagley being tolerable,’ said a flat, rasping, mocking voice. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here to welcome you. I’m allergic to parents.’

‘Lucky I don’t have any.’

‘Come and have a drink. Who are you next to? Oh, Smart. A misnomer actually. But he’s good-hearted and an excellent rugger player.’

Months spent every summer in Greece and Italy poring over relics and ruins with never a drop of suntan oil had browned and creased Theo Graham’s bald head and face like a conker soaked in vinegar. He had jug ears, jagged teeth and, like many schoolmasters, looked older than his sixty years, but his eyes were kind, shrewd and lively.

‘This is my lair,’ he said, leading Paris into his study, which reeked worse than a public bar of fags and booze, but which was almost entirely lined with literature, history and philosophy in the original Greek and Latin: ancient books with leather binding or faded dilapidated jackets. As well as a huge desk and an upright piano, the room was densely populated with busts of emperors and great thinkers and sculptures of gods, goddesses, heroes, nymphs, centaurs and caryatids, all poised to embark on some splendid orgy after dark. Paris’s eyes were on stalks.

‘I hear you’re interested in learning Latin and Greek,’ said Theo, rootling around under the papers on the desk to find a corkscrew. ‘Well, you’ve come from the Old Coach House to an old coach’s house,’ and he smiled with great affection.

Adding to the chaos, a huge fluffy marmalade cat padded across the room and landed on the desk, sending half the contents flying.

‘At least he’s unearthed the corkscrew.’ Theo pounced on it. ‘His name is Hindsight, so we can all benefit from him.’

Having poured a large glass of red for Paris and an even larger whisky for himself, Theo settled a thunderously purring Hindsight on his knee and asked Paris what other subjects he was intending to take for GCSE. When Paris reeled off English, English lit., French, Spanish, history, geography, drama, business studies, science and maths, Theo heaved a sigh of relief.

‘Thank God, none of those new subjects like leisure and tourism. How could one prefer a hotel to Homer?’

Paris took a slug of red and thought for a minute, then said, ‘If I could have a night in the bridal suite with Bianca Campbell-Black, sir, I might prefer a hotel, but the
Iliad
’s one of the best books I’ve ever read.’

‘Good,’ said Theo happily, ‘we should get along.’

Hengist had given a lot of thought to the right house for Paris. Biffo would have got drunk and probably pounced on him. The Bruces would have killed him with petty regulations and counselling. Artie Deverell, gentle, handsome, clever, tolerant, charming, adored by pupils and parents (particularly the latter, who invited him to stay in their villas in Tuscany and Provence for weeks on end), would have been ideal. But Deverell’s was always hopelessly over-subscribed, which Graham’s never was.

Theo, crotchety, very shy, dreadful with parents and liable to take his hearing aid out on Speech Day, had a house with only a dozen boys. One to whom he was utterly devoted was Cosmo, who returned this devotion. Cosmo was clever and made Theo laugh. As one of the few people who could control Cosmo, Theo also believed that with parents like Dame Hermione and the evil, late Roberto Rannaldini, the boy was entitled to be a monster. Theo also took out his hearing aid when Cosmo and the Cosmonaughties were giving tongue.

If Cosmo started bullying Paris, deduced Hengist, Theo would pick up on it.

Theo drove Alex Bruce crackers calling his Chinese pupils ‘Chinks’, his Russians ‘Little Commies’ and banging any child if they were being particularly stupid on the head with an atlas of the ancient world.

Unlike Ian Cartwright he had refused to succumb to Alex’s bullying and chucked his first laptop in the lake, continuing to tap away with two fingers on an ancient manual typewriter until Cosmo, terrified the only master who understood him would be eased out, taught him to use a computer.

Theo incurred disapproval because he smoked and drank too much.

‘Why am I late?’ he would ask his classes.

‘Because you drank too much last night, sir,’ they would chorus.

A typical holiday in the past would have been riding round Umbria on a donkey reading Plato’s
Republic
. Now he took gentler vacations, occasionally grumbling about a bad back. In fact only he knew he had an inoperable tumour in his spine, which was why he drank so much: to ease the pain.

Apart from translating the plays of Euripides and now embarking on those of Sophocles, Theo looked after the classical library and school museum and was in charge of the archives, which chronicled the achievements of illustrious former pupils. Alex Bruce was desperate to scrap the museum and the library and replace them with an IT suite.

‘Tradition is the enemy of progress,’ he was fond of saying.

Alex was driven demented by Theo, but he was powerless to fire him because Theo got even the dimmest child through GCSE and, because of this and his wonderfully entertaining teaching, his lessons were always crowded out.

One of Bagley’s favourite pastimes was watching Artie Deverell and Theo argue. For the duration of an entire cricket match they had been observed marching up and down the boundary waving their arms and shouting over whether Catullus had really been wiped out by love when he wrote his poems or merely portraying someone thus afflicted.

David Hawkley, headmaster of Fleetley, another great classical scholar, had dedicated his translation of Catullus to Theo and every Christmas sent him a litre of malt whisky. This irritated Hengist who longed to be admired by David Hawkley.

‘Extraordinary, these new GCSEs,’ Theo was now complaining to Paris. ‘I gather they’re thinking of linking RE and PE as one subject. The mind boggles until one remembers all those old jokes about when the high jump was first invented.’

‘When was it?’

‘When Jesus cleared the temple.’

Paris laughed.

‘Or the first cricket match,’ went on Theo, ‘when Jesus stood up before the eleven and was bold – or bowled. Interesting that they’re always described as schoolboy jokes, never schoolgirl.’

‘If you’d been on a geography field trip with Joan Johnson, you’d understand,’ said Paris.

At the same time that first evening as Paris was, to his amazement, really enjoying having a drink with Theo, Anthea Belvedon was delivering her son Dicky back to Alex Bruce’s house. Here she sought out Poppet Bruce: ‘Have you a mo?’

‘Of course, Anthea. One of the reasons I’m nicknamed “Poppet” is because people are always “popping in” on me.’ Poppet gave a soppy smile.

‘My late husband nicknamed me “Hopey”,’ countered Anthea, ‘because I always give people hope.’

After a minute on the importance of reminding Dicky to use his foot-rot cream because he’d infected Anthea’s High Court judge on holiday, Anthea moved briskly on to Paris and the riches the Cartwrights had heaped on him:

‘Would that I could do the same for my Dora and Dicky.’

‘But I thought the Cartwrights were broke,’ mused Poppet. ‘I hope they’re not spending Bagley money.’

‘So do I.’ Anthea sighed gustily. ‘Surely a free place does not mean a free-for-all?’

‘I’ll have a discreet word with Alex.’

‘You won’t mention my name.’

‘We haven’t spoken,’ said Poppet.

The upshot twenty-four hours later was a fired-up Patience barging into Alex’s office brandishing bills and cheque stubs.

‘How dare you accuse Ian of cooking the books? It’s actionable. He’s the most honest man in the world. He’s been flat out through the summer holidays and we’ve given up our three-week holiday in France this year so we can be home to give Paris a proper start. You and your wife can bloody well apologize to him.’

‘We do feel you’re in danger of spoiling Paris Alvaston,’ spluttered a discomfited Alex. ‘His behaviour so far has been very challenging . . .’

Ian, in turn, was later apoplectic with Patience.

‘How could you have shouted at Alex? I could have given him a perfectly reasonable explanation. Of course it looks odd you squandering so much on Paris. He could easily have worn a second-hand suit. How can I ask for a rise now?’

Dora, who suspected her mother of sneaking, had also spent too much money on Paris. She must sell some more stories.

Flipping through the papers in the library to assess her market on the first Saturday of term, she came across a piece about parents of truants being given gaol sentences.

If she bunked off for a week, would her utterly bloody mother go to prison? Although her awful old High Court judge boyfriend would probably get her off.

Dispirited, and unable to keep away, Dora wandered off to see Paris. A warm west wind was chasing chestnut leaves round the quad; green spiky husks were opening to drop gleaming brown conkers; the shaggy pelt of Virginia creeper flung round the Gothic turrets of Theo Graham’s house was turning crimson.

She found Paris pretending to tackle a distressing amount of homework while listening to Liverpool against Everton on Radio Five, and expressing fury that he’d officially been given Xavier as a ‘buddy’ to show him the ropes. Talk about linking two social misfits.

Lucky Xav, thought Dora wistfully, but out loud said:

‘It won’t be so bad, you needn’t see much of him after the first week and he might invite you to Penscombe. It’s gorgeous. Fabulous horses and Rupert and Taggie are really lovely.’

‘And Bianca’s even lovelier,’ said Paris bitchily. ‘Only reason to brown-nose her lousy brother is to get a crack at her.’

Dora couldn’t speak for the hurt, as though a huge wasp had plunged its sting deep into her heart, flooding poison through her veins. She knew Paris didn’t adore her as she adored him, but he’d never mentioned Bianca, so she’d assumed he wasn’t interested.

Seeing her stricken face, her blue eyes widening in bewilderment, Paris felt as though he’d kicked a puppy.

‘Oh fuck off,’ he snapped. ‘You’re getting on my tits.’

But as Dora stumbled out, tripping over a pile of books, Paris was livid with himself. He liked Xav as well. Why did he have this urge to hurt and destroy people who were kind to him? He longed to explain to Patience, Dora, even Xav how sad and lonely he was and how sadness came out as anger, but the less you gave people the less they had to hurt you with.

Even Liverpool winning in the dying moments couldn’t lift his spirits. On the hall table he found a parcel and a card saying: ‘Dear Paris, good luck. Sorry this is late. Love Dora’.

Inside was a really cool Black Watch tartan duvet cover and two pillowcases.

Switching on his mobile, he dialled Dora’s number.

‘The person you are dialling knows you are calling,’ said the message, ‘and doesn’t give a fuck.’

Meanwhile, on her way out, Dora passed Cosmo’s king-sized cell. Glancing in, she saw it now accommodated a baby grand and, on the walls, a Picasso Blue Clown, oriental rugs, an antique gilt mirror and portraits of Cosmo’s heroes: the Marquis de Sade, Wagner, Byron and his father, the late Roberto Rannaldini. On the king-sized bed covered with fur rugs lay a dark blue cushion embroidered with the words: ‘It’s hard to be humble and go to Bagley.’

Seated at the piano, Cosmo was playing and singing Mahler Lieder in a deep, hypnotic baritone of exceptional beauty. He was sporting a black overcoat with an astrakhan collar made famous by his late father, and which much became his night-dark eyes and sallow features.